I once watched a woman walk into the church basement wearing three coats in July and a pair of flip-flops held together with duct tape. Her hair looked like it hadn’t met a comb since Easter, and she had a look in her eyes that said she’d seen more than most of us could stomach. She made her way to the coffee urn like it was holy ground, poured herself a cup, and sat down like she owned the place.

Some folks side-eyed her. One lady even whispered as to say, “Bless her heart,” which, as you know, in the South can mean anything from “I love her dearly” to “Can someone escort her out?”

But our dear Juanita….. walked straight over, plopped down beside her, and said, “You take cream or sugar, baby?”

That moment stuck with me. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was so normal. Juanita didn’t flinch, didn’t treat her like a problem to be solved. She didn’t start with, “What’s your name?” or “Are you saved?” She started with coffee. With dignity. With humanity.

And that right there? That was hospitality.

Not the creamer. Not the folding chair. Not even the hot meal she was about to be served. It was the act of humanizing someone that so many others would avoid. Because real, biblical hospitality isn’t just about giving, it’s about seeing.

Picture this: 1 Samuel 26. We find David, once again, being hunted like a stray dog by King Saul. If anyone had a reason to take revenge and move on, it was David. Saul wasn’t just a grumpy boss, he was actively trying to kill him. Repeatedly. And yet, what does David do when he sneaks into Saul’s camp and finds him snoring away like a baby bear in hibernation?

He lets him live. Again.

This wasn’t David being passive or soft. This was intentional mercy, rooted in respect. David takes Saul’s spear and water jug, walks a safe distance away, and hollers like a teenager pulling a prank: “Hey Saul! Look what I got!”

In that moment, David could have taken everything from Saul. Instead, he gave him his life, again. But more than that, he gave him dignity. And that’s the deepest kind of hospitality.

We’ve all done it. Slapped on a smile. Handed over a meal. Checked the “Christian duty” box and walked away feeling pretty holy. But if we’re honest, there are times we offer hospitality in action while still dehumanizing the person in our hearts.

We don’t just do it to enemies, like David could have with Saul. We do it to the broken, the addicted, the difficult, the annoying, the ones who live a lifestyle we don’t understand or agree with. We hand out meals and services, but in our minds, they’re a project. A charity case. A testimony waiting to happen.

But they are not our projects. They are not our mission fields wrapped in flesh. They are people.

As Prince said (before the artist formerly known as that artist formerly known as Prince): they’re just like us, “going through this thing called life.”

Hospitality through mercy is empty if we don’t humanize those we’re serving. If we can look someone in the eye, feed their belly, and still not see their soul, we’re missing the entire point.

James 2:1-4 warns us about this. He says not to show favoritism, not to treat the well-dressed better than the poor man. Because when we do that, we become “judges with evil thoughts.” That’s not hospitality. That’s hierarchy in disguise.

Jesus didn’t operate like that. In Luke 7:36-50, the woman with the alabaster jar comes into Simon the Pharisee’s house. She’s weeping, washing Jesus’ feet with her tears, pouring perfume, and Simon is side-eyeing her like she’s a nuisance. Jesus doesn’t just receive her, He defends her, honors her, and tells Simon, essentially, “She understands hospitality more than you ever will.”

Because hospitality isn’t polished manners. It’s sacrificial love. It’s mercy that sees the person beneath the mess.

Back to David. He doesn’t just spare Saul’s life and move on. He calls out to him, returns what he took, and promises not to harm Saul’s descendants. He goes out of his way to say, “You matter to me. Not because you’ve been good to me. Not because you’ve earned it. But because you’re still a child of God.”

Hospitality, at its best, says: You matter. Even when you’ve wronged me. Even when you don’t deserve it. Even when I could write you off and walk away.

Romans 12:20 echoes this: “If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.” Not because it makes you look good, but because it reflects the God who did the same for you when you were still His enemy (Romans 5:8).

Let me flip the coin for a second. We don’t just dehumanize the down and out. Sometimes, we dehumanize upward.

I grew up with a father who was both a local pastor and not quite a hometown hero but well known never the less. People respected him, admired him, leaned on him. But sometimes, they also forgot he was a person. They put him on a pedestal, and when he stumbled, as all humans do, they treated him like he’d betrayed them personally.

Y’all, leaders need hospitality too. They need mercy. They need space to be human. To make mistakes. To cry. To need grace. Just because someone is serving doesn’t mean they don’t need to be served.

Galatians 6:6-10 talks about this. It says we should share all good things with those who teach us. Don’t grow weary in doing good. That includes doing good to your leaders.

At the heart of it all, biblical hospitality is about leveling the field. It’s a deep, gritty mercy that recognizes the Imago Dei, the image of God, in every person, regardless of their choices, their sins, or their place in society.

I watched the Lanes, my spiritual grandparents, model this week after week. At soup kitchens. At grocery give-outs. They didn’t just serve food. They sat and talked. They hugged necks. They remembered names. They treated the homeless man with a limp and the single mom with five kids and the addicted Vietnam vet as equals. As friends.

And you know what? That’s when transformation happened. Not from the meal, but from the mercy. From the human connection. From the reminder that you are not forgotten. You are not less than.

So let me land this plane

1 Samuel 26 isn’t your typical hospitality story. No loaves and fishes. No foot washing. Just a fugitive refusing to kill a king because he saw the humanity in him.

That’s the call.

Whether it’s a neighbor who gets under your skin, a stranger on the street, or a leader you admire too much to see their flaws, we are called to extend hospitality that sees, that respects, that restores.

Hebrews 13:1-2 says, “Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

You never know who you’re serving. You never know how your grace might open a door for repentance, healing, or reconciliation. But you’ll never get there if you don’t start by seeing the person first.

And please hear me, this isn’t condemnation. I’m not writing this from a seat of superiority. I’ve messed this up more times than I care to count. I’ve dehumanized with my assumptions and smiled while doing it.

But this is a reminder.

A reminder that hospitality isn’t about performance. It’s about presence. It’s about mercy. And most of all, it’s about seeing the image of God in everyone, whether they look like it or not.

Let’s be people who offer the kind of hospitality we desperately need ourselves.

Because we all need to be seen.

We all need to be known.

And we all need mercy that humanizes us first.

So let this be a reminder, not just for you, but for me too.

Because if I’m honest, and I try to be painfully honest in these kinds of things, there are days I forget every bit of what I just wrote. I let frustration take over. I let pride win. I want to be right more than I want to be holy. And if you’re wondering how I know when I’m drifting off-course, well, I don’t have to wonder long, because I’m married to a woman who knows the heart of God and isn’t afraid to remind me when mine starts to harden.

She’ll say, “Babe, didn’t you just preach about grace last week?”

Yeah. Yeah, I did. And I meant it… until I had to live it.

But here’s the thing: I come from a long line of people, both physical and spiritual, who needed grace too. My dad, and the man that raised him, were strong men, godly men, but human. And just like them, I’ve got my blind spots. We all do. That’s why we need reminders like 1 Samuel 26.

Because this kind of hospitality, the kind that offers mercy when revenge would feel better, that treats an enemy with dignity. Trust me it doesn’t come naturally. It’s a decision. A slow, repeated surrender. And every time we choose it, we reflect the heart of Jesus.

So wherever you’re reading this, whether you’re winning in this area or failing forward like I am, don’t give up. We’re not called to be perfect. We’re called to be faithful. And sometimes, faithfulness looks like showing hospitality not just with our hands, but with our hearts, even when it costs us.

Even when we have to remind ourselves again tomorrow.

Stay Salty