Welcoming the Stranger

A Work of Mercy at the Heart of the Gospel

The Catechism lists the corporal works of mercy: “to feed the hungry, to shelter the homeless, to clothe the naked, to visit the sick and imprisoned, to bury the dead”^[4]. This list is not a late invention: it takes up the six acts of Christ’s discourse on the Last Judgment (Mt 25:31-46) — feeding, giving drink, welcoming the stranger, clothing, visiting the sick and prisoners — to which tradition added the burial of the dead (Tb 1:17). It is on the Latin verb of the Vulgate, hospes eram et collegistis me (“I was a guest/stranger and you took me in”, Mt 25:35), that Saint Thomas Aquinas, in the thirteenth century, takes up in the enumeration of the seven corporal alms, where the act appears as recolligere hospitem, “welcoming strangers”^[5].

“I was a stranger, and you welcomed me […]. Amen, I tell you: whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it for me.” — Gospel according to Saint Matthew 25:35,40^[6]

Welcoming the stranger is therefore not, for the Christian, just one cause among others: it is one of the very criteria of salvation, because the stranger is one of the privileged places where Christ allows Himself to be encountered.

What This Article Covers — and What It Does Not

Three often-confused questions must be distinguished:

This article does not settle public policies: it goes back to their source, the revealed commandment. A Christian society can only rightly think about migration if it has first internalized why the stranger is sacred.

Philoxenia: Love of the Stranger Against Fear of the Stranger

Greek has a word, xénos, which means both “stranger” and “guest” — as if the language itself reminded us that the stranger is by vocation a guest to be received. From xénos derive two opposite attitudes: philoxenía, the love of the stranger commanded by the New Testament^[7], and xénophobía, fear of the stranger. The whole Revelation draws man from the latter toward the former. Fear of the stranger is an ancient reflex; love of the stranger is a conquest of grace.

The ger, the Resident Foreigner

Biblical Hebrew distinguishes several words for foreigner. The most important is the ger: the foreigner who resides permanently among Israel without owning land or clan rights — what we would today call a migrant. Lacking family protection, the ger is regularly associated, in the Law and among the prophets, with two other vulnerable figures: the widow and the orphan^[8]. It is precisely this vulnerability that places the ger under God’s direct protection.

“You shall not oppress the foreigner”: The Law of Exodus

From the Covenant Code onward, the protection of the foreigner is formulated as a commandment accompanied by a memorial motivation:

“You shall not exploit the immigrant, you shall not oppress him, for you yourselves were immigrants in the land of Egypt.” — Book of Exodus 22:20^[9]

The same Law goes further: not only must one not oppress, but one must understand the foreigner from within — “You know well what his life is like, for you too were immigrants in the land of Egypt” (Ex 23:9). The memory of slavery endured becomes the root of compassion.

“You shall love him as yourself”: Leviticus 19

The pinnacle of the legislation is found in Leviticus, where the command to love one’s neighbor as oneself (Lev 19:18) is extended, fifteen verses later, to the foreigner himself:

“When an immigrant resides with you in your land, you shall not exploit him. The immigrant residing with you shall be among you as a native-born Israelite, and you shall love him as yourself, for you yourselves were immigrants in the land of Egypt.” — Book of Leviticus 19:33-34^[10]

This is unique: the only other being that the Torah explicitly commands to love “as yourself” is the neighbor (Lev 19:18). Thus, the foreigner is placed by God on the same level as the Israelite brother. Deuteronomy also commands loving the immigrant (Dt 10:19), but without the “as yourself” formula: it is this extension of the precept to the foreigner that is unique.

God Himself Loves the Foreigner

Deuteronomy gives the ultimate theological foundation: if Israel must love the foreigner, it is because God Himself loves him without partiality.

“The Lord your God […] is impartial and cannot be bribed. It is He who gives justice to the orphan and the widow, who loves the immigrant, and who gives him food and clothing. Love the immigrant, then, for in the land of Egypt you were immigrants.” — Book of Deuteronomy 10:17-19^[11]

Welcoming the foreigner is therefore not a mere social rule: it is an imitation of God. To love the foreigner is to resemble the One who “loves the stranger.”

The Poor’s Right: Gleanings and Leftovers for the Foreigner

The Law translates this command into concrete measures of sharing. The landowner does not reap to the very edge of his field nor gather every grape from his vineyard: he leaves the remainder “for the poor and the immigrant” (Lev 19:9-10). Likewise, forgotten sheaves, olives, and grapes from the second harvest belong “for the immigrant, the orphan, and the widow” (Deut 24:19-21). Israel’s hospitality is not a feeling: it is a portion of the harvest reserved by justice. It is in this groove that the principle of the universal destination of goods takes root.

The Three Visitors at the Oak of Mamre

Even before the Law, hospitality is a sacred reflex of the patriarchal world. The scene of Abraham receiving three strangers at the entrance of his tent, at the oak of Mamre, has become the very icon of welcoming the foreigner — so much so that Christian tradition has read in it a prefiguration of the Trinity.

“My lord, if I have found favor in your eyes, do not pass by your servant without stopping. Let a little water be brought to you, you shall wash your feet, and you shall rest under this tree. I will fetch something to eat, and you shall regain your strength before going further […]” — Book of Genesis 18:3-5^[12]

The old man runs to meet the strangers, bows down, hastily prepares a fat calf and cakes, and stands to serve them: all the ritual of Eastern hospitality is there. And it is precisely by welcoming these strangers that Abraham receives the promise of Isaac’s birth: hospitality opens onto blessing. The Catechism holds this scene as the very model of Abraham’s prayer: having believed in God and walking in His covenant, the patriarch “is ready to welcome under his tent his mysterious Guest” — “the admirable hospitality of Mamre”, a prelude to the announcement of Isaac’s birth^[13].

“Without Knowing It, They Welcomed Angels”

The New Testament rereads this episode as a universal exhortation: behind the stranger may hide a messenger of God.

“Do not forget hospitality: it enabled some, without knowing it, to receive angels into their homes.” — Letter to the Hebrews 13:2^[14]

The unknown foreigner is never only what he seems. This conviction runs throughout the Bible: to refuse the guest is to risk refusing God; to receive him is perhaps to receive an angel — and ultimately Christ.

The Counter-Example of Sodom

Scripture also gives the opposite figure. In Sodom, the same visitors welcomed by Lot are threatened with violence by the entire city (Gen 19). Jewish and Christian tradition has read in the sin of Sodom, among other things, the violation of hospitality: the assault on the defenseless stranger. Ezekiel explicitly states — Sodom had “pride, gluttony, carefree indifference […]; they did not strengthen the hand of the poor and needy” (Ez 16:49). Inhospitality is not mere rudeness: it is a figure of radical evil.

“We are strangers and sojourners before you”

Israel does not welcome the stranger from a position of superiority over their condition: it knows that it is itself a people of strangers. Before God, King David confesses the condition of every man:

“For before you we are but immigrants, guests like all our fathers; our days on earth are like a shadow, and there is no hope.” — First Book of Chronicles 29:15^[15]

Psalm 38 echoes the same cry: “I am but a guest with you, a passer-by, like all my fathers” (Ps 38:13). This awareness of being a stranger on earth is the spiritual root of hospitality: one welcomes the stranger all the more readily when one knows oneself to be in exile, journeying toward the heavenly homeland.

Ruth the Moabitess, the Foreigner in the Messiah’s Genealogy

The Old Testament does not merely protect the stranger: it brings them into the history of salvation. Ruth, the Moabitess—thus from a foreign and often despised people—abandons everything to follow Naomi: “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God” (Ruth 1:16). Welcomed and gleaning in Boaz’s fields under the very right of the stranger, she becomes the great-grandmother of King David and appears in the genealogy of Jesus (Mt 1:5). The welcomed foreigner becomes the mother of the Messiah: a sign that God uses hospitality to advance His plan.

The Prophets: Do Not Oppress the Stranger

The prophets make the oppression of the stranger one of the chief accusations against unfaithful Israel. Jeremiah conditions remaining in the Land on this: “If you do not oppress the immigrant, the orphan or the widow […], then I will let you dwell in this place” (Jer 7:6-7). Zechariah commands: “The widow and the orphan, the foreigner and the poor, do not oppress them” (Zech 7:10). Malachi announces God’s judgment against “those who exclude the immigrant” (Mal 3:5). Welcoming the stranger is thus inseparable from justice: there is no true piety that tolerates the oppression of the defenseless.

“There was no place for them”

Christ does not teach hospitality to the stranger from the outside: He lived it in His flesh from birth. In Bethlehem, “there was no place for them in the inn” (Lk 2:7). The Word made flesh enters the world through the experience of rejection and lack of hospitality.

The Flight into Egypt: God as Refugee

Shortly after, the Holy Family must flee Herod’s persecution and take refuge in a foreign land:

“Rise; take the child and his mother, and flee into Egypt […]” — Gospel according to Saint Matthew 2:13^[16]

Pius XII made the Holy Family in exile the archetype of every refugee family: his apostolic constitution Exsul Familia (1 August 1952) is nicknamed the “Magna Carta” of migrants (the doctrinal dossier is treated in la-migration). For our purpose, the essential point is this: God Himself experienced the condition of a refugee. When a Christian welcomes an exile, he welcomes someone whose God-Child shared that fate.

“The Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head”

Jesus’ entire public life is marked by the same precariousness of the itinerant guest: “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head” (Mt 8:20). He depends on the hospitality of men—Martha and Mary at Bethany, Zacchaeus at Jericho, Simon the Pharisee—and He makes this welcome the place of conversion and salvation: “Today salvation has come to this house” (Lk 19:9).

The Disciples of Emmaus: The Guest Who Becomes Host

The narrative climax of welcoming the stranger occurs on Easter evening. Two disciples walk toward Emmaus with a stranger; upon arrival, they urge him to stay:

“Stay with us, for it is toward evening and the day is now far spent.”
— Gospel according to Saint Luke 24:29^[17]

They welcome the stranger—and it is in breaking the bread that their eyes are opened: the stranger received was the risen Christ. The entire Christian spirituality of hospitality is contained in this scene: one believes one is welcoming a stranger, but one receives the Lord; the guest whom one serves reveals Himself to be the One who nourishes us.

“I was a stranger”: The Criterion of Judgment

Finally, Christ identifies the stranger with Himself in the most solemn way: in the scene of the Last Judgment, welcoming or rejecting the stranger becomes welcoming or rejecting the King Himself (Mt 25:35-43). It is no longer a metaphor: “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.” The stranger becomes a true sacrament of Christ—a real place of His hidden presence.

A Duty of Every Christian

The apostles present hospitality as an ordinary feature of Christian life, not a heroism reserved for a few.

“Share with the faithful who are in need, practice hospitality eagerly.” — Saint Paul, Letter to the Romans 12:13^[18]

Saint Peter commands it in the same terms, preempting any reluctance: “Practice hospitality to one another without complaining” (1 Peter 4:9). Christian hospitality is not merely about receiving; it is about receiving with joy, without counting the cost.

A Requirement for Church Leaders

Hospitality is so essential that Saint Paul makes it a criterion for choosing pastors: the overseer must be “welcoming” (1 Timothy 3:2; Titus 1:8). The one who presides over the community’s charity must first know how to open his door. The earliest communities lived concretely through this mutual welcome: Lydia opens her home to Paul (Acts 16:15), Gaius offers hospitality to Paul and “to the whole church” (Romans 16:23), and the house churches are places of welcome for traveling brothers.

Receiving Traveling Brothers

The Third Letter of John shows that hospitality toward itinerant missionaries was a duty of communion, and refusal was a fault: Gaius is praised for acting faithfully toward the brothers, “and especially toward strangers” (3 John 5), while Diotrephes is blamed for refusing to receive them (3 John 10). From the apostolic age onward, welcoming the stranger became the very fabric of the Church’s unity.

“The Guest Who Comes Is Christ Who Comes”

The Church Fathers made Mt 25:35 the foundation of all their pastoral charity. The Latin adage “hospes venit, Christus venit” — the guest arrives, Christ arrives — sums up their conviction: in the poor and the stranger, it is the Lord Himself knocking at the door.

“Do you want to honor the body of Christ? Do not despise it when it is naked. Do not honor it here in the church with silk garments, only to neglect it outside where it suffers from cold and nakedness.”
— Saint John Chrysostom, Homilies on the Gospel of Saint Matthew, 50:3-4^[19]

The Xenodochia: The First Christian Hospitals

This conviction was translated into institutions. As early as the 4th century, the Church established xenodochia (literally “houses for strangers”): hostels-hospitals where travelers, the poor, and the sick were received. Saint Basil of Caesarea founded around 370 a vast hospitality complex, the Basiliad, which his contemporaries compared to a new city. The Christian hospital thus arose directly from the command to welcome the stranger: the Gospel invented an organized charity unknown to the ancient world.

Saint Benedict: “All Guests Are to Be Received as Christ”

In the 6th century, Saint Benedict devoted an entire chapter of his Rule to the reception of guests. His formula became the charter of all monastic hospitality in the West:

“All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, for He Himself will say one day: ‘I was a stranger and you welcomed me.’ […] It is especially in the reception of the poor and pilgrims that the greatest care and eagerness must be shown, for it is in them that Christ is received more abundantly.”
— Saint Benedict of Nursia, Rule, chapter 53^[20]

The text prescribes going out to meet the guest, bowing or prostrating oneself “to adore in them the Christ whom we receive.” For centuries, monasteries across Europe were the great centers of free hospitality.

A Chain of Saints of Hospitality

From Martin of Tours to Mother Teresa, the same insight runs through the centuries: in the stranger, the poor, the sick, the unwanted, it is Christ whom we receive. Christian holiness has always been proven at the open door.

A Corporal Work of Mercy

The Church has established, based on Mt 25, the list of the seven corporal works of mercy. Saint Thomas Aquinas provides the classic summary: “We count seven corporal alms: to feed the hungry, to give drink to the thirsty, to clothe the naked, to shelter the homeless, to visit the sick, to ransom the captive, to bury the dead”^[21]. The reception of the stranger — “to shelter the homeless”, the passing guest without roof or acquired right to the place where they present themselves — holds a distinct place here, separate from almsgiving: it is not merely giving something to someone, but opening a space, one’s table or roof, to a person who, by definition, has no prior right to it. The following table situates this work among the other six, with their respective evangelical roots:

Welcoming the stranger is therefore not a militant option: it is one of the ordinary ways in which every Christian is called to encounter Christ in their neighbor^[22].

The Duty of Reception and Its Proper Limits

Catholic doctrine holds together two affirmations without opposing them. On the one hand, the duty of reception is real and obligatory:

“Better-off nations are obliged to welcome as far as possible the foreigner in search of security and the vital resources they cannot find in their country of origin.” — Catechism of the Catholic Church, § 2241^[23]

On the other hand, this duty is exercised “as far as possible” and calls for reciprocal duties on the part of the welcomed foreigner: “The immigrant is obliged to respect with gratitude the material and spiritual heritage of his host country, to obey its laws, and to contribute to its burdens”^[24]. The analysis of this articulation — the right to migrate, the right of states to regulate, mutual duties — falls under social doctrine and is developed in la-migration. For our subject, let us retain that evangelical reception is neither laxity nor an open borders policy: it is charity ordered by truth and prudence.

Welcoming Is Not Confusing Everything

True Christian hospitality welcomes the person without renouncing the truth. To receive the stranger as Christ is to offer them the best — including the proclamation of the faith — and not to remain silent out of false delicacy. The reception of the stranger here connects to political charity and solidarity: it is never a question of opposing mercy to order, but of uniting them in the common good.

From the Distant Stranger to the Concrete Neighbor

The biblical stranger is not a media abstraction: it is the one standing at my door. The parable of the Good Samaritan (Lk 10) had already shifted the question — not “Who is my neighbor?”, but “Of whom do I make myself a neighbor?”. The reception of the stranger begins where I am: the isolated neighbor, the newcomer, the exile, the one whose language, culture, or history is foreign to me.

The Stranger in All Forms

Scripture primarily addresses the migrant and the traveler, but the spiritual tradition has broadened the view: a stranger is anyone kept at a distance — the sick person avoided, the prisoner forgotten, the poor whose eyes are averted, the different one excluded. To welcome the stranger is to tear down, one by one, the inner walls that turn a face into a threat.

The Counterfeits of Reception

Like every virtue, hospitality has its caricatures, by excess and by defect:

• Withdrawal and fear: making the stranger an enemy by principle; this is xenophobia which all Revelation combats.
• Slogan reception: proclaiming openness without giving anything of oneself — a generosity of words that never opens one’s own door.
• Confusion: believing one welcomes by renouncing all truth and all demands, to the point of having nothing left to offer the one received.

True hospitality is demanding on both sides: it truly engages the one who receives and respects the dignity — therefore the responsibility — of the one who is received.

Hospitality Ordered to Truth

Christian reception is therefore not the erasure of all boundaries, but the opening of a heart. It holds together mercy and justice, compassion and prudence, love of the stranger and concern for the common good. It is this unity that Scripture simply calls to love the stranger as yourself — no more, no less.

Receiving Christ Hidden in the Stranger

The spirituality of the Divine Will, transmitted to the Servant of God Luisa Piccarreta, gives the welcome of the stranger its ultimate depth. In the Book of Heaven, Jesus Himself describes a charity that knows no boundary between the near and the far:

“Charity is dear to me beyond what you can understand. It is simple as my being is simple. Yet, though simple, my being is immense, so much so that there is no place where it does not penetrate. So it is with charity: being simple, it spreads everywhere. It shows no special regard for anyone, whether friend or enemy, citizen or stranger: it loves everyone.” — Jesus to Luisa Piccarreta, The Book of Heaven, Volume 2, 18 March 1899^[25]

To live in the Divine Will — not merely doing God’s will, like a servant who obeys, but letting His Will live and act in us as one single will with our own, so that our act, performed with it, becomes a divine act of infinite value — is to learn to see in every creature a gift from the Father: the soul then traverses all Creation to love and to make reparation there in the name of all men — those “rounds” that Jesus asks of Luisa^[26] — and it never encounters a stranger: it recognizes everywhere the face of the One who dwells within it, and makes every encounter an opportunity to return to God the love of all creation.

Making One’s Heart a Dwelling Place

At its core, welcoming the stranger points to a more original welcome: the one God Himself asks for. “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock” (Rev 3:20). Christ always presents Himself as a guest asking to enter—at Bethlehem, at Emmaus, on the evening of the Judgment. Learning to open one’s door to the stranger is learning to open one’s heart to God. He who knows how to receive the stranger knows how to receive the Lord; and he who closes his door to man unknowingly closes himself to God Himself.

“All guests who arrive shall be received as Christ.”
— Saint Benedict, Rule, 53^[27]

The welcome of the stranger is fully understood only in connection with other principles of social doctrine and Christian life:

• la-migration — the migratory phenomenon, doctrinal development, and border governance.
• que-dit-leglise-sur-limmigration — migration policy, “neither lax nor xenophobic.”
• la-solidarite — the firm determination to work for the good of all.
• la-charite-politique — charity extended to the structures of the city.
• la-destination-universelle-des-biens — the goods of creation destined for all.
• le-bien-commun — the horizon of all social charity.
• la-pauvrete — the place of the poor in the Church’s gaze.