Hospitality
Summary
As Gateway steps into a new year, Dominic Jackson invites the church to reflect on a simple but searching question: what kind of community are we becoming? Through two contrasting stories—one of radical welcome and one of painful rejection—he explores how the church can either embody the heart of Jesus or distort it. Drawing from Hebrews 13, Dominic reframes hospitality not as entertaining or hosting, but as something far deeper: loving the stranger as family, not just making space for them, but making them feel like they already belong.
In a culture marked by loneliness, fear, and disconnection, this vision of hospitality is both urgent and costly. Dominic challenges us to move beyond surface-level friendliness into real, shared life—where invitations are accepted, relationships are pursued, and community is formed across differences. Whether you tend to hold others at a distance or struggle to let others in, this sermon is an invitation to become the kind of church where people don’t just visit—they find a home.
Questions for reflection
Which of the two opening stories do you resonate with more—and how has that shaped your view of the church?
When you hear “hospitality,” what do you instinctively think of? How does that compare to the biblical vision in Hebrews 13?
Who is a “stranger” in your current context (church, neighborhood, workplace)? What would it look like to treat them like family?
Are you more inclined to withhold invitation or decline invitation? Why?
What fears or barriers keep you from deeper community—either in welcoming others or being known yourself?
How might your life change if you consistently asked: “How would I want to be welcomed?” and acted on it?
Where do you see signs of loneliness (in yourself or others), and how might hospitality be a response?
What is one concrete step you can take this week to practice hospitality—either giving it or receiving it?
How does the idea that the church is a family (not just a gathering) challenge your current level of engagement?
What kind of story do you want someone to tell about Gateway 25 years from now—and what part do you play in that?
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As I've been thinking about 2026 — praying and reflecting on 2025, trying to stay in a season of expectancy and excitement about what God has in store — I've been thinking about us specifically as a church community. One thing I'm pretty sure of this coming year is that whether we have 10 people or 110 people in the room, we will probably have some visitors. We might even have some this morning. If so, welcome.
Maybe some of the visitors who come and worship with us in 2026 will stick around and eventually call Gateway home. Maybe they'll check us out for a little while and realize they're looking for a different type of church community. Maybe they'll be friends of yours or mine, or maybe strangers. Maybe they'll find us online. Maybe they'll be looking for the restaurant next door, make a wrong turn, and it'll be super awkward — but they'll stick it out and stay for the service. I don't know. Either way, we are probably going to have some visitors.
So I wanted to start this year by reflecting and preparing for some new faces, while also taking a moment to look around at who is here — to look at our church family, at who calls Gateway home — and to lean into the unique calling I believe God has given us.
But first, two quick stories.
Story One
The first one is my own. I've shared this before, but humor me one more time.
When I was a teenager — and I know this is going to be hard for some of you to imagine — I was a punk kid. There's no other way to describe it. I was a punk kid, but I had a lot of friends who were not. They were actually pretty good kids. Many of the kids I would skate with — we were all into skateboarding — would hang out together, and many of them attended the same youth group. So they would invite me, over and over and over, to join them for a church event or on Wednesday nights for youth group. They must have eventually caught me on the right day, because for whatever reason, I was going through something, and I hesitantly accepted their invitation.
When I walked into that room, as tough as I was pretending to be at that stage of life, I was terrified. I smelled like cigarettes and probably beer. I was afraid I was going to accidentally cuss in church — and I probably did a few times. I was afraid somebody, probably a pastor or leader, was going to quiz me on Bible questions I didn't know. I felt out of place. I was nervous. I didn't look the part. And deep down, what was really happening was this: I was afraid that everybody else would figure out what I already knew — that I didn't belong there. That somehow I had ended up in this room, but I was not somebody good enough to be hanging out with these good kids.
And so I walked in — and I was not met with Bible trivia at the door, or a sobriety test, or a seat tucked away in the back of the church to get me out of the way.
No. I was met with the warmest welcome I had ever experienced. Some kids I knew from school; others I didn't. A friend came up to me, grabbed me, and started taking me around the room, introducing me to people, saying, "This is the guy I told you about. We skateboard together. You've got to meet this guy." A month later, there was another new kid who had the same entrance. So I know it wasn't all about me — it was a reflection of that group. But I felt like there was a place for me there.
I was still trying to figure out what I believed. I was an atheist, but I was wrestling with things happening in my life. I was trying to figure out what I believed about God, about the Bible, about life. I didn't know what I believed — but I did know that I belonged.
Story Two
One more story, a shorter one. And this one is not my own.
It was the early '80s. A woman found herself with a couple of bucks, a bus schedule, a backpack with everything she owned, a noticeable black eye no amount of makeup could hide, and no clue where she was going. She had just left an abusive relationship — scared, alone, and in many ways in danger.
Then, in a chance encounter, she crossed paths with a distant relative and his family. They might as well have been strangers. And yet there was a softness and a kindness from this person. They shared blood but were in many ways unknown to each other. Eventually, this sweet Southern couple took her in and welcomed her into their home.
They were unlike anyone she had ever met before. They prayed before meals. They went to church together. They were looked up to and admired in their little community. They weren't perfect — sometimes she would hear them disagree through the thin walls — but they never screamed at each other or cursed or hit each other. It was a little house, but it was full of love.
Things were great for a month, until this woman found out she was pregnant.
And eventually, the sweet churchgoing Baptist couple made it very clear that she was no longer welcome in their home. This is a Christian community. People will talk. She overheard him saying to his wife. And so as the couple drove away after dropping her off at the bus station, this woman made herself two promises. The first: she would never, ever put herself in a position to need help again. The second: as long as she lived, she would never set foot in a church.
What Do These Stories Have in Common?
Both were examples of strangers — people in need of family and community. And ultimately, both stories were representations of Christianity. One, a beautiful introduction. The other, a judgmental and hypocritical one.
Have you ever walked into a room hesitant, nervous, skeptical — and been welcomed in completely and warmly? Or have you ever taken a chance on a room, only to be met with judgment and hypocrisy?
This morning, I'd like to talk about hospitality.
I'll confess: for years, I thought hospitality simply meant you were a good host. You were good at having friends over. You kept a neat house or threw really good Super Bowl parties. I assumed that was what hospitality meant. But biblical hospitality in its truest sense is a little different — and we're going to look at that here shortly.
Would you pray with me first?
Prayer
Lord Jesus, as I think of these stories from decades ago — one my own, another belonging to someone else — wherever that siren is headed right now, we just pray for that situation. Reminders like that are part of why we're downtown, and who our neighbors are, and what the needs of this city look like.
Lord, I can't help but think about how polar opposites your bride, the church, has looked to people — maybe even people in this room. How some churches have represented hope and healing and beauty, and to others, judgment and pain and disappointment. I admire those who are still here, who haven't given up on community even after experiencing hurt done in your name. Lord, I rejoice with those who have felt accepted, loved, welcomed, lovingly challenged, and spurred on in their faith and walk — all through the church, your church.
And so, Lord, I pray that as we enter 2026, everyone who walks through these doors feels just like I did 25 years ago — loved and seen and valued. Help us to be your hands and feet, and also to be your heart. We pray this in the name of Jesus. Amen.
The Text
We're going to be looking at the letter to the Hebrews. If you want to turn there, go ahead. If not, the words will be on the screen.
Hebrews is a beautiful letter — an epistle written to early Jewish Christians who were facing persecution. It's an encouragement to remain faithful and persevere in their new life and their new identity in him.
We're looking at Hebrews 13:1–2:
Keep on loving one another as brothers and sisters. Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.
Something interesting jumps out if you look at this passage in Greek. Two words here are interwoven — and for those who first read or heard this letter, something would have leapt out immediately.
The first Greek word is one we all recognize: Philadelphia — the city of brotherly love. Philos means love; adelphos means brother. Brotherly love.
The next word in this passage is philoxenos, which is translated as "hospitality." But look more closely: philos — love, as of a dear one — and xenos — stranger, outsider, alien. You're probably familiar with the word xenophobia: a fear of the other, the stranger.
So philoxenos literally means love of the stranger.
Now read the passage again with that in mind:
Keep on loving one another as brothers and sisters — keep on showing Philadelphia. But do not forget to show hospitality to strangers — do not forget to show philoxenos.
The call is to love the stranger, but specifically to love them like a brother or a sister. Don't just welcome them in — treat them like they already belong. Don't just coexist. Don't just be nice. Treat the stranger, the outsider, the alien, like they're part of the family.
The Angels
Then there's this part about angels. If you've read the Hebrew scriptures, you might notice a connection to a few Old Testament stories where people encounter what seem like normal, everyday strangers — and spoiler alert, they turn out to be angels.
The temptation is to read this passage as: treat everyone well, because you might get lucky — some of them might actually be supernatural beings. In those Hebrew scripture stories, if it happens to be an angel, you get God's favor. If you miss it, you don't.
I remember working at Target when I was 18. My boss made a big deal about secret shoppers. And there was that TV show, Undercover Boss. The basic message communicated to me was: do a good job because a secret shopper — or the CEO of Target — might come through your register. They might have the power to give you a raise, or fire you on the spot. Same with the angel: they might bless you or curse you.
But in reality, that thinking is completely backwards.
The point isn't that I should treat the mystery customer well because of who they secretly are. It's that I should treat everyone well and important — and who knows, maybe one of them actually is a corporate big wig. If you treat everyone that way, it doesn't really matter at the end of the day.
It's like when Jesus says, "Whatever you've done for the least of these, you've done for me." He's not saying: be nice to poor people or outsiders to get on my good side. He's connecting our faith with our actions, and he's reminding us that every single person we encounter has dignity and value and worth.
The author of Hebrews is connecting brotherly love and love of the stranger. If we treat every single person like family, some of them might actually become family — and some of them might be angels.
Why Hospitality?
First, you're going to notice this theme all over the scriptures, especially the New Testament.
Just a few examples:
1 Peter 4:8–10 — "Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God's grace in its various forms." Notice that hospitality is listed here as a gift.
Romans 12:9–13 — "Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. Share with the Lord's people who are in need. Practice hospitality."
And in Titus, there's a whole list of qualifications for what it means to be an elder in the church. It's a long list, and near the top is this: he must be hospitable.
Hospitality is all over the Bible — not just as a quality that is encouraged, but as one that is commanded. And it's not just about loving those who look like us, believe like us, or worship like us. It extends to the stranger.
A Unique Opportunity
So why am I talking about this? The Bible talks a lot about hospitality, and that's reason enough. But I also believe we have a unique opportunity here at Gateway.
If you want to hear a great speaker, you can watch a TED Talk — those people are professionals. If you want to hear a great band, go to a live music venue. If you want to serve your neighbors, you could do that here, or you could volunteer at a soup kitchen. The point is: a lot of what we do as a church, other places are doing too. In some ways we look very different from the world, but in other ways, from the outside, we can look pretty similar.
However, one of the distinguishing factors — one of the things that makes a church distinctly different from a bowling league or a soup kitchen or a TED Talk — is what the Bible calls hospitality. And according to the New Testament, it is actually a spiritual gift. We use that word "hospitality" a lot in our culture — great food, watching the game at someone's house, buffalo dip. But according to the Bible, there is something so much more to hospitality when it is an outpouring of the Spirit of God. It is a picture of the gospel itself: the stranger being invited into a family, as family.
The Numbers
I want to share something I've been sitting with. I share this not as a critique or a judgment — just as an observation, just numbers and data.
Did you know we average about eight to eleven visitors a month — let's say ten? And of those ten, our church matches the national average for American churches: about ten percent will return a second time. One out of ten will come back. I'm not even talking about a third or fourth visit — just twice. And this is across the board. Megachurches that get hundreds of new visitors a week see about the same rate. Small churches like ours, one in ten.
Of course, we can't be everything to everyone. Some visitors are from out of state, staying at the hotel next door, just worshipping with us for a weekend — and that's great. Some are looking for something different, and we wish them well. We might be too conservative for some and too progressive for others, too small for some and not the right fit for others.
But I've been asking myself lately: is this something we as a community can grow in? Is there an opportunity here for deeper hospitality?
Because here are some stats that should break all of our hearts.
37% of US adults say they feel alone and have no one to talk to. The two loneliest groups are people under thirty — 27% of young adults struggling to find any sense of community — and people over sixty, with nearly the same numbers at 26%. And even having people in your life doesn't mean you have real, authentic community. 54% of Americans say they have no close friends at all. More than half.
But here's the strange part. As a pastor, I've noticed over and over that when I grab coffee with someone and they bring up a longing for community — they feel lonely, they wish they had someone to talk to, that 54% feeling of not having anyone close — almost every time, those same people are the ones who decline invitations to social events and hangouts.
I don't say this as judgment. It's just an acknowledgment, an observation. But most of the folks who say, "I just wish I had more friends, people I could be myself with, people to celebrate or grieve or go camping or play Frisbee golf with, people to just not feel so alone with" — those more often than not are the folks who aren't around.
And let me state the obvious: the older you get, the harder it is to make friends and find community. When I was in second grade on the first day of school, a kid named Matt Gillette said, "Do you like Goosebumps books?" I said yes. He said, "Cool." We were best friends for the next twenty years. That was it. High school and college — the exact same thing.
But what happens for many of us is that we keep those childhood friends, and when we do get together, all we do is catch up or talk about the good old days. There are no new memories being made. And then there are these new people, this new community in front of us — and at first, the thought of starting over feels like too much. I don't know them. They don't get my humor. It might be weird. It's going to take so much time.
So we put up walls. Over and over.
Two Invitations
So here's the invitation, and there are really two — one for each half of us.
For the first half: when somebody shows up — moves to your neighborhood, starts at your job, walks through these doors — treat them not like a stranger, but like family. Show them hospitality as the scriptures tell us. Ask yourself, How would I want to be welcomed if I walked into a new space? Don't love bomb them, don't make it weird, but genuinely — how would you want to be treated if you moved somewhere new and didn't know a soul? Then do that for that person. And take it one step further: treat them like they belong. Treat them like family.
For the other half: when someone is trying to treat you like family — let them. That's it. Show up. Say yes. Don't just sign up — show up. Maybe they don't listen to the same music or have the same hobbies or are in the same life stage. But as followers of Jesus, we are, according to the scriptures, brothers and sisters.
Think about it this way. Take a forty-year-old white Irish-American guy in the Midwest — a nerdy, skateboarding, indie music-listening husband and father who might be agnostic or practices a different religion. Now take a seventy-five-year-old Black Kenyan mother of nine who lives on the other side of the planet, speaks a different language, and follows Jesus. I have more in common with her than I do with the guy who looks exactly like me. I just do.
Our community might look very different from us — and hallelujah for that. If you hate diversity, I hate to break it to you, but you're really going to hate heaven. There is beauty in spending time with people who are different from us. Sometimes it's awkward. Sometimes you bring your kids to someone's house that doesn't have kids, and it's a mess — and also wonderful. Sometimes people are retired and you're on different schedules. It's not always easy. But there is beauty in that community.
The call is hospitality — both to give and to receive.
What Difference Could It Make?
I'll end with this. A question many of us might be asking: what difference could it really make? What difference could one dinner make? One welcome? One community group? One invitation?
Remember the story I told earlier — the woman who was kicked out of the Christian couple's home. She swore she would never set foot in a church again. She saw the ugly side of religion, as many of you have.
Fast-forward twelve years. She finds herself a single mother — struggling but trying her best. Poor, alone, overwhelmed. She moves her family across town, then to a different city, eventually a different state, where she knows nobody. Life is hard, and only gets harder.
But then one day there's a knock at the door. Neighbors, welcoming her to the neighborhood. Their kids play together. They celebrate birthdays together. The family drops off old clothes and hand-me-downs and toys. After dozens of meals together, they invite her to church.
She says no.
But still, they invite her, and a seed is planted. Even though she had sworn off religious people, this family shows her such consistent hospitality — so much of it — that it eventually overshadows the hurt she felt so many years before. She's still not ready to walk into a church. But ironically, she would end up raising two pastors.
That woman — my mother — would one day find a home again. The seeds were planted. Through that family, and through some others, she was introduced to a much bigger family: God's.
I don't think it's a coincidence that hospitality and hospital share the same root word. Both should be places of healing.
Henri Nouwen wrote: "Hospitality means primarily the creation of a free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place. It is not to bring men and women over to our side, but to offer freedom not disturbed by dividing lines."
Closing
So in 2026, that is my prayer for this community. We are so incredibly friendly here. I have felt that as a somewhat newer person at Gateway — we are so kind, so welcoming. My prayer is that we can be all of those things while also growing in hospitality, growing in community, growing in shared experiences.
Most churches struggle with the second half of that verse from Hebrews — showing love to the stranger. That is not us. We've had people walk in who were going through some really tough times, in pretty rough shape in a lot of ways, and there wasn't an ounce of judgment from our congregation. That isn't always the case in churches. It's actually pretty rare.
But maybe the invitation for us is to grow in the love we share — not just with the outsider or the outcast, but with our brothers and sisters outside of conversations, outside of this room, outside of Sundays. This world is hurting, and we have no idea what the person next to us, behind us, or beside us worshipping is going through. We just don't.
We're not perfect. Clearly — look at who they let preach around here. There's a lot we're still figuring out. But one thing the Bible is clear about is that the church is supposed to be a family.
May our family continue to grow in 2026 — numerically, sure, but more so grow in spirit, in community, in depth, in love and experience, in grace, and in hospitality.
Prayer
Lord, we know that hospitality is not about entertaining — it's about engaging. So help us to do just that. Help us to continue to move toward the outcast, the outsider, the hurting, the marginalized, the widow, the refugee. Help us to treat the stranger as a brother or sister. But Lord, also help us to love our brothers and sisters better too. Help us to grow as a family with you at the head.
Let this place be a beacon of hope — a table with plenty of seats for all, a well that never runs dry.
Thank you for how you welcomed me in, Lord, twenty-five years ago. For adopting me, cherishing me, pursuing me, for giving me a place. You gave me life and you changed my life. Help us to do the same for others — so that in twenty-five years, someone is sharing the story of walking into a place, a church that met above a liquor store of all places. A church where parking wasn't the easiest, and the chairs maybe weren't the most comfortable, and the coffee wasn't exactly gourmet — but man, did I feel welcome there. Did I feel like I belonged there. And when I needed someone, Gateway said, that will be us. Gateway opened the door.
Lord, help us to help others tell those stories. Amen.