This isn’t one story. This is…well, a pattern. A pattern that I’m not proud of, but one that the Lord (and my wife) keeps using to refine me like spiritual steel wool.

It usually happens like this: I’ve had a long day. One of those days where the to-do list grew a new head, the group texts won’t stop buzzing, and I’ve got a sermon or post marinating on the back burner of my brain while the sink’s full of dishes I swear I already washed. You know—life.

Enter: my son. Big heart, over thinker, way more emotionally intelligent than I was at his age. He walks in, trying to connect. Maybe he’s wrestling with something that happened at school, maybe he’s trying to process a friendship gone sideways, or maybe he just wants to feel seen by his dad. But he doesn’t always come in with the perfect tone or the right words. Sometimes it sounds like sarcasm. Sometimes it feels like a challenge. And because I’m tired, and my internal grace meter is flashing “LOW BATTERY,” I react.

Not always in anger… but in that sharp, dismissive, cut-it-off-at-the-pass kind of way that shuts the door without even realizing it was cracked open in the first place.

And that’s when it happens.

The look.

My wife, my ride-or-die, Holy Spirit in a messy bun, will give me that slow, knowing turn of the head. Not angry. Not judgmental. Just… disappointed. The kind of look that says, “I’m not mad, (but if you got struck by lightning I wouldn’t hate it) I’m just heartbroken on behalf of the child you just emotionally drop-kicked.”

And y’all, that look? It preaches. I know I am not the only one who gets this look. Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?

I don’t always agree in the moment, but the truth is 99.999999999991% of the time, I missed it. I didn’t listen. I heard the noise, but I missed the need. I got caught up in how the message came across and completely missed what was trying to be said.

So I take the walk of shame down the hallway, find my son, usually curled up on his bed, trying to shrink into his own little world, and I sit beside him, feeling small, what is not easy for a guy my size.

Every time, it’ ends the same: “Hey, bud… I messed up.”

And every time, he forgives me. Every time, he opens back up. Because kids are resilient. Because grace lives in their bones. And because even though I fail more often than I’d like, I keep trying to do better.

And every time it happens, I’m reminded again: hospitality doesn’t start with food or smiles or clean floors. It starts with ears. With presence. With a willingness to slow down long enough to listen for the heart, not just the voice.

I’ve learned this lesson the hard way, over, and over again. And I’m still learning it. Because being a good dad, a good husband, a good friend, or a good shepherd of people doesn’t mean always having the right answers. Sometimes it just means shutting up and showing up. Sometimes the most sacred space you can create is a few minutes on the edge of a kid’s bed, where you choose to hear what they meant, not just what they said.

Now enough about me let’s talk about 1 Samuel 3.

Now, before you tune out thinking this is some soft bedtime Bible story about a boy hearing whispers in the dark, hang tight. This ain’t no Hebrew lullaby. This is a full-blown hospitality sermon in disguise, and it’s got more layers than your grandma’s seven-layer dip at the church potluck. We’re talking about the kind of listening that gets deep down into the bones. The uncomfortable kind. The hush-your-mouth-and-open-your-heart kind.

Because here’s the truth most folks don’t want to admit: We are a loud people. But we are not a listening people. And in the house of God, in our homes, and in our relationships, that’s a problem.

Picture this: Little Samuel is bunked up in the temple, sleeping near the ark (you know, the fancy box that melts Nazis in Raiders of the Ark), when he hears his name in the middle of the night. Now, like any confused kid, he hops up and runs to Eli, the old priest, like, “Yeah? You called?” Eli, groggy and probably halfway through his second REM cycle, says, “I didn’t call you. Go lie down.” Repeat this scene three times.

Now, if it had been me? By the second time I was woken up for something I didn’t do, I’d be repenting just for the thoughts I was thinking. By the third?  Samuel would have known it was God talking because he would have been meeting him in person, and I would have put myself on prayer sabbatical until the cops showed up. But Eli, imperfect, tired, spiritually dry Eli, doesn’t snap. He finally realizes something divine might be going on and gives Samuel instructions: “If you hear it again, say, ‘Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.’” And wouldn’t you know it, God speaks. And Samuel listens. Boom. Game changer. But here’s where I want to camp out: This whole encounter hinges on listening. Listening to people. Listening to God. And listening with more than your ears.

Now, understand, Hospitality ain’t just biscuits and sweet tea. I love me some Southern hospitality. You walk into the right house, and you’ll get a seat, a plate, and a tall glass of diabetes… I mean, sweet tea… before you can even take your shoes off. But biblical hospitality? That goes deeper. It’s not just about the food you put on the table; it’s about the space you create around it. The room you make in your heart. And one of the most sacred ways to make that room?

You. Listen.

Let me say the again for those who weren’t…. YOU…..LISTEN…..

Not the “uh-huh, that’s crazy” kind of listening while you scroll through your phone. I mean the kind of listening that makes the other person feel like they’re the only soul alive in that moment. And trust me, in a world where everyone’s trying to be heard, being someone who listens is revolutionary.

Now there is a skill that most of us in my family don’t have yet but have been trying to work on for years, and some of us have given up on,

The Art of Shutting Up. Yeah, I said it. Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is close your mouth and open your ears and your heart. Eli could’ve made it about himself. Could’ve assumed God was done talking to him and bitterly rolled over in his cot muttering, “Must be nice hearing from the Lord…” But instead, he made space. He got quiet. And he guided Samuel into listening for himself. And that, my friends, is a spiritual flex if I’ve ever seen one.

Because let’s be real: most of us would rather talk than listen. We’d rather give advice than sit in silence. We want to be the mouthpiece, not the ear canal. But listening is ministry. It’s holy. It’s healing. It’s harder than it looks.

Listening with your ears vs. listening with your heart is key.

Okay, here’s where we go from casual kitchen chat to cut-deep conviction: We’re not just bad at listening with our ears, we’re worse at listening with our hearts.

People say one thing, but they’re really crying out something deeper. They say “I’m fine,” but their eyes say, “I’m drowning.” They joke about their marriage, their job, their faith, but it’s not funny. It’s a cry for help. And if you’re not listening with your heart, you’ll miss it. You’ll hand them a verse instead of a hug. You’ll offer advice when all they need was presence. You’ll start quoting Jeremiah 29:11 when what they needed was someone to just sit with them in the ashes.

Jesus listened like that. With His eyes, His posture, His pauses. He listened to the blind man before healing him. He listened to the woman at the well without condemning her. He listened to silence and still responded with love. That’s hospitality. That’s the Gospel. That’s the table we’re all invited to. Let’s Get Uncomfortable (Because That’s Where Growth Happens) Now, don’t miss this part: listening can get uncomfortable… real fast. When Samuel finally hears God speak, it’s not a motivational quote or a divine “you got this.” It’s a heavy, prophetic word of judgment against Eli’s family. Imagine your first Word from God being: “Hey kid, go tell your mentor his house is cooked.”

Rough. But Samuel listens. And Eli receives it. Like a champ. “He is the Lord; let Him do what seems good to Him.” (1 Sam 3:18) Let me just pause here and say: Whew. That’s grown-folk faith.

See, real hospitality means making room for hard conversations. For truth that stings. For accountability that hurts but heals. And if we’re only creating spaces where people can tell us what we want to hear, we’re not practicing biblical hospitality, we’re just hosting comfort zones. How do we live this out? You don’t need a pulpit or a pie to start listening like Jesus.

At the Dinner Table:

 Ask questions that don’t have “yes or no” answers. Then stop talking. Let your family speak. Let your spouse breathe. Listen until the silence says more than the words.

At Church:

Be the person who remembers names. Who follows up. Who looks people in the eye and waits for the second answer. (You know, the real one that comes after “I’m good.”)

In Your Prayer Life:

Start every prayer with a moment of silence. Literally. Just sit. No music. No agenda. Just say, “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening,” and then wait. God still speaks, you just gotta quit interrupting Him.

At Work or the Drive-Thru Window:

 That barista, that cashier, that coworker, they’ve got a story. Listen long enough, and you might be the only person who hears them this week.

So here’s the whole meal in one bite: Hospitality isn’t just about opening your home. It’s about opening your heart. And listening, really listening, is how we set the table. People don’t always need answers. Sometimes they just need someone to say, “I hear you. I’m with you. Let’s listen for God together.” And when you make space like that, friend, the Holy Spirit pulls up a chair. So next time someone comes to you with a weary voice, or a heavy heart, or a barely-whispered prayer… don’t rush to fix it. Just say, “Speak, Lord. I’m listening.” Because that’s when healing happens. That’s when hearts turn. That’s when the Kingdom shows up in your living room, your car, your coffee shop, your church pew. And who knows? You might just hear God, too.

Stay Salty