“My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations.” Jesus spoke these familiar words while cleansing the temple, borrowing them from the prophet Isaiah. In Isaiah’s vision, God’s house was meant to be a place where outsiders were welcomed and people were drawn together in worship.

As I walked the Camino de Santiago, I was frequently drawn to the churches along the way. Like a magnet, they invited me to step aside from the trail, sit quietly, pray, and reflect. Unfortunately, in many smaller villages, I found the church doors locked. There were simply no priests or volunteers available to keep them open for pilgrims.

When I entered Rabanal del Camino, I noticed a church near the path. To my delight, the door was open. Inside were beautiful golden altarpieces, religious icons, and a lovely chapel that seemed to promise respite for weary travelers. Yet a large set of iron bars prevented us from entering the worship space, protecting the treasures inside from damage or theft.

About a hundred meters farther down the road stood another church. I approached somewhat skeptically, expecting more of the same. Instead, a sign on the front door reminded visitors of the chapel’s purpose: “This is a house of prayer. Please enter accordingly.”

Inside, I found a simple chapel with sparse decoration. There were no golden altarpieces or elaborate statues. Plaster was falling from the walls, and a single crucifix hung behind a simple altar. What I found there, however, made me want to take off my shoes.

The sign had spoken the truth: this was a house of prayer. I felt as though I were standing on holy ground. The walls seemed to carry the whispered prayers of countless pilgrims who had paused there to seek the Divine. Monks from the adjoining monastery deepened that sense of welcome as they took time to pray over and bless each pilgrim who entered.

The contrast between those two churches stayed with me. Preservation is not wrong. Sacred spaces, art, and history are worth caring for. But what happens when protecting the institution becomes more important than practicing its mission? What happens when our concern for buildings, traditions, or systems keeps people created in God’s image at a distance? What happens when we guard what is inside so carefully that we forget whom God is inviting through the door?

I did not want to leave that second chapel. My prayer there had been rich and renewing. As I stepped outside, I met two women from South Korea who had also found refuge. They were eating fresh cherries from their packs and, despite our language barrier, offered some to me. It felt like one final, edible blessing.

A house of prayer for all nations: pilgrims from different countries, welcomed into the same sacred space, receiving prayer, sharing food, and encountering grace. Perhaps the church is most faithful not when it has the most impressive treasures to protect, but when it keeps making room for people to encounter the living God.