It begins by the oaks of Mamre, in the heat of the day. Abraham is sitting in the door of his tent, and three strangers appear at the edge of the camp.
What follows is one of the strangest hospitality scenes in scripture. Abraham runs — old man, ninety-nine years, runs — to meet them. He bows. He brings water. He kills the calf. He bakes the bread. He stands while they eat. The text never tells us he knows who they are.
That is the form of hospitality that scripture knows: not the hospitality of the host who knows the guest, but the hospitality of the host who does not know the guest, and welcomes anyway. And it turns out the strangers are God.
For a congregation of immigrants and long-term neighbors, what does it mean to make our welcome look like Abraham’s? What does it mean to bring our best — our calf, our bread, our standing — to people we have not yet met?