by Mally McLoughlin, an Alliance pastor in France
In her groundbreaking book, The Gospel Comes With A House Key, Rosaria Butterfield distills her manifesto down to three simple words—radically ordinary hospitality. Butterfield’s story of meeting Jesus was neither dramatic nor radical—at least not by the world’s sensationalist standards. Instead, it was a modest dinner invitation by a humble couple who lived out the gospel in a simple, authentic way. This invitation to the table was the beginning of a transformation that took a former tenured professor of English, who identified as a lesbian and worked to advance the cause of LGBT equality, on a journey to a new calling—a call to build gospel bridges between lost neighbors and friends. She writes: “Radically ordinary hospitality is this: using your Christian home in a daily way that seeks to make strangers neighbors, and neighbors family of God.”
Family of God!
I grew up in rural Ireland where our main celebrations were St. Patricks Day and Christmas. Thanksgiving was something we only saw on TV. To Americans, it seemed like a big occasion. As far as American icons were concerned, Thanksgiving was up there with Steve McQueen, McDonalds, and baseball.
Its intrigue to a wee Irish lad was compounded by movie story lines of the lost dog making its way across the country in time for Thanksgiving; or the close-knit family combating trains, planes, and automobiles in various corners of the Land of the Free as each member rushed home to the grandiose dining room table just in time for grace to be said and the turkey carved.
I spent many a cold winter day laying on our living room floor, hands cupping my chin as I fervently stared at a televised ideal of love, joy, and togetherness—a deep-rooted longing to belong that would haunt me for most of my life.
A Sense of Belonging
December 12, 2010. After 15 years of alcoholism and significant drug abuse, I get sober. I am in France, completely lost, utterly broken, spiritually and morally bankrupt, heading for divorce, and soon to be homeless. At 33 years old, I am starting my life all over again and it is utterly terrifying!
Starting out in a new world of sobriety was daunting—but through an online running club, I’d met two Alliance missionary families who took me in and loved on me in a way my soul really needed. The husbands accepted me for the broken mess that I was and the wives, well, they felt sorry for this divorced guy who had two kids and was down on his luck.
Their pity manifested itself in some rather tasty offerings. On any given day, I was the recipient of a homemade curry, a chicken pot pie, a red velvet cheesecake, or a tiramisu big enough to feed a rugby team. I’d been going to church with them for seven months but mostly because I loved them and they seemed to love me. They could keep their Jesus, though.
The invitation to my first Thanksgiving dinner came in November 2011. I was definitely a little rough around the edges, and I am sure a few conversations and prayer meetings were had to discern whether or not I would swear in front of their impressionable young children.
Despite my flaws and the rawness of what I’d been through, they opened the doors of their homes and invited me to the table. As my eyes feasted on the vast array of food—who knew green bean casserole was a thing?!—I was overwhelmed with emotion.
These families could have kept this experience to themselves. They could have gone the easy route and invited “safe” people from their church, but instead they invited me. Their actions spoke of a grace that sought me out and said, “you have worth, you belong.” It felt as if the lonely boy from Ireland had been placed in the heart of a loving family, no longer on the outside looking in.
My second Thanksgiving came the following year. I had grown deeper in relationship with one of the families and was newly saved after being nuked by the Holy Spirit at a healing service three months previously. I’d gotten to know a few more Alliance workers serving in Paris and was now doing life alongside a remarkable group of people.
What was not part of the narrative for Thanksgiving 2012 was falling immediately in love with a missionary visiting from Germany. Val instantly captivated me with her elegance and grace. She, on the other hand, seemed less enthused by me sidling up to her at any given moment to randomly compliment her on just how lip-smackingly tasty her, ahem, dessert cream was. Suave.
If she went to get a coffee, I would mysteriously appear beside her as if transposed through a wall. After we’d all bid each other goodbye, I went home and tucked my kids into bed. Shortly after that, I dutifully began writing this enchanting woman a letter in the hope that one day I’d take her arm in mine and walk through the the cobbled streets of Paris as accordions played in the background.
On my third Thanksgiving, Val and I were engaged to be married. It wasn’t a whirlwind romance from the get-go, but that’s a story for another time.
Accepting the Outsider
Thanksgiving. Year after year my love for this holiday deepens. Some of the most pivotal happenings in my life have occurred on that fourth Thursday in November. I love it, too, for the food. Each year as we gather with our friends to give thanks, we invite others who don’t know Thanksgiving and don’t know Jesus.
I was scrolling through Instagram a few days ago and came across a post from my friends in Paris. Dan and Lisa serve with The Alliance using, among many other things, their incredible gifts of hospitality. The photo they posted was of more than a dozen strangers gathered around their living room table for a Thanksgiving meal.
And then it hit me. In the eyes of each person I saw myself. I saw the outsider who never knew such a loving community existed until that very night. I saw the person who lives alone in a tiny apartment, starved of love and community, finally finding a place at the table. And I saw the greatest gift that humankind has ever known and will ever know—the love of Jesus Christ.
Eight years ago, when the invitation to my first Thanksgiving arrived via a simple text message, it was more than just an open door to sit at a table. It was an open door to eternity. Yes, it opened the doors to amazing friendships and to meeting and marrying the love of my life—but above all, it was an invitation to sit at God’s table of blessing.
Through addiction, tragedy, failed suicide attempts, and divorce, Jesus had been seeking me and guiding me over and over again. His invitation had always been there, I’d just never accepted.
Not only did that invitation save my life, but in 2017, I had the privilege of inviting my own father to the table. I watched in astonishment—almost detached from what was happening—as the Holy Spirit guided my 80-year-old father to accept Jesus as his Lord and Savior. The ripple of that first Thanksgiving continues to transform lives and save souls.
As you eagerly anticipate Thanksgiving and all its trappings—the scent of turkey and stuffing wafting through your home, your tastebuds tantalized by pumpkin pie and whipped cream, and the fellowship and reflection that comes with being a guest at God’s table—I want to invite you to step outside of your comfort zone and ask yourself this question: Who is God asking me to invite to the table this Thanksgiving? Who has the Holy Spirit been nudging you to open your doors to? Maybe there are people around you just waiting to accept God’s invitation into His family.
In our current climate of divisive polemic and building walls, radically ordinary hospitality is a counter-cultural act of resistance. Radically ordinary hospitality makes space for everyone at the table. Radically ordinary hospitality puts the Kingdom of God before our own needs and comfort. Radically ordinary hospitality is an invitation to partake in all that God has for us.