I passed him nearly every morning and evening.

Same corner. Same weathered face. Same cardboard sign that reads, “Just trying to survive.” Sometimes I nod. Sometimes I stop and talk. Sometimes I just keep moving, caught up in the chaos of double shifts and fill-ins at the hotels downtown.

But one day, as I was heading toward a rooftop kitchen gig, sweaty already and two minutes late, something made me slow down and really look.

Not at the sign. Not at the dirt on his clothes or the shopping cart filled with bags.

But at the hat.

A weather-beaten Marine Corps cap. Faded. Bent brim. And suddenly the man on the corner wasn’t just another panhandler in downtown Savannah, he was a soldier. A protector. A man who once signed a blank check with his life for the sake of strangers. He was a man who had given it all… and lost most of it.

And here I was, walking by like I had nothing to learn from him.

That hit me like a cast iron skillet. Because that’s exactly what we do in the Church sometimes. We walk past the ones who used to fight for us, who used to stand in the gap, pray through the night, preach like their soul was on fire, give until there was nothing left in the tank, and all we see is what’s left after the crash.

We don’t see the veteran of ministry… we see the man who lost his pulpit. We don’t see the war-worn prayer warrior… we see the woman who’s too tired to come to church anymore. We don’t see the builder, we see the ruins.

And when we lose sight of the honor due to those who have gone before us, especially the ones who fell, we fail them twice: first by not supporting them while they were burning out, and again by abandoning them when they finally crash.

Ministry Burnout Isn’t Just a Statistic, It’s a Funeral We Keep Ignoring

Look, I’ve seen it more times than I can count. Ministers who once burned white-hot for the Lord now hiding out in shame. Fathers of the faith who built churches from scratch now sitting in silence. Some made mistakes, yeah. Some fell hard, affairs, pride, addiction, exhaustion. But the fire didn’t start with the fall. The fire started when they had no one feeding them. When hospitality stopped showing up for them.

You know what hospitality looks like when it’s aimed at pastors?

It looks like asking, “How’s your soul?” not “What’s the attendance?”

It looks like a space to rest, without having to perform.

It looks like grace that goes beyond the pulpit and into the person.

But more often than not, they didn’t get that. So they kept giving… until they had nothing left to give. And when they fell, we got real quiet. We stopped inviting them. We erased their names from the wall and acted like they’d never led us through the darkest nights of our lives.

A mentor of mine, my wife and I, were talking the other day about honoring those who came before us in ministry. You know the ones, the trailblazers. The spiritual fathers and mothers who paved the way so we could even be here doing what we do. Were they perfect? Absolutely not…they were figuring it out as they went, just like we are. Some of them stumbled hard at the end. But does that mean everything they built should be bulldozed over?

Not even close.

Because honoring someone isn’t about pretending they were perfect, it’s about recognizing the weight of what they carried before they dropped it.

So many of us forget… despite his mistakes… Saul was still their King.

Which brings us to 1 Samuel 31. Yeah, you knew it was coming.

It’s the final chapter of Saul’s story. And spoiler alert: it’s not a fairy tale ending.

Picture this: Saul is wounded in battle, humiliated, out of options. Instead of dying at the hands of the Philistines, he takes his own life. His sons, Jonathan included, fall beside him. And when the Philistines find the bodies, they go full savage. Strip him, behead him, and hang the body like a trophy.

Disgrace. Defeat. The legacy of Israel’s first king now rotting on display.

But then… something beautiful happens.

Out of nowhere, a group of men from Jabesh Gilead step onto the scene. Now, if you rewind to 1 Samuel 11, you’ll remember that Saul saved their entire city when no one else would. He showed up like a wrecking ball and delivered them from certain destruction. And these guys? They never forgot. So look at this, even after all Saul’s failures, even after he lost his mind, disobeyed God, and ended his life in disgrace, they still remembered him as their king.

They didn’t see the shame. They saw the man who once stood tall. They saw the man who gave everything, even when it didn’t end well. And they risked their lives to bring his body home. They honored him despite.

That, my friends, is hospitality in its rawest form. Risky. Costly. And completely undeserved.

Too many of us treat honor like it’s a trophy case for the perfect. But real honor doesn’t wait for perfection. Real honor sees the broken body and says, “That man gave something I’ll never forget.”

Just like Jabesh Gilead did for Saul.

Just like we should be doing for those who built the churches we now sit comfortably in.

It’s time we stop measuring someone’s worth by how they ended and start remembering how they began and all that they did.

When the men of Jabesh Gilead brought back Saul’s body, they didn’t just toss him in a pit and move on. They fasted for seven days. They mourned. They honored. They grieved well.

That wasn’t just a burial. That was healing.

And it’s the kind of healing that happens when we show hospitality in the form of dignity, especially to those who’ve fallen. Whether it’s a fallen pastor, a forgotten veteran, or a burnt-out saint who gave everything and lost more than we’ll ever understand, we owe them honor.

And not because they were perfect.

But because they gave.

And maybe that giving nearly cost them everything.

What Are We Really Remembering?

Let me ask you this, when someone’s name comes up in conversation and they’ve had a public fall, what’s the first thing you say?

Is it the scandal?

Or is it the sacrifice?

Do you remember the affair… or the years of faithful service before it?

Do you remember the burnout… or the late nights at the hospital, the countless sermons, the prayers over your kids?

Because if all we see is the fall, then we’ve got selective vision.

And we’re not honoring. We’re editing.

We’ve got to stop throwing people away when they’re down. We’ve got to start creating spaces where restoration should be more than just a buzzword that the church uses, it’s the expectation. We’ve got to start practicing hospitality through honor, especially when it’s uncomfortable.

Because when the Church fails to honor those who have fallen, we don’t just fail them… we fail the next generation watching us. So here’s what I’m asking us to do, myself included. Look for the good. Find the moment they gave.

Remember the sacrifice.

Speak their name with respect, even if they lost the ending. Invite them in. Listen. Love. Feed them. Don’t just honor the memory, honor the person. Create space for restoration, not just repentance. Show hospitality… through honor despite.

And Here’s the Mic-Drop

Because if Jabesh Gilead can cross enemy lines to bury the disgraced body of a failed king, then what’s stopping us from honoring the wounded warriors still living among us?

If God didn’t throw Saul away, and still let his name be remembered in the same breath as David, then maybe it’s time we stop doing God’s job of judgment and start doing ours: hospitality, mercy, and honor. Because when we fail to honor those who fell from grace, we forget the grace that held them up for years.

And someday, when it’s you that stumbles, you’re going to pray someone remembers what you did before the fall. So the hospitality of honor now. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s late. Because grace doesn’t expire just because someone lost the spotlight.

Let’s start honoring like Jabesh Gilead.

Let’s start loving like Jesus.

And let’s start healing what we’ve helped break.

Before it’s too late.

Stay Salty