I’ve given up a lot for hospitality. Time with my kids. Countless meals with my wife. Holidays, birthdays, moments that were once-in-a-lifetime and now live only in the background noise of a busy kitchen. I’ve stood over flat tops so hot they could blister your soul, burned myself on oven doors, cut the tips of my fingers with mandolins that bite harder than a junkyard dog, and soaked my feet in ice after a 16-hour shift that felt like war. And I’ve watched others do the same, bleeding, limping, limping back to the line because the tickets don’t stop. And why do we do it? Because we believe the person coming to the table deserves our best. Our sacrifice is their comfort.

But here’s where it stings, really stings: I gave my all in the kitchen, but for years I struggled to sacrifice anywhere else. I knew how to serve a plate with excellence, but I didn’t know how to serve my neighbor with presence. I could suffer in silence for a stranger’s meal but refused to sit in silence with someone grieving. I could drain every ounce of energy to get a dish out on time, but I struggled to give my energy to the person sitting across from me at home. I knew how to plate a beautiful meal, but I didn’t know how to bear someone’s burdens, and to be 100% its still a struggle at times.

See, I had built a theology around my trade, but not around my faith. I believed in excellence at work, but I hadn’t yet surrendered to excellence in love. And love, real, biblical, Christ-like love, is always sacrificial. It isn’t polished. It doesn’t clock out. It shows up when it’s inconvenient, sticks around when it’s messy, and gives when there’s nothing left in the tank. That’s what I had to learn the hard way.

Hospitality isn’t confined to the kitchen. It’s not limited to food or good service. It’s not a mood. It’s not an Instagram aesthetic. It’s a posture, a life laid down in service to God and others. It happens at the table, yes, but also at the bedside, in the hallway, on your front porch, in the bleachers, in a text message, in the midnight phone call when someone says, “I just need to talk.” Hospitality is presence. Hospitality is sacrifice.

And if that sounds intense, good. It should. Because the Gospel is intense.

Jesus didn’t say, “Take up your brunch and follow Me.”

He said, “Take up your cross” (Luke 9:23). Daily. Die to self. Lay your life down. And for what? So that someone else could live. So that someone else could be seen, known, fed, heard, held, and loved. That’s hospitality.

It took me years to learn that the kitchen was never the endgame. It was just the training ground.

And listen, if you’re reading this and you’re tired, bone-tired from pouring yourself out for others… I get it. God gets it. Jesus lived it. And you’re not wasting your sacrifice. You’re not just burning out oil, you’re lighting candles in dark places.

Colossians 3:23 says, “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters.” That includes the unseen hospitality. The awkward conversations. The long drives to check on someone. The groceries dropped off with no thank-you. The forgiveness offered without apology. That is the work of the Kingdom. That is worship.

And for those who are just now realizing, like I did, that you’ve compartmentalized your sacrifice to one area of life, hear this in love: It’s time to open the doors. Let hospitality invade the other rooms. Let it go beyond your strengths. Let it reach your pride. Let it stretch your comfort zone. Let it cost you more than what you’re used to giving.

The call of Christ isn’t about finding the easiest way to be good. It’s about laying down your life so the goodness of God can shine through you.

In 1 Samuel 21, we’re given a picture of what that kind of sacrificial hospitality looks like. This isn’t “come over for dinner” hospitality. This is raw, life-on-the-line hospitality. David shows up in Nob, starving, exhausted, and on the run from Saul. He’s desperate. And who meets him? Ahimelech the priest, a man of God who’s caught off guard but not closed off.

David asks for food, and Ahimelech doesn’t hesitate. He gives him the holy bread, the consecrated bread reserved for the priests alone (1 Samuel 21:6). Now, let’s be clear: this wasn’t just him reaching for the extra loaf in the pantry. This was sacred, set-apart bread. Giving it away could’ve cost Ahimelech everything, and eventually, it does. But he chooses mercy over ritual, sacrifice over safety. This is hospitality that bleeds.

Jesus Himself later points back to this moment in Matthew 12:3-4 when the Pharisees get worked up about His disciples picking grain on the Sabbath. He reminds them that David was fed with the bread of the Presence because human need took precedence over religious technicalities. That’s not just Jesus making a point about Sabbath; that’s Jesus underlining the kind of hospitality that reflects the heart of God: a hospitality that sacrifices.

But Ahimelech doesn’t stop there. David also needs a weapon. The only one available? Goliath’s sword. That’s not just any weapon, it’s the very blade David used to take down the Philistine giant. A symbol of God’s power and provision. Ahimelech gives it freely (1 Samuel 21:9). Think about that: in one visit, David gets holy bread and a holy sword. Body and soul, fed and armed. That’s the kind of hospitality that restores dignity and equips for the journey ahead.

Hospitality, at its core, is provision that costs you something. It’s the kind of love that risks. It’s showing up when it’s inconvenient. It’s meeting needs that may never be repaid. That kind of sacrifice isn’t new, it’s been part of God’s story from the beginning.

Back in the Garden, when Adam and Eve sinned, God didn’t leave them in their shame. He clothed them with garments of skin (Genesis 3:21). An animal had to die so they could be covered. That’s sacrifice. That’s hospitality. And it’s not just physical, it’s emotional and spiritual. God didn’t just give them clothing. He gave them grace.

Fast-forward to the Gospels, and we see it again, God giving a Lamb, His own Son, to cover us. John the Baptist called Jesus “the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29). Jesus, in the ultimate act of hospitality, lays down His life to make room for us at the table of grace. He welcomes us into God’s family, not because we earned it, but because He gave it.

Jesus even said it plainly: “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). Real love. Real hospitality. Real sacrifice.

But let’s be honest, we struggle with that. We’re willing to sacrifice when it benefits us, when it’s convenient, when it gets us likes or applause. But hospitality? It asks more. It’s not glamorous. It’s giving someone else your seat when you’re tired. It’s spending your grocery money to feed a neighbor. It’s choosing the phone call over the Netflix binge. It’s doing the dishes when no one thanks you. It’s inviting the messy person in when you’d rather lock the door and keep your peace.

And let’s talk straight for a second: we expect this level of sacrifice in restaurants, right? We don’t blink when chefs give up their holidays, or when servers spend 12 hours on their feet. “That’s their job,” we say. “That’s what they signed up for,  It comes with the gig.”

Well, listen Linda… You’re a Christian.

You signed up for this…. IT COMES WITH THE GIG

Romans 12:1 tells us to “present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God, this is your true and proper worship.” Did you catch that? Sacrifice is worship. Hospitality is worship. It’s not a bonus round of Christianity. It’s the core of it.

And yet, how often is God the first thing we throw on the altar when life gets full?

Sunday night service during the Super Bowl? Nope, we’ve got the game.

Sunday morning church? Sorry, little Jimmy’s got baseball practice.

Bible study on Tuesday? Can’t, I’ve got fantasy football.

Evening devotions? I was gonna watch the news.

Prayer before bed? Too tired.

Prayer before the day starts? I overslept.

We say we want to be more like Jesus, but Jesus sacrificed everything. Everything. And we can’t even sacrifice caffeine or comfort or calendar space. But the call of Christ isn’t partial surrender. It’s a cross. It’s daily death to self so that others can experience the life and love of God through us.

And listen, I’m not here to beat you up. If you’re trying, if you’re choosing to love others when it’s hard, if you’re giving what little you have, if you’re praying when no one sees it, feeding the hungry, visiting the broken, welcoming the stranger, you’re doing it. Don’t let the enemy tell you otherwise.

Hebrews 13:2 reminds us, “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” Sometimes our little sacrifices are touching heaven in ways we’ll never see.

So yeah, hospitality hurts. It costs. But it’s worth it. Because every time you choose someone else over yourself, you reflect the heart of a Savior who chose a cross over comfort. And that’s the kind of hospitality that changes lives.

Start small. Invite someone over. Drop off a meal. Give up your place in line. Sit with someone lonely. Speak the truth in love, even when it’s unpopular. Be willing to lose something so that someone else gains hope.

Ahimelech gave bread and a sword and lost his life (1 Samuel 22:18). Jesus gave His life and gained a kingdom. What will you give?

Hospitality is sacrifice. It’s worship. And it’s not optional.

So next time you’re tempted to hold back, to play it safe, to keep your comfort… remember the Lamb who gave it all. And ask yourself this:

What am I willing to lay down so someone else can rise up?

Because at the end of the day, if it doesn’t cost you something, it might not be love. And if it does? Then maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to understand the Gospel.

Stay Salty