Let’s be honest right up front, sometimes the Church has done more damage than healing. I don’t say that lightly, and I don’t say it from the outside looking in. I say it as someone who has been in the thick of it, who has watched people come through the doors of a church looking for a hospital and instead walk away feeling like they’d been through a battlefield. And before anybody sharpens their pitchfork, let me clarify: I’m not here to bash the Bride of Christ. I love the Church. I’ve given my life to serving her. But loving something doesn’t mean being blind to its failings.

Because let’s face it, we’ve seen it. Churches splitting over power struggles that would make Congress blush. Pastors falling, and instead of restoration, there’s exile. Leaders covering up sin instead of confessing it. People walking in wounded, and instead of finding healing, they leave with even deeper scars. If you don’t believe me, just Google the phrase church hurt. You’ll get more stories than you know what to do with. And sadly, a lot of those stories are true.

I don’t blame the world when they look at us and say, “Why would I want to align with them?” If all they see are Christians fighting, Christians judging, Christians devouring one another like a pack of hyenas, then of course they’d rather sit alone than join our table. It makes sense. And if we’re honest, some of us in the church feel the same way at times.

Now, before I sound too heavy-handed, let me say this: I get it. The Church is not meant to be a sterile hospital where everyone walks around in pristine white coats, humming worship songs in perfect harmony. The Church is more like a MASH unit in wartime. People come in bleeding, broken, barely hanging on, and sometimes the doctors aren’t much better. Mistakes get made. Haste makes waste. And yes, sometimes we run so hard after “serving God” that we trample right over the very people we’re supposed to be serving.

But here’s the problem, we can’t just excuse ourselves by saying, “Well, nobody’s perfect.” We are called to be different. Not perfect, but holy. Not flawless, but merciful. We are called to model God’s heart. And one of the clearest beats of God’s heart is hospitality.

Hospitality isn’t just casseroles at the potluck or coffee in the lobby. True hospitality is keeping a seat at the table for someone who doesn’t deserve it. It’s grace in action. And if there’s one story that puts flesh on that truth, it’s 2 Samuel 2, where David does the unthinkable, he shows hospitality to Abner, the commander of the enemy army.

Alright, buckle up, because if you think politics are messy now, ancient Israel could give us a masterclass. By the time we get to 2 Samuel 2, Saul is dead. Gone.

Picture this: The crown is sitting there with no clear head to wear it. David, who’s been anointed years before, finally takes Judah as his kingdom. Meanwhile, the northern tribes, still loyal to Saul’s memory, crown his son Ish-bosheth. Boom. Division. Two kings, two kingdoms, and one giant mess brewing.

This is where you expect David to flex his muscles. He’s got God’s promise. He’s got the anointing. He’s got the battle scars to prove he’s earned the throne. If anyone had the right to march into the northern tribes and say, “Hand over the crown or else,” it was David. But instead of going full Rambo, David does something shocking: he shows restraint. He practices patience. And when Abner, Saul’s military commander, comes knocking, David doesn’t cut him down, he sets another place at the table.

Let’s talk about Abner for a minute. This guy wasn’t just some random soldier. He was Saul’s right-hand man, the muscle behind the throne. He had been fighting David’s people for years. If there was ever an enemy commander to take out, it was Abner.

But here’s where David surprises us. Instead of sharpening the sword, David opens the door. When Abner comes with a peace proposal, David listens. He doesn’t drag up the past. He doesn’t humiliate him. He doesn’t say, “Oh, so now you come crawling back? After all those battles? After all the men you killed?” No. David treats Abner with respect. He offers grace. He creates the possibility of reconciliation where vengeance would have been the easier, more natural choice.

That, my friends, is hospitality. Not the easy kind where you invite your friends over for barbecue and everyone laughs around the fire. No, this is the hard kind… the kind where you pull out a chair for the one who once wanted to see you dead.

Now, let’s bring this home. Because if we’re being real, the Church is not very good at this. Far too often, we write off the people who once stood against us. We blacklist them. We brand them as traitors or enemies. And God forbid someone who hurt us ever tries to come back, we’ll make sure the door is bolted shut.

We’ve all seen it. Churches that cut off people after moral failure, not just disciplining them but exiling them. Leaders who burn bridges and salt the earth behind them. Congregations that won’t even speak the name of someone who left on bad terms. And don’t even get me started on the way we treat the world outside our walls. Sometimes we act like our mission is to win a culture war instead of win souls.

And yet, the heart of God calls us to something radically different. Jesus said, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). Paul said, “If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink” (Romans 12:20). Over and over again, Scripture drives home the point: we don’t get to withhold hospitality just because someone has wounded us.

Think about Jesus Himself. He washed Judas’ feet, knowing full well that Judas was about to betray Him. That’s the Abner moment in the Gospels. That’s the hospitality of heaven on display.

In the short time my family and I have been in Georgia, we’ve seen some heartbreaking examples of the opposite. We’ve seen churches hurt and deny. We’ve seen churches hurt and lie. We’ve seen churches hurt and not even care that they did. I’m not talking about minor slip-ups, I’m talking about wounds that left people limping out the door, or beat the wheels off of their spiritual health.

And it grieves me, because the Church should be a hospital for the broken, not a factory for the wounded. Yes, we’re a MASH unit, and yes, mistakes happen, but that doesn’t excuse coldness, cruelty, or indifference. If we’re running so fast after “ministry” that we leave a trail of bodies behind us, then we’re running in the wrong direction. David’s choice to show grace to Abner is a mirror for us. He had every reason to shut the door. He had every right to demand vengeance. But instead, he chose reconciliation. He chose to leave the seat open at the table.

And that’s what we are called to do. Not just for the easy people. Not just for the ones who didn’t mean to hurt us. We’re called to keep the seat open for the ones who betrayed us, slandered us, and opposed us. The ones we’d rather pretend don’t exist.

Because here’s the truth: hospitality isn’t about comfort, it’s about Christ. It’s not about what makes us feel good, but about reflecting God’s heart to the world. And God’s heart is scandalously hospitable.

Think about Joseph. His brothers sold him into slavery, left him for dead, and when he finally had the power to crush them, he didn’t. He wept, he embraced them, and he fed them. Hospitality.

Think about the father in the parable of the prodigal son. The boy disgraced the family, wasted everything, and smelled like a pigpen. But when he came home, the father didn’t slam the door. He ran to him, hugged him, and threw a party. Hospitality.

Think about Jesus at the Last Supper. Judas was there. Peter was there. Both were about to betray Him in different ways. And yet Jesus broke bread with them. Hospitality.

In each of these stories, reconciliation wasn’t cheap. It cost something. But it was worth it.

So what does this mean for us today? It means we’ve got to stop writing people off. It means we’ve got to be quicker to extend grace than to pronounce judgment. It means we’ve got to leave that seat open at the table, even for the ones who hurt us. Especially for the ones who hurt us.

We are called to be in the world, not of it. And part of that means we don’t fight the way the world fights. The world cancels, the world blacklists, the world retaliates. But the Church is called to love. To forgive. To keep the table set and the door unlocked.

Yes, sometimes that means eating a little crow. Yes, sometimes it means swallowing our pride. But isn’t that what Jesus did? He humbled Himself, became obedient even to death on a cross. And if our Lord can do that for us, how dare we refuse to do it for others?

I know this all sounds heavy. And it is. Church hurt is real. Division is real. Betrayal is real. But so is the grace of God. And I believe with all my heart that if we can learn to be like David with Abner, if we can learn to show hospitality where vengeance would be easier, then the Church can be healed.

We can be that hospital again. We can be that refuge. We can be the place where the world looks and says, “I don’t know what they’ve got, but I want to be part of it.”

So let’s do better. Let’s be better. Let’s keep the table set, the seat open, and the welcome wide. Because the heart of God beats with hospitality, and if we are His people, then our hearts should beat the same.

And maybe, just maybe, when the Abners of the world come knocking, they’ll find not a closed door, but an open table.

Stay Salty.