There’s a particular kind of silence that hits your soul different, the kind that happens when you walk into a room expecting reconciliation and walk out realizing you were the only one who showed up ready for it.

I remember the night my wife and I drove to a meeting at the church we had been attending, a church that had wrapped itself in the language of “family,” “community,” and “we’re here for you,” right up until something uncomfortable happened. You know the kind of awkward collision I’m talking about: the kind that shouldn’t be nuclear, the kind that could have been cleared up with one honest conversation, but instead became a whole Greek tragedy because people didn’t want to deal with it.

Something had gone wrong, just people-being-human wrong. The gospel was blocked to a person that needed it due to hard feelings that have been harbored. And instead of handling it in the light, it got shoved into the shadows where sin likes to set up lawn chairs and pass out snacks. That did not sit well with us so we spoke up to the Pastor and it was not received well.

So a meeting was called. A meeting of “reconciliation.” We were told the church leadership would be there. We were told the goal was healing. We showed up with open hearts, ready to do the awkward, sweaty-palmed work of Christian unity.

But guess who didn’t show up?

The pastor.

The man who was supposed to shepherd the flock.

The man who should have called the meeting in the first place.

Yeah.

We walked into a meeting set for reconciliation…

and the one person who needed to reconcile didn’t bother to walk in with us.

That hits different.

We sat with brothers and sisters in Christ who tried their best… Bless their hearts… to be peacemakers… kind of. And the meeting ended with the hope of restoration, a promise of continued support, and a clear directive: “Don’t come back to visit the church until you’ve had a conversation with the pastor.”

Fair enough, we thought. We wanted that conversation. We wanted clarity. We wanted unity. We wanted to sit at the same table again and mean it.

But the pastor never called.

Still hasn’t.

And here’s where this ties right into 2 Samuel 14, the story of David and Absalom, the story of how half-forgiveness is no forgiveness at all, the story of how avoiding hard conversations destroys families, destroys communities, and yes… destroys churches.

Let’s walk into this chapter together, because it’s a theology lesson written in emotional bruises.

In 2 Samuel 14, Joab pulls off this undercover operation to get David to reconcile with Absalom. The man brings in a wise woman, tells her to act like she’s auditioning for a prophetic Broadway drama, and uses a story to expose David’s hypocrisy.

David buys it. He caves. He allows Absalom to come back into Jerusalem.

But hear this:

David allows him back into the city, not back into relationship. Absalom gets a zip code, not a welcome home. Access, not affection. Permission, not presence.

David offers a shadow of reconciliation. A silhouette of hospitality. Something that looks like mercy from far away, but up close has no body, no substance, no life in it.

That hit me after that meeting.

That pastor allowed us back into the “city”, the general Christian community, but not back into the “table,” not back into relationship, not back into real fellowship. We were offered the same thing Absalom was:

A place nearby… but not a place with.

A place within reach… but not within care.

A place in proximity… but not in presence.

Like Absalom, we waited. And waited. And waited. He waited two years. We’ve waited… well, long enough to know when a call isn’t coming.

And still, we forgive him. Truly. We have prayed for his heart. We have prayed for genuine reconciliation. We have prayed that we might one day sit across from him at a table where honesty is served like bread and truth is poured like wine.

But here’s the thing:

Forgiveness restores my heart.

Reconciliation restores the relationship.

Forgiveness can be done alone.

Reconciliation takes two.

And the church, God help us, has become a professional at preaching forgiveness while refusing to practice reconciliation.

Which brings us back to 2 Samuel 14.

Absalom comes home but cannot see the king’s face. Not for a day. Not for a week. Not for a year. For two years, David leaves Absalom dangling by an emotional thread. That kind of rejection doesn’t heal wounds, it infects them.

So what does Absalom do? He burns Joab’s field.

Was that mature? No.

Wise? Definitely not.

Productive? Only in the sense that it finally gets Joab to show up.

But understandable? Oh yeah…. Deeply…. Ignored people do desperate things. Wounded hearts light fires when nobody will open the door.

This is where the church needs to hear something uncomfortable: Most church conflicts don’t begin with rebellion, they begin with silence. Most division doesn’t start with sin, it starts with someone refusing to address sin. Most relational fires begin because someone refused to show up when it was time to reconcile.

David thought he was being merciful by letting Absalom come home.

He thought partial forgiveness would be enough. He thought presence without intimacy was reasonable. He thought proximity without conversation was safe. It wasn’t. Partial hospitality led to total disaster. David’s half-hearted, lukewarm reconciliation created the exact rebellion he feared.

Now tell me that isn’t happening in churches today. Tell me that doesn’t preach. Tell me you haven’t seen a pastor, a leader, a deacon board, a “reconciliation committee” pull a David, offer a shadow of peace but refuse the hard work of genuine healing.

And that’s the problem: A shadow of hospitality is not hospitality. A shadow of forgiveness is not forgiveness. A shadow of peace is the birthplace of rebellion. Reconciliation is the table. Partial reconciliation is the ghost of a table.

Jesus said, “Let your yes be yes and your no be no.” That wasn’t a suggestion. That wasn’t a guideline. That wasn’t motivational-wall-art-for-the-fellowship-hall. It was a call to integrity in the trenches of human relationships. If you say you’re coming to a reconciliation meeting, show up. If you say you want healing, do the uncomfortable work. If you say forgiveness is given… stop weaponizing the past.

The reason the church fails at hospitality is because the church fails at honesty. We want people to believe we’re unified, but we don’t actually want to sit in the same room with the people we’ve hurt or the people who’ve hurt us. We want the optics of grace without the obedience of grace.

The Bible says God spits the lukewarm out of His mouth. Yes, that’s about faith, but brother, let me tell you, lukewarm behavior tastes no better. And this is where DC Talk’s “Free At Last” album punched me in the teeth years, and years, ago. That audio clip still rings in my ears: “The greatest cause of atheism in the world today is Christians, who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door and deny Him with their lifestyle.”

You want to know where denial really begins? Not with drinking. Not with smoking. Not with cussing. Not with politics. But with Christians refusing to reconcile with each other. Because how can I preach grace to a broken world if I won’t extend it to my own brother? How can I proclaim the Gospel of peace while stepping over shattered relationships I refuse to mend?

What kind of place would we be in if Jesus only offered us partial forgiveness? What if He brought us back into the “city of salvation” but refused to let us see His face? What if He said, “You’re welcome near Me…but not with Me”? Brother, we’d be damned. Literally.

Hospitality isn’t casseroles and coffee hour. It’s not potlucks and pretty tablescapes. It’s not smiling at church and avoiding eye contact in the parking lot. Hospitality, biblical hospitality, is reconciliation.

It is the intentional opening of one’s life and heart, to restore what was broken. It is the brave decision to bring someone not just into your space, but into your relationship. Hospitality is not appearance. It is access. Not performance. Presence. Not niceness. Nearness.

Hospitality says: “If you’re willing to return, I’m willing to receive.” Not halfway. Not conditionally. Not someday-maybe-if-I-feel-like-it. But fully.

That’s what David should have done. That’s what the pastor should have done. That’s what we all must do.

If we forgive, we must do the work of forgetting, not by erasing the memory, but by removing its authority over the future. Forgiveness cures the heart. Reconciliation cures the relationship. Hospitality is the bridge between the two.

David’s partial hospitality eventually cost him the throne, cost Israel years of bloodshed, cost Absalom his life, and cost David his peace.

Partial hospitality always leads to:

mistrust

bitterness

rebellion

emotional exile

 fractured community

and ultimately, the collapse of the very unity we claim to protect

The church today is limping because it keeps offering half-hugs to people who need full restoration. We invite people back into the building, but not back into fellowship. We preach forgiveness from the pulpit, but stew in resentment in the boardroom. We sing about the blood of Jesus but refuse to bleed a little for each other.

And the world sees it. They smell the hypocrisy like day-old fish. And they say, “Why would I want your Jesus when I don’t want your church?” David gave Absalom a shadow of hospitality. The church gives too many people the same thing.

My wife and I have forgiven the pastor. We still pray for that phone call. We still pray for reconciliation. We still pray the Lord warms his heart where fear has chilled it. And we wait. Not bitterly, but expectantly. Because here’s the thing, true reconciliation is still possible. True hospitality is still powerful. And God is still writing stories where relationships resurrect.

Church, listen to me: We don’t get to preach a resurrected Savior while refusing resurrected relationships. We don’t get to speak of the ministry of reconciliation, while practicing the ministry of avoidance. We don’t get to call ourselves the Body of Christ, while amputating each other emotionally. It’s time, past time, for the people of God to stop offering shadows of hospitality and start offering the substance of it.

It’s time for real reconciliation. Real healing. Real forgiveness. Real restoration. Because the world is starving for a Church, whose table isn’t symbolic, but substantial. Not shadow, but shelter. Not gesture, but grace.

So here’s my rally cry: Church, let’s stop being David in 2 Samuel 14. Let’s stop leaving people outside the throne room. Let’s stop giving half-mercy, half-love, half-restoration. Let’s stop saying “maybe later” when the gospel says “now.” Let us become a people who show up to the table. Show up to the meeting. Show up to the hard conversation. Show up to the brother who hurt us. Show up to the sister who disappointed us. Show up to the reconciliation that costs something.

Because hospitality isn’t decoration, it’s discipleship. And reconciliation isn’t optional, it’s obedience. The world will know we belong to Jesus, when we stop offering shadows…and start offering seats at the table again. And may God grant us the courage, to sit down first.

Stay Salty