When I was a child, there was almost always someone I didn’t know at our Thanksgiving table. We regularly hosted students from the college where my dad taught, especially those who were far from home.
I never questioned the author of Hebrews’ instructions: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it” (Hebrews 13:2 NRSVue). My childhood experiences of hospitality were safe, predictable gatherings that included a greater-than-average chance for dessert, if I was lucky. Entertaining strangers who might be angels seemed like a no-brainer.
While I am grateful for this early exposure to one form of hospitality, my view of the practice widened in divinity school when our ethics professor challenged us to consider the angelic encounters described in Scripture. Far removed from the strangers-turned-friends I had pleasant table conversations with growing up, the angels in Scripture may appear with flaming swords, such as those stationed east of Eden in Genesis 3, or with drawn swords, as the prophet Balaam recounts in Numbers 22.
The more I read, the more difficult and dangerous entertaining angels sounded. It was clear why angels begin so many conversations with “do not fear.”
In Genesis, I read how Abraham’s afternoon plans and the family budget went out the window after three visitors appeared and dinner preparations began by finding a calf in the field (18:1-15). Lot faces danger to his family and the loss of his home (19:1-29), while Jacob’s encounter ends with a permanent limp (32:24-31).
Similar stories in the New Testament recount Mary surrendering her bodily autonomy (Luke 1:26-38) and Zechariah losing his ability to speak (Luke 1:8-22).
The Christian practice of hospitality is about so much more than sharing a meal with people like ourselves. Entertaining strangers as angels in disguise involves risk, vulnerability and encounters with those unlike us. Some level of discomfort is essential. Yet extending hospitality is also a space of discovery and transformation, as our biblical predecessors experienced through their angelic encounters.
Theologian Thomas Ogletree writes: “To offer hospitality to a stranger is to welcome something new, unfamiliar, and unknown into our life-world. … Strangers have stories to tell which we have never heard before, stories which can redirect our seeing and stimulate our imaginations.”
We live in a moment where such connection and transformation are urgently needed. It is also harder and riskier to encounter those unlike us. Christine Pohl explains that as households have become more secluded and private, the risk to host and guest alike has increased.
Institutions play an increasingly important role in creating “third places” where people can connect. These social spaces, distinct from both home and workplace, are harder and harder to find, further limiting opportunities for transformative encounters with strangers.
Some places cannot safely open their doors to strangers in our current moment. The Christian practice of discernment must accompany extending hospitality in communities where particular vulnerable identities are being targeted. Yet in places where this is not the case, creating sacred space for encounter may be exactly what the church is being called to in “such a time as this” (Esther 4:14).
One of the gifts of my work is that I regularly bump into stories of congregations across the country that are doing the hard, messy, scary work of welcoming strangers. I hear more and more stories of churches that are designing third places and drawing on their spiritual resources to create belonging, offer support and remind the world — and themselves — that our value is not in what we produce but in who we are.
The results are as different as the congregations that create them. Members of Mack Avenue Community Church in Detroit asked their neighbors what they needed and, in response, created a community space with a cafe and laundromat. The pastor of Mt. Carmel Missionary Baptist Church in the small town of Folkston, Georgia, took the church outside, worshipping in parks, hosting community days and training cyclists in the town’s national wildlife refuge.
Holy Family Episcopal Church in Houston took an old a meat-packing warehouse and redesigned it to be a worship space that doubles as an art gallery, supporting local artists and welcoming community members all week long. North Decatur Presbyterian Church in suburban Atlanta hosted a community gathering after a government agency 3 miles away laid off a large number of staff. Congregation members made room for people to tell their stories and share resources. They also helped people find a sense of belonging and held their suffering in the larger story that the church tells.
I doubt any of these congregations would say this work is easy or that they’ve been trained to do it. They will likely name failures, lengthy timelines, fears and moments of discomfort as just some of the challenge they faced while deepening their practice of hospitality. Yet they continue to hold open this space. The transformative encounter is simply too important, too beautiful for them to stop.
On the day of Pentecost, the disciples were thrust outside the safety of the house and into a space thronged with strangers. Fire, wind, languages from across the globe and accusations of drunkenness swirled around them. And in that moment, the church was transformed forever.
Amazed and astonished, each one in the multinational crowd heard the good news in the language they spoke at home. Thousands were cut to the heart and received the promise of God for themselves. And the church did what it does best: it welcomed them in, shared its spiritual resources and affirmed their belonging and belovedness.
The Christian practice of hospitality is about so much more than sharing a meal with people like ourselves.
In a season of seemingly endless tumult, faith leaders can learn about building welcoming, diverse communities through the miracle of Pentecost. The evangelist Luke’s account of this event in Acts provides a vivid picture of how to translate godly deeds into languages that strengthen faith, hope and belonging within congregations.
Nine days after the ascension of Jesus, Luke writes, many were gathered in one place.
“And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. Now there were devout Jews from every people under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, ‘Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? … [I]n our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.’” (Acts 2:2-8, 11b NRSVue)
Hearing in our own language
The discipline of linguistics shows how language influences the social, cultural and spiritual dynamics of human life. I agree with the belief that holds a strong correlation between being able to commune with God in one’s native language and the deepening of personal faith. And I don’t find it surprising at all that the events of Pentecost included a multilingual miracle that catalyzed the birth of the church.
In April, Barna reported that belief in Jesus is on the rise in America after hitting a low point in 2021 and 2022. The research firm invited Christian leaders to adopt the language of openness and hospitality in the face of a 21st-century culture of skepticism, writing: “For pastors and ministry leaders, this is a moment both to celebrate and to steward. People are open — perhaps as much as any time in recent memory — to Jesus. Churches that can meet people in this openness — with authenticity, humility and a focus on discipleship — may find fresh opportunities to minister.”
Some faith communities were already modeling that behavior.
To those who arrive from different places to become our neighbors, colleagues and fellow church members, how might the language of inclusion be received?
In Lansing, Michigan, St. Luke Lutheran Church’s commitment to authenticity and cultural appreciation is removing barriers and boundaries for its multiethnic congregation. The church holds gatherings where worship is multilingual and songs like “Harambee Harambee” are sung in the native languages of community members.
Worship services are offered in English, Arabic and Swahili in a church of more than a dozen languages.
Hearing in our own language
To the overlooked and most vulnerable in our society, how might a language of mercy, compassion and hope be known, heard and received?
In San Antonio, Texas, Chris Plauche, a 76-year-old retired pediatrician, imagined providing stability and support to senior adults experiencing homelessness. The result, Towne Twin Village, is a community for formerly unhoused individuals 55 and older. Along with 200 residences, the campus offers medical and behavioral health care. Daytime guests are provided breakfast and lunch along with access to spacious showers, haircuts and pedicures.
Plauche’s project partner, Edward Gonzales, says that long-term residents are skeptical at first, but by day 180 “they’ve improved their quality of life and are standing a little bit taller. They’re smiling and looking you in the eye.”
Hearing in our own language
To those who are lonely and feeling far from God in our society, how might a language of trust and belonging be received?
In London, James Fawcett leads Being With, a 10-week course whose participants practice being present in the lives of others as well as their own. The course stems from the “being with” theology developed by the Rev. Dr. Sam Wells, which centers around Christ’s life in relation to the time that he spent being with others. It’s not through a rigorous curriculum or Bible study lessons that God’s presence is realized in the lives of the participants but through conversations of wonder or dwelling in spaces of silent reflection.
“We’re trying to be with people as Christ is with people but also as God is with us,” Fawcett says, “and God’s desire is to be with us, and [God] was with us in Christ.”
Being With has now extended beyond the UK, and transformation is happening in the lives of individuals all over the world. People who are on the various edges of faith are being brought to the center of the church and are finding belonging.
“There’s something about it which opens an unclosable door for individuals that they’re then continually seeking,” Fawcett says.
I’m reminded of 1 Corinthians 2:13, where the apostle Paul writes, “This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, explaining spiritual realities with Spirit-taught words.”
Through our words and actions, communication that is taught and empowered by the Spirit stretches beyond the barriers of cultural appropriation, injustice and exclusion. We can express hospitality, compassion for the vulnerable and belonging that reach into the hearts of all of God’s beloved.
To those who arrive from different places to become our neighbors, colleagues and fellow church members, how might the language of inclusion be received?
On Sunday, Feb. 16, people gathered after worship in our church’s fellowship hall. It looked, in many ways, like a regular potluck. A large pot of soup was set on the buffet, someone dropped off a bag of clementines, and people brought lots of baked goods. As the food came in, folks who know our church kitchen as well as their own pulled out plates and serving utensils.
There was a mix of people — some of the 125 folks were members of our congregation, but many were neighbors, friends and co-workers. Word had gotten out.
Earlier that week, we sent out an all-church email with the subject line “Organizing Against Cruelty.” It was one way we could respond as the church to the radical disruption in our community caused by the new presidential administration.
Our church, a 375-member PCUSA congregation, is located about 3 miles from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. We have 15 to 20 families in our church whose livelihood depends on work for the CDC, which was among the first targets of spending cuts by the new administration. The agency had become a “public enemy” during COVID because it advocated for restrictions on personal freedom in order to save lives. Now I was receiving emails and text messages from people afraid of losing their jobs.
You don’t cut “an agency.” The CDC is not nameless or faceless. It is a collection of rather remarkable human beings. I am a pastor for some of them. They sing in our choir, play games with our youth group and lead our congregation as elders. They also keep humanity safe from illness. In my experience, they are people of deep faith, who love God and others — commitments that align with their work at the CDC.
My CDC-affiliated congregants were not prepared for this. They all know that when a president is elected, priorities can change; several had shared stories about job pivots under a new administration. But they are stunned that a president could demonstrate such disregard for something as foundational to the common good as public health, and they mourn the loss of the programs they have worked so hard to build.
“Those of us in global health and development are not in it for the money or to push some sort of radical agenda. We want to ensure that people do not die of things like contaminated drinking water, measles, polio, mosquito bites or HIV,” one of our CDC-affiliated congregants told me.
The people I spoke to for this essay asked to remain anonymous, fearing repercussions.
Virtually all their work has been put on hold as they await impending cuts. There has been no explanation from the administration about where there is waste or fraud at the CDC or why the positions being eliminated are not essential to public health — some of the reasons the administration has given for the cuts. It’s randomly inflicted harm.
“The field of global health and development is being decimated like a toddler swiping at a Jenga tower,” one congregant said. “I feel such grief over the lives of U.S. citizens and people across the world that will be lost or irreparably harmed by these changes.”
They are grieving the loss of lives and the loss of programs that have proved to work. They also are grieving the loss of their vocation. Each knows their calling is aligned with the ministry of Jesus, an itinerant healer, who made healing the sick a sign of the inauguration of the kingdom of God.
“My career is truly how I live out my faith — using my hands and feet to care for those whom the world would rather forget,” one told me.
Another said, “I’m a resilient person. My job is hard — I travel to places where I deal with health emergencies, and so I work all the time with people experiencing real trauma. I can deal with a lot of things — I usually just put my head down and think, ‘We’ll get through this; it can’t go on forever.’ But this feels different. I’ve never had my fundamental worth so questioned.”
What can a church do in a moment like this? Pastoral care, for one. Not only the one-on-one engagement with the pastors but also the strength that comes from belonging to a community of people who love you. That is the real help in a time of trouble. We need to be seen. We need to feel valued.
When authority figures question your worth and have the power to make you feel worthless, you need a community of people that affirms a truer narrative: “The work you do is amazing. You are amazing.”
Some of our church’s retired members are among those who now stand outside the gates of the CDC holding signs saying “We love the CDC” and “Protect Public Health.” Several people have mentioned how much this small gesture of support buoys their spirits.
Our finance team at church has a reserve fund ready to help members who lose their jobs pay their bills and rent. We are also quietly preparing for a loss of income if our CDC members are fired.
The Organizing Against Cruelty community gathering was a second kind of response, bringing people together to act. In the first few weeks of the new administration, many people expressed something like, “This feels terrible. What can I do?” Older adults especially may not be online and may not be plugged in to networks for action and activism.
At the gathering, we invited people to share resources with one another — one hungry person telling another hungry person where to find bread.
We talked about how to contact our legislators and what groups are active in our community. We set up breakout rooms for specific needs — support for transgender poeple, caring for immigrant neighbors — and a room for federal employees to share their experiences and talk without fear of recrimination.
While this role for the church, as a steward of the power of grassroots organizing, is important, there is another, perhaps paradoxical role the church can play: we can hold our human suffering as part of a larger story.
One of my CDC members said, “Lent always feels timely, but this year, my soul desperately needs it. Observing Lent helps prepare for loss, and the reminder that Christians have been marking this season through different crises and times of fear and change is welcome at this moment.
“We don’t have to do everything perfectly, but we do have to take care of each other, knowing we will all meet the same end that Jesus did on the cross.”
Not all suffering is redemptive, and the suffering of my congregants and other federal workers right now feels particularly unnecessary. But the church, when we are faithful, helps us understand that our suffering is woven into the great story of God’s love.
Our sensitivity to this suffering helps us be agents of healing. When I asked one CDC employee how she is holding up, she said, “It’s awful. … But I know that I am going to be fine.”
She told me about her volunteer service with a partner organization supporting refugee families and said, “There are so many people who are much more vulnerable in the face of this cruelty than I am. It’s them I’m worried about. I’m going to be taking care of them.”
You need a community of people that affirms a truer narrative: “The work you do is amazing. You are amazing.”
As a pastor, I went to plenty of meetings where we wrestled with how to attract visitors. We talked about lots of ideas, but I never actually asked a visitor.
Last year, I became a visitor.
I had transitioned out of parish ministry to work with organizations representing Catholic, Orthodox, and more than 60 Protestant denominations and movements. Inspired by my new role, I began visiting different congregations. Over the course of a year, I worshipped in a cathedral and a storefront church, in the great outdoors and a retirement home. I visited one church because I noticed it while sitting at a red light and was welcomed as a guest of honor at another when I went to hear a colleague preach. Along the way, I witnessed ordinary and extraordinary moments in the lives of many different congregations through the eyes of a visitor.
We enter the season of Advent recalling how difficult it was for the Holy Family to find welcome. It is also a moment in the church year when visitors are more likely to cross the thresholds of our sanctuaries. How might we help them find the welcome that the Holy Family was denied?
While I have taken too many theology classes and attended too many fellowship hall potlucks to be an ordinary visitor, I still take a deep breath as I walk into an unfamiliar church. Entering as a visitor, I notice things I missed when I was wearing a stole. I hope these experiences will help clergy and longtime members consider a visitor’s perspective of the place you love and what you can do to welcome the stranger this Christmas and beyond.
1. Help me find the entrance
Churches have a habit of not using their front doors. One church I visited holds its early service in the fellowship hall. When I arrived, I walked up to the door closest to the parking lot and realized it went into the kitchen. That didn’t feel right, so I walked the length of the building to the second door. Entering there would have required me to walk by the band. No, thank you!
One of the hardest parts of visiting a new church was navigating the space between the car and the pew. Clear signs helped me feel welcome, and that calmed at least one anxiety.
Take action: Starting in the parking lot, imagine a visitor trying to find the sanctuary. What doors are most obvious? Are there any turns that don’t have a sign? Bonus points if you walk through with a friend who has never been to your church.
2. Help me follow the service
It was my first time attending an AME service, and my transferable knowledge was at its limit. In this church, members of the congregation go forward for the offering and place their gifts in a small replica of the church. I have no idea how I would have navigated that moment had the woman sitting next to me not leaned over and explained what was about to happen.
Churches that used prayer books brought a different kind of challenge. There is something deeply hospitable about being handed an open hymnal or prayer book with a finger on the right line. Bulletins with explanatory notes also helped me find my way.
Take action: Consider what elements of your service are hardest to follow and encourage the congregation to look for visitors who may need some guidance in those moments.
3. Welcome warmly but gently
I have come and gone from churches without speaking to a soul and have had a member chase me down in the parking lot for a conversation. How do you welcome visitors without scaring them off? I found that the way I was welcomed back mattered.
When I visited small and aging congregations, it was common for folks to tell me, “We hope you come back.” Perhaps it was all those new-visitor conversations I had as a pastor, but I always felt some pressure with that invitation. It was clearly heartfelt. But it also felt a little wistful, as if I were the key to the future flourishing of the congregation.
One Sunday, I was given a different invitation: “You are welcome back any time.” In that simple sentence, I felt all of the welcome and none of the pressure. It said that they would continue to be the church as they always had. If I wanted to be a part of that, the doors were open.
Take action: Discuss as a hospitality committee when you have felt most welcome in a space and why. Then identify welcoming conversation starters to engage visitors.
4. The website is where it’s at …
I Googled most of the churches I visited. As with your doors, think about what questions visitors are asking as they pull up your website. Make that information easy to find. The first thing I looked for was what time services were held. It’s also helpful to say something about parking if it isn’t obvious or abundant.
A change to a church’s normal routine doesn’t always make it to the website. Sometimes the surprise was delightful, such as when I unexpectedly walked in on a combined Episcopal and Mennonite service. The theology nerd in me was in paradise. At other times, it meant showing up to locked doors or an empty parking lot.
Take action: Ask someone who doesn’t attend your church to look at your website and share feedback. Add updating outward-facing communications to the to-do list for special Sundays.
5. … AND it’s not why I came to your church
When I started this visiting adventure, I went to churches where I already knew someone. It wasn’t the Facebook posts or community events that drew me. It was a relationship. The best advertisement for your congregation is the people in the pews. Most of these folks didn’t invite me directly, but I knew where they attended. When I was ready to visit, I reached out.
Take action: Tell your members they matter! Equip them to answer questions like where to enter and whether child care is provided.
This Christmas, may we extend the welcome that the Holy Family longed for to the strangers who are sitting in our pews.