I used to have a bit of a reputation and still do at points…. Not the “bake-you-cookies-and-invite-you-to-Bible-study” kind. No, growing up, I was known as a rebel. And not just in the moody-teenager, “don’t-tell-me-what-to-do” kind of way. I was good at it. Real good. If there was a rule, I broke it. If someone told me to sit down, I stood taller. If I disagreed, the whole room knew about it. I didn’t just question authority, I body-checked it at full speed. God, man, law… it didn’t matter. I rebelled against it all.

But then something happened. I got older. Life got heavier. And somewhere in the mess, Jesus got ahold of me. That rebellion? It softened. A little. But it never fully disappeared.

Now, years into walking with the Lord, I’ve come to see that same defiance showing back up, but different. Sharpened. Holy. I find myself no longer at odds with God, but at odds with people who say they speak for Him… and don’t. I’ve been asked not to come back to a few churches. Not because I’m divisive, but because I can’t stomach spiritual manipulation dressed in church clothes. Because I refuse to be silent when I see leaders acting counter to God’s heart.

Obedience to God will always look like rebellion to a world, including a religious world—that doesn’t know Him. And sometimes, walking in biblical hospitality means standing up, speaking out, and confronting what’s broken.

That kind of obedience might look like rebellion. But it’s the obedience Jesus modeled. He didn’t come to play nice with the religious elite, He came to fulfill the law, flip some tables, and restore God’s welcome to a world that had locked the door.

And that, my friends, is a hospitality that’s anything but passive.

Let’s get one thing straight before we begin: hospitality isn’t for cowards. It’s not just setting out a nice charcuterie board or wiping down the guest bathroom so it smells like lavender and bleach. It’s not curated aesthetics or warm smiles on a church welcome team.

Real hospitality, the kind that shakes kingdoms and stirs the heavens, costs something. Sometimes it costs your comfort. Sometimes it costs your reputation. And sometimes, it could cost you your life.

Nowhere is this more painfully and beautifully clear than in 1 Samuel 25. We love to talk about David the giant-slayer. We know his Psalms and his slingshot. But this particular chapter? It’s not about David’s heroism, it’s about a woman named Abigail. A woman married to a man so arrogant and foolish that his name literally means “fool.” A woman who had no earthly power, but all the heavenly authority she needed to stop a massacre in its tracks.

And she did it not by sneaking around or playing politics. She did it with hospitality. Dangerous, confrontational, kingdom-altering hospitality.

David and his men had been in the wilderness, running from King Saul. While out there, they provided protection for a wealthy man named Nabal. They didn’t extort him. They didn’t take anything that wasn’t theirs. In fact, they looked out for his shepherds and flocks, something that wasn’t their job.

So when sheep-shearing time came, a season traditionally marked by generosity and feasting, David sends some men to Nabal’s estate. It’s not a demand. It’s more of a neighborly ask: “Hey, we looked out for your people. Could you spare a little food?”

But instead of kindness, Nabal gives them mockery. He insults David. Pretends he doesn’t know who he is. And then sends the men away empty-handed.

That, right there, is the opposite of hospitality.

It wasn’t just stinginess, it was defiance. And in doing so, Nabal didn’t just dishonor David. He dishonored God’s anointed. He acted like his property, his power, his position were untouchable. Untouchable by men. Untouchable by God.

And David? He’s had enough. He snaps. Gathers 400 armed men and says, “Strap on your swords.” In his mind, this isn’t just a personal insult. It’s war.

Here’s where most of us, especially in the church, miss it.

When leadership fails, when people in authority dishonor others, when hospitality turns into hostility, what do we do?

We shrink. We spiritualize passivity. We quote “submit to authority” like it’s a magic verse that excuses injustice. We defer and duck and dismiss the checks in our spirit.

But not Abigail.

She hears what her husband’s done. She doesn’t run to a prayer closet and hide. She doesn’t organize a quiet meeting behind closed doors. She doesn’t even ask her husband for permission.

She gathers provisions: bread, wine, meat, raisins. Not leftovers. Not scraps. She puts together a feast fit for a king. And she rides out, alone, vulnerable, exposed, to intercept 400 angry men and their blood-hot leader.

This is not hospitality as decor. This is hospitality as divine confrontation.

Abigail’s move was more than a peace offering, it was a direct contradiction to her husband’s hostility. Her table defied his arrogance. Her kindness dismantled his cruelty.

And it wasn’t just about saving face. This was about saving lives.

She kneels before David, not in fear, but in discernment. She owns the sin she didn’t commit. She apologizes for words she didn’t say. And then she pleads, not for herself, but for David. That he wouldn’t stain his hands with blood vengeance. That he wouldn’t derail his destiny out of anger. That he’d let God deal with Nabal.

She reminds him of who he is. And more importantly, of who God is.

That, my friends, is the heartbeat of real hospitality.

Not just feeding bellies, but feeding identity.

Not just making peace, but restoring vision.

Not just softening a blow, but rerouting an entire outcome.

She didn’t just bring food. She brought clarity. She brought humility. She brought a warning disguised as wisdom.

And David listens.

This wild, battle-ready warrior hears her words and stops in his tracks. Because Abigail didn’t show up to argue. She showed up with hospitality soaked in truth, grace, and conviction.

Let’s sit in this for a second.

What happens in today’s church when leadership behaves like Nabal?

When ego trumps kindness.

When power dismisses people.

When the “anointed” insult the very ones protecting their legacy.

Do we act like Abigail?

Or do we keep pretending it’s not our place?

We’ve made an idol out of spiritual authority. We’ve taught people to obey leaders even when the Holy Spirit in them is screaming “Something’s not right.” We’ve silenced discernment in the name of order. And we’ve buried hospitality under polished performance.

If Abigail had waited for a committee or church board to greenlight her actions, the entire estate would’ve been wiped out. Her husband. The servants. Herself.

She didn’t move because she had permission.

She moved because it was right.

Hospitality that’s biblical is not always quiet, and it’s rarely comfortable.

Sometimes it means stepping between a sword and a fool.

Sometimes it means risking your reputation to preserve someone else’s.

Sometimes it means being the only voice of reason when spiritual leaders are acting out of rage, pride, or fear.

And sometimes, like Abigail, it means bringing the feast and the rebuke in the same basket.

Now here’s where it gets real.

Abigail goes home after her confrontation and tells Nabal what she did.

The man has a stroke or heart attack, Scripture says his “heart died within him.” Ten days later, the Lord takes him out.

Let’s not pretty that up.

God dealt with him. Not David. Not Abigail. Not a church tribunal. God.

And we need to remember this: When we take hospitality seriously, when we carry mercy and courage and wisdom into broken places, God steps in.

He sees. He judges. And He doesn’t need help handling injustice.

Abigail didn’t manipulate the situation. She didn’t poison Nabal. She didn’t drag his name in the streets. She did what was right… and God took care of the rest.

Some of you need to hear this: You’ve been faithful. You’ve been peacemakers. You’ve stood up and spoken out. And you feel like nothing changed.

But just because judgment is delayed doesn’t mean it’s denied.

God is not indifferent. And He will handle what needs to be handled.

After Nabal’s death, David sends for Abigail. Not because she was beautiful (though Scripture says she was). But because she was wise. Strategic. Gracious. Fierce.

The kind of woman who doesn’t wait for permission to walk in her calling.

She becomes David’s wife, not as a reward, but as a recognition.

She went from danger to dignity. From married to a fool… to married to a future king.

And let’s be real, her story could’ve ended with her being punished, exiled, or killed. But she chose to act not for reward, but because doing nothing would’ve been complicity.

Her elevation came not through ambition, but obedience. That’s how God honors real hospitality.

Maybe you’re reading this from a place of exhaustion. You’ve been serving. Feeding people. Creating space for others to heal. And you’re wondering if it’s worth it.

Maybe you’re watching spiritual leaders act like Nabal, and everyone around you keeps saying, “Just stay quiet. It’s not your place.”

Maybe you’ve got a front-row seat to dysfunction, and you’re scared that if you speak up, it’ll cost you everything.

Here’s what Abigail shows us:

Yes, hospitality costs. But silence costs more.

Yes, obedience is dangerous. But compromise is deadly.

Yes, speaking up may make you a target. But staying silent makes you complicit.

We need more Abigails in the Church. People who aren’t afraid to ride into conflict with a basket in one hand and a prophetic word in the other.

People who know that hospitality isn’t passive. It’s active. It’s costly. And it’s holy.

Because the truth is this:

Sometimes hospitality means standing up to your own house.

Sometimes it means confronting a leader who’s acting in pride.

Sometimes it means risking your future to preserve someone else’s.

Sometimes it means preparing a table in the presence of your enemy, and offering grace instead of vengeance.

Abigail didn’t change history by playing it safe.

She changed it by feeding the right person at the right time with the right heart.

And so can you.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a battle cry to go pick a fight with every pastor that preaches past twelve or forgets your name. Not every church is led by pride or fear. In fact, there are leaders out there who love deeply, serve humbly, and carry the weight of their calling with trembling hands and open hearts. They’re the kind of shepherds who still smell like sheep.

This isn’t about rebellion for rebellion’s sake. Defiance without direction is just noise. But when something’s wrong, when truth is twisted, when power is abused, when people are used up and cast aside, don’t shrink back. Don’t let fear of backlash keep you silent. Because if you’re walking in truth, the Lord will stand with you. He always has. He always will.

And maybe, just maybe, your courage will help a broken church remember what it means to be whole again.

Keep your heart soft, your eyes open, and your hands ready, because God still uses the bold to bring the body back to life.

Stay Salty