Alright, so here’s Abraham in Genesis 18, setting the gold standard for hospitality. He’s just minding his business, hanging out under some shade in the heat of the day, when three strangers show up. Instead of a casual “Hey, y’all hungry?” Abraham runs out to meet them. Not a mosey, not a brisk walk—he runs, practically tripping over himself to get these guys some food. You’d think he was on “Top Chef: Wilderness Edition” the way he sets up a five-star spread. He doesn’t know who they are, but he treats them like royalty.
Picture this: Abraham says, “Let me get you a little snack.” Translation? He calls Sarah to make fresh bread from the finest flour, picks the best calf from the herd, and has a full spread going before you can say “appetizers.” He’s not throwing together crackers and peanut butter here—he’s giving them the red-carpet treatment. This isn’t just kindness; it’s enthusiasm mixed with a serious case of “make yourself at home.” Abraham’s hospitality goes above and beyond because, to him, these strangers could be anyone, even angels. And in treating them this way, he shows that true hospitality treats every guest like they bear the image of God.
Back in Abraham’s day, showing up to someone’s tent and getting a meal wasn’t just convenient; it was essential. No McDonald’s or Motel 6 out in the desert—just you and the sand, maybe a few wandering sheep. So when these guys show up, Abraham doesn’t just feed them; he makes sure they feel respected and at peace. It’s almost like he’s saying, “Come in, sit down, don’t worry about a thing.” He’s creating a little sanctuary right there under that tree. The way Abraham welcomes these strangers is a model for us—a reminder that hospitality isn’t just feeding people. It’s about creating a space where folks feel seen, valued, and, dare I say, downright special.
Now, growing up in New England, When I was a kid, one of my most vivid memories was tagging along with my mom to visit a pair of Russian immigrant friends. These weren’t just any friends—they were survivors. Back in Russia, they’d been treated as less than human simply because they were deaf. Over there, being deaf was like wearing an invisible “unworthy” sign. But here in the States, they were carving out a new life, clinging to their culture and pouring their warmth into anyone lucky enough to cross their threshold.
From the moment we walked through their door, it was like stepping into a whole new world. They’d light up as if the president and his entourage had just strolled in. They didn’t have much—honestly, barely enough to call a full pantry—but what they did have, they shared with an open-heartedness that felt downright royal.
Without fail, they’d reach for this old tin of Russian cookies. I’m talking a tin that looked like it had been passed down through generations, its lid more dents than metal, its paint scuffed like it had seen a thousand tea times. And those cookies? Well, let’s just say the FDA would’ve called them a dental hazard. Hard as bricks and probably older than I was, they’d take all the strength in your jaw to crack. But there was no saying no. Refusing would’ve been like turning down a seat at their table of honor.
And then came the tea. Poured with all the precision of a master jeweler, steaming and fragrant, into cups that didn’t match but had clearly been loved. Those mismatched cups were like little snapshots of their journey—each one carrying its own story of resilience.

Here’s the thing: it wasn’t about the taste of the cookies or the fanciness of the tea. It was about the act. The care. The unspoken message in every crumb and sip: You’re welcome here. You matter. In that tiny living room, surrounded by people who had lost so much but still gave like they were rich, I felt the purest form of hospitality.
Looking back now, it all hits differently. In a world that loves to measure generosity in dollars and Instagram-worthy spreads, they taught me the sacredness of giving what you can with your whole heart. Those rock-hard cookies and that simple tea? They left an impression sweeter and more enduring than any five-star feast ever could.
It’s a lesson that stuck with me: hospitality isn’t about the menu or the presentation—it’s about the love behind it. It’s about the way you make people feel. And those Russian friends? They made us feel like royalty every single time.
Back to Abraham and his impromptu feast—imagine how that first hot meal on the road must’ve felt to those strangers, especially with Abraham giving them the best he had. It was like he took the time to say, “You matter here,” with every bite. And then, the big plot twist: after they’ve eaten, one of these visitors drops the news that Sarah, Abraham’s wife, will have a son within the year. This isn’t just hospitality; it’s hospitality with a serious bonus round. Abraham’s generosity isn’t just rewarded with a “thanks” but with a promise that changes everything. Out of that simple act of sharing a meal comes the promise of a son—one who’d be the beginning of generations to come, leading all the way to Israel, and eventually, to Christ.
Abraham’s story sets the tone for how we’re called to show up for others. Hospitality isn’t about breaking out the fine china or making a meal Martha Stewart would approve of. It’s about giving what we have, no matter how humble, with a whole heart. And sometimes, that looks like sharing your space, offering an open ear, or just creating a place where someone feels they belong.
And let’s be real—hospitality isn’t always convenient. Abraham didn’t hand these guys leftovers; he took his best calf, his best bread, and put his resources on the line. It’s a reminder that true hospitality is sacrificial. Whether it’s pulling an extra chair to the table, giving our time, or making room for someone in our lives, that willingness to share what’s meaningful is what makes hospitality sacred.
At the end of their visit, Abraham’s guests leave, but not before leaving a mark on his life. That meal, that open-hearted moment, becomes a blessing that ripples far beyond one afternoon. When we go out of our way for others, we participate in something bigger than just feeding folks. We open doors for God to work through those small acts in ways we may not even see.
So, next time you’re wondering if a small gesture matters, remember Abraham under that tree. A little bread, a little meat, a whole lot of heart—and out of that, blessings beyond his wildest dreams. Whether we’re serving up a feast or just pouring coffee for a friend, every act of welcome has the potential to become something holy, something that could change the lives of everyone at the table. Just maybe, in feeding others, we’ll find ourselves blessed in ways we never expected.