When we hear the word “hospitality,” many of us think of magazine kitchens and hosts who seem to do everything effortlessly. That picture quietly disqualifies most of us. My home is not tidy enough, we think, my cooking not good enough, my life not together enough. So we never open the door.
But the hospitality the Bible commends has almost nothing to do with impressing people. The Greek word behind it means, quite literally, “love of strangers.” It’s not about the state of your home; it’s about the posture of your heart toward the person who has none of your friends and none of your certainties.
“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” — Hebrews 13:2
We live in a strangely lonely age. People are surrounded by contacts and starved of belonging. Into that ache, an ordinary invitation lands with surprising weight: a seat at your table, a text that says “come over, it’s nothing fancy,” a Sunday lunch where the newcomer isn’t left to eat alone. These are small things. They are also, I’ve come to believe, some of the most powerful things a church can do.
So this is my gentle challenge. This month, open your door once. Don’t clean the whole house. Don’t cook something ambitious. Simply invite someone who is on the edges — the new family, the student far from home, the widow who eats most meals alone — and let them belong for an evening.
You may find, as the old promise hints, that you were the one who was visited.
