Welcome and wander in the story of God
What if the journey of faith lets us receive God's hospitality?
Two themes weave like silver threads through the Bible: welcoming and wandering. From Adam and Eve, welcomed to the world, then forced by consequence of their sin to wander; to John, exiled, then ushered into the throne room of the Lamb.
Abraham, whose story anchors three major world religions, who welcomes three strangers (who could they be?). This pivotal visit seems to prepare him for his story’s next chapter, where God commands him to travel to a place he does not know.
The Bible, in all its glorious strangeness, is the story of God seeking a people to welcome, to claim. And the story of what it means to be human, and what it means to seek meaning, and God. Rather than offering rules and dogma, what if God’s story offers insight on that quest?
Hagar, Sarah’s mistreated slave, is banished to wander. She thinks she is trudging toward her own demise, but her exile becomes a pilgrimage. She encounters God, and becomes the first person to name God: “the God who sees” because God does, in fact, see her—the most generous kind of welcome, even as he gives her a difficult assignment.
Depiction of Hagar wandering from www.LumoProject.com.
Abraham, seeking a wife for his son Isaac, sends a servant on a mission. He finds a woman who welcomes him (and his camels) with extraordinary hospitality, and he sees this as a sign. She’s astonishingly willing to wander to a place she does not know, to marry a man she’s never met. Rebekah’s courage and sense of adventure shines in a narrative that, though the story seems dominated by patriarchy and its customs, is full of little subversive asides that seem to show God’s sense of humor, and hint at a vision of a different sort of order.
Joseph is forced to wander when his brothers sell him into slavery, but eventually, he welcomes his brothers to Egypt.
Moses is born into slavery, but still welcomed by his family—in a brilliant way of working within the system, his own mother becomes his nursemaid. He’s also welcomed by Pharaoh’s daughter into a life of privilege. He too wanders to Midian as a consequence of his mistakes. He eventually wanders with the children of Israel but is welcomed into the very presence of God—though he does not make it to the Promised Land (there’s those damn consequences again).
And so it goes. The rest of the Old Testament seems to repeat a rather dysfunctional pattern: God’s people are welcomed into fellowship, but then wander away. They get attacked by their enemies, sometimes taken into exile. They are forced by their enemies (or perhaps their rebellion) to wander. They cry out, eventually God welcomes them back. They’re good for a while, but then they wander again. The whole story seems to be an object lesson in how human beings—even those God welcomes—live in desperate need of grace, but are prone to wander from it.
The hospitality of Jesus
Jesus also wandered—in a different sort of way—and also welcomed, even if he relied on the hospitality of strangers repeatedly. “Follow me,” his invitation, actually weaves both wandering and welcoming together in a beautiful way. He asks us to believe, but also to act. To simply be with him, welcomed into friendship. To follow implies motion, mission, movement. But also fellowship, friendship, forgiveness.
Sometimes, Jesus seems to ask for hospitality. He offers it, but also requests it of unexpected people, like a diminutive tax collector named Zacchaeus, or a pharisee named Simon.
Jesus and Zacchaeus imagined by the www.LumoProject.com
In keeping those threads alive in our own lives, we can practice welcoming and wandering. Both practices create space for understanding of others, loving our neighbor, trusting God. What if the Bible is inviting us to both welcome God, and accept God’s own hospitality? What does that look like? (Hint: Jesus said it was about loving your neighbor.)
Welcoming, as I’ve shared here before, is another word for “hospitality.” In the original ancient text: philoxenia. Literally, the love of strangers. Hospitality, so misunderstood in our culture, was more than just a thread in the ancient Middle East. It was the fabric that connected and bound people—a moral compunction to protect and offer shelter and sustenance to strangers, anyone in need.
For centuries, wandering has been a spiritual practice—often referred to as pilgrimage. A journey of significance, which transforms the traveler. In our culture, travel is often thought of as luxurious entertainment. We rush through a whole continent in two weeks claiming that we “saw” it or sometimes “did” it—we “did Rome” or “did London” as if ticking off boxes. But what if we saw travel as an opportunity to know “the other” in a way we could not if we stayed sheltered at home? What if every pilgrimage has the potential to become a spiritual one? What if travel (even if only to the part of town we usually avoid) could provide an opportunity to encounter God, and both give and receive love?
Journey of faith
This weekly email offers a look at what it means to welcome and wander. Scripture, I believe, invites us to do both—but even if you’re a skeptic, or not sure about the Bible’s relevance (a fair question, to be sure), you are welcome here.
In fact, spiritual wandering takes us on a journey through doubt. Pushing through that doubt, taking your time to wrestle with it, will strengthen your faith. Exploring doubt leads you toward a deeper understanding, a more resilient faith. And by faith I don’t mean knowing all the answers, or never asking questions. Indeed, I mean the opposite. True faith requires doubt—otherwise, what would faith be? Faith is believing and acting in spite of our doubts. If the doubts weren’t there, the faith would have nothing to push back against. It would be meaningless.
And a life of welcoming and true hospitality (not entertaining) is, regardless of your belief system, simply a better way to live. It gives meaning, purpose, and joy. Connecting with our fellow human beings, whether in our homes or anywhere else, offering them the welcome of generous kindness, choosing not to fear them—this is the best way to live, the way that will be a light in the darkness.