I was out for a walk yesterday and passed a house with a large “Welcome” sign on the front porch. I stood still, asking myself: I wonder if that welcome is meant for everyone? Or just for some?
In America, we love the idea of welcome. We brand it, display it and post it everywhere. But who do we really mean to extend welcome to when we say it?
We point to the Statue of Liberty and quote Emma Lazarus: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…” and in the same breath, we turn away families at the border, detain children seeking safety and close pathways to resettlement that saves lives.
We put “welcome” on church signs and websites. We hang it in our homes, place welcome mats outside our doors and stitch it into the pillows on our couches. But if that welcome is only for some then, our welcome is simply performative.
The truth is, we cannot have welcome without discomfort. We cannot have belonging without change. We cannot say “all are welcome here” without confronting our own biases, without reworking our systems or reimagining our spaces.
Real welcome, the kind Jesus practiced, costs something. It costs time; it costs comfort; it costs the illusion that our lives are our own to protect. This kind of welcome invites the refugee into our neighborhoods, the unhoused into our sanctuaries, the formerly incarcerated into our communities, the queer teenager into our pews. It invites the single mother navigating poverty into our support circles, the person with a disability into leadership spaces; not as people to fix, but as people to be loved just as they are.
The gospel does not invite us to hollow hospitality. It calls us to the kind of welcome that costs something. And it is worth it.
It will demand that we show up when it’s hard. It will demand that we listen more than we speak. It will demand that we use our privilege to advocate, to open doors, to speak truth to systems built on exclusion. It will demand our reputations, our resources, and sometimes even our relationships.
The cost of welcome is real. It gives us something the world cannot offer: a glimpse of the kingdom of God breaking in, a front-row seat to transformation, a community built not on sameness, but on sacred solidarity. It invites us to the type of hospitality spoken about in Hebrews: “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2, NIV)
However, when we build walls instead of bridges, when we prioritize comfort over compassion, when we say, “You can belong once you become like us,” we lose more than we realize. We lose our integrity. We lose our witness. We lose the heart of the gospel.
So yes, welcome should stretch us. It should mess with our comfort; it should interrupt our plans; it should demand our presence. Because that’s exactly what love does.
Jesus didn’t call us to convenience or comfort. He called us to the cross, and part of that calling is learning to open our doors and our hearts to those the world’s most vulnerable. May we press into the hard, holy work of hospitality that reflects the heart of Jesus. Because this world doesn’t need more lip service or lofty theology detached from action. It needs communities of people who live like Christ actually meant what He said, who move toward the margins and sit with those who are suffering.
That kind of lived faith doesn’t just talk about Jesus. It reveals Him.
And that, friends, is the whole point.
Stacey Clack is the CWS Director of Community Sponsorship and Engagement. To learn how you can support welcoming in your community, click here.