Growing up, I wasn’t exactly the poster child for “peaceful and cooperative.” I didn’t come with a “handle with care” label, more like “approach with caution” and maybe wear flame-retardant gloves. I was loud, stubborn, and always convinced I knew better. And when I didn’t get my way? Let’s just say… it wasn’t subtle.

The truth is, I carried a lot of anger as a kid. I didn’t always know where to put it, so it showed up in all the wrong places. Add to that the fact that I wasn’t exactly a small fry, I hit 6’4″ and over 300 pounds faster than most folks hit a growth spurt. Imagine an oversized teenager with enough bottled-up frustration to light a small village on fire. Not exactly someone people lined up to correct.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

When you get big early, physically, emotionally, vocally, people stop trying to hold you accountable. Some are scared. Some just don’t want to deal with the fallout. Others try, but without any kind of real relationship, it feels more like an attack than a correction. And let’s be honest, if someone’s only ever showing up to “fix” you but never sit with you? That dog don’t hunt. Accountability without relationship just feels like rejection in a fancy robe.

I had folks over the years who tried to check me. Some with good intentions. Some who just didn’t like me much and were hoping I’d fall in line. But when I saw them dodge accountability, blow up, or act like they were above correction? I tuned them out. Because why would I listen to someone who couldn’t take their own medicine?

So I lived a good chunk of my life doing my own thing. And I’ve got the scars to prove it, some mine, some I caused in others. I hurt people. I burned bridges. Not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t know another way. I’d never seen accountability modeled in a way that looked like love.

Then, as God would have it, I started meeting men who were different. Men who weren’t scared of me. Men who didn’t puff up when I got loud or bail when I got ugly. They didn’t back down, but they also didn’t come swinging. They showed up with me, not against me. And they held the line, not out of pride, but out of love.

These men became some of my closest friends. Not because we always agreed, but because they loved me enough to tell me the truth and stay put after they did. That’s real hospitality, y’all. When someone makes space for your mess, doesn’t flinch when you blow it, and still expects you to rise to who God made you to be.

Have you ever been that person, too big, too loud, too intimidating for folks to even think about correcting you? Or maybe like me, you were too broken to admit you even needed it. Maybe people just let you run wild because, honestly, it was easier than dealing with the explosion that might come if they didn’t.

Or maybe you’ve been on the other end… the one who should have said something but didn’t. You saw the trainwreck coming. You knew they needed accountability, but instead you sat back, folded your arms, and said, “Nope. Not today. I’m not tryin’ to be collateral damage.”

And let’s be real: sometimes holding someone accountable feels like signing up to wrestle a bear, blindfolded, with a toothpick. You ask yourself, “Why even bother? What’s the point? I don’t want the drama, the blow-up, the awkward Sunday morning afterward.” Maybe the person that needs to be held accountable you view as someone that is in a position of authority over you.

But that, right there, is where hospitality shows up in its truest form. Not in the comfort. In the cost.

This is the kind of hospitality Samuel showed in 1 Samuel 12, the kind that invites truth, correction, and community into the same room and makes them sit down for dinner together.

Because hospitality isn’t just about food and smiles. Sometimes, it looks like a friend who loves you enough to say, “You’re wrong, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Let’s talk about something we often leave off the table when we talk about hospitality: accountability.

Now, I know that doesn’t exactly scream warm biscuits and sweet tea. You’re probably thinking, “Isn’t hospitality supposed to be about casseroles, comfort, and smiling at people we don’t really like during the potluck?” And sure, those things can be part of it (except maybe the fake smiling). But true, biblical hospitality? It runs way deeper than casseroles and place settings. It’s about creating space for truth, growth, repentance, and yes—even the kind of confrontation that makes you squirm a little.

And nowhere is this clearer than in 1 Samuel 12.

This chapter is like one of those family dinners where Grandpa Samuel pushes back his chair, clears his throat, and says, “Let’s talk.” No one moves. The room goes quiet. The kids stop chewing. And then, instead of yelling or lecturing, he just calmly asks, “Have I ever cheated you? Stolen from you? Abused my power?” You could hear a pin drop in ancient Israel.

Picture this: Samuel wasn’t looking for applause. He was making a point. He was saying, “If I’m going to call you out today, I need you to know I’m not doing it from a place of hypocrisy. I’ve walked the walk.”

That’s hospitality.

Not the kind where you offer someone a seat at your table just to impress them—but the kind where you live your life in such a way that people can trust your invitation to truth. Samuel built that kind of credibility. And because of that, he could tell the hard truths without losing the room.

Here’s the kicker: before Samuel ever holds the people accountable, he invites them to hold him accountable. That right there is the game-changer. He doesn’t start with, “Y’all messed up.” He starts with, “Have I messed up?”

Can we just sit in that for a minute?

Because if we’re going to talk about accountability as hospitality, it has to start in our own backyard. If you can’t handle being corrected, you’ve got no business trying to correct others. That’s not leadership. That’s just spiritual micromanaging in a Jesus costume.

But Samuel gets it. He models a kind of humble leadership that invites feedback, real feedback, not the “tell me what I want to hear” kind. That’s how you build a culture of hospitality. You don’t demand people open up; you show them it’s safe to do so. You make your life the open table first.

And if we’re honest, a lot of us are better at dishing out criticism than taking it. We want to “speak the truth in love,” but we start twitching if someone speaks it back to us.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Accountability doesn’t mean walking around with a spiritual yardstick, measuring everybody’s holiness. No one’s got time for a Church Hall Monitor. Accountability flows from relationship, and relationship takes time, trust, and the occasional awkward conversation over coffee where someone says, “Hey man, I love you, but…”

That’s the kind of hospitality we see Samuel practicing. He’s not just prophet-ing from a distance. He’s lived life with these people. He’s grieved their losses, celebrated their wins, and now, he’s got to call them out for the big one: asking for a king.

This is Israel’s “oops, we did it again” moment. They’ve basically ghosted God. After all He did, parting seas, dropping manna, kicking out giants, they decide they want a human king because, and I quote, “everyone else has one.” (Cue divine facepalm.)

Samuel doesn’t sugarcoat it. He says, “You rejected God. That’s what you did.” But he says it after he’s reminded them of all God’s faithfulness. He tells the truth, but he sandwiches it between stories of grace. That’s the recipe: one slice of accountability, two slices of love, toasted with history.

True Hospitality makes room for repentance. Samuel’s not trying to roast them for the sake of a dramatic mic drop. He’s trying to restore them. And that’s where the real hospitality kicks in.

He reminds them of the covenant, the relationship with God they’ve walked away from. He doesn’t cancel them. He invites them back. That’s what biblical hospitality does. It doesn’t just point out the wrong door you walked through, it holds it open for your return.

Repentance isn’t a shame-fest. It’s a grace-party with an RSVP that says, “Come as you are, but don’t plan to leave the same.”

And this is where some of us need a refresher. We love the idea of holding others accountable, but do we also make space for their repentance? Or are we just trying to win arguments and feel morally superior?

Samuel calls them out, but then he also commits to them. He says, “I’ll keep praying for you. I’ll keep teaching you. I’m not done with you.” That’s hospitality. That’s community. That’s what the Church is supposed to be, a bunch of people who speak the truth, fall flat sometimes, and still link arms afterward.

Now, because God’s got a flair for the dramatic (and the Israelites needed more than a talking-to), Samuel calls down a thunderstorm during the wheat harvest. That’s basically like turning off the Super Bowl mid-play to get everyone’s attention.

The people freak out. Rightfully so. And that moment becomes a holy wake-up call. It’s not about weather, it’s about wonder. God shows His power not to scare them off, but to stir them up. Sometimes, a little holy fear is part of good hospitality. A reminder that God isn’t just your friend—He’s also King of the Universe.

Hospitality means we live with that tension: welcoming people close while also keeping reverence high. God isn’t a vending machine. He’s a consuming fire. And yes, He loves you, but He’s also going to deal with your pride, rebellion, and self-worship. That’s real love. That’s real hospitality.

So where does that leave us?

Be the kind of person who leads with integrity, invites correction, speaks hard truths in love, and stays committed to the people you correct. Be the kind of friend who doesn’t just pat someone on the back and send them on their way, but walks them through repentance, grace, and growth.

And if someone holds you accountable? Don’t get defensive. Say thank you. Lean in. Hospitality isn’t just about what you give, it’s also about what you’re willing to receive.

The table of God isn’t full of perfect people with perfect manners. It’s full of people who are willing to confess, forgive, be challenged, and grow. Accountability isn’t the opposite of love, it’s love with backbone. Hospitality with a seatbelt.

So let’s set that kind of table, y’all. A table where we can eat together, laugh together, cry a little when needed, and call each other higher. Because that’s what family does.

Stay Salty