I am the other. I have felt this all my life.

As a little girl, I remember my mother reminding me that I was Korean and never to forget that. Although I spoke English and was born on Canadian soil, I was told to embrace above all else the values of my Korean culture. I was the other.

As an elementary school student, I remember being cast in a school play as a restaurant owner. I had one line. And I was asked to speak with a Chinese accent, which, ironically, I was horrible at doing. I was the other.

As a middle school student, on my first day of school, I remember my homeroom teacher pausing during roll call to ask me loudly and slowly, “Do you speak English?” I answered just as loudly and slowly, “Yes, I do. Do you?” I was the other.

As a ninth grader, I remember my French teacher giving me a lecture about my bad attitude in class. Very sympathetically, she said, “I know coming from an oriental family, your parents are most likely very strict. It’s natural for you to act out in class. I understand.” My behavior afterward was quite the opposite of what she hoped. It became worse. I was the other.

As a college graduate, I moved to Korea to find my roots, so to speak. But even in Korea, I didn’t feel a sense of belonging. I dressed differently. I talked differently. I laughed differently. I was the other.

I had one foot in one culture, the other foot in another, and neither felt entirely like home. I felt culturally—and perhaps even emotionally—homeless. There is a word for this: liminal. I was living liminally.

I felt lost and confused. I had one foot in one culture, the other foot in another, and neither felt entirely like home. I felt culturally—and perhaps even emotionally—homeless. There is a word for this: liminal. I was living liminally. It is the space we find ourselves in when we’re between two points. Not quite here but not quite there. Usually it’s a transitional stage. We can even call it being in the process of becoming.

In his book Out of Silence, Fumitaka Matsuoka says this about liminality: “The liminal person is one who has internalized the norms of a particular group but is not completely recognized by the members of that group as a being a legitimate member. . . . Such liminality leads to uncertainty, ambivalence, and the fear of rejection and failure.”

Thankfully, God is a God of radical hospitality. To the lonely he says, “I will be your friend.” To the displaced he says, “I will be your refuge.” And to the unwanted he says, “I will be your family.” In his abounding grace, God beckons us—who were once his enemies—home. He welcomes us and gives everything of himself. God, at great personal cost, crossed the great divide, scooped us up in his arms, and called us his own.

God is a God of radical hospitality.

Imagine when the gentiles, the quintessence of other, were first reconciled to God through the New Covenant. They were welcomed into the family and made members of his household. It was a spectacular display of God’s sovereignty—an awesome demonstration of the power of the cross—that one thousand years’ worth of racial hostility between the Jews and the gentiles instantly turned on a dime.

The Jews saw the gentiles as an abomination. Their deeds were considered defiled and their ways contaminated and despicable. The Jews were commanded to be fully separate from the gentiles. Set apart. Not even allowed to share a table or enter their homes. The gentiles, in turn, hated the Jews for being exclusive, for being antisocial, for their separatist behavior. It was a mutual hostility. Then Christ made “in himself one new humanity out of the two, thus making peace, and in one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility” (Ephesians 2:15–16).

What was it like, I wonder, when they first worshiped together as one people? Was it awkward? Did the Jews sit on one side, the gentiles the other? How did they share the leadership? How difficult was it for them to set aside their own ways for the sake of the other? To welcome the gentiles into the household of God, the Jews had to reconsider their positions on circumcision, strict dietary observance, and the rules of table fellowship. How long did the gentiles live in this liminal space? How long did it take for the gentiles to feel like legitimate members of the family? How long did they feel like the other?

I have a confession to make. As an adult, among the beloved tribe we call the Church of the Nazarene, I have moments when I still feel like the other.

I recall my first district assembly. Every person who stepped onto the platform was an older white man. I could count on one hand the number of people who spoke to my husband and me at all. We felt invisible.

I remember my first course of study. I was struggling with my pastoral calling as a woman, and my instructor, a Nazarene pastor, advised me to take all the coursework but not to apply for ordination. His doctoral research had led him to believe that women should not be pastors. In another class, I noticed that at break time the white students congregated on one side of the room and the minorities on the other (even though there were no language barriers).

My first day at a district superintendent leadership meeting, I noticed that I was the only woman in the room, and Albert, my husband, was the only district superintendent of color leading a non-minority district.

I am not angry or bitter about what I have observed in my own denomination, and certainly, the winds of change are moving in as the Lord sanctifies our systems and structures. Our board of general superintendents is the most diverse it has ever been. Our colleges and seminaries are intentionally inviting new voices to be part of their leadership teams. We are more cognizant of the ways we haven’t been the most hospitable to our disadvantaged brothers and sisters. We are hungry for change and growth. But in the waiting, there are still moments that make me sad. And I’m sure I’m not the only one.

What about you? Have you ever felt ostracized? Have you felt the tension of this liminal world—the already-but-not-yet reality? One foot in the world, one foot in the kingdom of heaven? Do you feel like aliens, like strangers? Do you find yourself desperately calling out to the Lord, “Have mercy on us Lord! May your kingdom come!”

Have you felt like the other? If you have, let me assure you that there is hope. There is a lot of work yet to be done, but there is something about living liminally that I haven’t mentioned yet. Within the new humanity that Jesus created through himself, there was no longer Jew or gentile. It was one new person. A third race, so they used to say. The structures, limitations, and boundaries of either paradigm were broken down to create something new.

In a liminal world, there is the potential to feel lost and confused, to feel displaced, or to feel like an illegitimate member of the group. But as followers of Jesus, as daughters and sons of the most high King, the possibilities of our liminal world are endless. Because God is for us. Because God is reconciling all things to himself. Because God is making things new. Church, let’s dream of what could possibly be as we live in this liminal world!

As liminal individuals, we must remember that Jesus reconciled us to the Father. In this radical form of hospitality, he welcomed us in. And we are to do the same. We must be reconciled to each other. To be made one as the Father and Son are one. To extend radical hospitality to the other. As we consider how to share hospitality, let’s remember a few important things:

1) The greatest systemic issue has already been overcome. We live in a nation that is politically divided, but in Christ we will be brought into perfect unity. We live in a nation where racial tension is rampant, but Jesus brings reconciliation and creates in himself one new humanity. We live in a nation where social media promotes isolation and alienation, but Jesus draws us close and calls us family. We are people of the New Covenant. It is promissory in nature, a full promise. It’s not like the obligatory covenant that depends on our ability to perform. The unity we have in Christ is made possible only because of Christ, not us. This is our hope!

2) Showing hospitality to the other must be intentional. It doesn’t happen by accident, nor is it our natural inclination. One of the favorite memories I have is from our sabbatical trip. We traveled coast to coast for three months in an RV. Every Sunday, we tried to find a church that was different than what we were used to. One Sunday, we found ourselves in a little Amish Mennonite church. One of the families invited us over for lunch. They welcomed us with such love and acceptance. We literally stayed there the whole day talking and eating while our kids played together until dark. They were complete strangers, yet they intentionally reached out to us and made us feel like old friends.

After the shooting at the nightclub in Orlando a couple of years ago, one of our staff pastors felt like he had to do something, so he left a bouquet of flowers along with his card at the doorstep of a local gay nightclub. This one act opened up dialogue after dialogue with members of the LGBT+ community. The simple act went viral on Facebook, local media picked up the story, and healing conversations ensued. It was beautiful. Spend intentional time with people who are vastly different from you!

3) Radical hospitality is more than offering friendship—it is extending shalom. Sometimes we think hospitality is merely going out for a meal or inviting someone into our home, but Jesus welcomes us with a peace that the world cannot give. “He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near” (Ephesians 2:17). This peace is not simply an absence of conflict. It’s so much more than that. This peace can be better described with the word shalom. It’s a sense of well-being where one is flourishing, complete, and fully mature. When we extend shalom to others, we are expressing our desire that they may experience peace with God, with others, and with themselves. Lisa Sharon Harper explains what happens when we extend this shalom: A vibrant peace will prevail between people and God, men and women, families, ethnic groups, nations, humans, and the rest of creation, and oppressive systems and structures will be transformed to serve humanity and help each person thrive.

My dear partners of the ministry of reconciliation: May you be a bringer of this shalom to those who are near and those who are far. May you demonstrate radical hospitality, especially to the other, in everything you do and say. The shalom of Jesus to you and your loved ones.