My church — the exchange in Winchester, Va. — is a Mennonite congregation in a town where no one really knows what a Mennonite is.

One person in our community, ­Michael (names in this article have been changed for confidentiality), is a trans man who carries wounds inflicted by the very places that claim to represent Christ. His previous church refused him communion and eventually asked him to leave. They told him God couldn’t fully love him until he “transitioned back.”

When Michael shared his story at the exchange, there were tears, hugs and a lot of holy indignation. We decided early on that our table would look like the one Jesus kept, where tax collectors, zealots, sex workers and doubters all found a seat.

No prerequisites. No purity tests. Just grace.

When Alice passed Michael the communion elements, he wept, not because he was being fed for the first time in a while but because he finally felt fed by God’s love. Human prejudice cannot outpace the boundless love of God.

Jesus said, “I was a stranger, and you welcomed me.” In Matthew 25, Jesus aligns himself with the migrant, the outcast, the rejected — the people who too often find the doors of churches locked against them.

At the exchange, we’ve tried to make those words not just a sentiment but a reality. Because welcoming strangers means welcoming Jesus.

It sounds beautiful. But the reality is, it’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. And it’s holy.

The World Migration Report estimates there were 281 million migrants globally in 2020. That’s 281 million people seeking a home, seeking safety, seeking community. And while we can’t welcome all 281 million into our church in Winchester, we can make a space where the exiled — whether from other countries, families or even other churches — find refuge.

There’s Sara. Sara is a divorced woman who came to us after her church informed her she wasn’t welcome back until she reconciled with her abusive ex-husband. A church told a woman she had to return to the man who broke her spirit if she wanted to return to the body of Christ. That’s not the gospel. That’s abuse dressed up in Sunday best.

Sara came to the exchange searching for a place where she wouldn’t be shamed for surviving. Here, she found a community willing to stand with her. We didn’t ask for explanations. We didn’t give her a checklist of behaviors to meet. We simply welcomed her.

Because if the church can’t be a sanctuary for the broken, what are we even doing?

And there’s Aaron, a young person with physical and mental health challenges. Aaron’s life was a revolving door of exclusion — from schools, from workplaces, from faith communities. Full of questions — ones that challenge doctrine, poke theological boundaries, demand answers to why the world is so broken — he made some church folks uncomfortable.

At the exchange, we’ve learned questions aren’t a threat. They’re a gift. Aaron’s presence reminds us that faith isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s about holding onto hope amid the unknown.

And there are others. Folks who didn’t know who Jesus was but were desperately seeking a place to belong. People carrying baggage from families, faith communities or life in general. They’re out there, longing for a space where they can be seen and loved. They might not have known the language of grace, but they know what it feels like to be excluded, and they’re hoping against hope that this time will be different.

They’re tired of judgment masquerading as righteousness. They’re longing for a place where their humanity is seen and their questions welcomed.

Welcoming isn’t easy. It’s uncomfortable to open yourself up to relationships that might challenge your preconceived notions. But it’s also transformative, for them and for us.

At the exchange, we’re learning that welcoming means more than opening the door. It means changing the space to fit those who walk through it.

When Sara shared her story, it led to discussions about how we support survivors of abuse.

When Michael became part of our community, we began examining how our language, our theology and even our worship practices could better reflect God’s radical inclusion.

Welcoming means admitting you don’t have it all figured out. It means sitting in the tension of “I don’t know” while still saying, “You’re loved and welcome here.” It means not just tolerating but celebrating the beautiful diversity of God’s creation.

And, Yes, welcoming means being willing to take some heat. Because welcoming people others reject will make some folks uncomfortable.

Let them be uncomfortable. Jesus didn’t call us to simply comfort. He called us to love.

The world is full of strangers looking for a welcome: Migrants fleeing violence and persecution. Trans folks exiled from their families. Divorcees shamed by their faith communities. People simply seeking a place to be fully seen and fully loved.

All bear the image of God — and want to know if the church will open its arms or slam its doors.

Welcoming requires a shift in perspective. It’s not about saying, “This is who we are, take it or leave it.” It’s about saying, “Who are you, and how can we meet you where you are?”

It’s about sitting down and listening, even when what you hear is uncomfortable. It’s about realizing that Jesus’ table doesn’t belong to us to police. Jesus’ table belongs to him, and his invitation is wider than we imagine.

There’s a Southern Gospel song that talks about the welcome table. It’s a place where all who want to come near can find a seat. The image is simple but profound: a table that makes space for everyone. That’s the kind of table we’re trying to build. One where people can wrestle with faith, find healing and encounter God, together, as equals.

A friend once asked: “But what if welcoming the stranger changes us?” I responded: “Good. Let it.” The gospel is supposed to change us. The church is supposed to grow and adapt as it lives into God’s radical love. If welcoming the stranger doesn’t challenge us, we’re probably not doing it right.

Think about the stories Jesus told.

The good Samaritan doesn’t just help the injured man. He goes out of his way, at great personal cost, to ensure the man’s healing.

The father doesn’t just welcome the prodigal son back home. He throws a party and invites the whole community to celebrate.

The shepherd doesn’t wait for the lost sheep to find its way back. He leaves the 99 to go and search.

These stories are inconvenient, uncomfortable, extravagant. They’re the blueprint for what it means to welcome.

When we talk about welcoming the stranger, we’re not just talking about being nice to people who visit on a Sunday morning. We’re talking about reorienting how we see the world.

It’s about recognizing that every person who walks through the door carries the image of God. And it’s about love — the gritty, relentless kind that rolls up its sleeves and gets to work.

The kind of love that listens to Michael’s story and says, “That should never have happened to you.”

The kind of love that tells Sara, “You’re not defined by what you’ve endured, and you’re not alone.”

The kind of love that looks at the mess of humanity and sees the beauty of God’s creation.

Setting a welcome table is an act of resistance against a world that thrives on exclusion. It’s a declaration that there’s enough room, enough grace, enough love for everyone. When we set a table like that, we’re participating in God’s redemptive work. In welcoming the stranger, we just might find we’re welcoming Christ and finding him in ways we never expected.

Chris Scott, pastor of the exchange in Winchester, Va., is an overeducated, underpaid Bible nerd.