Merry Christmas and a joyful, wild-hearted Advent to all of you!

You already know this is my season, my Super Bowl, my Iron Chef finale, my Home Alone “KEVINNN!” moment all rolled into one. So consider this your friendly warning: you’re about to see more posts from me this month than Santa sees cookies on Christmas Eve. Advent is my favorite time of year, and I’m coming in hot with stories, reflections, jokes, theology, and probably a few kitchen disasters sprinkled in for flavor.

So… buckle up, smoke ’em if you got them, keep your notifications on, and stay on the lookout.
It’s Advent… and I’ve got a lot to say.

If you’ve spent more than five minutes around me, either in a kitchen or sitting across from me at some church’s “fellowship meal” that really should’ve been called “casserole roulette”, you know one thing about my life: it has never been clean, tidy, or symmetrical. I’m 6’4”, 325, tattooed, bearded, and built like somebody who knows where the secret fridge is and isn’t afraid to use it. I grew up in a house in Vermont with five kid and two Southern parents who believed sweet tea and prayer could fix anything, usually in that order. And countless strays that us kids and my Mom and Dad would bring home to couch surf.

Dinner at our place wasn’t a peaceful Norman Rockwell painting; it was more like the deleted scenes from Home Alone, the ones where Kevin is yelling and people are slipping on ice and pizza is flying through the air. That’s how I learned hospitality: one noisy, messy, chaotic meal at a time.

As I got older and stepped into kitchens full-time, I learned very quickly that perfection is a myth, timing is a suggestion, and if you’re not slightly sweating, you’re probably in the wrong building. I’ve burned pans, dropped trays, had stock pots explode like a culinary grenade, and watched grown adults cry because the ticket printer started spitting out orders like a demon possessed. But here’s the thing: Some of the best meals I’ve ever made happened right after something went terribly, catastrophically wrong. And oddly enough, that’s also how God tells His story.

That’s why Advent matters.

That’s why Christmas starts way before Bethlehem.

That’s why Genesis 3:15 hits me like a punch to the chest every time I read it.

Because Advent isn’t just a season. Advent is God walking into the kitchen of human failure saying, “I’m still coming toward you.”

Genesis 3 is not a pretty chapter. It’s not a Hallmark movie. Nobody is solving problems with cookies and a small-town love interest. It’s the spiritual equivalent of Clark Griswold losing his temper while the house lights refuse to turn on. It’s the moment humanity sets the whole kitchen on fire and tries to blame the oven.

Adam and Eve didn’t just mess up, they hid, deflected, pointed fingers, and made excuses that would make even a tired chef roll his eyes.

And right in the middle of the fallout, right when shame is thick in the air, God opens His mouth and speaks hospitality.

Not a lecture.

Not a “you should’ve known better.”

Not a divine “I told you so.”

Instead, He gives them Genesis 3:15, the first promise of a Savior. The first whisper of Christmas. The first Advent.

God basically says, “You broke it, but I’m not leaving you in it. Someone is coming. Someone who will crush the serpent’s head. Someone who will undo what you just did.”

And that changes everything. Because that means Christmas doesn’t start with a baby. It starts with a promise.

Christmas doesn’t begin with shepherds or stars. It begins with two humans shaking in the bushes because they believe God won’t want them anymore. Christmas begins with God stepping toward people who are running away from Him.

That’s Advent. The God-who-comes-toward-us. The God-who-sets-the-table-even-after-we’ve-burned-the-meal. That’s biblical hospitality in its purest form.

Let me tell you something from decades in the kitchen and decades in ministry: The best hospitality happens after something breaks. I’ve watched families barely speaking to each other sit down at a table and somehow walk away laughing. I’ve watched church folks with old wounds find healing over plastic cups of lukewarm coffee. I’ve seen people walk in angry at God and walk out understanding, maybe for the first time, that He hasn’t forgotten them.

Because hospitality isn’t about perfection; it’s about presence.

It’s about showing up.

Making room.

Welcoming people who don’t think they deserve to be welcomed.

That’s what God did in the garden.

That’s what God does in Advent.

That’s what God is still doing with us.

And if you’ve lived any life at all, you know this: you can tell everything about a person by how they respond when stuff goes sideways.

Advent tells us everything about God.

He doesn’t abandon.

He doesn’t retreat.

He doesn’t throw the pan away and say, “This recipe was a mistake.”

No!

He steps closer.

He stays.

He promises redemption before they even know they need it.

That’s hospitality.

That’s heart.

That’s Advent.

Every year people treat Christmas like it begins at 7:00am on December 25 when the first kid sprints down the hallway screaming. But Advent isn’t a countdown to presents. It’s a revelation of God’s character: Advent is the season where God teaches us how to wait. How to hope. How to believe that He is still coming toward us even when life looks like the Grinch stole everything but the carpet.

And let’s be real: some of you have had years that felt like The Grinch without the redemption arc. Some of you feel like that neighbor from Christmas Vacation, standing outside in the snow holding a broken decoration, wondering where everything went wrong. Some of you feel like Kevin’s family in Home Alone, scattered, stressed, and one wrong move away from leaving someone behind.

But Advent tells you this: Your mess doesn’t scare God. Your mistakes don’t make Him flinch. Your failures don’t cancel His invitation. The same God who walked into Eden’s disaster walks into your December. And for someone reading this, that might be the only hope you’ve had in a long time.

If I had to boil this whole thing down to one kitchen-sized, tattoo-worthy truth, here it is:

Advent teaches us that God moves toward us even when we’ve moved away from Him.

That’s the lesson.

That’s the heart of it.

That’s the thing that should hit us like stepping on a LEGO at 2am.

Eden didn’t ruin God’s plan; it revealed God’s heart.

Failure didn’t end the story; it set the stage.

Humanity fell… but God didn’t fall back.

This is why I love Advent more than any single Christmas morning. It’s the slow burn, the simmering pot, the long process of a God who refuses to quit on us.

In my life, every bit of transformation happened because God didn’t walk away when I gave Him every reason to. The hospitality He showed me, the “sit down, son, I’m not done with you yet”, shaped everything I do now.

So what do we do with this? What do we take from Eden and Advent and lug into our everyday lives like an overstuffed bag of Christmas decorations?

Here’s how we live it out:

Move toward people instead of away from them. Especially the difficult ones. The hurting ones. The ones who think they burned their bridge with you. Hospitality starts with movement.

Make room for people’s humanity. They will fail. They will disappoint you. They will have “Genesis 3 moments.” But God makes room for your mess, so make room for theirs.

Set your table with intention. Maybe literally. Maybe figuratively. Invite someone who needs a place. Share a meal with someone who’s lonely. Slow down and see people the way God sees them.

Keep showing up. Hospitality isn’t a moment, it’s a posture. A lifestyle. A year-round calling.

Tell the story. Remind your kids, your church, your friends: Christmas didn’t begin in Bethlehem. It began in a garden full of shame, where God still said, “I’m coming for you.”

AND NOW… THE SHAMELESS PLUG don’t worry it will be quick.

If this whole theme of messy tables, holy moments, burnt edges, and redeemed stories resonates with you, if you want something this Christmas season that ties Scripture, hospitality, hope, and real-life kitchen chaos together, then let me say it plainly:

Check out my book, “The Christmas Table”, Found on amazon.

It’s full of stories, recipes, theology, laughter, scars, and the kind of hospitality that has carried me my whole life. If you’ve ever wanted to understand why God’s table is big enough for all of us, even in the mess, this is the book to grab. Ok shameless plug over.

So here’s my invitation:

Lean into Advent.

Lean into the promise.

Lean into the God who walked into the mess then…

and is still walking into yours now.

While you do, open your door, set your table, and show the same hospitality God showed in Genesis 3:15, hospitality that comes running even after failure. Merry messy, beautiful, holy Advent.

You’re loved, and you’re not alone at this table, and make sure other people know that they aren’t alone either.

Stay Salty