I’ve seen it too many times, and I know you have too. Churches slowly bleeding out while the people sitting in the pews keep smiling and saying everything’s fine. Leaders clinging to their titles and preferences like lifeboats, unwilling to surrender what they like for what God wants. Members checking out because change feels too costly, even when the Spirit’s been nudging them for years.

I’ve watched pastors choose control over calling, church boards prioritize comfort over community, and good-hearted folks sit quietly while the Body withers, all because they’re unwilling to die to themselves.

And it grieves me, because churches don’t die from one big blow. They die from a thousand small refusals to sacrifice.

This might sound strange, but one of the clearest pictures of this came to me while reading 1 Samuel 17, not just for the classic David vs. Goliath showdown, but for the way three men, Jesse, Saul, and David, each demonstrated a different form of hospitality. And one of them shows us the only kind that will keep the Church alive.

Ok Picture this: Here’s Jesse. He’s not on the frontlines, not even in the crowd. He’s back home, maybe checking the weather, maybe watching sheep, but one thing’s for sure—he’s worried about his boys in battle.

So what does he do?

He pulls together a care package: roasted grain, bread, and cheese. The Hebrew equivalent of sending your kid to war with a charcuterie board.

Then he turns to David, his youngest, and says something like: “Be a good boy and take this to your brothers. Let me know if they’re still breathing.”

There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, Jesse’s hospitality is what most of us call thoughtful. He cares. He provides. He supports. But he also stays home. He doesn’t walk into the mess, doesn’t step into the tension, he sends someone else to do it.

Sound familiar?

This is the kind of hospitality the modern church has perfected. We sign up to bring meals, we bake casseroles, we drop them off at the front porch, ring the doorbell, and drive away before the awkward conversation can start.

We write checks, but we don’t write our names into people’s stories. We’ll give generously, as long as we don’t have to get too close. As long as we can stay in our comfort zone, stay clean, stay “safe.” Jesse’s hospitality is kind. It’s helpful. But it’s distant. And honestly? It’s the bare minimum.

Now enter Saul.

David shows up, hears Goliath running his mouth, and basically says, “Y’all just gonna let him say that about our God?”

So he volunteers. And when Saul hears that a teenage shepherd wants to square up with a nine-foot Philistine warrior, he has the same reaction most of us would:

“…You sure about this, kid?”

But then Saul does something interesting.

He doesn’t say no.

He doesn’t block him.

Instead, he tries to help… in the only way he knows how.

He hands David his armor.

His sword.

His way of fighting.

His tools.

Now again, this is hospitality. He’s opening his resources. He’s giving access to things that belong to him. But here’s the problem:

The tools weren’t right for David.

They were heavy. Unfamiliar. Mismatched.

What worked for Saul wasn’t going to work for David.

And again… sound familiar?

This is how a lot of church leadership handles discipleship and ministry. We hand people what worked for us, even if it doesn’t fit them. We toss out programs, books, church models, denominational hand-me-downs and say, “Here. Try this. It worked in 1998. It should work for you.”

We give people spiritual tools they don’t know how to use and then get confused when they struggle.

Here’s the deeper issue: Saul didn’t equip David. He just handed him his own stuff and hoped for the best. It’s the difference between saying, “Let me walk with you,” and saying, “Here, figure this out.” One is personal. The other is passing the buck. Saul meant well. But hospitality isn’t about passing down your preferences.

It’s about helping others walk in their purpose.

Now we get to David.

This kid shows up with snacks.

He checks on his brothers, obeys his father, respects Saul, and when no one else will step up, he does. He’s not a soldier. He doesn’t have armor. He’s got a sling, some stones, and a boatload of faith. And he’s willing to lay down his life for people who’ve done nothing to deserve it.

That’s real hospitality. He meets the needs of his brothers by showing up. He honors his father by doing the simple work, snack delivery and all. He shows kindness and humility to Saul even when Saul’s advice doesn’t work. And most of all, he risks himself for the good of others.

That’s not Jesse’s distant kindness. That’s not Saul’s recycled support. This is incarnational, sacrificial hospitality. The kind Jesus would later model on a whole other level. And that’s what the Church desperately needs.

Let’s be honest, Most of us won’t ever be asked to die physically for someone else. But we’re absolutely called to die to ourselves.

To our pride. To our routines. To our expectations. To our preferences.

And yet, so many churches are dying because no one inside is willing to. We cling to “how we’ve always done it.” We resist change because it’s uncomfortable. We elevate our opinions over our obedience.

We’re Jesse, sending snacks but staying away from the mess. We’re Saul, tossing someone our old armor instead of walking with them into battle. But we need to be David.

David wasn’t perfect. But he was present. He didn’t just talk about God, he trusted Him enough to take action. That’s the hospitality that changes things. That’s the kind that disrupts the status quo. That’s the kind that slays giants.

Today is July 3rd. Tomorrow, across this country, we’ll be lighting up the sky and stuffing our faces in celebration of the kind of hospitality that birthed a nation. Because that’s what our Founding Fathers gave us, sacrificial hospitality.

They laid down their comfort, their land, their livelihoods, and in many cases, their lives, so that others could live free. They showed us what it means to give everything for the good of others. And we honor that sacrifice every time we pop a firework and burn a burger.

But let me ask you this: We’re willing to blow off a few fingers for freedom, but we won’t die to our ego for the sake of someone new walking into our church? We’ll risk Uncle Jimmy lighting the garage on fire with his sketchy bottle rockets from a roadside stand, but we won’t risk getting a little uncomfortable to disciple someone who doesn’t look like us, vote like us, or worship like we do?

(Insert Joe Dirt voice here: “You got yer “black cats,” “Roman candles,” “screaming mimi’s,” “lady fingers,” “buzz bottles,” “snicker bombs,” “church burners,” “finger blasters,” “gut busters,” “zippity-doos,” “crap flappers,” “whistling bung holes,” “spleen splitters,” “whisker biscuits,” “honky lighters,” “wisker do’s,” “wisker don’ts,” “cherry bombs,” “nips and dazers,” “scooter stick,” and “whistling kitty chase” … but do you got the firepower to love your neighbor like Jesus did?”)

Listen, I love a good grill-out as much as the next guy. But what the Church needs more than patriotic fireworks is a Holy Spirit explosion in the hearts of believers willing to die to themselves.

We don’t need more programs. We don’t need shinier services or slicker sermons.

We need people like David, willing to walk onto a battlefield, unarmed by the world’s standards, and say:

“If it costs me my comfort, my pride, my position, I’m still going.”

“If no one else steps up… I will.”

“If it’s for God’s glory and others’ good, I’m in.”

That’s what hospitality looks like. Not cheese and bread. Not secondhand armor. But your full self, laid down, so others can stand up.

So which kind of hospitality are you showing?

Jesse’s, kind but distant? Saul’s, generous but mismatched? Or David’s, present, humble, and willing to bleed if necessary?

The Church doesn’t need more casseroles dropped on porches or another round of Facebook invites to VBS that no one reads. Those things aren’t bad, but they’re safe. Surface-level. Detached. And the Church isn’t dying from a lack of potlucks. It’s starving for people who are actually willing to show up.

What we need are men and women who are willing to die to themselves, not just once in a tearful altar call, but daily. People who will lay down pride, comfort, reputation, routine, and the need to be right. People who don’t just open their wallets, but their hearts, their hands, and their homes. People who aren’t afraid to get their knees dirty in the mess of someone else’s life.

We need a Church that doesn’t just pass out invitation cards but invites people into their lives. A Church that doesn’t just send money to missionaries overseas, but sees the mission field sitting alone on the back pew. A Church that’s more concerned with healing the broken than protecting the polished. A Church that values unity over uniformity, truth over tradition, and love over likes.

Let’s be real: you probably won’t be asked to fight a literal giant tomorrow. No slingshots. No swordplay. But you will be given the chance to step into someone’s battle, to bring presence to someone’s pain, to offer hope where there’s only fear, to speak truth in a world that’s drowning in noise.

And when that moment comes, don’t send a sympathy snack and retreat. Don’t throw armor at someone and walk away. Don’t say, “I’ll pray for you” and then forget their name.

Step in. Step up. Be the one who says, “I’m here, and I’m all in.” Be the one who listens until it hurts, serves until it stretches, and loves until it looks like Jesus.

Because this world doesn’t need more religious noise, it needs sacrificial, real-deal, Christlike hospitality that costs something. The kind that risks reputation, rearranges schedules, and rewrites comfort zones. The kind that slays giants in private and holds the line for others in public.

And hey, if all else fails, maybe pack a few snacks for the road. You know… just in case.

Just don’t confuse the snacks with the sacrifice.

Stay Salty