Mi Casa Su Casa

Rough roads, green mountains all around us, brays of donkeys and the bleats of sheep echoing from afar. Our group walks up and down the streets, knocking on storefront doors and greeting the children walking beside us with a friendly “hola!” As Americans, we stick out in this little Oaxacan village like sore thumbs. We don’t belong there, and every confused face staring at us through dark windows reminds us that we are outsiders. I can only imagine the thoughts going through their heads. “Why are these güeros in our village?” “What do they want from us?”

A local pastor leads the way as we march down the streets. He is our guide, and we are here to help him serve this community. Today, he asked us to go along with him to meet people in the community because a bunch of strangers walking through town are an automatic conversation starter. As we’re walking, we meet a lady who has visited the church before. She owns the local tienda, and she was headed back to her home. Before we can even begin a conversation, her first words are, “Would you like to come to my home?”

Her home was small—about three rooms total. Her floors were concrete, her table and chairs were plastic, and her bathroom was a toilet with no plumbing. We were a group of ten Americans and one Oaxacan pastor, but we squeezed into her humble living room and graciously accepted the café de olla that she offered us. This sweet lady did not have many material possessions, but she was willing to share what she had. She welcomed us into her space with a smile—she welcomed us into her life.

Hospitality is a weakness in American culture. We don’t like to open ourselves up to vulnerability, and we certainly don’t like to welcome people into our personal spaces. We invite people to meet us at restaurants or at coffee shops rather than into our homes. We keep our conversations at the surface level because we fear rejection or ridicule for showing our true feelings. We put ourselves in a box, and we rarely let others into our life space. 

America’s culture of independence and self-preservation has caused division and isolation for many people. We falsely believe that we must show the world our best selves, and we never welcome people into the messy realities of our lives. We think to ourselves, “our neighbors have everything together, so I must act like I do too.” We smile in our front yards, but we close our doors and our reality is not always pretty.

The lady from the Oaxacan village certainly did not have her life perfectly figured out. She worked hard to provide for her family, but she had struggles of sickness and depression. When we visited her home, when we sat in her plastic chairs on her concrete floor and when we drank café de olla out of her ceramic bowls, she shared herself with us. She demonstrated hospitality not only in opening up her home, but she showed hospitality by welcoming us into her life. 

As she shared her struggles, we shared ours. We found that even though we lived in different countries, many of our problems were the same. We laughed and cried together, and we rejoiced in the hope that Jesus gives us even amid our problems. Without her hospitality, we never would have known our similarities, and we never would have been able to encourage one another.

My time in Oaxaca taught me that hospitality is an essential part of genuine community, especially within the church. Many people invited my family into their homes and allowed us into their lives. I will always have special memories of warm tortillas, café de olla, and true laughter as we sat on plastic chairs and metal benches. If we weren’t in others’ homes, we had a group of friends and family in our own home. Even if the house wasn’t perfect and the day was chaotic, we met one another in the messes of everyday life. 

Hospitality is more than merely inviting people into your home. Hospitality is inviting people into your life—both the highs and the lows. You don’t have to have a perfectly clean house or a fancy meal to welcome people into your life. Sometimes all you need is a cup of coffee and a place to sit, even if that chair is plastic and uncomfortable. 

God calls His church into genuine community, and that means vulnerability. American culture tends to run away from vulnerability because we want others to think we have our lives together. Yet, God calls us to love one another in a radical, counter-cultural way. Acts 2:42-46 describes a church which spends time together, provides for one another’s’ needs, and praises God together. The church today is called to the same community that is described in Acts, and one step towards that community is hospitality—willingly welcoming people into the clean and the messy parts of your life. 

The Spanish phrase “mi casa es su casa” is one of my favorites because it truly describes the hospitable spirit of Latin American culture. My house is your house. You’re welcome into my life, the good, the bad, and the ugly parts. I try to live that motto every day, and I even have it written on the welcome mat at my front door. I want my home to be a place of solace and comfort for all who come through it. I want people to see that I’m not perfect and that I certainly don’t have my life all together. I simply pray that people know that even when I don’t have everything figured out, I can still bring them into my messy life with a cup of coffee and a place to sit. 

Mi casa es su casa. My house is your house. Welcome in!