We tend to treat hospitality like it’s something nice but nonessential, kind of like parsley on a plate. A little garnish on the side of the Christian life. Maybe we invite someone over once a quarter, bring a lasagna to the new neighbors, or shake a few hands in the church foyer before heading out to beat the lunch crowd. But that’s not biblical hospitality. Not even close.

Biblical hospitality is gritty, messy, and sacred. It’s not just letting people into your home, it’s letting them into your life. Into your community. Into your story.

And when we open that door wide enough, it doesn’t just change them. It changes us too.

This all hit home the other night while I was watching the movie Jesus Revolution. If you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend carving out the time and grabbing some tissues (and probably a notepad too). It tells the true story of the late 1960s and early ‘70s Jesus Movement; a wild, beautiful season in American church history where the most unlikely group of people… hippies…. started flooding into churches.

Now, let’s set the scene. It was a time of war protests, free love, drug experimentation, and deep cultural disillusionment. An entire generation was searching for something real, something lasting. But most churches saw them and said, “Not in here. Not with those clothes. Not barefoot. Not with that lifestyle.”

But a few didn’t.

Chuck Smith, a reserved pastor of a small church in Costa Mesa, California, decided to take a risk. He let in a barefoot, long-haired street preacher named Lonnie Frisbee. Lonnie brought his hippie friends. They brought their guitars, their hurts, their addictions, and their hunger. And instead of pushing them away, the church opened the doors.

That act of hospitality through community sparked a revival. Millions were saved. Movements were born. Calvary Chapel and the Vineyard churches took root. And yes, even my own home church back in Vermont traces its roots to a little house church birthed in that same revival fire.

One of my favorite memories from my home church in Vermont involves our old assistant pastor, a classic hippie through and through. Long hair, denim vest, peace-sign belt buckle, the whole vibe back in the day. He came out of the Jesus Movement and carried that spirit of raw, welcoming love with him wherever he went, a true hero of the faith for me growing up. One Sunday, he was preaching on the story of the woman caught in adultery, the moment when the religious leaders were ready to stone her, and Jesus flips the script with grace and mercy. After reading the passage and offering this beautiful, heartfelt teaching on judgment and forgiveness, he paused. Then, with total seriousness, he looked out over our little church, founded by hippies who found Jesus and never looked back, and said, “Out of you, who remembers the last time you were stoned?” There was a thick silence as everyone froze, unsure if he really just asked that… and then the room erupted in laughter. It was classic. Deep truth served with a wink and a grin, reminding us that God’s grace meets us in the most unexpected ways, no matter where we’ve been or what we look like. He and so many others, from my childhood came to the Lord all because someone made room.

Now, let’s pivot to 1 Samuel 10, because this isn’t just about church history, it’s also baked right into the biblical story.

At this point in Scripture, Israel’s begging for a king. They want someone to lead them, someone tangible they can rally behind. God, with a holy sigh, tells Samuel to anoint Saul.

And here’s where the hospitality theme sneaks in, because what happens in this chapter isn’t just political; it’s deeply communal.

Picture this: Samuel takes a flask of oil and pours it over Saul’s head. Now, I know for us modern folks, that sounds a little messy. (Can you imagine being anointed with oil and then trying to keep your tunic clean?) But this was more than symbolic, it was hospitality in action. Samuel didn’t just acknowledge Saul’s future; he invited him into it. He opened the door for Saul to step into something far bigger than himself.

This was the spiritual version of saying, “Pull up a chair, you’re one of us now.”

And just to drive the point home, God lines up a whole series of encounters for Saul. He meets men who confirm his calling, a band of prophets who welcome him in, and experiences the Spirit of God transforming him “into another man” (1 Samuel 10:6). Saul didn’t just receive a title; he received community, affirmation, guidance, and space to grow.

He prophesied among them. They questioned it: “Is Saul also among the prophets?” And that right there, that little moment of surprise, is what happens when we make room for people the world writes off. When we welcome in the unlikely, the unqualified, the rough-around-the-edges folks; God shows up in ways we can’t predict.

We see that same spirit in the Jesus Movement. Churches welcomed in the ones everyone else had given up on. People asked, “Can hippies really be Christians?” The answer was a resounding yes, because the same God who anointed a donkey hunter to be king was now anointing barefoot, guitar-strumming kids to be preachers, pastors, and missionaries.

But there’s something else in this passage that hits hard, Saul’s humility. After being anointed, after all the signs and wonders, he heads home and doesn’t say a word about it (1 Samuel 10:16). He doesn’t strut back into town wearing a crown and flexing his credentials. He keeps quiet. Humble.

That’s another piece of true hospitality, it creates space for humility. Real community doesn’t demand performance. It allows people to be. It lets new leaders emerge at the pace God sets. It doesn’t force people into roles but gently calls forth their purpose with patience and encouragement.

In a world obsessed with platform, the biblical model is one of process.

Samuel didn’t just anoint Saul and peace out. He gathered the people, helped Saul step into leadership, and rallied community around him. It was a transition soaked in support. Saul wasn’t left to figure it out alone.

And neither should we leave people alone when they walk into our churches, our homes, or our lives searching for hope.

What If It Happened Again?

Here’s the question that keeps pressing on my heart: What if it happened again?

What if this generation? The one marked by anxiety, deconstruction, loneliness, and disillusionment, found the doors wide open?

What if they didn’t have to look perfect, believe all the “right” things from day one, or check every box before they were invited to the table?

What if we led with community and let the Holy Spirit do the heavy lifting?

Because I’ll tell you, there are Sauls all around us. There are barefoot hippies in modern clothes, wandering around looking for a place to belong. The hippies of today don’t always show up barefoot with flowers in their hair, they come inked, pierced, and carrying stories written on their skin. I should know. I am one of them. I’m a big, bearded guy with tattoos up and down my arms and seven holes in each ear. I grew up a pastor’s son, and now I’m working in full time ministry myself. And yet, I still get the look, that sideways glance that says, “You don’t belong here.”

Like the church is some kind of spiritual country club and I forgot the dress code. But the truth is, just like the barefoot seekers of the ’60s, today’s tribe of misfits is hungry for something real. They don’t care about the polish, they’re searching for a place where they can be seen, known, and loved. They’re not looking for performance; they’re looking for presence. And if the church would open its arms with true hospitality, not just politeness, we might see another revolution rise. They’re waiting to be seen, anointed, welcomed. They’re waiting for someone to say, “You’re not just tolerated, you’re wanted.”

And when that happens, when we really let them in, we don’t just change lives. We ignite movements.

So, church, let’s take the flask of oil off the shelf. Let’s quit playing it safe with our hospitality. Let’s open our homes, our circles, our pews, and our hearts.

Because hospitality isn’t a casserole.

It’s a calling.

And when we live it out in community, revival is always just around the corner.

Stay Salty