I’ll never forget my grandfather’s funeral. Not because of the black suits, the solemn hymns, or the endless casseroles that showed up in every shade of beige. No, what seared itself into my memory was my grandmother, Mama.

There she was, freshly widowed, her whole world tilted off its axis, and instead of collapsing into the nearest chair and letting the rest of us care for her, she was busy serving. She ran around her own house, making sure everyone else was fed, comfortable, and welcomed. I watched her, half in awe and half in confusion.

How could she do that? How could someone, whose heart was breaking right in front of us, find the strength to show hospitality on the day she buried her husband? Yet that’s exactly what she did. Mama wasn’t just passing out food, she was offering honor. She honored her husband’s memory by serving the people who came to grieve with her. She honored her guests by showing them dignity, even in her pain. She honored God by opening her home when it would have been easy to close herself off.

That day unknowingly burned something into my spirit: true hospitality doesn’t wait for convenience. It doesn’t disappear in pain. Real hospitality is sacrificial, even costly. It’s what turns mourning into ministry.

And oddly enough, that same kind of hospitality is exactly what we find in the story of David in 2 Samuel 1.

The story opens in a mess of grief and chaos. Saul, Israel’s first king, has fallen on the battlefield, his sons dead beside him. Jonathan, David’s closest friend, his brother in arms, gone. This wasn’t just a political moment; this was deeply personal.

Picture this: David had every reason to respond with bitterness. Saul had hunted him down, tried to kill him, chased him like a wild animal through caves and deserts. Most of us, if we’re honest, would have cheered when Saul finally fell. Maybe even popped open a bottle of wine and said, “Finally, my problem is gone.”

But that’s not what David did.

When an Amalekite messenger came boasting of Saul’s death, expecting a reward, David didn’t celebrate. He tore his clothes. He wept. He fasted. And then, in what must have seemed unthinkable to his men, he honored Saul. He honored the one who had betrayed him, tormented him, and tried to destroy him.

Instead of speaking words of triumph, David wrote a lament. Instead of dancing on Saul’s grave, he lifted up a song that preserved Saul’s honor in front of all Israel:

“Saul and Jonathan—

in life they were loved and admired,

and in death they were not parted.

They were swifter than eagles,

they were stronger than lions.” (2 Samuel 1:23)

David doesn’t gloss over reality. He doesn’t pretend Saul was flawless. But in his grief, David chose hospitality through honor. He welcomed even his enemy’s memory into the sacred space of respect. He served the people of Israel, who needed to grieve their king, by showing them that honor was still possible even when relationships had been broken.

That is a kind of hospitality most of us don’t talk about, the hospitality of honoring someone, even when they don’t deserve it.

See, hospitality isn’t just about meals, clean sheets, or sweet tea on the porch. At its core, biblical hospitality is about creating space for dignity. It’s about making room for someone’s humanity, even when your flesh says they don’t deserve it.

David modeled this by honoring Saul. He didn’t rewrite history or excuse Saul’s sins, but he refused to reduce him to only his failures. He looked back at what Saul once was, the anointed king of Israel, the man who had once fought courageously, the leader chosen by God, and he honored that.

This is where it gets uncomfortably real for us. Because if David can honor Saul, then we can’t excuse ourselves from honoring those who have wronged us. That teacher who humiliated you. That boss who underpaid you. That parent who failed you. Even that pastor who hurt you. Honor doesn’t mean agreeing with their sin or pretending the pain wasn’t real. But it does mean remembering that they, too, were made in the image of God.

That day at my grandfather’s funeral, Mama showed the same kind of honor. She could have let her grief excuse her from thinking about others. Instead, she opened her home and served. She honored my grandfather by embodying the hospitality he had valued. She honored her guests by putting their needs ahead of her own. And she honored God by living out the gospel even when her heart was breaking.

David pointed forward to something greater, because the truest expression of hospitality through honor came from Jesus.

Think about it: when we were enemies of God, dead in our sin, rejecting Him at every turn, what did Jesus do? He didn’t write us off. He didn’t rejoice in our downfall. He didn’t treat us as enemies.

Instead, He honored us by coming down, putting on flesh, and making room for us at His table. The cross itself is the ultimate act of costly hospitality. It is Jesus saying, “You don’t deserve this, but I honor you by laying down My life so you can have a place with Me.”

At the Last Supper, the night before He was betrayed, Jesus sat at the table with His disciples, including Judas, who was already plotting against Him. And what did He do? He washed their feet. Even Judas’ feet. That’s hospitality through honor. That’s sacrificial love.

So when David honored Saul, and when Mama served in her grief, they were both echoes of the greater story: Jesus, the King who honors His enemies with grace.

Now comes the hard part: what do we do with this? Because it’s one thing to admire David or Mama or Jesus, it’s another thing to live it.

Hospitality through honor is not easy. It will stretch you. It will feel unfair. It might even feel impossible. But this is where God calls us deeper.

In our families: What would it look like to honor parents or siblings who weren’t always honorable? Maybe not by excusing their failures, but by acknowledging the image of God in them.

In our churches: What if, instead of discarding leaders who’ve fallen, we found ways to honor the good they once did, even while holding them accountable?

In our communities: What if we showed hospitality to the homeless vet, the addict, the outcast, not just by giving them food, but by giving them honor?

When we practice this kind of hospitality, we’re not just being “nice Christians.” We’re participating in the gospel. We’re echoing Jesus’ heart. We’re choosing to serve others, even at personal cost, because that’s exactly what He did for us.

Back at my grandfather’s funeral, I remember the sound of plates clinking, the smell of fried chicken, the hushed tones of people telling stories in the kitchen. It wasn’t a party, but it was a table. A table Mama set, even in her grief.

That’s the image I carry with me: a table set in the middle of pain, a table where honor is given, a table where guests feel the dignity of being served.

And that’s what Jesus does for us. Psalm 23 says it best: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” Even when life is breaking, even when enemies surround us, even when grief presses in, God sets a table of hospitality. He honors us with His presence.

Mama showed it that day. David showed it when he honored Saul. Jesus fulfilled it on the cross. And now, now it’s our turn.

Hospitality isn’t just about food. It isn’t just about convenience. It’s about honor. And sometimes, the most powerful way we can honor God is by honoring others ,  even the ones who don’t deserve it, even in the moments we feel least able.

David showed it on the battlefield of grief. Mama showed it in the kitchen of mourning. Jesus showed it on the cross.

So maybe the question for us is simple: whose memory, whose presence, whose very humanity can you honor today?

Because when you do, you’re not just showing hospitality. You’re showing Jesus.

In my favorite verse in the Bible “Jesus wept” we see the clearest, most tender form of hospitality. He didn’t wait for Mary and Martha to rise above their grief or for the crowd to understand the miracle He was about to perform. He met them right there in the rawness of their sorrow. That’s hospitality: stepping into someone else’s space, not with answers first, but with presence.

David, in his moment of deep loss and betrayal, still found it in himself to show hospitality through honor, weeping for the man who had tried to kill him. My grandmother, with her world crumbling as we laid my grandfather in the ground, still opened her arms and her table, serving from a place most of us would have excused her from. They both remind us that hospitality is not always about being in the right mood, the perfect season, or the happiest moment. Sometimes, it’s about choosing to give from the middle of our hurt, our anger, and our exhaustion.

Hospitality in spite of. In spite of grief. In spite of injustice. In spite of brokenness. And in that choice, we reflect the heart of Jesus, who doesn’t just host us when we’re cleaned up and ready, but who weeps with us, holds us, and welcomes us right where we are.

Stay Salty