THE GOSPEL COMES WITH A HOUSE KEY - ROSARIA BUTTERFIELD

 

 SUMMARY

Rosaria Butterfield’s The Gospel Comes with a House Key champions Christian hospitality as a vital expression of the gospel. Chapter 1 argues that Christians must offer gospel-centered hospitality as a redemptive refuge during times of crisis. Chapter 2 explores the “Jesus Paradox,” where Jesus’ touch spreads “contagious grace” to the untouchable. It urges believers to die to self and offer sacrificial welcome in a distrustful world. Chapter 3 emphasizes “radically ordinary” kindness—respecting neighbors without endorsing sin, listening prayerfully, and affirming everyone as God’s image-bearers to bridge divides and build family from strangers. Chapter 4 calls the church to prioritize covenant love, walking with the broken through suffering without neglecting their souls. Chapter 5 affirms that the gospel demands “house-key” hospitality—stewarding our homes and time to offer refuge through everyday acts like shared meals and prayer. Chapter 6 warns that an undisciplined church harboring unrepentant sin—like Judas’s betrayal—becomes a dangerous place, undermining true hospitality. Chapter 7, through Butterfield’s strained relationship with her mother, shows how persistent prayer and hospitality, even at deathbeds, can lead to repentance and eternal reconciliation. Chapter 8 reveals that hospitality flourishes in the mundane “daily grind,” where small, sacrificial acts break emotional barriers and turn strangers into family. Chapter 9 highlights mercy in crisis—like caring for a neighbor’s pet after an arrest—as a bridge between judgment and grace. Chapter 10 emphasizes compassionate presence in suffering, where letters and aid to imprisoned neighbors become the hands and feet of Jesus.

REFLECTION 

While reading Chapter 2, “The Jesus Paradox – The Vitality of Hospitality,” I was drawn to the term “radically ordinary hospitality.” At first, I was hesitant because it sounded like the liberal Christian “social gospel.” But on page 30, the author beautifully draws the boundary. Rosaria explains that radically ordinary hospitality, practiced by biblical Christians, views struggling people as image-bearers of a holy God—needing faith in Christ alone, belief in Jesus as the rescuer of His people, repentance of sin, and covenant family within the church. I clearly see how she portrays this. She talks about “contagious grace,” which refers to the transformative, spreading power of God’s grace that originates with Jesus and flows through believers, enabling them to extend healing love and the gospel to others. Grace becomes contagious through radically ordinary hospitality.

I am very convinced by this. It challenges me because I was raised in a community where hospitality is shown differently. In my Christian culture, hospitality is not radically ordinary—which means it lacks the gospel. We give food, we laugh together, and there’s bonding, but we fail to make grace contagious through our hospitality. After reading this chapter, I now see hospitality in a new light. I love the author’s statement: “The Christian home is the place where we bring the church to the people as we seek to lock arms together.”

In Chapter 3, “The Kindness of Being First,” Rosaria Butterfield helped me reflect deeply on how radically ordinary kindness can do wonders. It reminded me of my pastoral ministry days. There was a man who never attended church, despite many attempts to persuade him. I visited him again and again to counsel him, but his heart remained numb. However, that numb heart became tender when I visited him in the hospital. I spent time chatting, caring, and praying for him, and brought some gifts. That small act was enough to shatter his numb heart. He repented and started coming to church. That intentional effort—despite the cost in time, money, and heartache—transformed him by God’s grace.

One thing that stuck with me was Rosaria’s suggestion in Chapter 3 to practice kindness. It resonated with me and reassured me. She says, “Respect the reality of your neighbors’ lives and households.” Under this, she explains how Pastor Kent accepted her but did not approve of her lifestyle. I think Pastor Kent is a man filled with wisdom. This is something many people—even pastors—fail to see. Pastor Kent drew the boundary without compromising kindness. I need to reflect the kindness of Christ to all people, while also setting boundaries. The story of Pastor Kent and Rosaria reassured me to show kindness through hospitality, even to those with completely opposite views, while maintaining boundaries.

In Chapter 3, one statement caught my attention: “Genuine hospitality is not transacted for money. Genuine hospitality does not objectify image bearers and falsify the commandments of God.” Coming from a place where hospitality is shown to like-minded people with a motive to gain or impress, I find Rosaria’s statement very convincing. People often invite others for lunch or dinner to earn favor or gain something—hospitality for selfish reasons. But the author indicts the church’s hospitality drought—especially toward sinners and the poor—as soul-neglect. She urges an unshakable presence that mirrors Jesus’ dining with sinners, and communal accompaniment through suffering, repentance, and cross-bearing. I am very convinced and reassured by Rosaria’s argument that true hospitality flows from covenant love, recognizing shared brokenness and the divine image in every person, turning homes into outposts of redemptive grace.

I am also drawn to Rosaria’s argument in Chapter 5. In 2014, a home invasion stole their belongings and scared their dog—but it reinforced their open-door lifestyle. Butterfield and her husband were surrounded by Christian friends who brought food and help, healing the trauma with community support. Drawing from Mark 10:28–31, she says the gospel comes with house keys: it means sacrificial hospitality that echoes Jesus’ miracles through everyday acts like sharing meals, praying, babysitting, and walking dogs. We should see our homes and time as God’s tools for sheltering others—not private bunkers. This is something I really need to grow prayerfully because this is crucial for pastoral ministry.

In Chapter 6, The Borderland of Hospitality, Rosaria Butterfield expresses a conviction that deeply resonates with me. She warns that a church without discipline and full of unrepentant sin is like having a “potential Judas” among them. Real hospitality grows best in churches that are accountable—where it's safer to welcome unbelievers than to ignore sin within the church. I was especially struck by Butterfield’s gracious response when an elderly man bluntly compared her to Rex, a man who had been caught in child pornography but later repented. Her ability to receive such a comparison without defensiveness reveals a posture of humility and spiritual maturity. She seems to take things positively, even when they are hard to hear. One statement that continues to challenge me is her bold assertion: “If you can’t hate your sin, you can’t fight your sin.” This truth cuts deep. We often read books together, share our preferences, and open up about what resonates with us—but we rarely resolve to hate our sin and actively fight it. Even in discipleship, if our goal is not the mortification of sin, we risk becoming hypocrites who harbor unrepentant sin. We may be skilled at identifying the sins of others, yet remain blind to our own. Butterfield’s words serve as a sobering reminder: I must learn to hate my sin if I ever hope to fight it. Without that resolve, all our spiritual conversations and disciplines risk becoming hollow.

On page 141, I was deeply moved by Butterfield’s words: “Hospitality always requires hands and heads and hearts, and mess and sacrifice and weakness. Always.” These words come in the context of her atheist mother, who—while on her deathbed—ultimately placed her faith in Christ. Though I may not fully grasp every nuance of the quote, its essence became clear through the powerful illustration of Butterfield’s relationship with her mother. This quote beautifully aligns with the concept introduced in Chapter 2: “Radically Ordinary Hospitality.” It challenges our often-transactional approach to hospitality—where we extend kindness to those, we think we can benefit from, rather than for the sake of Christ and His body. True hospitality, as Butterfield reminds us, is not polished or convenient. It demands our whole selves—our hands, heads, and hearts—and it embraces mess, sacrifice, and weakness. It is costly, but it is also redemptive.

Chapter 8 further opened my eyes to the basics of hospitality—how, where, and to whom we extend it. These are areas where many of us fall short. One quote, in particular, captures the heart of the chapter: “Christian hospitality cares for the things that our neighbors care about. Esteeming others more highly than ourselves means nothing less. It means starting where you are and looking around for who needs you. It means communicating Christian love in word and deed. It means making yourself trustworthy enough to bear burdens of real life and real problems.” This insight has reshaped my understanding. Hospitality is not about abundance—it’s about availability. It’s not about having much, but about offering what little we have with sincerity and love. Even the smallest acts, when done in Christ’s name, can bear eternal fruit.

I am deeply moved by the way Rosaria Butterfield’s family cared for their neighbor Hank and others in their community. Hank was a criminal, and many neighbors viewed him with suspicion and disdain. Yet the Butterfields extended the same love of Christ to him as they did to everyone else. As I imagine myself in the same situation, I realize how difficult it would be for me to care for someone like Hank after his arrest and imprisonment. I fear I would fail. But through this very challenge, Butterfield offers a profound reminder: “Christians are called to live in the world but not live like the world. Christians are called to dine with sinners but not sin with sinners. But either way, when Christians throw their lot in with Jesus, we lose the rights to protect our own reputation.” This is simple, yet deeply convicting. If I stop caring for people the moment, I see them sinning or struggling, then my love is no different from the world’s love. There’s nothing uniquely Christian about it. Butterfield’s life story challenges me to love all people—regardless of their background, failures, or how others perceive them. True Christian love is not selective; it reflects the grace of Christ, who loved us while we were still sinners.

I am deeply moved by how Rosaria Butterfield continued to show hospitality to Hank and Aimee, even while they were in prison. Her unwavering care reminds me of a faithful elderly man I once knew—he regularly visited prisoners, offering his time and presence. Although I recognized the need, I did not fully grasp that what he was doing was a profound act of hospitality toward the marginalized. After reading Butterfield’s book, my appreciation for him has grown immensely. On page 187, Butterfield writes: “Ordinary hospitality is the hands and feet of Jesus, and it holds people together with letters to prison or hugs. Hospitality reaches across worldview to be the bridge of gospel grace. Jesus did not come with self-defense. He came with bread. He came with fish. So too must we.” This quote captures the essence of gospel-centered hospitality—one that does not retreat in fear or self-protection, but moves toward others with sacrificial love. Her words have opened my eyes to see that hospitality is not limited to meals and gatherings—it includes prison visits, letters, hugs, and any act that communicates grace across barriers.