A sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Yongchi Rhie with Foundry United Methodist Church, July 12, 2026. "Sermon Series Part II: The United Methodist Way".
Scripture: Exodus 2:15–22; Hebrews 13:1–2
On a hot July day in 2014, I stood in a long line outside the United States Embassy in Seoul. All around me, people were checking their documents, whispering the latest rumors about American immigration policy. Some were praying. Others were quietly rehearsing their lines. When my number was called, I sat down across from a consular officer who read through my papers, jotting notes, pausing on certain pages longer than I would have liked. My pulse rose with every pause. Finally, he looked up and asked, "Ms. Rhie, I see you have just returned home after living in England for quite some time. You already hold a Ph.D. Why do you wish to study theology in the United States?"
He had a fair point. What could I say? That after seven years of dissecting the Bible within an inch of its life, I had finally realized what Scripture is for — not an object of intellectual indulgence, but a word meant to be lived out in the lives of people? Should I describe my grief at preaching to empty pews in an increasingly secular Britain, where so many considered the Bible, faith, and God simply no longer relevant?
I had to be careful. I had been denied a visa once before, for this very reason. The officer asked about my story, but he seemed to be working from a script of his own, testing whether my story would hold. Every visa interview requires delicate tuning: you must convince them you have real plans for their country while assuring them you have no intention of staying. I truly desire to come to your country! I see abundant opportunity there! Will you let me in? But don't worry — I will never get comfortable enough to call it home.
A month later, my passport came back with a visa stamped inside. It declared me a legal alien. That word “alien” always makes me laugh. Ever since I left my home country, I have been a legal alien. And I have learned that it doesn't take green skin, an oversized head, or extraterrestrial powers to be counted an outsider. Sometimes the way I look, the way I speak, or simply the way I carry myself is enough to register as a threat, or at least a discomfort. I could learn the customs of a new land. But would I ever be permitted to call it home?
For most of my adult life, I have lived as a stranger in a strange land.
Moses knew that feeling so intimately that he engraved it into his son's name: "She bore a son, and he named him Gershom; for he said, 'I have been an alien residing in a foreign land'" (Exodus 2:22). Hey, Moses, did you ask Gershom about this? Did his mother agree? I feel for the boy. Imagine carrying your father's loneliness as your name.
Let's step into the story and meet Moses by a well in Midian.
His whole life, up to this moment, has been an exercise in not belonging and his very name tells the story. Pharaoh's daughter called him Moses, "because," she said, "I drew him out of the water" (Exod. 2:10). Drawn out: a Hebrew baby lifted from the Nile, out of a death decree, into a palace that was never quite his. Hebrew by blood, Egyptian by upbringing, Moses grows up belonging to neither world.
And when he finally goes out to "his people," as the text pointedly calls them in verse 11, everything unravels. He sees an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave and strikes the Egyptian down (2:11–12). The next day he tries to reconcile two Hebrews who are fighting, and one of them turns on him: "Who made you a ruler and judge over us? Do you mean to kill me as you killed the Egyptian?"
Do you hear the wound in that question? Yes, Moses committed a crime the day before; out of anger, perhaps, but also out of compassion for an enslaved kinsman. Today he steps in again, and his own people read his help as a grab for power: the palace insider playing ruler over the enslaved. His act of deliverance is recast as a threat; his sacrifice, as ambition. When word reaches Pharaoh, the king seeks his life. So Moses flees - rejected by Egypt as a criminal, rejected by the Hebrews as a pretender - a man with no country, no people, and a name that only reminds him he was pulled out of one world without ever being planted in another.
That is the man who collapses, exhausted, by a well in Midian.
Now listen closely to how the text tells what happens there, because every detail is doing holy work. Scripture says, "he sat down by a well" (v. 15). In the Hebrew Bible, nothing significant ever happens by accident at a well. Wells are where Abraham's servant found Rebekah, where Jacob met Rachel, where Jesus met a Samaritan woman: places of encounter where God's providence quietly gathers up
displaced people and gives them a future. When the original audience heard "Moses sat down by a well," they leaned in. Something is about to begin.
Seven daughters of the priest of Midian come to draw water, and rough shepherds drive them away. Hear the Hebrew: the shepherds vayegarshum — they drove them out. It is the very root, garash, from which Moses will later coin the name Gershom, the driven-out one.
And here is what astonishes me: Moses inserts himself again. Consider what meddling has already cost this man- his home, his standing, very nearly his life. The prudent thing would be to keep his head down, drink his water, and let Midian's troubles remain Midian's troubles. He owes these women nothing, and no one in this town even knows his name. Yet the one who has been driven out cannot sit still while others are driven out before his eyes.
And what does the text say he does? "Moses stood up and saved them" (v. 17) — vayoshian, from yasha, the root that will one day give us the names Joshua and Jesus. Here, at a foreign well, in a single unrewarded act - defending strangers, drawing water for distressed people and their animals - the fugitive rehearses his calling. This is the man through whom God will save a people.
Then comes the irony. The daughters run home and report, "An Egyptian delivered us from the shepherds." An Egyptian! Moses is a Hebrew raised in Pharaoh's house, a man belonging fully to neither world, and even his good deed is credited to the wrong identity.
And then the young women are gone, and Moses is alone again. No thank-you. No name asked. Not even a drink of fresh water from the well he had just defended. Three times now he has stretched himself for others, and three times his actions went unacknowledged, his words were rebuked, his authority was denied, his very identity was questioned.
Sitting in the dust by that well, Moses might well have wondered: Why do I keep doing this? Why can't I just mind my own business? When your act of hospitality is met with silence — or worse, resentment — the temptation whispers: Why bother? I could just live for my own interest, my own comfort, my own happiness. Going the extra mile only makes you tired and pushes you further from your home.
Friends, be honest: have you been there? Why do we help others? What is going on inside us when we stretch ourselves for people who may never stretch back?
But even in the middle of this mess, someone notices Moses. Hearing what happened at the well, Reuel asks his daughters: "Where is he? Why did you leave the man? Invite him to break bread."
Reuel is a Midianite priest - a foreigner, an outsider to Israel's story —- and yet he is the one who models the hospitality that the daughters, and Egypt, and even Moses' own people had failed to offer. This foreigner does not interrogate the stranger's papers.
And at that table, the fugitive becomes family. Moses marries Zipporah and holds a son whose name tells the truth — ger, stranger. It is no accident that the Torah will later command Israel more than thirty times to protect the ger: "You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." We lament the loss of this entire ethic of welcome in today’s world.
And notice: it all happened around the well. The well was already there. Before Moses arrived - before he had done anything right, and long after he had done something terribly wrong - the water was waiting.
This is the heartbeat of our United Methodist way. John Wesley called it prevenient grace: the grace that goes before us. Before we repent, before we believe, before we even know God's name, God's love is already at work ahead of us, digging wells in the deserts of our lives. Moses thought he was a fugitive stumbling upon a random watering hole. In truth, grace had arrived before him; with a family, a vocation, and, on a nearby mountain, the God who says, "I have observed the misery of my people, and I have come down to deliver them."
Our second reading today, the letter to the Hebrews gathers this whole story into two luminous verses: "Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it." (Hebrews 13:1-2).
The Greek translation is even better than the English here, because it names two different loves. Mutual love is philadelphia — the love of brothers and sisters. Anyone from Philly here? Did you know your city's name means the love of kinship? Philadelphia is the affection we give people who are already ours: family, friends, fellow members — the ones who look like us, pray like us, vote like us. That love matters. "Let it continue," Hebrews says.
But then comes the harder word: philoxenia. Literally, love of the xenos — the stranger, the outsider, the one who shares nothing with you but a common humanity. Philadelphia loves the person already inside the circle; philoxenia widens the circle. Any club can manage philadelphia. Only the gospel produces philoxenia.
And we know the opposite word all too well, because it is one of the few Greek words English never bothered to translate: xenophobia — fear of the stranger. We see it whenever an entire people is reduced to a threat:
Xenophobia is the world's oldest sickness. It built Pharaoh's brickyards, and it is still building walls that separate children from their parents today.
But friends, I have also seen philoxenia — and so have you. I have seen it in congregations that furnished apartments and stocked refrigerators for refugee families they had never met. I have seen it right here in this city, when buses of migrants arrived at Union Station with nothing, and churches and neighbors showed up with food, coats, and cots — before the cameras did. I have seen it in church basements turned into English classes and legal clinics, and at kitchen tables where someone simply said to the new family on the block, "Come, eat with us."
Hospitality, Scripture insists, is not charity flowing downhill from host to guest. It is "entertaining angels without knowing it." It is the doorway through which God's love slips into our lives, often unannounced.
Now, this is the final Sunday of our series on the United Methodist way. Who are we? What defines us? What is our calling — as Christians, as United Methodists, as members of Foundry?
I want to name something about Moses that we United Methodists have always claimed as our own: Moses meddles. Three times in one chapter he inserts himself into conflicts that were, strictly speaking, none of his business: an enslaved Hebrew, two quarreling kinsmen, seven harassed women at a well. He refuses to stay in his comfort zone.
That holy meddling is our family trait. Our Social Principles declare of our public witness: "The United Methodist Church believes God's love for the world is an active and engaged love, a love seeking justice and liberty. We cannot just be observers." There is no private faith that hoards grace and calls it piety. As Desmond Tutu warned us: "If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor."
Friends, this is who we are. We are the people who refuse to mind our own business when God's children are being driven out — from lunch counters to detention centers, from housing courts to hospital waiting rooms. We wrestle with Scripture, we wrestle with our assumptions, we wrestle with our faith and our calling — and like Moses, we stand up. Because we serve a Lord who said, "I was a stranger, and you welcomed me."
Church, watch what grace does with a meddler.
Moses named his first son Gershom: "I have been a stranger in a strange land." But his second son he named Eliezer: "My God is my helper." Between those two names lies an entire conversion. The stranger became a host. The man who once sought water at a well became the one through whom God drew a whole people out of bondage, through mighty waters, into freedom.
God still loves to do this. God takes our Gershom — our alienation, our wounds, our wandering — and rewrites it as Eliezer: my God is my helper.
Helper: not in advancing my ambitions or protecting my own wealth, family, and safety, but in teaching me to love God and to love my neighbor as myself. People often mistake "with God, all things are possible" for a guarantee of personal fulfillment. No. God helps us toward something far greater: to serve higher purposes, to forgive and to love, to give and to build, to lay down our lives for friends
who were once strangers. We can live out the radical, divine, universal love of God — because God is with us, and God helps us.
So here is my invitation: this week, don't leave the town of Philly just yet. It is good to stay connected to the love of kin — philadelphia. But intentionally seek out and practice philoxenia.
Is there a newcomer in the pew near you, or new to your building, your office, your block? Don't wait for the welcome committee - go say hello, learn their name, and remember it. Does someone need prayer? Don't merely promise to pray for them; ask if you may pray with them, right there, for two holy minutes. Is a neighbor navigating a new language, a new diagnosis, a new grief? Set a table, the way Reuel did: "Invite them to break bread." Philadelphia is dinner with your sister; philoxenia is adding a chair for someone whose story you don't yet know.
One helpful discipline for the coming week: each evening, ask yourself two questions. Who did I love today who already loves me? That's philadelphia — good, keep it up. And: Who did I welcome today who could give me nothing back? That's philoxenia — the stretch. If the second column stays empty for a few days, that's the invitation talking.
And now, before we close, one more invitation, because sermons about wells should end at one.
If today you are the one in the wilderness - if you walked in this morning feeling like a stranger in a strange land - hear the good news: the well is already here. Grace arrived before you did. Before you ever learn to love yourself, before you learn to love your neighbor as yourself, you are already loved by the God of living water…not because of anything you have done, but because of whose you are. If you doubt this grace, then as we sing our final hymn, I invite you: come. Come to this altar, and let us pray with you. You don't need the right words; Moses didn't have them either. Just come and stand by the well with us.
And perhaps you came in this morning already full. Then I invite you to consider the many ways you can become a living well for others: a place where people come to know and experience the way of philoxenia, the love of the stranger. The name you have yet to forgive. The prayer you will offer on the spot. The table you will set for the weary. The grace you will give without asking anything in return.
Whether you come forward or stand still, the invitation is the same:
Come to the well, and then go and become one. Amen.
