Finding Jesus in Unexpected Places at Christmas

Series: Getting Ready for An Aussie Christmas

Finding Jesus in Unexpected Places at Christmas

6-minute read

By WJ de Kock, ThD

Educational Consultant to Partners in Ministry

Professor of Practical Theology at Palmer Theological Seminary of Eastern University

I've just finished reading Same Kind of Different as Me,[1] and I can't stop thinking about it. Not because it's a tidy redemption story—though there's redemption in spades—but because it's so uncomfortable. It's the kind of book that makes you squirm while you're reading because you see yourself in Ron Hall: the well-meaning, slightly self-satisfied guy who thinks he's going to show up at a homeless shelter and rescue someone, only to discover he's the one who needs rescuing.

December's here again, and Christmas is charging toward us like a shopping trolley with a wonky wheel. You're probably knee-deep in planning—services, soup kitchens, community meals, the whole festive circus. And if you're anything like me, there's a voice in your head that sounds suspiciously spiritual: This is the season of giving. This is when we serve. This is when we host Jesus by hosting the vulnerable.

All true. All beautiful. But here's what Ron Hall learned the hard way, and what Denver Moore taught him through sheer, stubborn presence: sometimes the people we think we're serving are actually the ones hosting us. Sometimes the guest teaches the host. Sometimes the "least of these" turns out to be the greatest theologian you've ever met.

Ron Hall was a wealthy art dealer living the good life in Fort Worth, Texas. Expensive suits, high-end galleries, all the trappings of success. His wife Debbie dragged him—kicking and screaming, if we're honest—to volunteer at a homeless shelter. Ron's thinking: I'll do my bit. Feel good about myself. Maybe help someone less fortunate. Classic charity mindset. He had the resources, they had the need, end of story.

Then he met Denver Moore—a man who'd spent decades homeless, who'd lived through sharecropping and violence and the kind of poverty that grinds people down. Denver was rough, wary, and nobody's charity case. And when Ron tried the usual "let me help you" routine, Denver saw straight through it. He famously told Ron: "If you is fishin for a friend you just gon' catch and release, then I ain't got no desire to be your friend."[2]

Ouch. That line still stings, doesn't it? Because Denver was naming the thing we do all the time in ministry: we swoop in, serve, feel good, then disappear. We collect people like trophies for our annual reports. We want the photo op, the warm fuzzy feeling, the reassurance that we're good Christians—but we don't want the mess of actual relationship. We want to be hosts on our terms, with a clear exit strategy.

But Denver wasn't having it. He demanded something far more costly than charity: friendship. Actual, messy, long-term, show-up-even-when-it's-inconvenient friendship. And as Ron stumbled into that friendship—awkwardly, imperfectly—something extraordinary happened. The roles reversed. Denver became the teacher. Ron became the student. The homeless man hosted the wealthy man into a deeper understanding of faith, loyalty, and what it means to be human.

This is exactly what Jesus was talking about in Matthew 25 when he told the parable of the Sheep and the Goats. "I was hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you invited me in."[3] The righteous ones are confused: "Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger?" And Jesus drops the bomb: "Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me."[4]

Here's the kicker: the people in the parable didn't even realise they were serving Jesus. They weren't angling for spiritual brownie points. They were just present—genuinely present—to the people in front of them. And in that presence, the host/guest dynamic collapsed. They weren't dispensing charity; they were encountering Christ.

That's what Ron discovered with Denver. He wasn't helping a homeless man out of Christian duty. He was being hosted by Christ through Denver—taught about grace, about resilience, about what really matters when everything else gets stripped away. Denver's wisdom, his brutal honesty, his refusal to play the victim—all of it became a gift that Ron couldn't have bought with all his wealth.

As December rolls on and you plan your Christmas outreach, here's the question the book left me wrestling with: Are we creating space for genuine encounter, or are we just doing our bit and moving on? Are we willing to be hosted by the people we thought we were serving? Are we humble enough to let them teach us?

Because here's the uncomfortable truth: if we approach ministry with the assumption that we have all the resources and they have all the need, we've already missed Jesus. We've turned the gospel into a transaction. But if we're willing to sit across the table—really sit, really listen, really stay—we might discover what Ron discovered: that the guest can become the host, that the "least of these" might actually be the greatest among us, and that Christ shows up most powerfully in the places we least expect.

This Christmas, maybe the most incarnational thing you can do isn't another program or another service. Maybe it's asking someone: "Tell me your story. Teach me what you know about faith." And then—this is the hard part—actually listening. Not waiting for your turn to speak. Not mentally planning your response. Not trying to fix or save. Just receiving what they have to offer.

Ron Hall thought he was going to save Denver Moore. Instead, Denver saved Ron—from his own self-importance, from his hollow success, from a faith that was more about appearance than presence. That's the host/guest reversal Jesus was talking about. That's the upside-down kingdom.

So here's my challenge, borrowed from Denver's stubborn wisdom: Don't go fishing for friends you're just going to catch and release. Don't treat people like a Christmas project. If you're going to invite someone to your table this season, actually invite them. Be willing to be hosted by their story, their wisdom, their presence. Be ready to discover that the person you thought you were serving is actually the one teaching you what it means to follow Jesus.

Because that's the whole gospel, really. God didn't stay distant and safe, dispensing help from heaven. God became incarnate—vulnerable, dependent, homeless, a guest in his own creation. And in that radical vulnerability, God hosted us into something we could never have found on our own.

The same kind of different, indeed.

[1] Ron Hall and Denver Moore, Same Kind of Different as Me: A Modern-Day Slave, an International Art Dealer, and the Unlikely Woman Who Bound Them Together (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2006).

[2] Hall and Moore, Same Kind of Different as Me, 107.

[3] Matthew 25:35 (NIV).

[4] Matthew 25:40 (NIV). This verse represents the theological heart of Jesus' teaching on incarnational recognition—Christ present in the vulnerable.