HE SAID, “THE KINGDOM of Heaven is like a great feast. That’s the way of it. The Kingdom of Heaven is a love feast where nobody’s a stranger. Like right here. There’s strangers everywheres else you can think of. There’s strangers was born twin brothers out of the same womb. There’s strangers was raised together in the same town and worked side by side all their life through. There’s strangers got married and been climbing in and out of the same fourposter thirty-five, forty years, and they’re strangers still. And Jesus, it’s like most of the time he is a stranger too. But here in this place there’s no strangers, and Jesus, he isn’t a stranger either. The Kingdom of Heaven’s like this.”
He said, “We all got secrets. I got them same as everybody else—things we feel bad about and wish hadn’t ever happened. Hurtful things. Long ago things. We’re all scared and lonesome, but most of the time we keep it hid. It’s like every one of us has lost his way so bad we don’t even know which way is home any more only we’re ashamed to ask. You know what would happen if we would own up we’re lost and ask? Why, what would happen is we’d find out home is each other. We’d find out home is Jesus that loves us lost or found or any whichway.”
In our hyper-connected world, loneliness has become an epidemic.
We scroll through endless social media feeds, surrounded by hundreds of “friends,” yet feeling more isolated than ever.
We sit in crowded rooms, attend packed events, and still find ourselves wondering if anyone truly knows us.
Frederick Buechner, the beloved theologian and novelist, offers us a vision that cuts through this modern paradox: the Kingdom of Heaven as a great feast where “nobody’s a stranger.”
Buechner’s insight pierces deep into the human condition.
He writes about strangers who “were born twin brothers out of the same womb” and couples who’ve “been climbing in and out of the same fourposter thirty-five, forty years, and they’re strangers still.”
This isn’t just poetic language— it’s a recognition of something most of us have experienced but rarely named.
How many of us have sat across the dinner table from family members, feeling worlds apart?
How many have worked alongside colleagues for years without ever moving beyond surface-level conversation?
We live in proximity to others, sharing space and time, yet remaining fundamentally unknown to one another.
“We all got secrets,” Buechner reminds us.
These aren’t necessarily scandalous secrets, but the deeper truths about ourselves— our fears, our shame, our moments of failure that replay in our minds at 3 AM.
We carry these burdens alone, convinced that revealing them would push others away rather than draw them closer.
I remember the time when I had to make the conscious decision to give up my driver’s license. My vision had gotten worse, and I almost hit some bicyclists on the side of the road one night. I knew that I always would have to give up my license, but I didn’t think it would be as early as it was. I was on internship at the time, and I remember telling the congregation one Sunday morning and having to ask for help driving. It was one of the most vulnerable times that I have had, but it was also a great joy to see how the community surrounded me with affirmation and drivers!
This fear of vulnerability keeps us trapped in isolation.
We become expert curators of our public selves, showing only the polished versions, while our authentic selves remain hidden.
But Buechner suggests that our very lostness— our admission that we don’t know “which way is home”— could become the bridge that connects us.
What would happen if we “own up we’re lost and ask”?
Buechner’s answer is revolutionary: “We’d find out home is each other.”
This isn’t sentimental wishful thinking but a fundamental truth about how genuine community forms.
When we risk authentic vulnerability, we create space for others to do the same.
The church at its best becomes this kind of place— not a gathering of people who have it all figured out, but a community of fellow travelers who are brave enough to admit they’re lost.
In such a community, our shared brokenness becomes the foundation for genuine connection rather than a source of shame to be hidden.
Perhaps most beautifully, Buechner reminds us that “Jesus, he isn’t a stranger either” in this feast of authentic community.
Too often, we imagine Jesus as the distant, perfect judge who stands apart from our struggles.
But the Christ who wept, who felt forsaken, who knew the pain of betrayal and loss— this Jesus understands our lostness from the inside.
When we gather as imperfect people around the perfect love of Christ, something transformative happens.
The feast becomes real.
The Kingdom breaks through not in spite of our brokenness, but through it.
How do we cultivate this kind of community in our churches and daily lives?
It begins with someone—perhaps you—taking the first risk of honesty.
It requires creating spaces where vulnerability is not only safe but celebrated as an act of courage.
It means moving beyond small talk to soul talk, beyond politeness to genuine care.
Small groups, prayer circles, and informal gatherings can become these sacred spaces.
But they require intentional cultivation.
Leaders must model vulnerability first, creating permission for others to follow.
We must learn to respond to honesty with gratitude rather than judgment, to stories of struggle with compassion rather than advice.
Buechner’s vision offers hope for our lonely world.
In a culture of strangers, the church can become a place where authentic community flourishes.
Not because we’re perfect, but because we’re honest about our imperfection.
Not because we have all the answers, but because we’re willing to ask the same questions together.
The Kingdom of Heaven as a great feast isn’t a distant promise for the afterlife— it’s an invitation for today.
Every time we choose vulnerability over pretense, every time we welcome the lost and struggling, every time we create space for authentic community, we’re setting the table for this feast.
In our willingness to admit we’re lost, we find our way home to each other.
And in finding each other, we discover that Jesus has been there all along, not as a stranger, but as the one who calls us all to the table where nobody is a stranger anymore.
This reflection is inspired by Frederick Buechner’s profound insight from “The Book of Bebb.” May we have the courage to own up to our lostness and discover that home has been waiting for us all along— in each other, and in the love of Christ that makes all community possible.