A few weeks back we sat around our dinner table and celebrated a friend’s birthday. A friend who one year previous was living rough on the streets, was struggling with numerous issues in life and was known to me in name only. A person I must have walked past many times and maybe not even given a second thought to and yet here we were, friends, gathered to feast and to celebrate. What a joy to get to be part of his story, to get to see the utter transformation that comes as a “soul finds it worth” in God, surrounded by genuine community. As I’ve reflected on this a number of times in the weeks since it has brought me, more than once, to tears. Partly humbled by the incredible privilege of seeing (and being part of) redemption being played out in front of me but also heartbroken by the notion that while I sat at the same table and enjoyed similar meals with different friends in years previous, he sat huddled against the elements on the streets of our city.

Were that his position tonight I wouldn’t hesitate to jump in the car, search the alleyways and the shop fronts to find him and bring him home to the warmth. He’s a friend, he’s part of our community and our extended family. The pain comes when I think of the future friends hurting right now. I don’t want his to be an isolated story. I expect to see more and more men and women, old and young, local and from far afield, find life and hope and redemption in our community. I expect to see the table need to grow to fit all the new friends we gather along the way. Healthy community can never be static, it must always be changing and adapting, saying good bye and welcoming in and I am up for it all but the truth that belays, hurts my heart in a way I’m not sure how to reconcile.

Right now future friends are suffering, are alone, are afraid, are cold and hungry. This moment people who I will one day serve alongside to bring hope to our city are, themselves, hopeless. How do I respond? How do I reconcile that? The writer of Hebrews says, “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” It’s a verse that’s often baffled me. I’m not entirely sure what I’d do with an angel were I aware of one. It seems, from what I can gather biblical, I’d most likely wet myself from fear and beg he/she/it to leave.

What I’ve been recently pondering is how that verse hits me harder if I replace angels with future friends. What if every time I turn away from someone in need I’m turning away from a friend I’ll one day sit across the table from? What if every time I choose to ignore the divine tug on my heart to act on behalf of another I’m choosing to ignore the rights of a friend I’ll stand next to in worship next year? I’m not sure how to answer those questions, it would be easier if I’d never asked them, or more rightly if God had never asked them of me but that’s the beauty of community. Every win, every celebration releases joy and exposes brokenness. Brokenness can be feared, causing shame and avoidance and withdrawal or I can see it as it really is; an invitation in to more.

God never exposes anything He doesn’t want to forgive or heal or redeem. He’s not interested in making me feel bad but He is deeply interested in making me whole. If I’m willing to wrestle with the questions, plumb the depths of the darkness in me and allow Him to have His way then I know there are a lot more future friends to come. A lot more celebration meals to be had and a much bigger table needed.