Conversations Around the Table
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A cold night, a cup of mate, three languages, and a Syrian father’s unexpected question about Jesus and the church.
José Prado · Curitiba · September 2026
This week, I had one of those conversations that are both so simple and so profound that they leave little doubt they were prepared by the Eternal One.
It was a cold and rainy evening—even by Curitiba standards.
Two of the Syrians we are hosting, both of whom are now working as motorcycle delivery drivers, had ended their workday early because of the rain. They were in the dining room drinking mate. The wife of one of them was there as well.
When I arrived, they invited me to join them.
The conversation began with the cold, work, and the ordinary things that find their way to a table.
Then, quite suddenly, one of them asked:
“Mr. José, why are there so many people living on the streets here in Curitiba?”
They have been in Brazil for only four months. They are still learning Portuguese and are already working. One of them said that, despite all the economic difficulties in Syria, he had not seen so many people living on the streets there. He was trying to understand why this happened here.
We talked about the complexity of the stories that can lead someone to life on the streets: poverty, broken family relationships, addiction, mental suffering, violence, and the loss of work.
There was no simple answer.
They listened carefully. From time to time, we had to stop and use the translator on our phones. Arabic, Portuguese, and English met around the table.
Then came a pause.
“I am worried about my son.”
He was speaking about his two-year-old boy.
A few more seconds of silence passed.
Then came another question:
“Which church is the best one?”
Now I was the one who needed a pause.
He continued:
“I have been watching you Christians. I know there are differences among you. I want my son to grow up in a healthy environment. I have seen how you care for one another. I want my son to grow up like that.”
I thought for a moment before answering.
I told him that I would not say which church was the best. But I could offer him a standard:
“Look at how much it resembles Jesus.”
For me, that is the criterion: how much the people who belong to a church resemble Jesus.
Because this is what it means to be a Christian—to become like Jesus.
So before choosing a church, they would need to know Jesus.
I suggested that they begin with the Gospels.
“Learn from Jesus. Notice how He cared for people. How He welcomed children. How He treated women. How He approached those whom others avoided. See what He taught, how He lived, and how He died.”
If they came to know Jesus, they would have a good standard by which to recognize a healthy church.
The conversation continued.
And I found myself thinking about the different ways in which we can show Jesus to people.
For thirteen years now, we have sought to be a home for those who were forced to leave their home because of war and persecution.
Our hearts have also remained open to those who do not share our faith.
We do not make faith a condition for receiving anyone. We do not expect people to believe as we do before they are given a place at the table.
We choose to welcome, love, respect, and serve.
And almost always, this happens in very ordinary ways.
Helping someone complete a document. Looking for a home. Accompanying someone to a medical appointment. Teaching Portuguese. Solving a problem at the registry office. Meeting someone at the airport. Looking for work. Sitting together to drink mate.
Small things.
Ordinary things.
Sometimes tiring.
Often administrative.
Yet it is precisely in the midst of this everyday life that, from time to time, something happens.
A question appears.
A door opens.
And we realize that a much greater conversation has been taking place.
When someone reaches us after crossing wars, persecution, borders, and loss, it is easy to see that person only through what has happened to them.
But no one is made only of their losses.
There is beauty, knowledge, ability, relationship, memory, and culture. There is a dignity that displacement has not destroyed and an entire life searching once again for space to flourish.
Perhaps this is why hospitality requires more from us than offering help.
It requires attention.
We need to watch.
To notice.
To listen.
Because we never know when, where, or in what circumstances a question will open a small space through which we recognize that the Holy Spirit was already at work long before we arrived.
That evening, the opening appeared around a table.
Amid the cold of Curitiba, the mate, and phones translating Arabic, Portuguese, and English.
This does not mean that everyone—or even most of those we welcome—will choose to follow our faith.
That decision belongs to each person.
Jesus Himself said:
“If anyone wants to follow Me…”
There is an invitation.
There is freedom.
Perhaps our responsibility is much simpler—and, at the same time, much more demanding:
To be present.
To open the door.
To prepare the table.
To recognize the dignity of those who arrive.
To walk alongside them for as long as we are given.
And to remain attentive.
Because perhaps, in the middle of an entirely ordinary conversation, someone will ask a question we were not expecting.
And then we discover that the conversation did not begin with us.
Our part is to love, serve, remain attentive, and try not to hinder what God is doing.
From the series “Conversations Around the Table”
Stories, questions, and encounters that emerge from the everyday practice of hospitality.
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