​I've been writing more about what it means to be a Christian in the dirt — meaning how we live the incarnation, this mystery of glory housed in flesh and bone, embodying love and stubborn hope for new creation in the soil of our everyday lives and the places we inhabit.

Radical Hospitality as the scandalous welcome of God is central to our practices as a faith community. For the kingdom of God is like a big, long banqueting table, full of friends, strangers, neighbors, misfits, and sojourners. I love the invitation of the table. For there is something so earthy, bodily, and yet mystical that happens around the table. When we break bread together, we feel a sense of connection, delight, community, and presence.

So much of how we imagine gathering as the community of God’s people is around the table. Hospitality has been a pillar of Christianity over the millennia as Christians have cared for the sick, the orphan, the widow, and the stranger. Far from the modern, Martha-Stewart-influenced notions of hospitality meant to impress, hospitality was the means of grace to care for those in need. “Welcoming the stranger… is the most often repeated commandment in the Hebrew Scriptures, with the exception of the imperative to worship the one and only God" (Theologian Orland Espín).

In the New Testament, Jesus displayed a radical inclusivity and welcome in which he modeled a spirituality that is shown to the least of these — the hungry, the needy, the prisoner, and the sick (Matt 25). Hospitality comes from two Greek words: philos which means “friend” and xenos which means “stranger.”

Hospitality is the love of strangers.

As followers of Jesus, we are called to love our neighbor and the stranger —those who are often excluded and neglected in society. And this is very challenging today. We are so fragmented in our society. We don’t know our neighbor. We have largely outsourced and institutionalized care for the stranger. We are prone to gather in our homogenous groups, and we don’t often bump up against those who are different from us. We are often isolated from the real needs and hunger of the oppressed and the poor. And we are afraid…that we’ll be overwhelmed, that we’ll be pushed to our limits, that we won’t have enough time, money, and resources…

Yet, Jesus invites us into another way — a way of abundance that combats the scarcity we feel. We are invited into radical love and generosity. Jesus modeled a scandalous and highly controversial faith that welcomed and included those in society who were outsiders. This greatly offended the Pharisees and still offends us today.

Jesus befriended those on the margins, those who were invisible, those who were oppressed, and those without power, privilege, and voice. And he was highly criticized by the religious people of the day for hanging out with the wrong people. The wrong race, the wrong religion, the wrong gender, the wrong status. But we must understand this.

This. Is. The Gospel.

Its essence is radical welcome and inclusion. We see this as Jesus welcomed women, Samaritans, crooks, adulterers, and lepers, many of who were considered to be no less than dogs. No one is outside of God’s mercy and grace. This gospel transforms communities. It breaks down all the divides. The kingdom invitation is for everyone. Slave and free. Rich and poor. Educated and uneducated. Jew & Gentile. Christian & Muslim. Indigenous and refugee. Every shade of black, brown, and white. Straight and gay. Conservative and liberal. Everyone is invited to the table of God.

Because of this, I believe that radical hospitality is central to who we are as a church. For it is the essence of the kingdom.

This is the extravagance of the feast of God.


by Jessica Ketola​

BECAUSE THIS MONTH IS ALL ABOUT INVITATION, here is another post from Kindred Magazine written by a friend of mine, Lauren Goldbloom, who participated in Leadership in the New Parish, and is seeking to live into God's dream for her neighborhood in Spokane, Washington. 
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I WAS SITTING in a holy place. Metal chairs, a few tables, some windows. From a mounted television screen pictures from a wrestling match flashed, and the vending machines in the corner made their constant hum. But here in this understated room I looked at my brown leather sandals and half wondered about taking them off, knowing full well I was near holy ground. Underneath all this ordinary was a glorious expectancy, and I could hardly contain my eager joy.
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I’d seen the text not an hour earlier. “Water broke. She is on her way!” I practically danced through a quick shower, leapt around the house announcing the news, and skipped to the car, camera bag in hand. When I explained to the woman at the front desk why I was there, I couldn’t quite understand why she didn’t jump out of her seat to celebrate with me; the miracle of it all was certainly not lost on me, even if she was quite accustomed to women giving birth just down the hall from where she was seated.

Sitting in my chair in the waiting room I couldn’t quite form prayers into words, but my mind and heart were nevertheless filled with an inexplicable assurance—life was birthing new life, a miracle was taking place. And I was struck with the honor of that invitation—to wait, to be near, and to hope and wonder with her.

You and I may receive a handful of truly remarkable invitations in our lifetime, a request from a loved one or kindred spirit into one of those thin places that is significant in their story and therefore in our own. And with each remarkable invitation, I wonder how many everyday, nonchalant invitations might precede it? Hey, want to have lunch? Want to grab a cup of coffee? Want to meet at the park? Want to talk more about that dream of yours? In the ordinary—around the table, along the walking trail, over the glass of wine—we find the connection that will lead us into the sacred.

I can’t even remember the first time I invited Tiffany over for dinner, or perhaps we met at the park to let the kids play. A mutual friend had invited her to the women’s retreat where we’d first met, then I’d invited to her apply for an open position at the school where I was teaching, and the rest was history. We were soon living in the same neighborhood, working at the same school, and worshipping at the same church. One invitation turned into a dozen invitations, which turned into invitational living. There’s a kind of freedom in a friendship when you’ve extended and accepted enough invitations that you already know you’re welcome, they already know they belong.  

That kind of community, though, only happens with other kinds of invitations. Want to watch my kids for me so I can get a break? Want to stay with me after the party and help me do dishes? Want to sit with me and listen just so I can put my feelings into words? And all the while we’re asking unspoken questions. Will you do life with me even when it’s crazy and messy and my kids are cranky? Will you hold my story and trust my heart and give me grace even when I’m falling apart? Will you see me? Will you be there? And through the inviting and the responding, the giving and the receiving, in the back and forth we create something beautiful—friendship that can hold space and grace for each other, belonging that feels like family.

The next text came from her husband and was straight to the point: “She’s here! Please come in!” Before I knew it I was at Tiffany’s side, a fresh miracle lying on her chest.  Dark new eyes were staring up at my friend, seeking out the face that went with that voice she already knew, and her skin keeping warm on the body that had held her for 37 weeks. I took out my camera and asked the moment to just stay still, my breath catching and then releasing in smiles and tears.

The honor of the invitation that day makes me wonder if all invitations aren’t a little like being invited to a birthing room. We’re asked to enter into another person’s story—their beautiful, messy, hard, glorious life. Whether it’s a Tuesday or a birthday or a doctor’s visit day—when we’re invited in, may the wonder and honor of that invitation never be lost on us. Who knows what miracles we just might witness?

LAUREN GOLDBLOOM makes a life as a mother of six, wife of one, and neighbor to many. She practices the art of neighboring around her big dining room table, where there’s always room for more friends and more stories.

Today I want to share a recent post I contributed as a guest blogger at Kindred Magazine. This is a wonderful magazine of gifted writers, and I hope you will check out their musings.

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HOSPITALITY. I FEEL it may be a lost art. In the busy chaos of life, frenetic schedules, and individual pursuits, is there truly any space for opening our homes and our lives? Too few meals are shared with beauty, feasting, and wine over meaningful conversation that lingers on well into the night. But this makes sense. After cramming like a maniac to meet the deadline at work, surviving the two-year-old’s birthday party, running a load of laundry with what appears to be all the underwear one owns, somehow remembering to pay the AT&T bill that is five days overdue, and finally picking up a roasted chicken and bagged salad before collapsing in front of the latest episode of The Bachelor—is there really anything left?

And what about community and the sense that we are a part of something far bigger than ourselves? Sometimes I fear we have lost this as well. In the midst of a culture built on fierce individualism and personal freedom that trumps the common good. In the relentless barrage of technology and information that surely is a poor substitute for true friendship and connection. In the fragmentation of life where we often travel in isolation cages with wheels from garage to work and then back to garage again.

I find myself longing for the good old days. A place in time where everybody knows your name, where the pace of life slows, where conversations over meals are savored, and where there is dancing, storytelling, feasting, and laughter. Where communities gather regularly to share in worship, commerce, socials, barn raisings, and harvesting. Of course, I’ve never lived in such a time. My limited knowledge comes merely from the books I devoured as a freckle-faced, red-haired kid. Along with the delectable indulgence of watching my weekly allowance of television, which was either the more scandalous The Waltons or the more genteel Little House on the Prairie. My own history only goes as far back as the ’70s, but I guess I can thank my Jesus-crazed hippie parents and those formative years in the commune for my freakishly abnormal value for community. In fact, I don’t know how to do life any other way.

Going against the status quo might come from the hippie parents as well. For it bothers me that life today is organized around the economics of capitalism. At the expense of our own well-being, our children, our communities, not to mention those whose backs our “happiness” has been built upon. Don’t get me started. Just. Don’t get me started. From our food sources to our housing, healthcare, prisons, and education systems. It’s not that we are without the intellect, resources, or creativity to fix them. It is just that it simply costs too much.

But I fear my rant is dismal and bordering on the catastrophic when I consider myself to be an optimist. But this I do believe with all my heart. With all my hippie-loving-communal heart. In these uncertain times when we can’t help but feel disillusioned and demoralized with the constant onslaught of politics, injustice, war, and violence, there is one thing we can do.

One amazing, defiant, subversive thing.

Practice hospitality.

If you are looking to “stick it to the man” (and most likely you are in our current climate), get to know your neighbors. Yes, your actual neighbors. And no, I am not kidding. Even the neighbor in the sketchy house with the overgrown yard. Go over and introduce yourself. You might find out a thing or two, not the least of which that your elderly neighbor’s been ill and shut in. Get to know your neighbors—the master gardener next door, the plumber who insists on parking his truck in front of your house, and the single mom across the street. This simple act has the power to transform your community.

If you are hoping to make a difference in the midst of rampant racism, bigotry, and wall-building, welcome others different from you into your home. Share a meal and hear their stories. You just might find out that these new friends are the most courageous and resilient people you know. Invite the stranger. Welcome the outsider. It’s the most subversive act you can do.
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If you are longing for meaning and connection, invite others to your table. Eat together. Share wine or a book or a cup of coffee. Feast together. Share a meal, share your presence, and share your life. Yes, this will require slowing down, saying no to some good things, letting go of perfection, and being vulnerable. But it’s worth it. Being present to others invites the best of what it means to be human. So go on and be subversive. Invite. Feast. Tell stories. Listen. Connect. Learn. Laugh. Empower. Transform.
Practice hospitality.

by Jessica Ketola

INVITE. It seems like the word of the month. I love words and this one in particular, because invitation is so…well…inviting (I didn’t say I was articulate.) This summer, you have been invited to do one thing. One glorious, defiant, subversive thing. To practice hospitality. And if you still haven’t sent the invite or planned the barbecue you wanted to or set aside time for that outing, you have 30 beautiful days to do so. Now’s the time.
 
But along with the invitation to practice hospitality, I hope you will accept the INVITATION TO PRACTICE SABBATH.
 
You see, every August we take time for rest, relationships and rejuvenation. And we practice Sabbath as a community. Which may or may not conjure up restrictive traditions of forced quiet, prayer and religious activities. However, this is not the kind of Sabbath I am talking about nor the kind of Sabbath that I believe God has commanded. [And by the way it is a command.]
 
Sabbath in its ancient tradition was meant to be a day of delight for both body and soul. A beautiful gift of rest and rejuvenation. A day when we cease from our own work to receive the bountiful gift of God’s work. A day when we celebrate God’s re-creative, redemptive love that Dan Allender refers to in his book Sabbath using the categories of sensual glory and beauty, ritual, communal feasting, and playfulness. Yes, you heard it right. Rest. Rejuvenation. Beauty. Feasting. Community. Play. Delight. This is what is required. [Okay. Sign me up!] This is the gift of Sabbath to be practiced in our everyday lives where we actually make space to attend to the things that bring goodness, glory, and delight. And where we carve out time to experience heaven here on earth. To celebrate God’s goodness in our lives. To enjoy for just a few moments God’s shalom. To slow down long enough to be fully present. To God. To ourselves. To our desires and our longings. And to the people we love.  
 
So you are INVITED this month to practice Sabbath delight and radical hospitality which are just two sides of the very same coin. One is to enter and receive the confounding abundance and extravagance of the kingdom. And the other is to invite others to experience it too. So what is your heart longing for? What gives you life? What feeds your soul? What beauty stirs you? What hike, concert, outing, feast, hot tub, or fire pit do you need to experience to fill your heart with pure delight? For you are INVITED to participate in something compelling, beautiful, and life-giving—in other words, to experience heaven here on earth and to taste of the coming kingdom.
 
 by Jessica Ketola

Who doesn’t like to be invited? To a party. To a happy hour. To a shindig. To a significant moment in a person’s journey. The graduation ceremonies may be long, the toddler birthdays might be over the top, the dog parties perhaps somewhat ridiculous. [Only in Seattle!] Even still, the fact remains that we love to be invited even when we can’t participate. Jesus was the best at this. He threw the best parties and he threw the net far and wide.

Everyone was invited. To the table. To share life. To belong.
 
Likewise, I believe that as followers of Jesus, we are called to invite others. But not necessarily to a prayer or to a church service as tradition might dictate. But into the radical hospitality and welcome of Jesus. Into a new community and a new way of life. For we’ve been talking about reinterpreting the gospel in our day and in our time so that it truly is good news to our neighbors. And not a bummer. [And by the way, it’s so sad when it’s a bummer. This is not the gospel that Jesus preached, for bummer ≠ good news.]
 
And so my working theory is that we have invited people to the wrong thing. To a gospel too small. To a prayer, a set of beliefs, a code of morality, a Sunday school club that is in stark contrast to Jesus’ invitation. For his invitation was to be a part of a new revolution of love, a new reality of forgiveness and grace and freedom that defied empire and lifted the oppressed, and it was for everyone and everything. For Jesus did not invite others to say a prayer or to go to the temple. 

Jesus invited the people of his day into a new community, a new culture, and a new way of life.
 
This is why we call ourselves The Practicing Church. For we believe that we are called to a way of life that must be lived out in a community of faith. We cannot do it alone. For I believe that it is the gospel, this way of love lived out in the community, that will ultimately be good news to our neighbors.
 
But hospitality is everything. We see it in the early church. Rodney Stark describes it this way in The Rise of Christianity, ". . . Christianity served as a revitalization movement that arose in response to the misery, chaos, fear, and brutality of life in the urban Greco-Roman world. . . . Christianity revitalized life in Greco-Roman cities by providing new norms and new kinds of social relationships able to cope with many urgent problems. To cities filled with the homeless and impoverished, Christianity offered charity as well as hope. To cities filled with newcomers and strangers, Christianity offered an immediate basis for attachment. To cities filled with orphans and widows, Christianity provided a new and expanded sense of family. To cities torn by violent ethnic strife, Christianity offered a new basis for social solidarity. And to cities faced with epidemics, fire, and earthquakes, Christianity offered effective nursing services. . . . For what they brought was not simply an urban movement, but a new culture capable of making life in Greco-Roman cities more tolerable."
 
As I read this, I am amazed by this new community and their radical hospitality, generous love and solidarity with those who were suffering. We need this now more than ever. As we grow increasingly divided, as communities are displaced and families are pulled apart, as violence dominates the headlines, and life becomes more and more fragmented. Oh what if this was true of the church today?
 
I think it’s important to note that we do not have the gospel without this radical call of Jesus to those who are not church folks, not like us. Jesus modeled a scandalous and highly controversial faith that welcomed and included those in society who were not welcomed and included. He befriended those on the margins, those who were invisible, those who were oppressed. And he was highly criticized by the religious people of the day for hanging out with the wrong people. But we must understand this.
 
This. Is. The Gospel. It’s essence being radical welcome and inclusion. We see this as Jesus welcomed women, Samaritans, crooks, adulterers, and lepers, many who were considered to be no less than dogs in society. No one is outside of God’s mercy and grace. And in fact, in the economy of the kingdom, the least is the greatest. And when we see the gospel transform communities, it breaks down all the divides. The kingdom is for everyone. Slave and free. Rich and poor. Educated and uneducated. Jew & Gentile. Christian & Muslim. Indigenous and refugee. Black, brown, yellow, red and white. Straight and gay. Conservative and liberal. Everyone is welcome. [See Extravagant Welcome]

These are turbulent times we are living in. Everyday the onslaught of media headlines and social media posts are overwhelming. At times it seems too much to bear. Other times, we just have to laugh or go insane, trusting that Jesus is real and His presence is near. In these times, I take comfort in the reality that I serve another King and march to another drum. For my allegiance is not to the current administration but to Jesus, who is bringing a subversive kingdom of grace and love to the world where the oppressed are set free and the broken-hearted are healed.

Where we are all welcome at the table of God.

As The Practicing Church, we are currently going through the gospel of Luke and we see this theme of hospitality and welcome over and over again. In fact the life and ministry of Jesus can be seen as a divine "visitation" to the world, seeking hospitality. A story of One who came as visitor and guest who then becomes host and offers a hospitality in which the entire world can become truly human, be at home, and know salvation in the depths of their hearts. That all would know the extravagant love of God and the scandalous grace that Jesus offered.

This past week I came across this wonderful NPR article about welcome, acceptance and grace that inspired me. And it made me laugh. Which is important too. We have to keep our sense of humor.

But I do think it is more important now than ever to offer the grand welcome of God -- especially when there are so many messages against.
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Against the refugee, the Muslim, those of different race or color or gender or sexuality or socio-economic status. It is important to say, You are welcome. You are all welcome. The message of this kingdom of love is for everyone. Jesus made that clear and was always offending the religious people of his day by his scandalous welcome, eating and drinking with the riff raff, the poor, the drunks, the prostitutes, the disabled, the sick, the disenfranchised, and the tax collectors, just modern day bullies and thieves. And so if this is who Jesus welcomed. And if He welcomes me in all of my brokenness and depravity.

Then I believe that now is the time to proclaim the wide scope of God's grace and welcome for all people.

We extend a special welcome to those who are single, married, divorced, widowed, straight, gay, confused, well-heeled or down-at-heel. We especially welcome wailing babies and excited toddlers. We welcome you whether you can sing like Pavarotti or just growl quietly to yourself. You're welcome here if you're just browsing, just woken up or just got out of prison. We don't care if you're more Christian than Pope Francis or haven't been to church since Christmas 10 years ago. We extend a special welcome to those who are over 60 but not grown up yet and to teenagers who are growing up too fast.

We welcome soccer moms, football dads, CrossFit fanatics, starving artists, tree huggers, latte sippers, vegetarians, and junk food eaters. We welcome those who are in recovery or still addicted. We welcome you whether you have lived here for a week, a year or a lifetime, whether you speak Spanish, Amharic, Korean, Vietnamese, or Tigrinya, whether you have light skin or dark, whether you wear a baseball hat or a hijab, whether you have a hankering for tortillas, injera, samosas or hotdogs.  We welcome you if you're having problems, are down in the dumps or don't like organized religion. We're not that keen on it either. We offer welcome to those who think the Earth is flat, work too hard, don't work, can't spell, or are here because Granny is visiting and wanted to come to church. We welcome those who are inked, pierced, both or neither.

We offer a special welcome to those who could use a prayer right now, had religion shoved down their throats as kids or who had a run in with google maps and wound up here by mistake. We welcome pilgrims, tourists, seekers, doubters and you.

▪ English Cathedral Welcomes Visitors with Unexpected Message. January 15, 2017. NPR. Author unknown. A few words have been altered to fit our context.

by Jessica Ketola

This week I am mindful of what a historic week this is for us. This Monday, we celebrated Martin Luther King Day and I know that many of us found ourselves re-inspired by his words that resonate so deeply today. And this Friday, we will inaugurate a president known for his divisiveness, racism, xenophobia and misogyny in the midst of a turbulent and hostile political climate. And Saturday, many of us will march in the Women’s March standing for human rights that seem to be increasingly under siege, advocating for gender equality, racial equality and economic justice.
 
And I find myself asking, how do we create the world that we want to live in right here in our own local contexts in a world gone mad? How do we participate in the work of listening, cross-cultural friendships and working towards equality and justice for everyone in our communities? At times, this may seem downright impossible, especially if you pay any attention to the national news. We are a people divided – down gender lines, political lines, racial lines, and economic lines.
 
But I believe that the church has a role here. And especially the church that is committed to the flourishing of a particular place and all the people who live there. I believe in the power of change in the local, among neighbors and mothers, gardeners and dog walkers. Though admittedly, the church has not always been known for the kind of radical hospitality, inclusiveness and invitation that Jesus demonstrated, I believe that this is our call as the church and a sign of hope for our communities. The small taste that I have experienced here in my own neighborhood of sharing meals and friendship across culture, race and economic divides has been a little glimpse of heaven.  
 
Recovering this practice of hospitality is essential today in our communities that have grown insular, defensive, fearful and harsh. “Through the practice of Christian hospitality the church participates in God’s peaceable kingdom,” Darrell Guder has observed. “Such hospitality indicates the crossing of boundaries (ethnic origin, economic condition, political orientation, gender status, social experience, educational background) by being open and welcoming of the other. Without such communities of hospitality, the world will have no way of knowing that all God’s creation is meant to live in peace.”
 
I want to continue to use my voice to speak out for peace and to advocate for justice, and I am excited to march on Saturday to stand with my sisters and daughters all across this nation. And yet, it is not enough. Unless I am participating in justice right here with my own neighbors. Unless I am forging friendships across difference. Unless I am extending the kind of radical hospitality that Jesus did when he welcomed the marginalized and oppressed groups of his day – the tax collectors, Samaritans, women, lepers, the addicts and those employed in the sex trade, the disabled and the poor.
 
As The Practicing Church, I long to live into this kind of hospitality where all are invited to the feast of God. Like a party scene from the gospels at the home of the tax collector most famously portrayed in this controversial painting, Feast at the House of Levi by Paolo Veronese (1573). In its time, it was subject to scrutiny by the Roman Catholic Inquisition for its irreverence, indecorum and even heresy. How quickly we forget how scandalous the grace is that we’ve been given. That we are guests of the hospitality of Christ invited home into the upside-down ways of the kingdom, where the poor are rich, the oppressed are mighty, the scandalous are given dignity, the lonely are put into families, and where our cultural, racial and economic divides disappear as we stand together as children of God. In the words of Martin Luther King Jr., “I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality… I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.”

by Jessica Ketola