If there’s one thing I’ve learned, both in the kitchen and in ministry, it’s that nobody heals by being rushed. You can’t fix a burnt roux by turning up the heat, and you can’t restore a broken person by throwing them back into the fire before they’ve cooled. But in the world we live in, especially the church world, we’ve got this bad habit of doing exactly that.

We call it “walking in grace,” but really, it’s just spiritual caffeine. We tell people to smile, serve, and keep pushing, even when their souls are limping. We hand them a Bible verse like a Band-Aid and act surprised when they bleed through it by Sunday morning.

But 2 Samuel 10 gives us a much better picture of what real hospitality, the hospitality of restoration, looks like.

Picture this: David hears that Nahash, king of the Ammonites, has died. Now, Nahash wasn’t exactly a buddy of Israel, but he’d shown David a little kindness back in the fugitive days. So, David decides to return the favor, sends some of his men to express condolences to Nahash’s son, Hanun. A diplomatic, human gesture. Respectful.

But Hanun’s advisors? They’re the kind of people who see poison in every cup. They convince him David’s just running a spy operation disguised as sympathy. So Hanun takes David’s well-meaning men, shaves off half their beards, and cuts their robes at the hips, leaving their dignity flapping in the breeze for everyone to see.

Now, that might sound like a weird prank to modern ears, but in their culture, it was total humiliation. A man’s beard represented his honor, his identity, his maturity. And those robes? That was their badge of respect. So, imagine someone taking your uniform, reputation, and manhood, and throwing them all in the dirt.

That’s not just an insult. That’s trauma.

Now, here’s where David shows us something powerful. He doesn’t call for war immediately. He doesn’t parade his wounded men around for sympathy points. Instead, he tells them:

“Stay at Jericho until your beards have grown, and then return.” (2 Samuel 10:5)

In other words… rest, recover, and heal.

He gives them a space, a Jericho, where they can regain what was taken before they step back into the spotlight.

That, my friends, is hospitality. Not the “come over for dinner” kind, but the “you’re safe to breathe here” kind. It’s the kind that doesn’t demand performance or proof, just presence and peace.

The strongest form of hospitality in this passage isn’t David’s original gesture of kindness toward Hanun. It’s his response to his own wounded men.

David could’ve used their humiliation as a rally cry for revenge. He could’ve made them the poster boys for patriotism, “Look what they did to us! Grab your swords!” But instead, he chose restorative honor over reactionary rage.

He didn’t force them to move on; he gave them permission to be undone for a season.

That’s the hospitality of restoration, giving someone the grace to not be okay, without losing their place in the family.

He doesn’t replace them. He doesn’t shame them. He simply says, “Stay in Jericho until your beard grows back.”

See, that’s not weakness, that’s wisdom. And it mirrors something God modeled from the very beginning.

When God created the world, He didn’t rest on the seventh day because He was tired. The Almighty doesn’t need a nap. He rested because rest itself is holy. It’s a rhythm, a gift. He built Sabbath into creation not as a timeout for the weak, but as a reminder for the strong that we’re not gods.

Sabbath was God saying, “Stop striving. Stop performing. Stop pretending that the world will fall apart if you’re not hustling.”

That’s the same spirit behind David’s command. He created a Sabbath-space, a Jericho, where broken men could breathe again.

If we’d be honest, most of us could use a Jericho or two in our lives. We talk about revival, but half the folks praying for it are running on fumes. We cry out for renewal while ignoring the exhaustion written all over our faces.

You can’t pour out what you haven’t been filled with. And you can’t be filled when you refuse to rest.

Jericho wasn’t punishment. It was protection.

David didn’t exile his men; he sheltered them. That’s the difference between condemnation and restoration.

Condemnation says, “You can’t sit with us anymore.”

Restoration says, “Sit here until you’re ready to stand again.”

In ministry, I’ve watched both sides. I’ve seen pastors break under the weight of expectations, only to be told to “walk in victory” before the ink was dry on their burnout. I’ve seen church leaders crushed by betrayal, yet pushed back into leadership because “the people need you.”

And I’ve seen what happens when folks don’t get a Jericho, when they’re rushed back onto the line before the soul’s scar tissue has even formed.

I’ve lived it too.

I’ve seen it in the kitchen, a chef who burns a dish so bad it could’ve doubled as charcoal, then gets thrown right back on the line, heart still beating out of his chest. Or after a brutal service, when a bad review hits the paper like a knife to the gut. There’s that silence in the walk-in cooler… where cooks go to cool down, curse under their breath, and…..cry,  that’s its own version of Jericho.

I’ve seen it in my father too, years of ministry taking its toll. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from carrying too many people’s pain for too long. Sometimes he’d just need to disappear into the woods, breathe, and let the Lord restore what the congregation had wrung out of him.

And I’ve seen it in church folks, faithful servants who get wounded by gossip, betrayal, or just plain burnout. Instead of being given space to heal, they’re told to “just pray it away.” So they fake the smile, show up for duty, and slowly die inside.

But healing doesn’t happen through pretending. It happens through presence. Through stillness. Through rest.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: the modern church often confuses busyness with holiness.

We treat rest like it’s optional, like it’s for weak Christians or lazy leaders. We’ve replaced Sabbath with service, healing with hustle.

But hospitality, real, biblical hospitality, is about making space for brokenness to breathe.

When someone falls, we either shove them back into the spotlight too soon (“Get up there and share your testimony!”), or we exile them completely (“They messed up, can’t trust them anymore”).

David did neither. He created space for rest and recovery, without disowning his men.

He didn’t label them as liabilities. He covered them in dignity.

That’s what the church is supposed to do. To say, “Stay in Jericho until your beard grows back. You still belong.”

Because when you rush someone’s restoration, you can actually rip the healing right out from under them. You can turn a temporary wound into a lifelong scar. And at that point, it’s no longer a ministry problem, it’s going to take divine intervention to fix the damage.

Rest is one of the most radical acts of faith.

In a world that worships productivity, choosing rest is rebellion. It’s declaring, “God’s got this, even when I’m sitting still.”

That’s why the Sabbath is called a gift, not a suggestion. The Lord knew we’d burn ourselves alive trying to prove our worth, so He wrapped rest in holiness and handed it to us.

Rest is not just recovery, it’s resistance. It’s how we remind our souls that we are not defined by output, performance, or applause.

In the kitchen, we used to say: “A good meal needs time to rest before it’s served.” You pull a steak off the grill too early, and all the juices run out. Same with people. Rush them back too soon, and you drain the very thing that makes them flavorful, their spirit.

The church today doesn’t need more Hanuns, suspicious leaders who humiliate the well-meaning. We need more Davids, leaders who see pain and respond with protection.

Restorative hospitality looks like this: Giving someone a safe space instead of a stage. Offering silence instead of shallow advice. Allowing healing to take the time it needs.

It looks like Jesus, the One who didn’t rush Peter back into ministry after he denied Him. Instead, He cooked the man breakfast on the beach and said, “Let’s talk about love.”

That’s Jericho hospitality. That’s grace in motion.

Hospitality isn’t just about serving others a meal; it’s about serving them mercy.

Sometimes the best way to show hospitality isn’t to invite someone over, it’s to let them rest. To tell them, “You don’t have to perform here. You can just be.”

If we want to mirror Christ, we’ve got to learn that restoration and rest go hand in hand. Because even in our redemption story, even in the cross, rest was part of the plan.

Jesus didn’t rise on Friday. He rested in the tomb on the Sabbath. Even resurrection waited for rest.

If David could give his men space to heal their dignity, then surely we can give people time to heal their hearts.

When you see someone broken, someone humiliated, misunderstood, or just worn down, don’t rush to fix them or force them to “move on.” Sometimes the most Christlike thing you can do is to create a Jericho for them.

A place where they can rest.

A place where they can remember who they are.

A place where they can grow their beard back, even if it takes longer than you think it should.

Because restoration isn’t just about getting people back to work. It’s about getting people back to wholeness.

So if you’re weary today, if ministry, life, or even your own mistakes have left you half-shaved and half-dressed, humiliated and hiding, hear this:

Stay in Jericho until your beard grows back. You still belong.

The Lord’s rest isn’t just a pause; it’s a promise. It’s the gift He gave us in the Sabbath and the reward He offers us in eternity.

And when we learn to extend that rest to others, when we create Jerichos of restoration instead of assembly lines of burnout, that’s when we start to look like the kingdom again.

That’s when hospitality becomes holy.

That’s when rest becomes revival.

That’s when grace grows beards.

Stay Salty