I survived a family cruise, if you’ve never been on one, they are—also known as the floating palace of unlimited shrimp and questionable karaoke. I enjoy cruising to places I’ve already been to, and this is our third trip to this destination. It’s like reruns of your favorite sitcom: familiar, comforting, and you already know where the good snacks are.

Looking out over the Gulf, I feel the majesty and awe of God. It’s a transcendent moment of praise—right between the buffet and the bingo tournament. If you’ve never been on a cruise, let me share a secret: the moment you step on board, you are royalty. They greet you with a smile, a fizzy drink that tastes like vacation, and a level of attention that borders on psychic. Your cabin steward knows your schedule better than your spouse. They know when you’re on deck, when you eat, and how many towels you use.

It would be creepy if it weren’t so delightfully nautical.

But the day the cruise ends? Oh, friend. You go from royalty to livestock. Overnight. The elevators are lined with flak jackets—not for safety, but to protect the walls from your overstuffed luggage and your overstuffed self. The crew stops smiling. They start pointing. They point to the bill for those fruity drinks. They point to the herd holding pen where you wait for your number to be called to get off the ship. They point to the exit. No wave. No hug. Just a silent “don’t let the anchor hit you on the way out.”

But here’s the thing: the contrast between the cruise welcome and the cruise farewell is instructive.

I knew a couple who visited a church for five years before joining. When asked why, they said, “We liked being guests. We didn’t want to be treated like just members.” I get it. We schmooze guests like we’re selling timeshares in heaven. We offer Tupperware, a three percent tithe, eight commandments, and three free sins just to get folks to join. But once they do? Boom. Welcome to the Kingdom—here’s your Sunday School class, now start teaching!

From the outside, it looks like bait and switch. Or maybe just the cruise ship dynamic. So, we’re working on treating everyone like it’s their first Sunday. (Methodists, that was your cue. Don’t make me spell it out in Wesleyan.)

We clergy and church staffs watch people sit on the same pew for fifteen years and not know first names. So, learn a name. Make a friend. Offer grace with a side of gumbo. What if we treated everyone like a first-time guest to our neck of the woods?

Church folks, listen up: Jesus said, “Welcome the stranger.” Sunday, someone might walk into your church who’s never been in one before. In Jesus’ name, welcome them. And maybe offer them a fruity drink. Or at least a smile that says, “You’re not s number. You’re family.”