Lately, I’ve found myself in a weird place, mentally, spiritually, and even geographically. Not exactly exile-in-Philistine-country weird, but close. I’m in a season where I’m interviewing with a few churches for a pastoral role, which still shocks me, considering my history of being more like the guy who flipped tables in the temple than the one who led revivals under a tent.

As I’ve sat with the Lord, asking Him what kind of pastor I’d be… what kind of leader, friend, and builder of people, I couldn’t get past one thing He kept pressing in on: hospitality…. I know a shocker.

Not the “fancy napkin fold” kind. I’m not about to start a Pinterest board with centerpieces made of succulents and twine. I’m talking about the real stuff. The kind of hospitality that doesn’t look good in a photo. The kind that leaves splinters in your hands, a knot in your gut, and sometimes a lump in your throat.

The kind that offers refuge… to your enemy.

Yeah. That kind.

I’ve Held the Line, But Sometimes With a Sword

As I look ahead at what pastoring might look like for me, I’ve had to take a long, honest look back. And I’ll tell you something, some of that rearview is rough.

There are churches down here I didn’t exactly leave in a blaze of unity and spiritual hugs. I held the line, yes. I stood for truth. I stood for my convictions. But I can’t say I always stood kindly. Or patiently. Or even hospitably.

Recently, a friend told me, “Thank you for never standing down.” I appreciated it. It felt good, Even more so because he is one staff at one of those above-mentioned churches. But as soon as read the message, I heard the Lord whisper back, “You held the line, but did you build a bridge?”

Oof.

There were moments I didn’t just hold my ground, I salted the earth. Moments where I didn’t offer refuge to the weary, because they didn’t look like me, pray like me, or agree with my theology.

We’ve all seen churches split and become rival camps over issues we’ll all be embarrassed about when we see Jesus face to face.

Couples divorce and suddenly everyone’s picking teams like it’s Sunday afternoon flag football. Pastors fall, and rather than restoring them, we parade their failures like trophies of our own righteousness. One church down the street raises hands during worship, and the other whispers, “We don’t go to their events because they believe in pre-trib.” Pre-Trib! We’re splitting hairs while the world is splitting apart.

Then I read again 1 Samuel 27 again. And it gutted me.

Picture this: Here’s David, anointed, hunted, exhausted. He’s not just running from Saul; he’s running out of options. And where does he turn? To Achish. The king of Gath. Goliath’s hometown. That’s like Billy Graham running for shelter in Las Vegas during a casino convention.

Achish, a Philistine ruler with no love for Israel, opens the gates. He gives David not just a tent, but a town, Ziklag. A piece of Philistine land where the fugitive warrior could rest, recover, and regroup.

Let’s not sanitize this: Achish is offering refuge to the guy who literally killed his champion. This is like offering asylum to the man who killed your brother and cut off his head. Yet here he is, saying, “You and your men, stay here. I’ve got you.”

That’s hospitality.

Not cheap. Not comfortable. Not safe.

But real.

And here’s the twist—Achish doesn’t even fully trust David. He’s not handing over the keys to the city out of deep brotherly love. There’s strategy, politics, and maybe a little desperation mixed in. But none of that diminishes the hospitality shown. Refuge was given. Grace extended. A table, however rickety, was set in the presence of enemies.

I’ve missed Ziklag moments in my lifetime when I could’ve been an Achish to someone I didn’t fully understand, someone I once stood against, someone who once stood against me.

But instead, I locked the gates. I protected my pride. I posted up on theological high ground and waited for the Lord to vindicate me with fire from heaven. Spoiler alert: the fire never came. Just silence. And conviction.

We talk about hospitality all the time in church. But usually, we only mean feeding people chicken casseroles and remembering their birthdays. But let’s get real, biblical hospitality is less about potlucks and more about peacemaking.

It’s about opening your home, your heart, and your life to someone who very well might betray you, lie to you, disagree with you, or vote differently than you.

It’s looking at the person who used to be on the “wrong side” of the issue, whether it’s a denomination, a doctrine, a divorce, and asking yourself, “Can I be their Achish?”

Hospitality doesn’t mean pretending nothing ever happened. It means making space anyway. It’s laying down the right to be right so you can be righteous.

I’ve seen it over and over: relationships torched over petty disagreements. Whole churches choosing not to partner with others because of past drama, or differences in how people take communion. We don’t show up to their events because of “what happened that one time.” We avoid sitting with that family because we chose their ex in the divorce.

We’ve built more denominational walls than Jericho ever dreamed of. And sometimes, we’re standing guard over rubble that Jesus already tore down.

Let me say something uncomfortable: if your hospitality only extends to people who are easy to love, it’s not hospitality, it’s just dinner.

Jesus ate with tax collectors, prostitutes, zealots, and Judas. Let me remind you, He washed the feet of the man who would sell Him out for the price of a used donkey.

And if He can serve communion to His betrayer, I think I can co-host an outreach event with a church whose administration isn’t my favorite.

Because that’s where the power of hospitality lies, in its cost. In its risk. In its scandalous grace.

David received shelter from a pagan king.

Jesus was buried in a borrowed tomb.

And we were welcomed into the kingdom of God while we were still enemies of the cross (Romans 5:10).

That’s hospitality.

Now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying we ignore truth or that we collapse every boundary. Not every wolf deserves a front-row seat at the sheepfold. But we’ve become so obsessed with guarding the gate that we’ve forgotten how to open it.

Discernment isn’t about labeling everyone who disagrees with us as dangerous. It’s about listening to the Holy Spirit and walking in both truth and grace, just like Jesus did (John 1:14).

Hospitality isn’t blind. But it is bold. It takes courage to risk being hurt again. It takes humility to say, “I may not agree with you, but you are still welcome here.”

It’s giving someone a chance to change. A place to breathe. A reason to believe that maybe, just maybe, reconciliation is possible.

And if God’s mercies are new every morning, mine need to be too.

So here I am, standing at the edge of whatever comes next, praying about pastoring, and God is bringing Ziklag to mind. Asking me to look at the people I’ve once clashed with, not with suspicion, but with invitation.

Could I partner with that church again?

Could I forgive that pastor?

Could I show hospitality to the person who once stood against me?

Could I be an Achish?

Better yet… could I be Christ to them?

Because that’s the real question, right? Not just who I’d be as a pastor, but who I’ll be as a man. As a follower of Jesus. As someone called not just to preach the gospel but to live it in every uncomfortable, inconvenient, cruciform way.

I don’t want to be the guy who only welcomes friends. I want to be the guy who makes room for former enemies. The guy who turns his past fights into future fellowship. The guy who sets a table in Ziklag and says, “Stay here awhile. You’re safe.”

I want to be someone who builds bridges, not just holds lines.

So here’s my prayer. Maybe it’s yours too:

Father, teach me to show the kind of hospitality that costs me something. Help me forgive like You forgave me. Teach me to offer refuge to those I once resisted. Heal the fractures in our churches, our families, and our friendships. Let Your Spirit move in our mess. May the world know we are Yours not by our theology alone, but by our love for one another. Give us Ziklag moments. And give us the courage to open the gates. Amen.

To the pastors, leaders, and churches I’ve disagreed with or distanced from in the past, some of those wounds still ache, and I know I haven’t always handled things the way I should have. I held the line, but sometimes I did it with more heat than humility.

I want you to know this: I pray for the day we can see past our differences, even if that day isn’t today. And even though I’m not welcome in your church right now, when the Lord makes his steps clear and places me in a pastoral position here in GA. you will always be welcome in mine. You’ll have a seat at my table, no questions asked, no grudges held.

Because the Kingdom is bigger than our disagreements.

And I believe reconciliation is still possible.

Until then, I’m praying for you. And I’m asking the Lord to make me the kind of pastor who keeps the door open wide, especially for those I once stood on the other side of it with.

Grace and peace,

Let’s be the kind of people who stop letting old offenses determine our future alliances.

Let’s stop guarding tombs God already emptied.

Let’s build the Church, not just our corners of it.

And let’s be bold enough to welcome the people we once warred with.

Because that’s the kind of hospitality that brings heaven to earth.

And brother… that’s the kind that just might save the world.

Stay Salty