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Looking closely at the witness of Scripture, we see a God who not only seeks relationship and union with the creation but who reaches out intentionally for everyone, and in particular for the outcast. Regardless of how unclean, unworthy, insignificant, or marginalized we may feel or others may claim we are, the God of grace and welcome shatters every barrier to embrace us and draw us home.

Lest we think the welcome is meant for us or our group alone, the Scriptures are filled with reminders to God’s chosen ones that they are not the only ones God welcomes. In Deuteronomy, Moses speaks to the Israelites as they journey from slavery in Egypt and through the wilderness. The frightened, tired and confused clan no doubt sought comfort in the knowledge that their covenant with God made them special. They soon learned that there is no rest for God’s chosen ones. Instead, God’s people are called out for a special mission.

Online Extra: Bible Studies on the Biblical Foundations of Radical Welcome

[T]he Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, the mighty and awesome, who is not partial and takes no bribe, who executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and who loves the strangers, providing them with food and clothing. You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. (Deuteronomy 10:17–19)

It is true that God stands with God’s people through every trial, but not so that they will sit comfortably with the privilege of apparent divine favor. Now they have to stand in solidarity with, graciously receive and welcome the vulnerable ones within their community and beyond it whom they might find it most difficult to accept: the orphan, the widow, the stranger, The Other. God has done it for them. Now they are called to respond in kind, literally imitating the God who graciously welcomed them.

Isaiah rails at Israel for trying to please God with superficial religious acts while ignoring God’s yearning to extend justice and welcome. He shares this judgment as he has received it from God:

Is not this the fast I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see them naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin? (Isaiah 58:6–7)

God has made it clear: if you love me you will work for liberation with the oppressed and marginalized in your midst, and you will share your home and food with those who have none. You will not hide from the brothers and sisters I have placed near you. Rather, you will actively go out to meet them and draw them to yourself, even if it is risky, even if you feel uncomfortable (and would you not be uncomfortable, after encountering the naked poor and welcoming them into your home?).

That message has certainly been muffled by people of faith over millennia. “If you are Christian,” we say, “be kind. Give charitably. Serve the needy” Each is a noble pursuit, but they are not hospitality and welcome the way God does it. God’s way is like Abraham, who greets the three angelic strangers at the oaks of Mamre with nothing short of reverence (Genesis 18:1–8). He arranges for their feet to be washed, brings them bread and an extravagant meal that includes the meat of a calf. He treats these mysterious outsiders like honored guests.

I’m very happy about having a gay bishop, radical hospitality and radical inclusion. But we strive for that so we can do Matthew 25:35: “I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat.” We do it because we still have a dynamic sense that the gospel can change lives.

BONNIE PERRY, ALL SAINTS-CHICAGO

God’s way is like the father in the outrageous story of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11–32). The rash younger son asked for his inheritance while his father lived, an act that, at the time, was the equivalent of wishing his father dead. Having squandered the gift and hit rock bottom, he returned in desperation to his father. By every standard in their society, and by his own internal moral compass, he had to know he was as good as dead to his family, barely fit to live among his father’s servants. But the moment his face showed on the horizon, his father raced out “filled with compassion” to embrace and draw him in. I imagine the young man approaching, dirty and humiliated, head hung low with the fear of justified retribution and anger. Much to his surprise and our own, his father saw only a glorious face and a reason to celebrate in a wildly generous manner.

Henri Nouwen reflects on the meaning of this prodigal welcome for his own life, where he came to realize

God is not the patriarch who stays home, doesn’t move, expects his children to come to him, apologize for their aberrant behavior, beg for forgiveness, and promise to do better. To the contrary, he leaves the house, ignoring his dignity by running toward them, pays no heed to apologies and promises of change, and brings them to the table richly prepared for them.⁸

That is God’s hospitality: the welcome that actively loves and receives us just as we are, despite every reservation, expectation or term we might set out, however strange we imagine ourselves to be, however far out we have been cast. That is Jesus’ hospitality, as he illustrates with seemingly every action, and nowhere more clearly than in his radically welcoming table fellowship. He invites lowly fishermen, unclean prostitutes, marginalized tax collectors, and insignificant widows to partake of the lavish feast he has come to offer all. And he does it to teach us a crucial lesson: God made us all and loves us all, and no one more than those society casts out or sets apart. There are no limits to the love and justice of God. So, now, having known the welcoming love of God, the Holy One seems to say to us, “Be released from your fear and scarcity, go forth boldly and share from the abundance you have received. Do not worry about who may be watching and what they might say. Do not worry about your dignity and do not set terms on your welcome.” God has graciously, prodigally welcomed you, because it is in God’s very nature to seek you out and welcome you home when you feel the least worthy of embrace. Can you do likewise with others, entering solidarity with the outcast you find yourself least willing or able to receive? Can you make room within yourself to receive The Other?