I have often wondered what would happen if Jesus were to turn up at one of our parish potluck suppers. Not dressed in flowing robes and sandals, but in the ordinary clothes of someone who had just gotten off the bus, carrying a Tupperware container of something unidentifiable. Would we rush forward with a warm welcome and a generous plate, or would we do what Canadians are so very skilled at — smiling politely while gently directing him to the “visitors’ table,” the one strategically located near the drafty exit door?
Hospitality is one of those words we in the church love to use. We put it in parish profiles, committee mandates, and on the front of our bulletins. It’s a lovely word, full of warm associations — cups of tea, casseroles, and the holy grail of Anglican hospitality: dainties. But true hospitality, the kind that Jesus demonstrates and calls us to, is far riskier than passing around a tray of Nanaimo bars. It’s hospitality at the edges — welcoming people who make us uncomfortable, people who may not play by our rules, people who may never say thank you or stack the chairs afterward.
Scripture is full of this kind of edge-hospitality. Abraham running to meet three strangers in the heat of the day and discovering he has entertained angels unawares. Jesus eating with tax collectors and sinners, causing the good religious folk to choke on their soup. The early church struggling with whether Gentiles really belonged at the table (spoiler: they did). Over and over again, God calls us to fling the doors wide and make room for people who don’t meet our criteria.
The truth is, we like our criteria. They make us feel safe, in control. “Welcome,” we say, “but please be on time, reasonably tidy, and preferably able to sing in the choir.” We like our edges neat, trimmed, and manageable. But God’s welcome spills over the edges, like a pot of soup left too long on the stove, bubbling down the sides and onto the burner. It makes a mess. But it smells wonderful.
Hospitality without conditions is not about being careless; it is about being Christ-like. It is about creating spaces where people can show up as they are, with all their complicated stories, without fear of judgment or rejection. It is about seeing in them not projects to be fixed, but beloved children of God. And yes, sometimes it will leave us with sticky fingers, awkward conversations, and the odd moment where we desperately wish we could sneak out the back door. But it will also leave us with glimpses of the Kingdom—where the hungry are fed, the lonely find friends, and the stranger becomes neighbour.
So the next time someone unexpected turns up — whether at our church, our dinner table, or even at the drafty end of the parish hall — perhaps our call is not to shuffle them politely out of the way, but to say, “Pull up a chair. There’s room for you here.” After all, isn’t that precisely what God has already said to us?