Back when I was training in Krav Maga, we trained like our lives depended on it, because one day, it just might. It wasn’t just about fancy moves or breaking boards; it was grit, sweat, and knowing you could rely on the person next to you. We trained in pairs. We pushed each other. And when our partner was running on fumes, we carried them.

Now, I’ve never been the fastest guy in the room. I’m not built for speed, I’m built like a walk-in freezer with legs. But that didn’t stop me from showing up and giving it everything I had. I still remember this one day that really opened my eyes. My training partner was a buddy of mine, someone I respected. He’s always been in better shape than me. Lean, fast, always in motion, the kind of guy who looked like he jogged for fun, which I still think is a form of mental illness.

Anyway, we were doing mitt drills, punch combinations, nonstop movement, and switching roles. He’d hold, I’d hit. I’d hold, he’d hit. But as the round wore on, I noticed something strange: I was pushing him. Hard. His arms were sagging, his breathing was heavy, and I was still swinging like I had something to prove. It didn’t make sense. By all accounts, he should’ve been wiping the floor with me.

Then it hit me, we weren’t built the same.

I had been working different muscles for different jobs. My strength didn’t come from speed or agility, it came from deep, heavy impact. Years of cooking, carrying crates, standing on my feet, lifting cast iron and chaos. His body was trained for long runs and mountain climbs. Mine was trained to hit and hold the line. If it had been a sprint, he would’ve left me in the dust. But this was different. This was my lane.

And that’s when I realized something deeper: how often do we do this in the Church?

How often do we look at someone and judge them for what they can’t do, instead of honoring what they can? We see someone who doesn’t pray like we do, sing like we do, serve like we do, and we quietly decide they’re not “there yet.” But maybe we’re just measuring the wrong things. Maybe they’re not a mountain climber, but they’re built to carry heavy people through rough seasons. Maybe they’re not the one preaching, but they’re the one holding someone else’s arms up through the battle.

The Kingdom isn’t built on copy-paste Christians, it’s built on heart. Not hustle. Not hype. Just heart. God sees it. Even when we don’t.

So next time someone doesn’t run like you do, don’t assume they’re not moving. They may be built to move mountains you weren’t called to carry.

We’re not called to compete, we’re called to carry.

And in the Church, we rise together.

Let’s be honest, this part of 1 Samuel 30 hits completely different.

Not because there’s a wild battle scene, or a miracle falling from the sky, but because David chooses to do something that defies every instinct in a man’s flesh, he honors the exhausted.

You know the story. Or you should from my last post. (if you haven’t read part one please do)

 David’s men are in full pursuit mode. Their homes are still smoking, their wives and children are in enemy hands, and their adrenaline is the only thing keeping their legs moving. But halfway through the chase, 200 of his warriors, men who bled beside him, who had just come from war, collapse. Not from fear. Not from laziness. From pure, bone-deep exhaustion.

And what do they do? They stop. They don’t fake strength. They don’t try to be heroes. They look at their commander and say, “We can’t keep going.”

Now pause. Let that hit you.

They didn’t quit because they were weak.

They stopped because they were wise.

See, these men didn’t want to be a burden in battle. They knew the mission was too critical to drag their half-broken bodies into it and slow down the charge. They made the hard call: sit this one out.

And in that moment, David had a choice:

Treat them like dead weight… or honor their dedication.

And we know how this usually plays out in the Church, don’t we? We’ve built this performance culture in ministry, let’s call it what it is, where worth is measured by how much you do.

“How many services are you at?”

“How fast do you respond in the group chat?”

“How much can we stack on your shoulders before you break?”

We honor the grinders. The burnt-out warriors. The ones limping on stage with smiles on their faces. And listen, that kind of service is powerful, but it becomes a problem when we start ranking people based on it.

Because if someone pulls back to rest, to heal, to breathe?

We start whispering.

We side-eye.

We assume they’re lazy. Unfaithful. Not as committed.

But the truth is, not everyone is built to run at the same pace. Not everyone has the same stamina, the same skillset, the same capacity. That doesn’t mean they’re not dedicated. It means they’re human. It means they know their limit.

Some of the most faithful people I’ve ever met are the ones sitting on the sidelines because they had to, not because they wanted to. They’re nursing wounds, carrying grief, rebuilding from burnout. And the last thing they need is a spiritual guilt trip from the people they used to serve beside.

The 200 men didn’t leave the army. They didn’t defect. They stayed with the baggage. They guarded what was left. And that matters. They didn’t chase the enemy, but they stayed faithful to what they could carry.

And when David comes back victorious, dragging the spoils of war and the families they fought to rescue, the others, the ones who did fight, say, “They didn’t go with us. They don’t deserve the reward.” You can almost hear the arrogance. “We fought. We deserve. They didn’t. They’re out.” And here’s where David gives a masterclass in kingdom leadership. He shuts it down.

“As his share is who goes down into the battle, so shall his share be who stays by the baggage. They shall share alike.” (1 Samuel 30:24, ESV)

That’s not just mercy. That’s hospitality. And not the soft kind that serves tea and cookies. The kind that stands in the tension and says: “We are one body. One army. And we don’t leave people behind just because they’re tired.”

David didn’t just recover what was lost. He restored dignity to those who felt like they had nothing left to give.

Let me ask you this: How often do we, as the Church, extend that kind of mercy?

We want revival, but only if it comes through the hands of the ones doing the most work.

We want community, but only if everyone pulls their weight. We want hospitality, but only for the shiny and the strong. And yet… God models something totally different.

He welcomes the worn out.

He feeds the failures.

He gives the same grace to the one who fought and the one who fell.

If your idea of hospitality doesn’t include those who had to sit down halfway through the mission, then it’s not biblical hospitality. Jesus didn’t rebuke the woman who wept at His feet instead of standing and serving. He didn’t shame the thief on the cross who came to Him at the final hour. And He doesn’t count your value by your pace, but by your posture.

One Body. One Army. Many Paces.

David understood something we forget:

Victory isn’t won by the fastest.

It’s won by the faithful.

And faithfulness looks different for everybody.

Some are built to storm the gates.

Others are called to stand guard.

Some are in the field with swords.

Others are in the back interceding in prayer, cleaning up after events, or just trying to show up for service with their last ounce of energy.

But we’re one army. And when one part suffers, the whole body suffers. When one part wins, we all win. Hospitality means carrying the tired, not criticizing them. It means creating space for rest, not punishing those who need it. David didn’t just say, “Let’s be nice and give them something.”

He said, “They share equally.” Let that hit.

EQUALLY.

The ones who ran.

The ones who stayed.

The ones who couldn’t move another inch.

They all got the blessing.

And Church, that should correct some things in us.

Because some of us have been holding onto resentment like, “I did more, so I deserve more.” Some of us have become stingy with mercy. Some of us have started using our serving as a measuring stick for spiritual value. But grace doesn’t grade on effort.

God doesn’t tally up your hours like a manager.

And David, pointing forward to the heart of God, shows us what it looks like to reward the heart, not just the hustle. If you’re the one who’s tired today, this part’s for you:

God is not disappointed in you for needing rest.

He’s not keeping score against your exhaustion.

You may feel like you’ve had to sit out of the battle.

But your faithfulness still matters.

You’re not disqualified.

You’re not less than.

The same reward is coming to you.

The same restoration.

You don’t need to run faster to be seen by God.

You just need to stay close.

The Heart of Real Hospitality

Hospitality isn’t just setting a table.

It’s how we speak about the ones who had to sit out.

It’s how we carry those who can’t walk right now.

It’s how we refuse to divide the spoils by performance and choose to love like Jesus.

David shows us a better way.

A kingdom way. A way that says: You didn’t make it to the fight, but you’re still part of the family. You still get the blessing. And if we’re going to be people of mercy, people who walk in the Spirit of Christ, then we better start opening our eyes to the ones who are camped by the baggage.

They’re still in the fight.

They just need a minute to breathe.

And our job is to make room for them, not make assumptions about them.

Church, this isn’t a competition.

This is a kingdom.

And we’re all in this together.

Don’t hoard the reward.

Don’t judge the weary.

Don’t resent the ones who had to pause.

Because if we’re honest, we’ve all had seasons where we couldn’t keep going.

We’ve all had moments where we needed someone to cover us, protect us, and believe that our heart still mattered even if our hands weren’t working.

So let’s build a Church that reflects David’s leadership and Christ’s mercy. Let’s stop counting hours and start counting hearts. Let’s show hospitality to the tired, the broken, the ones sitting by the baggage… and remind them:

The blessing is still yours.

The grace is still yours.

The King sees you… and so do we.

Stay salty.