The way you greet people will eventually expose the way you plan to lead them.

That’s not a cute quote for a church lobby wall next to the mission statement, the vision banner, and the Keurig that hasn’t been cleaned since Easter. That’s a warning label. The kind they slap on chainsaws, heavy machinery, and medications that say “may cause internal bleeding.”

Hospitality isn’t neutral. It never has been. Every handshake, every side hug, every overly enthusiastic “we’re so glad you’re here!” carries intent. Sometimes that intent is kingdom-building. Sometimes it’s empire-building dressed up in skinny jeans, stage lights, and a sermon series with a logo. And sometimes it’s just fear, fear of conflict, fear of questions, fear of losing control, wearing a warm smile and holding a clipboard.

The church loves to come out of the gate swinging with hospitality slogans: “You’re family.” “You belong here.” “This is a safe place.” “We are (insert name of town)’s family church”

All great lines. Hallmark-worthy. Cross-stitchable. Until you ask a question. Until you disagree. Until you bring up theology instead of signing up for parking lot duty or children’s check-in.

Then suddenly you’re not family, you’re divisive. You don’t belong, you’re unsafe. And if leadership really wants to avoid the conversation, you get the spiritual equivalent of a breakup text sent at 2 a.m.:

“You’ll probably be happier at your next church.” Yeah heard that one before.

That sentence sounds peaceful. It’s not. It’s bloodless exile. And Scripture knows it well.

2 Samuel 15 is a masterclass in hospitality, real, fake, and costly.

This chapter isn’t soft. It’s betrayal with a pulse. Absalom stages a coup. David flees barefoot. A foreigner outshines God’s own people in loyalty. And sitting underneath all of it is one brutal, unavoidable truth: How we welcome people reveals why we want them.

You can tell a lot about a leader by what they do at the gate, before anyone sits at the table, before anyone signs a membership covenant, before anyone tithes a dollar. Gates reveal motives. Tables reveal hearts.

Absalom: Hospitality as a Weapon

Absalom posts himself at the city gate, the place of justice, belonging, and community life. He doesn’t build an altar. He builds a brand. He listens. He sympathizes. He touches. He kisses.

If this were today, Absalom would have a podcast, a merch table, and a Patreon. He’d talk a lot about “healthy leadership” and “safe spaces.” He would never actually fix anything, but he’d validate your frustration while quietly aiming it at his father.

It looks pastoral. It feels affirming. It’s poison. Scripture doesn’t soften it: So Absalom stole the hearts of the men of Israel.” (2 Samuel 15:6) This is hospitality without truth. Welcome without accountability. Empathy without righteousness.

Absalom doesn’t want to serve the people, he wants to own them. He doesn’t lead them toward God’s anointed king; he leads them away while nodding sympathetically and saying, “Yeah… that shouldn’t have happened to you.”

This is transactional hospitality. I’ll hear you if you crown me. And the modern church is swimming in it. Platforms built on grievance. Communities bonded by shared offense. Leaders who never correct, never confront, never shepherd, only validate. That’s not love. That’s customer service with a Bible verse taped to it.

Jesus never stole hearts. He pierced them. He fed crowds, and then offended them until most walked away. He welcomed sinners, and then told them to repent. He didn’t build loyalty by affirmation alone; He built it with truth that cut clean.

The gate matters because the gate is where leadership reveals itself. Absalom greets people to gain leverage. That’s not hospitality, it’s recruitment. Not every open door is holy. Not every warm smile is godly. Not every “we just want you here” is faithful. Sometimes hospitality is just ambition wearing a hug.

David: Hospitality That Costs Everything

When David learns the truth, he doesn’t fortify the palace. He doesn’t rally loyalists. He doesn’t start a counter-campaign or post a clarifying statement. He leaves. Barefoot. Weeping. Head covered. This is hospitality in reverse, and it’s holy.

David refuses to turn Jerusalem into a war zone. He absorbs the pain so the people don’t have to bleed. He chooses suffering over spectacle, humility over optics, loss over legacy management.

This is leadership that understands hospitality isn’t about keeping people comfortable, it’s about keeping them alive. And then David does something that should make every modern leader deeply uncomfortable.

He sends the Ark back.

He refuses to weaponize God’s presence for personal survival. He will not drag holiness into his own defense strategy. He trusts God enough to lose publicly.

That’s bold hospitality. Weak hospitality says, “I just don’t want conflict.” Biblical hospitality says, “I’ll carry the cost so others don’t.” There’s a difference between peacekeeping and peacemaking. One avoids bloodshed. The other absorbs it.

David models leadership that understands sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is walk away, not because you are wrong, but because staying would burn the house down.

Some of you reading this have lived this chapter. You didn’t leave because you were sinful, rebellious, or offended. You left because staying would’ve required violence, spiritual, emotional, or relational. You walked away head covered so others wouldn’t have to bleed.

God saw it. Psalm 3, written by David during this very moment, makes it clear: God does not abandon leaders who choose humility over dominance.

Ittai the Gittite: Loyalty That Shames the Church

Then comes Ittai. A foreigner. A Philistine. A recent arrival. No legacy. No committee vote. No generational loyalty. No reason to stay. David tells him to go back. “You don’t owe me this.”

And Ittai responds: “Wherever my lord the king may be, whether for death or for life, there also will your servant be.” This is hospitality as loyalty.

Ittai doesn’t offer advice. He offers presence. He doesn’t hedge his bets. He doesn’t wait to see who wins. He stands with the broken king.

The outsider becomes the host. Meanwhile, Israel fractures. True hospitality doesn’t ask, “What do I get out of this?” It says, “You will not walk alone.” Ruth did this with Naomi. Jonathan did this with David. Simon of Cyrene did this when he carried a cross that wasn’t his. This kind of hospitality doesn’t trend. It doesn’t scale. And it exposes how shallow most of ours has become.

I’ve seen fake hospitality, used to gain influence. I’ve seen weak hospitality, leaders who fold so things stay easy, quiet, and controllable. And I’ve seen true hospitality, people who plant their feet and say, “This isn’t right, and I’m not leaving you to carry it alone.”

Some of the greatest acts of hospitality aren’t gentle. They’re defiant.

“I won’t bend.”

“I won’t abandon you.”

“I’ll give myself before I give you platitudes.”

The church keeps confusing prayer instead of obedience for faithfulness. Prayer is always enough for God, but sometimes you are the answer He’s sending. Acts 3 reminds us of that.

Peter heals the crippled man at the gate, the same man Scripture says sat there every day. Which means Jesus walked past him. Not because He didn’t care, but because that healing belonged to Peter.

How many people are sitting at your gate right now? How many have been crushed by fake hospitality while you told yourself, “Someone else will deal with it.” Hospitality isn’t someone else’s calling. It’s the Church’s responsibility. James calls it pure religion. Jesus calls it obedience. Scripture never calls it optional.

Ok how do we avoid getting this wrong? Check the motive before opening the door. If you need people to affirm you, applaud you, protect your position, or pad your numbers, you’re not ready to host them. Practice bold hospitality. Truth doesn’t cancel welcome, it guards it. Love without truth manipulates. Truth without love brutalizes. Stay loyal, not comfortable. Biblical hospitality stays when it costs reputation, convenience, and sometimes community.

A word for the wounded. If you’ve been hurt by fake hospitality, God is not confused about what happened to you. If you were told you were family until you asked a hard question, heaven heard the door slam. If you were labeled divisive for loving Scripture more than slogans, God knows your name. If you had to leave quietly to avoid bloodshed, your footsteps were not wasted. And if you’re still trying, still welcoming, still standing, still saying “You’re not alone”, don’t stop.

The gates matter. The table matters. And the King still sees who walks the road with Him when the city turns its back. If this made you defensive, angry, or tempted to explain yourself, pause. This isn’t an attack on pastors. It’s a warning to shepherds. Hospitality is not how you attract sheep. It’s how you protect them.

If people feel welcomed but cannot speak, something is broken. If questions are labeled rebellion, something is wrong. If exile is easier than conversation, leadership has drifted. No one expects you to be perfect. Scripture never did. But it does expect you to be honest, courageous, and present. The gate will expose you. The table will reveal you. And the people God entrusts to you will eventually become what your hospitality trains them to be.

Lead them toward the King, not toward yourself.

Stay Salty & Burn Bright