I once heard about a preacher who stood before his congregation one Sunday morning and made an announcement that shocked everyone. He said, “From this day forward, our church will end all events that do not directly share the gospel.” No more fall festivals just to hand out candy, no more chili cook-offs to fill the calendar, no more spaghetti dinners that never mentioned Jesus. People thought he was crazy. They whispered that the church would die. But something remarkable happened. In time, that little church became one of the largest and most effective gospel-sharing ministries in the region. They stripped away the noise and found revival in the simplicity of their purpose, to make Jesus known.

That story always stuck with me, because it reveals something we’d rather not admit: most of what we call hospitality in the modern church is just comfort dressed up in holy clothes. We’re good at hosting but not at sacrificing. We like to appear kind, but we don’t often like to bleed for it. And that brings us straight to one of the darkest chapters in Scripture, 2 Samuel 11, where comfort disguised as hospitality became the downfall of a king.

It’s springtime, the season when kings go off to war. But not David. No, Israel’s mighty warrior-king decides to stay home while his men are out risking their lives. He’s lounging on his rooftop, far from the front lines, surveying his kingdom instead of defending it.

And there she is, Bathsheba, beautiful, unaware, simply bathing as the sun sets over Jerusalem. David sees her. Desire sparks, and temptation takes root. He’s supposed to be leading his army, but instead, he’s about to lose the war inside his own heart.

When Bathsheba becomes pregnant, David scrambles to fix what he’s broken. He calls her husband, Uriah, back from battle, hoping to cover his sin with a convenient act of kindness. “Go home,” he says. “Rest. Be with your wife.” On the surface, it sounds like hospitality, a king giving a soldier comfort. But underneath, it’s manipulation. David’s offer isn’t born of compassion; it’s born of guilt.

Uriah refuses the offer. He won’t go home. He won’t enjoy the warmth of his wife’s embrace while his brothers are still sleeping on cold ground, fighting the king’s war. He sleeps instead on the palace steps among the servants.

That’s integrity. That’s self-denial. That’s true hospitality, the kind that honors others above yourself.

David, still desperate, tries again. He invites Uriah to dinner, feeds him, and gets him drunk, hoping he’ll finally go home. But even under the influence, Uriah’s conviction is stronger than David’s deceit. So David does the unthinkable. He writes a letter to Joab, Uriah’s commander, sealing it with the royal stamp, Uriah’s own death sentence carried by his loyal hands.

And just like that, the warrior falls. Bathsheba mourns. David swoops in, marries her, and thinks he’s solved his problem. But heaven isn’t fooled.

“But the thing David had done displeased the Lord.”

—2 Samuel 11:27

If David were alive today, he might have called it ministry. “I was just being kind,” he could have said. “I was offering comfort.” But David’s “hospitality” wasn’t born from love, it was born from lust, pride, and a desperate attempt to maintain his image.

How many times do we do the same?

We welcome Bathsheba into our lives, not as a person, but as an opportunity. We call it “hospitality” when it benefits us, when it makes us look generous or spiritual. We say we’re helping, but deep down, it’s about us.

We see it in our marriages when we do something kind just to get what we want in return.

We see it at work when we “help” our boss by throwing a coworker under the bus for a promotion.

We see it in our churches when we plan big public events and call them “outreach,” but our goal is more about visibility than transformation.

We are welcoming Bathsheba into our beds and calling it ministry.

Most people say David’s sin began when he saw Bathsheba on the rooftop, but that’s not where it started. It started long before that, when he sent his men to war and didn’t go with them.

David’s first sin wasn’t lust, it was comfort.

He abandoned his post. He neglected his duty. The warrior-king stayed home while others fought. That’s the seed from which every other failure grew.

And we can’t let ourselves off the hook here, because in God’s eyes, we are kings and priests, soldiers in His army. Every time we sit back in comfort while others stand on the front lines, feeding the hungry, teaching the Word, visiting the sick, defending the broken, we are no different than David on that rooftop.

Every time we spend thousands on a church coffee bar while the food pantry shelves sit empty, we are David.

Every time we plan a “Fall Funday” or a “Trunk or Treat” but never once share the gospel, we are David.

Every time we host an event to show how “involved” we are instead of how surrendered we are, we are David.

We are standing on the palace roof, safe and comfortable, while Uriah bleeds out on the battlefield.

And the truth is, the Church today has far more rooftops than battlefields. We like our padded pews, our upgraded sound systems, our themed sermon series, and our curated worship experiences. But meanwhile, our communities are starving, physically and spiritually.

Jesus didn’t tell us to entertain the lost. He told us to feed them.

He didn’t tell us to impress them. He told us to love them.

He didn’t tell us to build comfort. He told us to take up our cross.

We have traded the battlefield for the balcony.

Then there’s Uriah. He doesn’t say much in the story, but his silence speaks volumes.

When offered comfort, he refuses. When offered rest, he declines. His heart is with his brothers, not his own pleasure. That’s hospitality in its purest form, putting others first, denying self, honoring God above comfort.

It reminds me of Paul’s words in Philippians 2:3-4:

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others.”

That’s the heart of Uriah. And that’s the heart of Christ.

Hospitality isn’t about comfort, it’s about the cross. It’s about washing feet like Jesus did in John 13, kneeling before the very ones who would abandon Him. It’s about the Good Samaritan in Luke 10, who didn’t just toss a coin at the wounded man but carried him, paid for him, and promised to return. It’s about the widow in Mark 12 who gave her last two coins, not for recognition, but for love.

True hospitality is always costly. It will cost your time, your pride, your convenience, your money, and sometimes even your safety.

David betrayed Uriah with the same hand that once wrote psalms of worship. That’s what comfort can do, it dulls conviction; and the really sad part is 9/10 times we don’t even realize it.

Betrayal always starts small. It starts when we say, “That’s not my problem.” When we convince ourselves someone else will go, someone else will serve, someone else will fight. But if the Church doesn’t fight for souls, who will?

We have brothers and sisters out there, missionaries, pastors, outreach workers, youth leaders, standing on the front lines, denying themselves daily for the sake of the Kingdom. And too often, we let them fight alone.

We say, “Well, that’s their ministry,” while we sip our lattes and argue about worship styles. We rationalize our comfort while they risk everything. We’re content to send them to the front while we stay home and “pray about it.”

We are sending Uriah to die with letters sealed in his own hand.

Hospitality built on self-interest always turns toxic. It looks good for a while, until the fruit starts to rot. When David married Bathsheba, it might have seemed like everything was fine. But the child they conceived died. The sword never left David’s house. His family was torn apart. His son rebelled against him.

Sin always comes collecting. You can’t buy comfort with the currency of compromise.

And it’s not just individuals, it’s the Church, too. A church that trades truth for popularity will always end up spiritually bankrupt. Programs without purpose, hospitality without holiness, comfort without conviction, these things might draw crowds, but they will never draw repentance.

Jesus never once said, “Go into all the world and make people comfortable.” He said, “Go and make disciples.” (Matthew 28:19)

David thought he’d buried his sin, but God saw everything. He sent Nathan the prophet to confront him, and the truth hit like a hammer:

“You are the man!” —2 Samuel 12:7

Nathan’s rebuke pierced David’s heart, and to his credit, the king didn’t run this time. He broke. He wept. He repented. Psalm 51 was born from that moment, a desperate cry for mercy from a man who finally realized what he’d done.

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” (Psalm 51:10)

That’s where redemption begins, at the breaking point.

The mercy of God is a mystery. He didn’t erase the consequences of David’s sin, but He did restore the man. From David’s line came Solomon, and from Solomon’s line came Jesus, the Redeemer born out of a story soaked in scandal.

That’s grace. The kind that doesn’t excuse sin but transforms sinners.

And maybe that’s the hope for us too. For every believer who’s grown comfortable on the rooftop. For every church that’s lost its focus. For every leader who’s been more concerned with image than impact. God’s mercy still reaches. His grace still restores.

So here’s the question we have to face:

Will we stay home like David, or will we stand with Uriah?

Uriah’s story didn’t end with victory on earth, but heaven remembers him as a man of integrity. His body may have fallen on the battlefield, but his example still stands.

When you stand with your brothers and sisters in the trenches, when you deny yourself so someone else can know Christ, you are living out the very heartbeat of hospitality. You are practicing the kind of love that looks like the cross.

Jesus said in John 15:13, “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

So to the ones still standing in the gap, to the pastors who preach without applause, to the volunteers who feed the hungry without recognition, to the missionaries who give up comfort for calling—you are showing the world what hospitality really looks like.

You are Uriah.

You are the faithful few who refuse to go home while others fight.

You are the ones who understand that the Kingdom isn’t built by comfort, but by the cross.

So keep standing. Keep denying yourself. Keep loving when no one notices. Because your King, the real one…is watching. And His reward doesn’t come from rooftops or palaces. It comes from heaven itself.

And when it’s all said and done, when the battle is over, may He look at you and say,

“Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Stay Salty