You know, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the word “hospitality.” It’s one of those words we throw around a lot in church circles. We have our “hospitality teams” and our “coffee hours.” We might even have a greeter at the door on Sunday mornings. But if we’re honest, I think we’ve lost something. We’ve traded the deep, biblical, soul-stretching command to welcome the stranger for a shallow version that’s more about etiquette than the Gospel.
In our evangelical Episcopalian tradition, we talk a lot about the Via Media, the middle way. But when it comes to hospitality, there is nothing “middle-of-the-road” about what God asks of us. It’s radical. It’s dangerous. And honestly? It’s one of the most powerful ways we can be the hands and feet of Jesus right here in Lethbridge.
The Tent Door and the Empty Tomb: A Theology of Welcome
To really understand hospitality, we have to go back to the beginning. The foundational story for us isn’t just a polite welcome; it’s a divine encounter. I’m talking about Abraham in Genesis 18.
There he was, sitting at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day. He saw three men standing nearby, and he didn’t just wave. He ran to meet them. He bowed low to the ground and begged them to stay . He offered water to wash their dusty feet—a dirty, humble job—and promised a “little bread” to refresh them. But then he ran to Sarah, to the servant, and prepared a feast: fresh cakes, a tender calf, curds and milk .
Abraham didn’t know it at first, but the writer of Hebrews tells us what was really happening: he was entertaining angels unaware (Hebrews 13:2). Some of the early church fathers even saw in this a prefiguring of the Trinity, a glimpse of the divine community welcoming us in . The point is, our hospitality is always a response to God’s hospitality toward us. God is the ultimate host, the one who spreads a table in the wilderness. When we open our doors, we are inviting people into that divine presence.
Fast forward to the Gospels, and we see that Jesus was either going to a party, leaving a party, or being criticized for being the wrong kind of guest at a party. He was constantly reclining at tables with tax collectors and sinners, with Pharisees and outcasts . In Luke 14, he turns the whole concept of the guest list on its head, telling us to invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind—those who could never repay us . That’s not just a nice potluck idea. That’s a kingdom revolution.
And then, of course, there’s the early church. The Book of Acts shows us that the church didn’t grow because they had a great building or a dynamic speaker (though they had the ultimate one in the Spirit). It grew because they broke bread in their homes and ate together with “glad and generous hearts” (Acts 2:46). When Paul traveled, he depended on the hospitality of strangers like Lydia, the jailer in Philippi, and Mnason, an “early disciple” in Cyprus . The Gospel literally traveled on the rails of open homes and open hearts.
What Happened to Us?
So, if this is our heritage, why do so many of our churches feel like the coldest place in town to be a stranger? Somewhere along the way, we built buildings with big sanctuaries and small hearts. We created a “greeter ministry” that functions more like a security check than a welcome. We stand in the back and talk to our friends, oblivious to the family standing awkwardly by the coffee urn, trying to figure out if the coffee is free.
At our church context here in Lethbridge, we have to ask ourselves: Are we a fortress for the found, or a hospital for the hurting? An evangelical Episcopalian church should be a place where the beauty of our liturgy and the urgency of the Gospel meet in a tangible embrace. Our worship is a foretaste of the heavenly banquet . But if we can’t even say hello to someone before the service, they’ll never get a taste of that heavenly reality.
So, how do we get back to Abraham’s tent? How do we recover this lost art?
Practical Ways to Create a Truly Welcoming Church in Lethbridge
This isn’t about a program. It’s about a mindset shift. It’s about seeing every single person who walks through our doors—whether it’s for a Christmas Eve service or a random Sunday in February—as a divine appointment. Here are a few ideas, some of which we’re trying, and some we need to get better at:
1. Ditch the “Insider Language.”
We Episcopalians are great at this—unintentionally. We talk about the “Narthex,” the “Rector,” and “Coffee Hour” like everyone knows what those words mean. They don’t. And our bulletins can look like a top-secret government document. We need to explain things simply. Put a slide up before the service that says, “The book in the pew is called the Book of Common Prayer. We’re on page 355. When we sing, you can just listen if you want.” Demystify the mystery so people can actually encounter it.
2. Move Greeters from “Doormen” to “Concierges.”
Anyone can hold a door open. But a true greeter scans the parking lot for a car with out-of-province plates. They notice the young mom struggling with a diaper bag and a toddler. They don’t just point to the nursery; they walk her there, introduce her to the nursery volunteer by name, and maybe even offer to carry the diaper bag . It’s the difference between “Hello” and “How can I help you find what you’re looking for?”
3. Reimagine Coffee Hour.
Coffee hour should not be a member-only reception. Move the coffee and cookies to the center of the room, not against the wall. Put out small, round tables instead of long, rectangular ones. Long tables are for committees; round tables are for conversation. And here’s a radical thought: assign one or two families each week to be “official welcomers” at coffee hour. Their only job is to stand away from the coffee, spot someone they don’t know, and go talk to them. It’s awkward at first, but it changes everything.
4. Create Pathways, Not Walls.
When a guest comes, we often just hope they figure it out. We need clear “on-ramps” . That means a designated, easy-to-find info table. It means having a simple, beautiful card for them to fill out that doesn’t demand they join a committee. It means actually following up with them—not with a pushy sales pitch, but with a personal note from the priest or a lay leader that says, “It was a gift to have you with us. If you have any questions about the service, just reply to this email. I’d love to buy you a coffee.” .
5. Practice the Stewardship of Interruption.
This is the hardest one. It means that when you’re walking to your seat, and you see someone standing alone, you stop. You interrupt your own plans, your own desire to chat with your buddy, and you welcome the stranger. It’s inconvenient. It’s exactly what Jesus would do.
The Welcome of God
My prayer for us is that we would stop being a club and start being a family. A family that is so caught up in the extravagant, undeserved welcome we’ve received from God through Jesus Christ that we can’t help but throw our own tent doors wide open.
When we wash feet, like Abraham, we meet God. When we set an extra plate at the table, like Jesus, we proclaim the Kingdom. And when we open our homes and our hearts to the stranger here in Lethbridge, we just might find that we have welcomed the One who welcomes us all.
Grace and peace to you as you go and do likewise.