Category: Biblical hospitality

Don’t Host the Barbecue if Your House Is on Fire

June 6th, 2025

For most of my life, I was known as the guy who could handle it. Work headaches, family chaos, church drama, you name it, I’d tighten my bootstraps, grit my teeth, and push through. I wore it like a badge of honor, you would have thought that pulling myself up by my bootstraps was my spiritual gift.

I had a talent for survival and a high pain tolerance for dysfunction. It was like I was in a rodeo of life and just kept yelling, “Send in the next bull!”

But here’s the thing about constantly pulling yourself up by your bootstraps: eventually, they snap.

And mine did.

It was like death by a thousand stress-induced paper cuts that ended in multiple big dramatic crashes. My marriage was straining. I was exhausted at work. Church felt more like a burden than a blessing. And instead of thriving, I was just barely holding the pieces together, duct taping my soul one late night at a time.

I hit a point where I realized something hard and humbling: I couldn’t do it on my own anymore.

That realization? It stung. Asking for help went against everything I’d trained myself to do. But I didn’t have another option. The life we had built was cracking, and I couldn’t patch it alone.

So we reached out.

We called family. We opened up to pastors. Most importantly, we dropped the performance and laid our mess before God and the world. We didn’t come to Him with polished prayers, we came tired, raw, and honest.

And you know what? That’s when healing started.

It wasn’t instant. It wasn’t flashy. But little by little, grace showed up. And the more we invited help in, human and divine, the more we started to grow. To breathe. To rebuild.

Today, by God’s grace, my wife and I are thriving! I in full-time ministry while still doing some Chef work, and my beautiful wife is killing it in her field where God has called her. We’ve got three beautiful, God-loving kids. And while we’re still human (and still occasionally a hot mess), we’re not alone anymore.

Are we problem-free? Not even close.

But we’ve learned something vital:

You can’t rescue someone from a burning house if you’re on fire, too.

And real hospitality? It’s not just offering help, it’s knowing when you need help, too.

So if you’re out there tugging on your bootstraps with smoke in your lungs and a smile on your face, friend, it’s time to ask for help.

Because the bravest thing you can do might not be pushing through, it might be admitting you can’t.

Let’s talk about something we don’t like to admit: sometimes, showing hospitality means waving the white flag and saying, “I’m in over my head, y’all.”

Now I know that doesn’t sound very glamorous. It’s not gonna land you on the cover of “Hospitality Weekly” (if that’s even a thing, and if it is, I want a subscription…..maybe I will make it!). But it might just be one of the most honest, spiritual, and practical forms of hospitality there is, knowing ones limits.

We tend to think of hospitality as giving. Serving. Hosting. Holding it together while you whip up a lasagna, vacuum the dog hair off the couch, and throw a smile over the chaos like a tablecloth over a mess. But here’s the truth bomb: if your own house is on fire, maybe don’t host the barbecue.

And that’s where we land in 1 Samuel 11. A chapter that seems like it’s about leadership and battle, but actually has a not-so-hidden message about hospitality and humility. Also, eyeballs.

Picture this: The story kicks off with the fine folks of Jabesh Gilead being visited by Nahash the Ammonite, a man whose idea of hospitality apparently involves siege warfare and threats to poke everyone’s right eye out. (Because nothing says, “Thanks for having me” like involuntary eye surgery.)

Faced with this charming ultimatum, the people of Jabesh don’t do what a lot of us do, they don’t pretend everything’s fine while stress-eating their 6^th box of Oreos. No. They own it. They say, “Hey, we’re not equipped for this. Somebody come help us.”

Boom. There it is. The most overlooked form of hospitality: they knew they were in to deep and asked for help.

They send messengers. Not to whine. Not to manipulate. Just to say, “We can’t handle this one alone.” And let’s be real, how many of us would rather gouge our own eye out than admit we need backup?

But true hospitality isn’t about being the hero. It’s about making space, for others to step in, for God to move, and for community to do what community does best: come together.

Enter Saul. This is his big “I just became king and now there’s an emergency” moment. And to his credit, he doesn’t panic. He doesn’t call a committee meeting or form a vision board. Instead, something better happens: the Spirit of God rushes in and lights a fire under him.

And Saul? He gets spicy. He takes a yoke of oxen, slices it up like brisket at a Baptist cookout, and sends the pieces out across Israel with a simple message: “Join me, or this happens to your cows.”

Motivational? Slightly terrifying? Effective? You bet.

What’s beautiful here is that Saul doesn’t try to lead in his own strength. He doesn’t say, “I got this.” He says, whether he realizes it or not, “God’s got this, but I need all y’all too.” It’s a Spirit-led, community-driven kind of leadership that shows us another side of hospitality: inviting others into the work.

He wasn’t trying to be a one-man army. He was building a movement. And movements don’t happen when we hoard the load. They happen when we admit we need help carrying it.

Let’s pause here and be real: you can’t offer comfort, support, or hospitality if you’re tapped out. You ever try to throw a dinner party while running on fumes and unresolved trauma? It’s less “blessing your guests” and more “crying in the walk-in cooler.” (Ask me how I know.)

Hospitality has to be sustainable. And sustainable hospitality means receiving as much as you give. It means asking for help when you’re sinking. It means saying, “Hey God, I need You to show up before I lose my sanctified mind,” and then letting people come alongside you, because that’s what they’re there for.

We’re not called to be martyrs of our own ministries. We’re called to be part of a body, a community. One where sometimes you make the meal, and sometimes you’re the one who sits at the table and lets someone else bring the casserole.

So Saul rallies the troops. The Israelites unite, ride out, and whoop the Ammonites with holy enthusiasm. But what happens next is key: the people want to make it all about Saul. “Long live the king!” and all that jazz. But Samuel, bless him, brings everyone back down to earth. He gathers them together and basically says, “Hey. Let’s remember who really saved the day.”

They renew their covenant with God. They reflect. They recommit. And in doing so, they do something beautiful: they show hospitality to God. Not by lighting a candle and putting out the good china, but by making space in their hearts, in their celebration, and in their future plans for him to lead.

Because hospitality isn’t just for people. It’s for God too. And that means inviting Him into our battles, our victories, and our everyday mess, not just when we’re desperate, but when we’re planning the next steps.

So What Does This Mean for Us?

Here’s the meat and potatoes:

You were never meant to do this alone.

Not your calling.

Not your ministry.

Not your family.

Not your Tuesday.

God didn’t design us to white-knuckle our way through hospitality or leadership or life in general. He designed us to need Him. And to need each other. To be honest about our limits. To raise our hands and say, “I need help,” without shame. And to remember that inviting help is a sacred act.

So if your spiritual pantry is empty, your emotional dishes are piling up, or your heart just feels like Jabesh under siege…. ask for help.

From a friend.

From your church family.

From God Himself! Honestly, This right here is step number one… or should be at least.

Because that kind of honesty?

That’s hospitality too.

And when the rescue comes, and it will, don’t forget to throw a party. Not just for the win, but for the God who carried you through it. And maybe even throw in a thank-you to the folks who showed up with backup when you needed it most.

We don’t always need more strength. Sometimes, we just need to stop pretending we don’t need help.

And that, my friends, is the kind of hospitality that changes everything.

Stay salty, my friends.

P.S If you need help reach out we are here for one another. I would rather hear your problems than see you succumb to them.
I’ll Have What He’s Having (But Should I?)

May 28th, 2025

We humans have a real gift for looking past a full plate just to envy what’s on someone else’s table.

Back when I was a kid growing up in my dad’s church up in Vermont, I remember a season when some of the elders got real fired up about the idea of building a brand-new church building, out by the country club. We actually owned a piece of land out there, tucked up on a hillside in the woods. Seemed like a good investment at the time, but looking back, it felt more like a dream of escape than a call to plant deeper roots.

Now don’t get me wrong, these were good folks with good intentions. They weren’t trying to build a palace. They just thought a fresh building in a “nicer” part of town might help the church grow. You know, better curb appeal, cleaner lines, maybe a lobby big enough to host a real coffee hour without bumping elbows over the donut table.

But I’ll never forget one meeting where my dad, sat back, looked around the room, and gently said, “I’m just not sure we’re supposed to hide the church in the woods when there’s still so much to do right here in the neighborhood”.

Because that’s the thing: our current church building wasn’t much to look at, but it sat right in the heart of the community. You could walk out the front door and see real need in every direction. Families struggling to get by, teenagers who are looking for a place to belong, senior citizens who’d sit on the front steps just to hear another voice other than their own.

And yet, we were this close to moving out to a hilltop where the church would’ve been nearly invisible, physically and spiritually. Out of sight, out of reach. A beautiful building, sure. But far from the very people who needed the gospel most. A castle on a hill protected from the ones who needed it most.

They were so focused on what we could build that they almost missed what God had already built right around us: a mission field. A ministry. A neighborhood full of people we were uniquely positioned to love.

It’s funny….. no….. actually it’s tragic, how often do we get so wrapped up in what we don’t have, we forget to rejoice in what we do? We start eyeing someone else’s plate and miss the feast God’s already set before us. And in doing so, not only do we fail to show hospitality to others, we miss a big opportunity to show hospitality to God Himself.

Yeah, you heard me right, God deserves our hospitality too.

Not because He needs it, but because gratitude is a form of spiritual and emotional hospitality. And when we forget to give thanks for what He’s already done, we’re basically shutting the door in His face while we run around asking for more stuff. Like, “Hey Lord, thanks for all that… but I saw what You gave Steve, and uh… I’ll have what he’s having.”

Picture this: 1 Samuel 8 Israel’s gathered like a frustrated HOA meeting, and they tell Samuel, “We want a king like all the other nations.” Translation: We don’t want to be different anymore. We’re tired of trusting what we can’t see. We want something flashy. Something now. Something else.

Never mind that God had literally walked them through the wilderness, fought their battles, and fed them with food that rained from the sky. That divine hospitality wasn’t enough, they were fixated on what they didn’t have, and it blinded them to what they did.

Sound familiar?

God’s response is heartbreaking. He tells Samuel, “They’re not rejecting you. They’re rejecting Me.” But even then, He listens. He honors their choice, even though He lays out, plain as day, what it’s gonna cost them. That’s hospitality, too. Giving someone the freedom to choose while loving them enough to warn them.

And let’s not miss Samuel here. The man doesn’t sugarcoat a thing. He gives them the whole bitter pill: taxes, sons drafted into war, daughters put to labor, land seized. He’s transparent. Honest. That’s a key part of hospitality leadership. Hospitality doesn’t mean giving people everything they ask for, it means leading with love and truth, even when it’s uncomfortable.

But the people? Still digging their heels in. They wanted to blend in more than they wanted to stand apart as God’s own.

Here’s the thing: hospitality means embracing who God called you to be, not chasing who the world says you should be. Israel had a divine identity, but they were too busy comparing themselves to the neighbors to appreciate it.

And that brings us back to gratitude. You can’t properly extend hospitality if your heart’s full of envy. You can’t welcome others when you’re always wishing you were somewhere else. You can’t host God’s presence when your soul’s too cluttered with complaints.

So here’s the challenge: take your eyes off what you wish you had and fix them on what God’s already given. Your home. Your gifts. Your people. Your calling. That’s the stuff that makes the table sacred. That’s where joy lives.

“In all things, I will have joy.” Not because everything is perfect, but because God is present. Gratitude isn’t just the cherry on top of hospitality, it’s the foundation. When we live thankful, we live hospitable. We show God He’s welcome. And we become the kind of people who welcome others the way He welcomes us.

So don’t let the “don’t haves” steal the moment. Set the table with joy. Serve up some gratitude. And let your life say, “Lord, I’m thankful, and You’re always welcome here.”

Remember, Don’t miss the feast at your own table chasing someone else’s menu

Stay Salty
“God Speaks in the Silence—So Why Are We Always Talking?”

April 17th, 2025

This isn’t one story. This is…well, a pattern. A pattern that I’m not proud of, but one that the Lord (and my wife) keeps using to refine me like spiritual steel wool.

It usually happens like this: I’ve had a long day. One of those days where the to-do list grew a new head, the group texts won’t stop buzzing, and I’ve got a sermon or post marinating on the back burner of my brain while the sink’s full of dishes I swear I already washed. You know—life.

Enter: my son. Big heart, over thinker, way more emotionally intelligent than I was at his age. He walks in, trying to connect. Maybe he’s wrestling with something that happened at school, maybe he’s trying to process a friendship gone sideways, or maybe he just wants to feel seen by his dad. But he doesn’t always come in with the perfect tone or the right words. Sometimes it sounds like sarcasm. Sometimes it feels like a challenge. And because I’m tired, and my internal grace meter is flashing “LOW BATTERY,” I react.

Not always in anger… but in that sharp, dismissive, cut-it-off-at-the-pass kind of way that shuts the door without even realizing it was cracked open in the first place.

And that’s when it happens.

The look.

My wife, my ride-or-die, Holy Spirit in a messy bun, will give me that slow, knowing turn of the head. Not angry. Not judgmental. Just… disappointed. The kind of look that says, “I’m not mad, (but if you got struck by lightning I wouldn’t hate it) I’m just heartbroken on behalf of the child you just emotionally drop-kicked.”

And y’all, that look? It preaches. I know I am not the only one who gets this look. Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?

I don’t always agree in the moment, but the truth is 99.999999999991% of the time, I missed it. I didn’t listen. I heard the noise, but I missed the need. I got caught up in how the message came across and completely missed what was trying to be said.

So I take the walk of shame down the hallway, find my son, usually curled up on his bed, trying to shrink into his own little world, and I sit beside him, feeling small, what is not easy for a guy my size.

Every time, it’ ends the same: “Hey, bud… I messed up.”

And every time, he forgives me. Every time, he opens back up. Because kids are resilient. Because grace lives in their bones. And because even though I fail more often than I’d like, I keep trying to do better.

And every time it happens, I’m reminded again: hospitality doesn’t start with food or smiles or clean floors. It starts with ears. With presence. With a willingness to slow down long enough to listen for the heart, not just the voice.

I’ve learned this lesson the hard way, over, and over again. And I’m still learning it. Because being a good dad, a good husband, a good friend, or a good shepherd of people doesn’t mean always having the right answers. Sometimes it just means shutting up and showing up. Sometimes the most sacred space you can create is a few minutes on the edge of a kid’s bed, where you choose to hear what they meant, not just what they said.

Now enough about me let’s talk about 1 Samuel 3.

Now, before you tune out thinking this is some soft bedtime Bible story about a boy hearing whispers in the dark, hang tight. This ain’t no Hebrew lullaby. This is a full-blown hospitality sermon in disguise, and it’s got more layers than your grandma’s seven-layer dip at the church potluck. We’re talking about the kind of listening that gets deep down into the bones. The uncomfortable kind. The hush-your-mouth-and-open-your-heart kind.

Because here’s the truth most folks don’t want to admit: We are a loud people. But we are not a listening people. And in the house of God, in our homes, and in our relationships, that’s a problem.

Picture this: Little Samuel is bunked up in the temple, sleeping near the ark (you know, the fancy box that melts Nazis in Raiders of the Ark), when he hears his name in the middle of the night. Now, like any confused kid, he hops up and runs to Eli, the old priest, like, “Yeah? You called?” Eli, groggy and probably halfway through his second REM cycle, says, “I didn’t call you. Go lie down.” Repeat this scene three times.

Now, if it had been me? By the second time I was woken up for something I didn’t do, I’d be repenting just for the thoughts I was thinking. By the third? Samuel would have known it was God talking because he would have been meeting him in person, and I would have put myself on prayer sabbatical until the cops showed up. But Eli, imperfect, tired, spiritually dry Eli, doesn’t snap. He finally realizes something divine might be going on and gives Samuel instructions: “If you hear it again, say, ‘Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.’” And wouldn’t you know it, God speaks. And Samuel listens. Boom. Game changer. But here’s where I want to camp out: This whole encounter hinges on listening. Listening to people. Listening to God. And listening with more than your ears.

Now, understand, Hospitality ain’t just biscuits and sweet tea. I love me some Southern hospitality. You walk into the right house, and you’ll get a seat, a plate, and a tall glass of diabetes… I mean, sweet tea… before you can even take your shoes off. But biblical hospitality? That goes deeper. It’s not just about the food you put on the table; it’s about the space you create around it. The room you make in your heart. And one of the most sacred ways to make that room?

You. Listen.

Let me say the again for those who weren’t…. YOU…..LISTEN…..

Not the “uh-huh, that’s crazy” kind of listening while you scroll through your phone. I mean the kind of listening that makes the other person feel like they’re the only soul alive in that moment. And trust me, in a world where everyone’s trying to be heard, being someone who listens is revolutionary.

Now there is a skill that most of us in my family don’t have yet but have been trying to work on for years, and some of us have given up on,

The Art of Shutting Up. Yeah, I said it. Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is close your mouth and open your ears and your heart. Eli could’ve made it about himself. Could’ve assumed God was done talking to him and bitterly rolled over in his cot muttering, “Must be nice hearing from the Lord…” But instead, he made space. He got quiet. And he guided Samuel into listening for himself. And that, my friends, is a spiritual flex if I’ve ever seen one.

Because let’s be real: most of us would rather talk than listen. We’d rather give advice than sit in silence. We want to be the mouthpiece, not the ear canal. But listening is ministry. It’s holy. It’s healing. It’s harder than it looks.

Listening with your ears vs. listening with your heart is key.

Okay, here’s where we go from casual kitchen chat to cut-deep conviction: We’re not just bad at listening with our ears, we’re worse at listening with our hearts.

People say one thing, but they’re really crying out something deeper. They say “I’m fine,” but their eyes say, “I’m drowning.” They joke about their marriage, their job, their faith, but it’s not funny. It’s a cry for help. And if you’re not listening with your heart, you’ll miss it. You’ll hand them a verse instead of a hug. You’ll offer advice when all they need was presence. You’ll start quoting Jeremiah 29:11 when what they needed was someone to just sit with them in the ashes.

Jesus listened like that. With His eyes, His posture, His pauses. He listened to the blind man before healing him. He listened to the woman at the well without condemning her. He listened to silence and still responded with love. That’s hospitality. That’s the Gospel. That’s the table we’re all invited to. Let’s Get Uncomfortable (Because That’s Where Growth Happens) Now, don’t miss this part: listening can get uncomfortable… real fast. When Samuel finally hears God speak, it’s not a motivational quote or a divine “you got this.” It’s a heavy, prophetic word of judgment against Eli’s family. Imagine your first Word from God being: “Hey kid, go tell your mentor his house is cooked.”

Rough. But Samuel listens. And Eli receives it. Like a champ. “He is the Lord; let Him do what seems good to Him.” (1 Sam 3:18) Let me just pause here and say: Whew. That’s grown-folk faith.

See, real hospitality means making room for hard conversations. For truth that stings. For accountability that hurts but heals. And if we’re only creating spaces where people can tell us what we want to hear, we’re not practicing biblical hospitality, we’re just hosting comfort zones. How do we live this out? You don’t need a pulpit or a pie to start listening like Jesus.

At the Dinner Table:

Ask questions that don’t have “yes or no” answers. Then stop talking. Let your family speak. Let your spouse breathe. Listen until the silence says more than the words.

At Church:

Be the person who remembers names. Who follows up. Who looks people in the eye and waits for the second answer. (You know, the real one that comes after “I’m good.”)

In Your Prayer Life:

Start every prayer with a moment of silence. Literally. Just sit. No music. No agenda. Just say, “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening,” and then wait. God still speaks, you just gotta quit interrupting Him.

At Work or the Drive-Thru Window:

That barista, that cashier, that coworker, they’ve got a story. Listen long enough, and you might be the only person who hears them this week.

So here’s the whole meal in one bite: Hospitality isn’t just about opening your home. It’s about opening your heart. And listening, really listening, is how we set the table. People don’t always need answers. Sometimes they just need someone to say, “I hear you. I’m with you. Let’s listen for God together.” And when you make space like that, friend, the Holy Spirit pulls up a chair. So next time someone comes to you with a weary voice, or a heavy heart, or a barely-whispered prayer… don’t rush to fix it. Just say, “Speak, Lord. I’m listening.” Because that’s when healing happens. That’s when hearts turn. That’s when the Kingdom shows up in your living room, your car, your coffee shop, your church pew. And who knows? You might just hear God, too.

Stay Salty
360° Hospitality: Body, Mind, and Spirit

April 11th, 2025

There were seasons in the kitchen when I wasn’t just serving food, I was serving something deeper, even if I didn’t have the words for it at the time.

A good friend of mine, one of the guys on the line, lost his mom. No warning, no long goodbye… just gone. If you’ve ever lost someone like that, you know it hits like a freight train with no brakes. You show up to work because you don’t know what else to do. You keep your hands busy because your heart’s too loud. That’s where he was…………… just trying to breathe.

Now, kitchens are funny places. They’re loud, hot, stressful, and more dysfunctional than a reality show family reunion; but they’re also sacred. Real talk happens there, between burns and broken prep lists. And this guy? He didn’t need a sermon or some motivational pep talk about “staying strong.” He needed connection. He needed a place to fall apart a little and not be judged for it.

So we started doing this thing. After the shift, when we sat down for lunch, we would just sit a little bit longer. Two tired cooks, sharing whatever was left in the walk-in or thrown together from scraps like culinary jazz. A couple of fresh baked cookies, we definitely didn’t need, but absolutely earned.

And we’d just eat. Sometimes we’d talk. Sometimes we wouldn’t. Sometimes we’d make each other laugh so hard we forgot to finish the plate. But what mattered wasn’t the food, it was the table. It was the space. The holy, greasy, unfiltered space where grief could stretch its legs and healing could sneak in between bites.

He didn’t need advice. He didn’t need “thoughts and prayers” printed on a sympathy card. He needed presence. He needed someone to sit beside him in the valley and say, “I’m here, man. Let’s eat. Let’s talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need.”

That’s what real hospitality looks like. It’s not about five-star service or artisanal charcuterie boards. It’s about showing up with an open heart and an extra plate; honestly, the plate isn’t even that important as long as you are present for them. It’s feeding someone’s spirit when their soul’s gone hollow. It’s about seeing the person behind the pain and saying, “Its ok, You’re safe here.”

And when I think about that, I can’t help but see Hannah in 1 Samuel 1. She walked into the temple heartbroken, no kids, no answers, just raw, aching sorrow. And sure, she got misunderstood at first (like my guy probably did too. Grief can make us look sideways to people who aren’t paying attention). But once Eli figured it out, he didn’t preach at her. He didn’t correct her prayer posture. He just gave her a word of peace and a place to be seen.

That little moment of spiritual hospitality changed everything.

And what came out of that moment? Samuel. A prophet. A leader. A blessing not just for Hannah, but for an entire nation; all because someone created room, not just for her but for her spirit. That’s 360° hospitality. Physical. Emotional. Spiritual. The whole person.

And it matters now more than ever. In our homes. In our churches. In our kitchens. People don’t just need a casserole, they need a connection. They need someone who sees the storm behind their smile and pulls up a chair anyway.

So, Church, what kind of table are we setting?

Are we so busy feeding mouths that we’re forgetting to feed hearts? Are we quick to serve meals but slow to offer our presence? Are we creating spaces for the grieving, the anxious, the barely-holding-it-together crowd who need more than just a welcome sign?

Let’s be real: most people don’t remember the entrée. But they’ll remember the way you looked them in the eye and listened. They’ll remember the warmth, the peace, the unexpected comfort in a bowl of soup and a safe place to cry.

That’s what my friend needed. And I thank God the kitchen gave us that space.

You don’t have to have the answers. You don’t need a seminary degree or a fancy tablecloth. Just show up. Open the fridge. Make something. Be still with someone.

Sometimes the holiest ministry doesn’t come with a microphone, it comes with a stool, and an invitation to be seen. Because healing? It doesn’t always happen in a sanctuary. Sometimes it starts in the kitchen, a living room or standing in a driveway. And sometimes, the table is the miracle.

Hospitality isn’t just about casseroles and clean guest towels. It’s not just opening your home, but opening your heart. It’s about seeing someone’s soul slumped over, wrung out and bone-weary, and saying, “Hey, you can rest here. You’re safe.”

In the first chapter of 1 Samuel, we meet Hannah who isn’t just hungry for food, she’s starving for hope. And through her story, we get a front-row seat to the kind of hospitality that doesn’t stop at the front door but reaches all the way into the spirit. The curtain rises on a family road trip to Shiloh. Elkanah, his two wives (yes, it was complicated), and a donkey or two, all trudging up to worship and sacrifice. And here’s where the drama begins.

Picture this; Hannah, wife #1, is barren. Can’t have kids. Meanwhile, Peninnah, wife #2, is popping out children like she’s hosting a baby shower every year. And she loves to rub it in. “Oh Hannah, you’re not eating? Must be hard not having any little blessings crawling around, huh?”

Imagine the emotional exhaustion. Every year she goes to worship, and every year she feels further from the God she’s trying to draw near to. This is where hospitality begins, but not the kind you can plate on a tray.

Now, bless Elkanah’s heart. He tries. He really does. In 1 Samuel 1:8, he sees his wife crying and says, “Why are you weeping, Hannah? Why don’t you eat? Why are you downhearted? Am I not worth more to you than ten sons?” A little tone-deaf? Sure, we all know a guy like that. But at least he’s not ignoring her pain. Elkanah leans in emotionally. He might not understand the full ache in her soul, but he’s not checking out. That’s emotional hospitality. It’s sitting with someone in their sadness and saying, “I’m not leaving, even if I don’t get it.” Sometimes, the best hospitality we can offer is simply showing up with our presence instead of our solutions.

Then comes Hannah’s moment in the temple. She’s praying so fiercely, lips moving, no sound, and Eli, the priest, thinks she’s drunk. I mean, this poor woman can’t catch a break. But here’s the shift: instead of doubling down on judgment, Eli listens. He sees her sorrow. He affirms her. And then he blesses her, saying, “Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant what you’ve asked.” Now that’s spiritual hospitality, creating a space where someone can collapse at the feet of God, without being policed or pitied.

Eli’s change of heart teaches us something vital: true hospitality sometimes means silencing your assumptions so someone else can speak their truth. And here’s where it gets powerful. God hears Hannah. Not just her words, but her heart. He answers her not just with a son, but with a legacy. Samuel would go on to become one of the greatest prophets Israel ever knew. The one who would anoint kings, confront corruption, and usher in a new chapter for the people of God. Let that sink in: a nation’s future pivoted on a moment of spiritual hospitality shown to a grieving woman in a temple.

God sees. And He responds. Here is the Ripple Effect of 360° Hospitality. Because Elkanah supported Hannah emotionally…Because Eli offered her spiritual refuge (eventually)…Because God met her soul with divine kindness…? A child was born! A nation was changed! And generations felt the ripple.

Hospitality, true hospitality, has that kind of power. It’s not just about food or shelter. It’s about seeing the whole person: their grief, their hope, their questions, their prayers. And saying, “You’re safe here. You’re not alone.”

So, What Does This Look Like for Us Today? Stop shushing people’s pain. Allow them to be transparent. Make room for raw prayers and messy emotions. Don’t stop them from being authentic. Be there for the woman crying in the back row, the man that won’t engage because of shame or hurt, the teen that acts out… Bless them. Offer presence over platitudes. You don’t need all the answers. Just be there.

Hospitality isn’t about perfection. It’s not about matching napkins or Pinterest-worthy pies. It’s about asking the quiet guest, “How are you really?” and listening without fixing. It’s about opening your table, your heart, to people no one else sees.

Be a safe place in someone’s storm. Be the one who sees past the surface and offers peace for the soul. Be the kind of person who sets out not just a meal… but a ministry.

The story of Hannah reminds us: people aren’t just walking through your life hungry for food. They’re hungry to be known. To be heard. To be held in a space where hope feels possible again. That’s the kind of hospitality we’re called to show; 360 degrees. Body. Mind. Spirit. So go ahead, bake the bread, light the candles, fluff the pillows. But don’t forget to also say: “Come in. Tell me your story. I’ve made space for ALL of you.”

Because when you create room for someone’s spirit to breathe, their soul to heal, and their body to rest, you just might be helping birth a miracle that changes the world.

Stay Salty
The Power of a Single Act: Why Hospitality in the Church Matters

March 31st, 2025

I’ve seen it too many times: a man walks into a church for the first time in years, maybe ever. His heart pounds in his chest. He doesn’t know where to sit, doesn’t know if he belongs. He’s hoping, just maybe, that someone will see him. That someone will shake his hand like they mean it. That someone will pull him into a conversation, not just pass him off with a polite nod before turning back to their comfortable circle.

And then… nothing.

The moment passes. The greeter smiles, but there’s no real warmth. The congregation, so wrapped up in their routines, fail to notice the newcomer standing on the fringes. And by the time the final prayer is uttered, he’s already made up his mind: he won’t be back.

And it’s not just the first-time visitors. The lonely widow who slips in and out of the same pew every week, unseen. The single parent barely holding it together, wrangling a toddler while trying to focus on the sermon. The couple with a special needs child, exhausted and desperate for a church that actually sees them. The man wrestling with demons no one knows about. They sit there, Sunday after Sunday, slowly fading into the background.

The damage isn’t just a missed handshake or an awkward silence, it’s a missed opportunity for healing, for restoration, for salvation. We assume they’ll give the church another shot. That they’ll keep searching. That someone else will step in.

But what if they don’t?

What if that moment of indifference is all it takes for them to decide that the church, and maybe even God, has nothing for them?

Scripture gives us a picture of what it looks like when someone refuses to let a moment slip away. Boaz didn’t wait for someone else to do the right thing. He stepped in. He saw Ruth, I mean, truly saw her. In welcoming her, he changed not just her life, but the course of history. His hospitality wasn’t just a warm greeting at the gate, it was an act of redemption. An act that ultimately led to Jesus Himself.

So here’s the question: how many Boaz moments has the church missed? And how much damage has it done? If we don’t start taking hospitality seriously, not just as a duty, but as a calling; we won’t just lose church attendance. We’ll lose souls. Hospitality isn’t just a warm handshake or a smile at the door, it’s the hinge on which history turns.

Ruth 4 doesn’t give us a scene of casual kindness. No, this is high-stakes, bloodline-changing, kingdom-building hospitality. Boaz doesn’t just do the nice thing; he does the right thing, the hard thing. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t wait for someone else to step up. He sees Ruth, sees Naomi, sees the broken pieces of their lives, and he acts. He redeems. He restores. He rewrites the trajectory of their future, and in doing so, he sets the stage for the greatest redemption story the world will ever know.

Now, imagine for a moment, what if he hadn’t?

Picture this: what if Boaz had let that moment slip through his fingers? What if he had assumed someone else would take responsibility? If Boaz had walked away, there would be no King David. No royal bloodline. No Bethlehem manger. No Jesus.

One moment. One act of radical, costly, maybe even risky hospitality. And history was forever changed.

So… What’s Our Excuse?

I can’t count the times I’ve watched this happen, someone walks into church, heart pounding, wondering if they’ve made a mistake. Maybe it’s their first time. The regulars stick to their usual circles. The greeters offer a quick nod, maybe a handshake, but nothing more. No real connection. No invitation in. Maybe it’s their last shot before they give up on the whole thing. They hover near the door, scanning the room, hoping, begging, for some sign that they’re not invisible… But the moment slips away.

But what do they get? No real connection. No sense of belonging. No value. And before the final amen is even spoken, that visitor has already made up their mind: “I could have stayed home for this”.

And honestly? Who could blame them? We tell people that the church is the hands and feet of Jesus, that it’s a place of grace, love, and belonging. But if their first steps inside feel like an intrusion, like they’re outsiders in a club where everyone else already knows the rules, why would they return?

Or worse, maybe it’s a family with a special needs child, met with awkward glances instead of open arms. Maybe it’s a single parent, exhausted and frayed, who just needed someone to notice. Maybe it’s a man battling an invisible war, drowning in his own silence because no one took the time to ask.

The message they receive? You don’t belong here. You are not important enough, not worthy enough to show God’s love. And just like that, we lose them, not just from our congregation, but possibly from eternity.

The reality is, some people walk through those church doors holding on by a thread. They’ve been beaten down by life, betrayed by people who claimed to care, maybe even hurt by churches in the past. They are giving faith one last chance.

If we let the moment pass? we fail them… I am going to say it louder for the ones in the back WE FAIL THEM!

It’s not just church attendance that’s at stake. It’s souls. The tragedy of missed hospitality is that we often only get one chance. One shot at making someone feel like they’re home. One shot at proving that the love of Christ isn’t just something we talk about, it’s something we live. And yet, churches continue to fumble… nay… outright ignore this responsibility.

We assume someone else will step up. We tell ourselves they’ll come back if they’re serious about God. We let busyness, formality, or our own comfort zone excuse us from doing the very thing Christ has called us to do:

See the ones nobody else sees.

Welcome the ones nobody else welcomes.

Love the ones nobody else loves.

Boaz didn’t help Ruth and Naomi out of obligation, he was invested in their well-being. He didn’t offer a temporary fix; he secured their future. And when he made that decision, the entire community stood behind him, blessing his actions and embracing Ruth as their own.

Hospitality Isn’t a Solo Act, It’s a Culture. It’s not just about what you do, it’s about what we do. When hospitality becomes the DNA of a church, it changes everything. It transforms the way we greet people, the way we follow up, the way we see those around us. It turns Sunday morning into more than just a service; it becomes a rescue mission.

Because real hospitality, the kind that changes lives, isn’t about coffee stations and welcome packets. It’s about making sure no one stands alone. It’s about being the kind of church where people aren’t just noticed but, known and given full access to the Love of God.

And if we’ve been failing? If we’ve been the ones letting people slip through the cracks? Then we repent. And we start again. But how do we do better?

Be Present. Stop focusing on the program and looking past the people. Ask God to open your eyes to those who need you.

Follow Up. Missed an opportunity? Fix it. A simple call, message, or invitation can change everything.

Create a Culture of Hospitality. When welcoming the stranger becomes everyone’s job, no one gets left behind.

What If We Miss the Moment? What unseen damage might we have done?

Ruth and Boaz’s story didn’t just impact them. It left a legacy; one that would ripple through generations, leading straight to the feet of Christ. The same can be true of us.

Maybe we don’t see the full impact of our hospitality right away. Maybe it’s just a handshake, a conversation, a seat saved for someone who isn’t sure they belong. But God sees. And when we choose to act, to step in, to redeem, to welcome, to restore, we just might be shaping something far bigger than we could ever imagine.

One moment can make all the difference.

One moment can change a life.

One moment can echo through eternity.

So, church…don’t miss the moment.

In the end, the stakes couldn’t be higher. Every Sunday, people walk into our churches, often carrying burdens we can’t see, struggles we can’t fathom. They’re looking for something real, something they can hold onto. And we get one shot, one moment, to either show them the love of Christ or let them slip through the cracks.

It’s easy to get caught up in the program, the bulletins, the order of service, the comfortable circles we’ve already formed, but the truth is, the eternal destinies of people hang in the balance. What we do or don’t do in those fleeting moments has the power to either plant seeds of hope… or push someone further into isolation and despair.

We can’t afford to ignore these moments. We can’t afford to let someone leave church thinking that they don’t matter, that they’re not welcome, or that the love of Jesus stops at our comfortable pews. Hospitality is not a mere formality, it’s a mission. It’s our responsibility to make sure that no one… no one walks through those doors and leaves feeling unseen, unloved, or unwelcome.

Remember Boaz, he didn’t wait for someone else to act. He didn’t let the moment slip away. He stepped in, took responsibility, and changed history. And when we take that same radical, life-changing hospitality seriously, we, too, might find ourselves part of a legacy far bigger than we could ever imagine.

So, church, let’s not miss the moment. Let’s make sure every person who walks through those doors feels seen, valued, and loved. Let’s be the hands and feet of Christ in a way that echoes for generations. Because the truth is, we don’t just want to fill pews, we want to fill heaven.

One moment can change a life. One moment can change the world. Don’t let it pass by.

Stay Salty
The Risk of True Hospitality: When Doing the Right Thing May Come at a Cost

March 27th, 2025

If you think hospitality is all warm bread baskets and perfectly fluffed guest pillows, let me tell you…sometimes it feels more like sticking your hand in a bear trap and hoping for the best. Showing kindness, welcoming people in, and offering a seat at the table comes with risks. Sometimes, it leads to deep friendships, incredible stories, and moments that remind you why you do it in the first place. Other times… well, let’s just say I’ve had guests who took advantage of my generosity, tested my patience, or left me questioning my own judgment.

I know firsthand that hospitality can be a gamble. There are no guarantees. You open your home, your table, or your heart, and you hope that the person on the other side respects what you’re offering. But the truth is, sometimes they won’t. Sometimes, the kindness you show will be met with indifference; or worse, betrayal. And yet, here’s the thing: hospitality isn’t about playing it safe. It’s about doing what’s right. It’s about showing love, whether it’s returned or not. It’s about reflecting God’s goodness, even when the risk is high.

And sometimes, hospitality isn’t just about serving a meal, it’s about standing up for what is right, even when it costs you. Maybe it means opening your door to someone society has cast aside. Maybe it means speaking truth in a room where no one wants to hear it. Maybe it means taking a stand for someone who can’t stand up for themselves. Whatever it is, it will come with risks. You might lose friends, community, respect, or even opportunities. But doing the right thing has never been about making life easy…it’s about making it meaningful.

At the end of the day, hospitality isn’t just for the easy guests, the ones who say thank you, send a nice card, and return the favor; or the easy moments. No, true hospitality is for the difficult ones too. The ones who are broken, hurting, and maybe don’t even realize how much they need it. And sometimes, it’s for those who need you to fight for them, to stand beside them, and to show them that love isn’t just about comfort, it’s about courage. That’s the kind of hospitality that changes lives. That’s the kind that matters. And that’s the kind we’re called to show, risk or not.

In Ruth 3, hospitality isn’t just about putting food on the table or offering a bed for the night. Oh no, it’s about going all-in, throwing yourself into the mix with everything you’ve got: vulnerability, trust, and generosity. It’s about stepping out of your comfort zone, like Naomi, Ruth, and Boaz did, and taking a risk that might just change your life. And let’s be honest, these folks didn’t just “offer help”, they went full-on superhero mode, only without the capes (though, if anyone had a cape in this story, it would be Naomi).

Picture this: Naomi. This woman’s got guts. Ruth’s not just struggling to survive; she’s facing the abyss of a future with no stability. So, what does Naomi do? Does she offer her a warm cup of tea and a pat on the back? Nope. She pulls Ruth aside and hands her a plan so bold it could be on the cover of Risk-Taking for Dummies. Naomi tells Ruth, “You’re going to go to Boaz, lie down at his feet while he’s sleeping, and when he wakes up, ask him to take you under his wing.”

Now, let’s be real: if someone told me to go do something like that, I’d need a bit of therapy afterward. But Naomi’s got a vision. She’s not just thinking about Ruth’s next meal or a roof over her head; she’s thinking long-term. She’s thinking, “Let’s get this woman a secure future.” Naomi’s willing to risk it all, because in her heart, she knows that Ruth needs more than just survival; she needs hope.

Naomi teaches us that sometimes, hospitality isn’t about offering the basics. It’s about taking a risk to help someone secure a future, even if it means stepping into the unknown. It’s like when your buddy asks you for a ride to the airport at 4 AM, it’s inconvenient, but you know it’s what friends do. Naomi’s the friend who would take you to the airport, no questions asked, even if it means a little discomfort and a bit of bold action.

Then there’s Ruth. This woman? She’s got bravery by the bucketful. Naomi says, “Go lie at Boaz’s feet,” and Ruth doesn’t flinch. She’s like, “Alright, let’s do this!” She’s out there making one of the most vulnerable, humble requests you could imagine: “Boaz, will you spread the corner of your garment over me?” Translation: “Hey, I’m trusting you with my future. Don’t screw this up, buddy.”

Ruth’s not making any flashy moves or trying to manipulate the situation. Nope. She’s there, exposed and vulnerable, hoping Boaz will take the hint. And let’s not forget, she’s not just asking for a simple favor, she’s asking him to redeem her. That’s a big ask! It’s like asking someone to not only buy you dinner but to go ahead and pay off your student loans while they’re at it.

But Ruth’s request is humble, full of respect, and rooted in the trust she’s placed in Boaz’s integrity. She’s laying it all out there, no pretenses, no games. She’s hoping Boaz sees her need and steps up.

Ruth shows us that sometimes hospitality means putting ourselves in a position where we’re completely exposed. It’s about asking for help when we need it, not in a “I’m desperate and I’m pulling every string” kind of way, but in a “Hey, I trust you to do the right thing” way. It takes guts. And it’s way harder than just making dinner for someone.

Boaz? Well, he could’ve played it cool and acted like he didn’t know what was going on. Instead, he steps up and says, “I’ll be your redeemer if the closer relative passes on it.” Boom. Done. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t play any games. He’s all in. Not only that, but he also praises Ruth for her loyalty to Naomi and sends her home with six measures of barley. Let me put this in perspective: six measures of barley were no small gift. This wasn’t like sending Ruth home with a leftover Tupperware of mashed potatoes. This was like handing her a gold bar wrapped in a big ol’ bow.

And why does he do it? Because Boaz understands the weight of what Ruth is asking. He sees her need, and instead of just meeting the minimum, he goes above and beyond — even thinking ahead about Naomi’s needs. He’s not just ticking a box of “helping someone out”; he’s taking full responsibility for what’s happening. And in that moment, Boaz becomes the kind of person who shows up when it counts.

Boaz shows us that real hospitality is about more than just doing the bare minimum. It’s about going the extra mile, showing up when it’s inconvenient, and making sure the other person feels valued. It’s like when you offer to help someone move, but then actually show up with more than just a smile and a good vibe. Boaz’s hospitality is the full-on “I’m bringing the truck” level of commitment.

And then there’s the barley. That barley is more than just a snack for Ruth and Naomi. It’s Boaz’s way of saying, “I’m here for the long haul.” He’s not just handing out a quick favor; he’s offering a commitment, showing that he’s ready to provide for them. Boaz isn’t just sending Ruth home with some food; he’s sending a message that he’s invested in their futures. If Naomi thought Ruth needed security before, she’s getting it now.

Boaz teaches us that true hospitality isn’t a one-time deal. It’s about showing up with consistency, even when the person doesn’t know what they need yet. It’s like when you know a friend’s having a rough time and instead of offering the standard “let me know if you need anything,” you show up with a bag of snacks, a funny movie, and an entire afternoon’s worth of listening. It’s commitment that goes beyond the moment; it’s about being there for the long run.

In Ruth 3, hospitality isn’t a passive thing. It’s an active risk. Naomi risks guiding Ruth into the unknown. Ruth risks asking for help, knowing that rejection is on the table. Boaz risks stepping into a responsibility that’s more than just a “yes” or “no.” Each of them takes a leap, and in doing so, they create a bond of generosity, protection, and care that transforms their lives.

This story reminds us that hospitality isn’t always easy. Sometimes it means stepping out of our comfort zone, asking for help, and showing up when it’s inconvenient. But when we do, we create deeper connections and long-lasting relationships. It’s not just about food or shelter; it’s about showing up with everything we’ve got, even when it’s risky. So, let’s take a page out of Ruth, Naomi, and Boaz’s book and make hospitality something we do with all our heart, even if it means taking a few risks along the way.

Hospitality isn’t just about opening doors; sometimes, it’s about standing in the gap when no one else will or can. It’s about choosing what’s right over what’s easy, even when it comes at a cost. There are times that you could have played it safe, avoided conflict, and let someone else deal with the problem. But instead, stepped into the tension, knowing full well the pain it could create. However, in doing so, show real hospitality. It isn’t just about making people comfortable, it’s about making sure no one is left out of the table God has set. And sometimes, that means taking a risk. Because in the end, the question isn’t just who are we welcoming? but what are we willing to risk so that others know they belong?

Stay Salty Friends
Leaving Extra Grain Behind: The Kind of Hospitality That Transforms Hearts

March 20th, 2025

My last paid gig was at the Kimpton Brice in Savannah, GA, a boutique hotel with a kitchen that had more heart than haute cuisine. Walking in, I found a crew that wasn’t exactly Michelin-star ready, but they had spirit. My job? Turn up the food and service quality without burning the place to the ground, a balancing act somewhere between Gordon Ramsay and Mr. Rogers.

Now, I’ve got a personal rule when taking over a new kitchen: no changes until I’ve figured out what’s what. It’s like the French and their frogs (ugh the French) you know that old thing. If you toss a frog into boiling water, it jumps right out. But if you heat the water slowly, the frog doesn’t notice until it’s too late. People are the same. Ease them into the heat, and before they realize it, they’re thriving.

While observing, one guy stood out. He was technically the Sous Chef; management gave him the title but not the respect. They told him more than once he wasn’t a “real chef,” despite him running the place every time leadership pulled a disappearing act. He had talent, passion, and grit. What he didn’t have was someone to believe in him.

So, I pulled him aside and laid it out straight: “I’m giving you five years. In five years, you’ll either be a head chef somewhere, maybe even taking my job, or I’m firing you. You’ve got what it takes, and you need to use it. We’re going to sharpen that talent.”

I handed him the night crew. Their wins were his. Their failures? His too. Sink or swim. I pulled him into every new dish, every menu change. Every time I plated something, I’d hand it to him and ask, “Alright, how do we make this better?” By the time we were done, the menu didn’t just boost guest satisfaction, it got me published. But more importantly, it built him into a leader.

When I left the restaurant to pursue the ministry, I turned down a very large salary at a brand-new hotel. When I informed them, I would not be taking the job, I asked the management to give him a chance to interview. They did, and they loved him. The guy they said wasn’t a “real chef” is now running the place. Watching him thrive was better than any paycheck.

It wasn’t just about giving him a job. It was about giving him dignity. It was hospitality, the kind Boaz showed Ruth.

Picture this; Ruth wasn’t just poor… she was desperately poor. A foreign widow with no status and no security. In ancient Israel, widows were among the most vulnerable. Women couldn’t own property or work most jobs, and Ruth wasn’t even an Israelite, she was a Moabite, from a people that Israel wasn’t too fond of.

But Ruth stuck by her mother-in-law, Naomi, after both their husbands died. She could’ve gone home and started over with her own people, but she didn’t. She loved Naomi, and she loved Naomi’s God.

So, Ruth found herself gleaning, this was when the poor would pick up the scraps after the harvesters finished. This wasn’t an easy gig. It was backbreaking, humiliating work. But it was legal. God had commanded farmers to leave the edges of their fields for the poor, widows, and foreigners. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

That’s when Boaz entered the picture.

Boaz was a wealthy, respected landowner. He didn’t owe Ruth a thing. But the moment he saw her, he noticed something different. Maybe it was her work ethic. Maybe it was the quiet strength she carried. Either way, he didn’t see a poor foreign widow, he saw a woman worthy of kindness and protection.

Boaz didn’t just let Ruth glean in his field; he made sure she was safe. He told his workers, “Don’t touch her. Don’t mess with her.” In a world where women like Ruth were easy targets, this was huge. Boaz used his influence to shield her.

But he didn’t stop there. He invited Ruth to drink from the same water jars as his workers, an unheard-of privilege for a foreigner. Then he told his workers to leave extra grain behind for her. He didn’t just help her survive, he set her up to thrive.

Let’s break that down:

Protection: Boaz ensured Ruth wasn’t harassed or harmed.

Provision: He gave her access to more than what was legally required, water and extra grain.

Personal Invitation: He didn’t just tolerate her presence, he invited her to share in his workers’ provisions, treating her like one of his own.

This wasn’t charity. This was dignity.

Boaz wasn’t following the law, he was following his heart, showing a level of compassion that went beyond duty. He treated Ruth not as a burden, but as a person worthy of respect.

How Do We Apply This Today?

Let’s face it, we live in a world that’s quick to slap labels on people. Too old. Too young. Too inexperienced. Not talented enough. People get stuck in boxes, and those boxes get taped shut.

Boaz reminds us to look closer.

Who in your life needs a little extra grain left behind?

Maybe it’s the new hire at work who’s drowning but too scared to ask for help. Maybe it’s the single mom juggling two jobs who hasn’t had a hot meal in weeks. Maybe it’s that quiet neighbor who never talks to anyone but lights up when you say hello.

Hospitality isn’t just about inviting someone to dinner. It’s about inviting them into your life.

It’s about saying, “Hey, you matter. I see you.”

It’s leaving a little extra grain behind, even if it means more work for you.

And if you’re the one who feels like Ruth, stuck in a field, scraping by, wondering if anyone notices? Remember this: Boaz didn’t show up by accident. God placed him there, right when Ruth needed him most.

God sees you too. And maybe, just maybe, He’s preparing a Boaz to cross your path, or calling you to be a Boaz for someone else.

At the end of the day, hospitality isn’t about food, comfort, or even generosity, those are just the surface-level expressions. True hospitality is about recognizing the worth in someone else, especially when the world doesn’t. It’s about seeing beyond the labels, the circumstances, and the assumptions to the human being underneath; someone who carries hopes, pain, potential, and a soul that matters deeply to God.

Boaz didn’t have to help Ruth. He wasn’t obligated to offer her protection, provision, or kindness. But he did…not because of what she could offer him, but because he saw her for who she was: a person worthy of dignity. He didn’t just give her a handout. He gave her a chance to reclaim her life.

That’s the heart of godly hospitality. It’s not about throwing open our doors, it’s about opening our hearts. It’s about saying, “You belong here. You matter.”

In the same way, that young sous chef at the Kimpton Brice didn’t need another boss barking orders at him. He needed someone to see his worth, to believe in him, to invest in him, to give him the space to grow into who he was meant to be. And when he was given that chance, he didn’t just rise to the occasion, he soared.

The truth is, we all have the power to be a Boaz for someone. To create a space where they feel safe, seen, and supported. Whether it’s in a kitchen, a workplace, a church, or around our dinner table, we can choose to leave extra grain behind; a little more patience, a little more encouragement, a little more love, so someone else can stand a little taller.

Because hospitality isn’t just about filling stomachs. It’s about filling hearts. It’s about restoring dignity to those who feel invisible. It’s about showing the kind of radical, unexpected, undeserved kindness that points people to the heart of God; the same way Boaz pointed Ruth toward a future she never could have imagined.

So, as you go about your life, in your home, your workplace, your community, ask yourself: Who’s in my field?

Who’s been overlooked, dismissed, or undervalued?

What extra grain can I leave behind to make their life a little lighter and their world a little brighter?

Because when we extend that kind of hospitality …the Boaz kind; we’re not just changing someone else’s life. We’re reflecting the very heart of Christ, who welcomed us in when we were outsiders, too.

And that, my friends, is what true hospitality looks like.

So… who’s in your field today? And what extra grain can you leave behind?

Stay Salty.
Hospitality That Heals: A Picture of the Church as God Intended

March 5th, 2025

It was the kind of cold that made you question every life decision that led you to be outside. The wind cut like a blade, the kind of bitter chill that snuck into your bones and set up camp. Inside the soup kitchen, though, it was a different world. The air was thick with the smell of simmering chili, fresh cornbread, and the kind of warmth you can’t get from a thermostat. This warmth came from the people.

And then she walked in.

Now, I’d seen her before. Everyone had. A mother of six, living under the heavy hand of a man nobody dared to cross. Her husband wasn’t just bad news; he was the entire grim headline. A big-time dealer, his name carried weight on the block. But it wasn’t his reputation that had people whispering; it was hers. The bruises. The hollow look in her eyes. The way her kids clung to her like little lifelines. They weren’t living. They were surviving.

But that night? She was alone. No kids hanging on her. No rushed glances over her shoulder. Just her, stepping into a place where, for once, she wasn’t just somebody’s battered wife, somebody’s exhausted mother. She was seen.

Juanita spotted her first. She always did. That woman could sniff out a hurting soul like a bloodhound with a mission. She moved in, gentle but firm, like a mother hen who knew exactly what she was doing.

“Honey, you look like you could use a hot meal.”

The woman hesitated, pride wrestling with hunger. Before she could spit out a polite refusal, Ken chimed in from the back. Ken didn’t do pity, and he sure didn’t do nonsense.

“Well, that’s a problem,” he said, gruff but warm. “’Cause the boy made too much, and we ain’t about to waste good food.” (The “boy” in question? Me. I wasn’t exactly a boy, but hey, I wasn’t about to argue.)

Truth be told, we rarely had extra. We just scraped by. But that afternoon, none of that mattered.

She sat down, and before she even knew what hit her, a steaming bowl of chili was in front of her, a plate of cornbread on the side. But even more important? The women from the church who slid into the seats beside her. Not to pry. Not to fix. Just to be. To listen. To remind her she wasn’t invisible.

She took the first bite…and the tears started.

I don’t think it was just the food. It was the fact that, for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t being yelled at, wasn’t bracing for another hit, wasn’t just trying to survive the next five minutes. She was here. In a warm place. With people who cared.

While she ate, Ken slipped into the back. Didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t ask for applause. He just did what needed to be done. By the time she finished her meal, there was a big box of food waiting for her.

“Something for the kids,” Ken said, patting the top of the box like it was the most natural thing in the world. “We don’t want them going hungry.”

She stared at it. At him. At all of us. Like she didn’t know what to do with kindness that didn’t come with strings.

That’s when Juanita reached out, touched her hand, and simply said, “You’re not alone, sweetheart. You hear me?”

She didn’t say much. Just nodded, clutched that box of food like it was sacred, and walked back out into the cold.

But that wasn’t the last time we saw her.

She started showing up at church. Not every Sunday, never up front, but she came. She never got fully involved, her husband made sure of that. But she knew if she needed a safe place, if she needed to hear words that weren’t filled with hate, if she needed someone to remind her she mattered, she could walk through those doors.

She kept coming to the soup kitchen, too. Sometimes for a meal, sometimes just to sit. And every time, there was a seat for her. A bowl of chili. A plate of cornbread. And people who would listen, even if all she had to offer was silence.

And that’s what real hospitality is. It’s not just feeding someone. It’s making sure they know they don’t have to suffer alone. It’s sitting with them, listening, reminding them they’re worth caring for.

She may have never broken free completely, but she knew that whenever she needed it, she had a place to go. A place where she didn’t have to be afraid. A place where she wasn’t just surviving. She was seen. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep a person going.

Now, if you think this kind of hospitality is just about food, let’s talk about Ruth for a second. Ruth 1 reads like a soap opera meets a masterclass in loyalty. It’s got heartbreak, life-altering choices, and some of the most powerful words ever spoken.

Picture this: Naomi? She’s lost everything…husband, sons, stability. She’s got nothing left, no safety net, no bright future. And yet, even in her grief, she’s thinking of others. She tells her daughters-in-law, Ruth and Orpah, to go home. To leave her behind and find a future elsewhere.

That right there is hospitality in its rawest form. Not about setting a table, but about releasing someone, even when it costs you. Naomi is saying, “Don’t stay for me. Go where you’ll be safe.” And she does this knowing full well that letting them go means she’s left alone in her sorrow.

But Ruth? Oh, she’s not having it. She looks at Naomi and drops one of the most gut-punching lines in scripture:

“Where you go, I will go; where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.”

Boom. Mic drop. That’s not just love; that’s a ride-or-die level of commitment.

Let’s be real, Ruth’s decision is wild. She’s leaving her homeland, her family, her culture, her everything to follow a widowed woman into uncertainty. But here’s where hospitality takes a different shape: Ruth isn’t offering Naomi a house or a meal, she’s offering herself. Her presence. Her unwavering commitment.

And here’s the kicker…Naomi, broken as she is, still has something to give. She guides Ruth, helps her find a place in this new world, offers her wisdom and belonging. Together, they forge something new, a family not built by blood, but by choice.

Hospitality isn’t one-sided. It’s a give and take. When we open our lives to others, we don’t just help them, we allow ourselves to be helped, too.

Naomi’s grief. Ruth’s loyalty. These aren’t just acts of hospitality; they’re acts of deep, sacrificial love. The greatest kind of hospitality isn’t about what’s on the table, it’s about who’s at the table. It’s about the moments, the unwavering presence, the willingness to say, “You don’t have to walk through this alone.”

And sometimes, that’s what changes lives.

That woman in the soup kitchen? She wasn’t looking for a sermon. She wasn’t looking for a handout, either. She was looking for something she might not have even been able to name; dignity, safety, a moment where she wasn’t just trying to make it through the next beating or the next bad day. And what did she find? A table. A seat. A meal that wasn’t given out of obligation, but out of genuine care. She found people who didn’t try to fix her, didn’t bombard her with expectations, didn’t treat her like a project, but simply saw her.

Isn’t that exactly what Jesus did? He saw people. The woman at the well, the leper no one else would touch, the tax collectors everyone despised; He didn’t just throw them a miracle and move on. He gave them time, conversation, a place where they were more than just their worst day. He gave them belonging.

And isn’t that what the Church is supposed to be? Not just a place where we gather on Sundays, sing a few songs, shake hands at the door, and go home. No. The Church is a refuge. A sanctuary. A living, breathing embodiment of the hands and feet of Christ. It should be a place where people don’t have to earn love, where the broken can sit without fear, where meals are served with grace, and no one walks through their pain alone.

Ruth didn’t change Naomi’s circumstances overnight. She didn’t have all the answers. What she had was presence. And in the same way, we’re not always going to be able to pull someone out of their storm in a single moment. But we can sit with them in it. We can remind them they’re seen, they’re valued, and they don’t have to carry it alone.

So, how do we live this out? It’s not just about soup kitchens. It’s about how we show up for people every single day. It’s about making space at our tables, in our schedules, in our lives for those who are struggling. It’s about choosing presence over platitudes. It’s about seeing people, really seeing them, and loving them where they are, not where we think they should be.

Because at the end of the day, hospitality isn’t about the food. It’s about the people. It’s about making sure that no one, whether a battered wife, a grieving widow, or the guy down the street who’s had a rough go of it, ever has to wonder if they matter.

Because in God’s kingdom, they do. And it’s our job to make sure they know it.

Stay Salty
Foxes, Fires, and Freeloaders: The Cost of Hospitality

March 1st, 2025

Like I’ve mentioned before, I was once part of a motorcycle ministry that worked with 1% clubs. And just like in those clubs, before you earned your cut and became a full-fledged member, you had to prospect. That meant proving yourself, showing loyalty, putting in the work, and treating your fellow prospects like brothers.

There were a few of us prospecting at the same time, and one of the guys in our group had just gotten out of prison. While he was inside, he had “found God” and was now out, ready to serve the kingdom; or at least, that’s what he had us believe. Now, when you’re prospecting, these guys aren’t just people you ride with; they’re family. And I took that to heart.

So, when this guy was trying to get back on his feet, I did everything I could to help him. One way we helped was by giving his girlfriend a place to stay. He was living with our ministry president, who, being a man of conviction, wasn’t about to let them shack up in his house unmarried. My wife and I talked it over, and since we had a spare room, we decided to take her in. Our goal was simple, to be God’s hands and feet, to love on them, and to hopefully be a good influence in their lives.

And man, did we give. And give. And give. And they? They took. And took. And took.

We had agreed on a small amount of rent, but, surprise, surprise, that didn’t happen. So they said they’d work it off instead. Fine. Except the work was either half-done or done so badly it ended up costing us even more money. We ate the loss, figured it was just a rough start, and moved on. Next month? Same story. But we kept telling ourselves we were doing the right thing.

Then came the wedding. We showed up, supported them, and despite never seeing a dime of the agreed rent, we still felt like we had made the right decision in opening our home to them.

But here’s where it gets really good. After the honeymoon, they asked if her stuff could stay in the room for a couple of months while they looked for a bigger place. They even offered to pay us for storage. By now, we knew exactly how much their “offer to pay” was worth nothing. But we agreed anyway, locked up the room, and left it alone.

And that, my friends, was the last time we ever heard from them. Gone. Vanished. Poof. Like a bad magic trick. And to top it all off, when we finally went in to clean out the room, we found it trashed. Just absolute destruction.

So why am I telling you all this? Were we lied to? Yep. Was our trust broken? Oh, absolutely.

Should we have prayed a little harder before jumping in? 1000%. Do I regret it? Not even a little.

Because here’s the thing, hospitality isn’t about guaranteeing a happy ending. It’s about doing the right thing, even when people take advantage of you. Did I want to lose my mind on them and light some fires? Oh, many, many times. But that’s not the point.

The point is, no matter what people do, our job is to trust God and keep doing what He’s called us to do. And every time we do that, we’ll be blessed in the end. Even if that blessing is just a little more wisdom from the mistakes we’ve made.

And let me tell you, this one was a very expensive lesson in wisdom.

Judges 14-16 reads like a blockbuster, divine messengers, impossible strength, love gone sideways, and enough drama to fill a reality TV season. But beneath the wild antics of Israel’s most infamous judge lies a feast of hospitality lessons, where God’s provision meets human folly in the most spectacular ways.

Last time, we talked about Manoah and his wife, just going about their day when, boom! An angel shows up with a direct message from God. And this isn’t your average “Congrats, you’re having a baby” moment. No, this angel comes with a full set of parenting instructions. Their son, Samson, is going to be a Nazirite, set apart for God, and destined to take on the Philistines. No pressure, right?

And here’s where it gets even better, God doesn’t just send news; He sends reassurance, instructions, and a promise. That’s divine hospitality at its finest. Manoah, still trying to wrap his head around it all, wants to feed their celestial guest, but the angel redirects him to offer a sacrifice to the Lord instead. Then, in a dramatic exit worthy of a standing ovation, the angel ascends in the flames. Imagine your dinner guest disappearing up the chimney, classic God move.

The takeaway? God shows up when we need Him most, like that friend who always brings snacks to the party. He makes sure we’re fed, physically and spiritually. And when we acknowledge Him and offer our best, He responds in ways that leave us absolutely floored.

Fast forward, and Samson is all grown up, with all the muscle and none of the wisdom. He sets his sights on a Philistine woman and decides, “Yep, that’s the one.” His parents protest, but Samson’s got tunnel vision. So off they go to arrange the wedding.

On the way, he encounters a lion (because why not?) and kills it with his bare hands. Later, he swings by and finds a beehive inside the carcass. Naturally, he scoops out some honey and eats it. Because, of course, when you see honey inside a dead lion, the first thought is, “Ooh, free snack!” He even shares some with his parents; but conveniently leaves out the part about its, uh, unique storage conditions.

Then comes the wedding feast, a Philistine-style rager lasting several days. Feeling cocky, Samson throws out a riddle based on his little honey-from-a-corpse adventure, betting thirty outfits that no one can solve it. His new bride, under pressure from her people, wheedles the answer out of him, spills the beans, and just like that, trust is shattered, tempers flare, and things spiral out of control.

Hospitality is built on trust and honesty. When deception creeps in, even the best feast can turn sour. Also, maybe don’t eat mystery honey. Just a thought.

Fresh off his betrayal, Samson storms away from his bride, only to find out later that her father, (thinking he’d skipped town) gave her to another man. This does not sit well with Samson. So, in true Samson fashion, he catches 300 foxes, ties torches to their tails, and releases them into Philistine fields.

Yes, you read that right. The man turned foxes into an arson squad.

The Philistines retaliate by burning his ex and her family alive (hospitality at its absolute worst). That only fuels Samson’s rage further, and before long, he’s taking out Philistines left and right, eventually grabbing a jawbone of a donkey and using it to mow down a thousand men. Somewhere in there, he gets so thirsty he calls out to God, who graciously cracks open a rock to give him water.

Hospitality isn’t just about grand feasts, it’s about handling conflict with grace. Letting anger drive your actions can turn a bad situation into a wildfire (literally, in Samson’s case). Also, if you ever find yourself wrangling foxes for revenge, maybe take a step back and reconsider your choices.

Enter Delilah, the Philistine femme fatale. The Philistine leaders offer her a hefty payday if she can uncover the secret to Samson’s strength. So, she starts the classic “Tell me all your secrets, babe” routine.

Samson, for reasons that boggle the mind, plays along, at first lying to her, but after enough pestering (and possibly some strategic pouting…and petting), he finally spills the truth: It’s all in the hair. Cue the Philistines sneaking in, chopping off his locks, and capturing him. Next thing he knows, his hair is gone, his strength gone, his eyes gouged out, and his freedom lost.

Later, during a Philistine feast, they drag Samson out for entertainment, mocking the once-mighty warrior. But here’s where God’s hospitality shines again, Samson, humbled and broken, prays for one last burst of strength. God grants it, and with one final push, Samson pulls down the temple, taking thousands of Philistines with him.

Be careful who you welcome into your life. Not everyone who smiles at your table has your best interests at heart. True hospitality is about mutual respect, not manipulation. And never, never, let someone near your head with scissors if they’ve been asking too many suspicious questions.

God’s hospitality is timely and personal. He shows up when we need Him; through an angel, unexpected strength, or a second chance. Trust is the backbone of hospitality. From Samson’s wedding feast to Delilah’s deception, betrayal always poisons the table. Anger and pride can ruin the best meal. Whether it’s burning fields or pulling down temples, Samson’s life is a cautionary tale about what happens when you let emotions drive.

Redemption is always on the menu. Even at his lowest, Samson turns back to God, and God answers. Samson’s story may be wild, but through it all, we see how hospitality, both divine and human, shapes destinies. Sometimes, it’s a feast of blessings. Other times, it’s a cautionary tale best served with a side of wisdom.

So, what’s the moral of the story? Hospitality is risky business. It’s not a fairytale where everyone is grateful, lessons are neatly learned, and the credits roll with a feel-good ending. Sometimes, people take advantage. Sometimes, trust gets shattered. And sometimes, you find yourself cleaning up the wreckage of someone else’s mess, wondering why you even bothered. But here’s the thing, hospitality isn’t about ensuring a perfect outcome. It’s about being faithful to what God has called us to do. Did we get burned? Oh yeah. But that doesn’t mean we stop opening our doors. It just means we do it with a little more wisdom next time. Because at the end of the day, hospitality is never wasted when it’s done for the right reasons. People may fail us, but God never does, and that’s what truly matters.

Stay Salty
Grief, Hospitality, and the Jesus Way: Meeting People Where They Are

February 26th, 2025

This is a hard one, hard to write, might be hard to read, but it needs to be said.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Most of my work life had been in the food industry, but at the time, I had taken a break and was working for a road construction company. It was winter, bitterly cold, and since we couldn’t pave roads, we spent those months in the lab, mixing up new asphalt batches for the next season. It was monotonous work, until I got the call.

It was my wife. She was pregnant, and it was just a routine check-up. No big deal, right? But the second I heard her voice, I knew something was wrong.

“They couldn’t find a heartbeat.”

What?

“They couldn’t find his heartbeat.”

Our son, Isaac Stephen Gantt, had died in the womb.

I asked her to repeat it because my heart couldn’t process what my ears were hearing. But the words didn’t change. And in that moment, my whole world cracked.

The year that followed was absolute hell. We grieved in different ways. My wife’s pain was raw, open, right there on the surface. Mine? I stuffed it down, shoved it into a deep, dark corner, and tried to pretend it wasn’t there. She was Angry at God but ultimately turned back to him, and clung to Him like a lifeline. Me? I ran in the opposite direction. And that pain, the kind that sinks its claws into you and refuses to let go. The choices that followed almost destroyed my marriage in a few different ways. I won’t sugarcoat it. If not for the grace of God, I wouldn’t be here. If I had kept walking the road I was on, I would’ve died young and alone.

Fast forward. My wife and I were doing better, though things were still rocky. And then came another call.

“I’m pregnant.”

Now, before we go forward, we need to rewind… A lot.

Most people don’t know this, but I’m what they call a rainbow baby. My parents lost a late-term pregnancy just shy of a year before I was born. And while I know now, without a doubt, that they were over the moon about me, that my dad prayed over me every night, that he walked the town loop praying to God and prophesying over me that I would be strong in body and spirit. Any of you that know me get the humor in this and now know who to blame.

All that said, that didn’t change the fact that I felt like the replacement child. Like they didn’t really want me, they wanted my brother. And I was just what they got instead.

Again, I know that’s not true now. But for years, that thought sat like a stone in my soul.

So when my wife told me she was pregnant again, the fear hit me in two ways. First, the fear of losing another child. But second—maybe worse—the fear that this baby would grow up feeling like I did. Like they were a replacement.

So I did what I always did. I bottled it up. And I made mistakes.

Not the same mistakes as before. No, this time, I was determined that my daughter would never feel like a stand-in for her brother. So instead of honoring his memory, I just… stopped talking about him. I let him be forgotten.

And that? That was a mistake.

Not just for him, but for my wife, who still carried that grief every single year. And for me, because I let myself become numb. I pushed it so far down that I don’t even remember the anniversary of his death most years. But my body remembers. My soul remembers. Because every year around this time, I find myself quicker to anger, shorter with people, struggling to meet others where they are.

And that brings me to this past Monday night.

We were at Bible study, talking about the importance of listening. I started to speak about how it is important in the Church to make sure that we are taking time to listen and get to know people and not prioritize our program over the people so that way we can meet people where they are at. That’s what it’s about right? About meeting people where they are, not where we think they should be. And wouldn’t you know it, I failed to do just that. My own convictions, my own pain, twisting what I wanted to come out of my mouth. And I ended up causing an offense. It wasn’t my intention, but intention doesn’t undo impact.

It wasn’t until later, when I saw my wife post a picture of a small clay baby bootie we keep as a memorial, that it hit me. Grief doesn’t vanish. It doesn’t have an expiration date. And if we aren’t careful, it can warp how we see the world.

But hospitality, the kind that reflects the heart of God; is about presence. It’s about stepping into someone else’s pain, meeting them there, and walking with them through it.

Jesus did this. When Lazarus died,

Picture this: Jesus rolls into Bethany after Lazarus had been in the grave for four days, He already knew how this was going to end. He wasn’t walking in confused or unsure. He wasn’t hoping for the best. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that in just a short time, He would be calling Lazarus out of that tomb like a parent telling their kid to get out of bed for school. Yet, despite knowing the resurrection was coming, Jesus didn’t brush past the grief of His friends. He didn’t dismiss their sorrow or try to fast-track them to faith. Instead, He met them exactly where they were. And if we want to practice real, Christ-like hospitality, that’s what we need to learn to do, too.

Let’s be honest, if most of us had Jesus’ knowledge and power in this moment, we probably would have handled things very differently. If you or I strolled up to Bethany knowing a resurrection was on deck, we might have walked in with the energy of a game-show host:

“Ladies and gentlemen, hold onto your tunics because something INCREDIBLE is about to happen!” Or, if we were feeling extra spiritual, we might have just dropped a deep theological truth bomb: “Why are you crying? Don’t you believe? Where is your faith?”

But that’s not what Jesus did. Even though He was right, He didn’t insist that everyone immediately rise to His level of understanding. Instead, He came down to theirs. He met Martha in her frustration. He met Mary in her sorrow. And instead of rushing them forward, He sat with them where they were.

Martha, always the practical one, runs out to Jesus the second she hears He’s coming. And you can almost hear the mix of faith and frustration in her voice when she says, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died” (John 11:21). She believes in Jesus. She knows He has power. But she’s also hurting, and you can sense that unspoken why weren’t You here sooner? lingering in the air.

Jesus doesn’t scold her for questioning. He doesn’t tell her to settle down or lecture her on trusting God’s timing. Instead, He meets her where she’s at. He talks to her about resurrection, about hope, about who He is. He gives her something solid to hold onto in the middle of her pain.

Martha needed theology wrapped in empathy. And Jesus gave her that.

Then there’s Mary. Unlike Martha, she doesn’t come running. She stays in the house, wrapped in grief. And Jesus doesn’t wait for her to come to Him; He calls for her. When she finally comes and falls at His feet, she says the same thing her sister did (“Lord, if You had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died”), but instead of a theological discussion, Jesus responds in a completely different way.

He wept.

The shortest verse in the Bible, “Jesus wept” (John 11:35), carries some of the deepest meaning. He didn’t cry because He was hopeless. He didn’t cry because He had lost control. He knew He was about to raise Lazarus. But in that moment, that wasn’t the point. The point was that His friend was hurting, and He refused to rush her through her grief just because He knew a miracle was coming.

Mary didn’t need theology at that moment, she needed tears. And Jesus gave her that.

This is where a lot of us miss the mark when it comes to hospitality. We think of hospitality as bringing people into our world, our home, our food, our way of seeing things. And sure, opening our doors and serving a good meal is a beautiful part of it. But true, Jesus-style hospitality isn’t about making people fit into our space; it’s about meeting them in theirs.

It’s easy to offer people what we think they need. It’s much harder to slow down, pay attention, and offer them what they actually need. But that’s exactly what Jesus did.

He didn’t expect Martha to skip her emotions and go straight to faith. He didn’t demand that Mary dry her tears and “just trust the process.” He met each of them exactly where they were, even though He already knew where they were going. And that’s what true hospitality looks like.

So how do we take this from a touching Bible story to something that actually shapes the way we interact with people? Here are a few takeaways:

Read the Room, Not everyone processes things the same way. Some people, like Martha, need conversation and truth. Others, like Mary, just need you to sit with them in silence. Pay attention to what people actually need, not just what’s easiest to give. This is the one that I struggle with the most.

Sit Before You Serve, We love to do things for people. Cook for them, help them, give them advice. But sometimes, the best hospitality is just being there. Before you rush to fix, just be present.

Don’t Rush People to Where You Are, Just because you see hope doesn’t mean the other person is ready to yet. Let them grieve. Let them process. Walk with them instead of dragging them forward.

Step Into Their World, Jesus didn’t insist that Martha and Mary come to His mindset before He interacted with them. He stepped into theirs. If we want to show real hospitality, we have to do the same.

Jesus shows us that hospitality isn’t just about opening our homes, it’s about opening our hearts. It’s about seeing people, truly seeing them, and meeting them where they are instead of expecting them to meet us where we are.

So, the next time someone walks into your life carrying grief, doubt, exhaustion, or just a heavy heart, remember: you don’t have to fix them. You don’t have to rush them. Just be like Jesus. Sit with them. Listen. Weep when they weep. And when the time is right, remind them of hope.

Because sometimes, the most Christlike thing we can do isn’t to preach, teach, or serve a perfect meal…it’s simply to feel.

Stay Salty
The Mighty Warrior Hiding in the Winepress (Yeah, That’s Me Too)

February 12th, 2025

Ok, if you know me, you know me. I don’t just walk into a room, I arrive. Big personality, big presence, and yes, I absolutely love to take control of the space. If I’m there, you’re getting a story, a joke, a full-blown production if the mood strikes. I live for the energy, the laughter, the connection. That’s my element, that’s my arena, (enter a quote from gladiator) “Are you not entertained?”

But if you really know me, you also know that sometimes, out of absolutely nowhere, I get hit with a freight train of anxiety that don’t make a lick of sense. Now, let me be crystal clear: I do not have anxiety. Nope. Not claiming it, not giving it an inch. But every now and then, I wrestle with it like I’m in the final round of a no-holds-barred cage match.

And here’s the cosmic joke of it all, I love running a room full of people, but I also hate being in a room full of people. Makes no sense, right? One minute, I’m holding court like a king, and the next, every fiber of my being is screaming at me to get out now. So, like any self-respecting large man with a talent for survival, I do what I have to do, I push through, play it cool, and then when I hit my limit, I shoot my wife the look. You know the one. The silent S.O.S. that says, if you love me, distract them while I disappear into the night like Batman.

Most of the time, I pull off the ol’ Irish Goodbye like a seasoned pro. One second, I’m there, the next…poof! Gone. No awkward explanations, no fuss. But every now and then, I get caught. Someone stops me at the door, someone asks the wrong (or right) question, and suddenly, I’m face-to-face with a decision: do I let the panic take the wheel, or do I stand my ground, take a deep breath, and lean into the one thing that’s never failed me, hospitality.

And let me tell you something, every single time I choose to shake off the weight of my own nonsense and just focus on serving, that anxiety? It evaporates. Like it was never there. Why? Because when we stop making it about us, our fears, our insecurities, our spiraling thoughts, and we step into what we were made to do, God shows up. And when He shows up, the battle is already won.

It’s almost funny how simple it really is. When we let go of our own weakness, our own doubt, our own fear, and just let God work through us, we realize something, we were never supposed to carry all of that in the first place.

So yeah, I might have my moments. I might disappear now and then. But when I let God’s strength override my own, when I stop overthinking and start doing, that’s when I remember why I love being in the room in the first place. Because it was never really about me at all.

Now picture this! Israel is in rough shape. The Midianites have been running them ragged, stealing their food, wrecking their crops, and making life miserable. It’s like living in a house where every time you stock the fridge, your freeloading cousins show up and clean you out. That’s where we find Gideon…hiding out, trying to thresh wheat in a winepress, just hoping to scrape by unnoticed.

Judges 6 hospitality isn’t just about being polite, it’s a full-on symbol of trust, reverence, and being ready (even when you’re not) for a divine encounter. Gideon’s story shows us that sometimes, the simplest acts of welcome can become doorways to the supernatural.

Out of nowhere, the angel of the Lord appears and greets Gideon with what might be the most ironic introduction in the Bible: “The Lord is with you, mighty warrior!” (Judges 6:12). Gideon, who is literally hiding. Gideon wanted no part of this battle. He had known that it was people had brought this on to themselves. So, what did he do? he Pulled a Irish Goodbye. (A man after my own heart) You know when this angle called him out, he probably was looking around saying in a De Niro voice, “You talking to me?” with the angle looking up and responding in the same voice, I don’t see anyone else here so I must be. But look at this, despite his doubts, something in him recognized that this moment is bigger than him, or any feels he may have been feeling.

So, what does Gideon do? He shifts into host mode. Even in the middle of scarcity, he prepares an offering, bread and goat meat, because he knows that hospitality isn’t about abundance or how much you may or may not want to; it’s about the heart behind the gesture (Judges 6:17-21). He doesn’t even realize he’s serving a divine guest, but he does it anyway, showing that true hospitality isn’t transactional; it’s an act of faith.

Sometimes, God shows up in the middle of our mess, and our willingness to welcome Him; through a meal, through an open heart, through a simple act of kindness, can turn an ordinary moment into something holy.

Before Gideon’s angelic encounter, Israel had been on a spiritual rollercoaster. They turned their backs on God, got themselves into trouble, and then, surprise! They needed His help again. And instead of saying, “Oh, now you want Me?” God, in His relentless hospitality, sends a deliverer to bring them back (Judges 6:1-10).

This is divine hospitality at its finest: mercy when it’s undeserved, an open door when it should be shut, and a welcome-back party instead of a cold shoulder. God doesn’t just tolerate His people; He invites them back in, over and over. If God can keep His arms open for us, even when we’ve royally messed up, we can learn to extend grace to others. Real hospitality isn’t just for the people who are easy to love, it’s for the ones who need it the most.

Later, when Gideon calls for troops to fight the Midianites, something amazing happens; people actually show up. Not just a few, but thousands. These men weren’t coming for a feast; they were coming for a fight. And yet, this is hospitality in action, people rallying together, sharing resources, and supporting each other for a greater purpose.

Hospitality isn’t just about setting a nice table; sometimes, it’s about standing shoulder to shoulder with the people who need you. It’s about showing up, investing in community, and realizing that unity is its own kind of feast. Opening our doors is great, but opening our lives, our time, our resources, our support, is where hospitality really changes things. Sometimes, hospitality looks like a meal. Other times, it looks like having someone’s back when the battle gets tough.

After his encounter with God, Gideon does something that seals the moment, he builds an altar and names it “The Lord is Peace” (Judges 6:24). In the middle of chaos, fear, and uncertainty, he carves out a space to acknowledge God’s presence.

And isn’t that what hospitality is all about? Creating space for God and others, making room in our lives for peace, for grace, for something bigger than our immediate circumstances. Hospitality isn’t just about what’s on the table, it’s about the kind of space we create in our hearts and homes.

Like Gideon’s altar, we can create sacred spaces in our lives, through prayer, through generosity, through simply making room for God’s peace to settle in.

Judges 6 isn’t just about Gideon’s battle; it’s about how hospitality weaves through every part of life. Gideon’s offering, God’s mercy, the unity of Israel, and the altar of peace all point to one truth: hospitality; true, deep, sacrificial hospitality, is about more than food. It’s about faith. It’s about welcoming God and others, even when it’s inconvenient, even when resources are tight, even when we feel unprepared. Because in the end, those small acts of welcome? They have a divine weight.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Hospitality isn’t just about inviting people to the table, it’s about making space. For God. For others. For grace to move in unexpected ways. Gideon didn’t feel like a mighty warrior, but God saw something in him that he couldn’t see in himself. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the lesson for us too.

Because let’s be honest, most of us have had our winepress moments. Hiding out, hoping to get by unnoticed, feeling like we’re just trying to make it through the day. And then God steps in, calling us to something bigger, something bolder, something that requires us to open our hands and our hearts when we’d rather close them.

So, whether it’s serving a meal, standing by someone in battle, or just showing up when it’s easier to slip away, hospitality isn’t about what we have, it’s about what we’re willing to give. And when we give, when we step out of our own fear and into our calling, we find something Gideon found too: that God’s presence changes everything.

So yeah, I might be the guy who commands a room one minute and vanishes the next, but when I lean into what I know I was made for, connecting, feeding, welcoming, standing in the gap, I remember what it’s all about. Not me. Not my anxiety. Not my comfort. But a God who calls us out of hiding and into purpose. A God who invites us to the table, not just to sit, but to serve.

Stay Salty my Friends
Bold Hospitality: Why Keeping People Safe Sometimes Means Getting Dangerous

February 4th, 2025

Alright, folks, we’re stepping into the book of Judges, and let me tell you, hospitality in these pages doesn’t always come with warm bread and a cozy guest room. Sometimes, it comes with a tent peg, a sword, or well… the Old Testament equivalent of hospitality with a purpose.

Now, before we get into the meat of things, let’s talk about this word “spicy”. It gets tossed around a lot these days “spicy books,” “spicy movies,” you know what I’m talking about. But that’s not the kind of spice I mean. No, I’m talking about the kind of spicy that, if you’re not used to it, might make you sweat, cry, or outright refuse to take another bite. But it’s on the menu, and if you know me, you know I love me some spice! So, as the kids say, “y’all better let me cook.”

Now, let me tell you a story. No, not about how my life got flipped, turned upside down, that’s the Fresh Prince. This is about a time I flipped a guy upside down, which is much more on-brand for the conversation we’re about to have.

So, back in Vermont, my home church had an active Mercy Ministries. Every Sunday after church, we ran a soup kitchen, and as you can imagine, we got all sorts of folks rolling through. Some came for the food, some for the company, and some, apparently, for a full-contact sporting event.

One Sunday, my family and I were hanging out after service, doing the usual, chatting, meeting newcomers, the whole thing. Then, from downstairs, I heard a commotion. Now, I may be a big guy, but when I need to move, I move. So down the stairs I went, and I’m sure it was quite the sight, a 6’4”, 325-pound man barreling down the stairs like a freight train with no brakes.

As I rounded the corner, what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks; but only for a split second.

One of my oldest friends was in the middle of breaking up a beatdown. A homeless man was wailing on another guy, absolutely pummeling him. Before I could react, I watched my friend take one of the gnarliest haymakers I’ve ever seen—POW! Right to the kisser. And let’s just say, that was the moment my brain clicked into action.

The next few seconds were a bit of a blur—probably for me, definitely for the attacker. One moment, I was running toward him. The next moment, he was upside down, and then we were both on the ground. If this were a movie, this is where the dramatic voiceover would say:

“It was at that moment… he knew he had messed up.”

The Shocking Part? Not the Fight.

Now, was I surprised that a fight broke out at a soup kitchen? No. If you work in any kind of mercy ministry, you know tensions can run high. Was I surprised that the guy who just got yeeted was still angry after being stopped? Nope. People get weird when you interrupt their bad decisions.

What did surprise me?

The sheer number of church leaders…I repeat, LEADERSHIP in the church, who stood there, not only refusing to help, but actively yelling at me for “attacking” this guy. Meanwhile, my wife and a petite woman from church, bless them both, were the only ones helping me restrain him until the cops showed up.

Let me say that again for the people in the back: the women stepped up while grown men stood around looking uncomfortable and yelling at me.

I’m pretty sure when the cops were called, it wasn’t because of the homeless man attacking people, it was because I had dared to stop him. And after the cops arrived? I still had church folks coming up to me, wagging their fingers, telling me how “un-Christlike” my actions were.

And then, like a beam of sanity cutting through the nonsense, the pastor walked in, took one look at the situation, and said:

“Thank you for doing what needed to be done.”

Here’s the thing: Hospitality isn’t just about making people feel safe. Sometimes, it’s about actually keeping people safe. That day, I didn’t see a lot of men willing to do that. I saw men who wanted to talk about love and grace, but when it came time to protect the vulnerable, they suddenly found their shoes VERY interesting. Hospitality also stepping up when it’s hard, uncomfortable, or even dangerous.

We love to talk about kindness, but hospitality is in fact standing in the gap when someone is in danger, even when it makes you the bad guy in the room. Sometimes, it means flipping a guy upside down.

We’ve talked a lot about hospitality being about making people feel safe. But let’s be real, sometimes, it’s not just about feelings. It’s about actually keeping people safe. And nowhere in the Bible is that clearer than in Judges 4, where hospitality takes a sharp left turn, Jael-style.

So, picture this: Sisera, a big-shot enemy commander, is running for his life. He’s sweaty, desperate, and looking for a place to crash. Then he spots Jael’s tent, and he thinks, “Jackpot! Safe place, friendly face.” Oh, buddy, if only you knew.

Jael, ever the gracious host, welcomes him in, gives him a drink, lets him get comfortable. But this isn’t your average Airbnb setup. Nope. This is strategic hospitality. She’s got a bigger mission, one that ends with a tent peg to the temple. Why? Because Sisera was a massive threat to her people, and she wasn’t about to let him waltz in and continue his reign of terror.

Look, I know this kind of thinking doesn’t sit well with a lot of people today, especially in the church. “We should just love people! We could never harm anyone!” But let’s be clear: protecting your people isn’t unbiblical. It’s actually one of the most biblical things you can do.

I remember watching a video years ago where women were asked if they could take a life to protect their own child. And I was shocked, and disgusted, at how many of them hesitated or flat out said no. If someone is coming after my family, that hesitation doesn’t exist. And it shouldn’t. That’s not a lack of love; that’s a fulfillment of responsibility.

Now, this isn’t just about physical safety. Emotional, psychological, and spiritual safety are just as critical.

Let’s talk physical safety for a second. I know plenty of people who don’t like the idea of churches having armed security. They think it’s un-Christlike. But have you seen the number of church and school shootings lately?

One of the best quotes I’ve ever heard (and I wish I could remember where) was:

“If a shooter comes into my church to harm my congregation, I will show them the love of Christ. And I will show it to them one bullet at a time while I protect my people.”

Why is it so hard to understand that we can offer safety by being dangerous?

It’s not just about protecting people from physical threats. Some of the most dangerous battles people face happen behind closed doors.

Maybe you have a friend in an abusive relationship? Emotionally manipulated? Controlled? Torn down? They want out, but don’t know how. What do we do? Stay silent? Ignore it? Act like it’s not our business?

No. If we truly believe in hospitality, the kind that makes people safe, we have to be willing to stand up, look their abuser in the eye, and say, “No more.”

Yeah, it might make us unpopular. It might be uncomfortable. It might even put us in danger. But hospitality isn’t about staying comfortable. It’s about doing what’s right.

Now here’s where it gets even harder.

Every single one of us knows someone; family, friend, church member, who’s in spiritual danger. Maybe they’re walking themselves straight into it. Maybe they don’t even realize it. Either way, it’s our job to step in.

And yet, how often do we take a “not my circus, not my monkeys” approach? How often do we see people drowning spiritually and do nothing?

Maybe it’s a church teaching flat-out heresy. Maybe it’s a town being led astray by some smooth-talking pastor who cares more about power than the gospel. Maybe it’s someone we love dabbling in something that’s leading them further from God.

Listen Linda, you’re not going to win a popularity contest for calling it out. It will be like the Wicked soundtrack you will be going from, You’ll be popular…, to, Loathing, pure un-adulterated loathing…, quicker that you can click next. But we are not called to be popular. We’re called to stand in the gap. To warn. To protect. To offer a way to safety.

Jael knew the risk. Inviting Sisera into her tent wasn’t just an act of kindness, it was an act of war. She saw the bigger picture. She knew that sometimes, real hospitality isn’t about making guests comfortable. It’s about making the world safer for everyone else.

That kind of hospitality takes guts. It takes sacrifice. It takes a willingness to act, even when it’s dangerous. Even when it’s unpopular.

Jael’s story in Judges 4 reminds us that hospitality isn’t just about warm fuzzies and good vibes. Sometimes, it’s about grit. It’s about knowing when to offer kindness and when to take a stand.

True hospitality makes people safe. Not just comfortable, but safe. That means stepping in, speaking up, and sometimes, standing in the line of fire. Whether it’s protecting our homes, our churches, our friends or their faith, hospitality…real, Godly hospitality, requires boldness.

So, let’s welcome like Jael. Boldly. Purposefully. And always with an eye on the greater good. Hospitality isn’t just about open doors; it’s about standing in the gap. Welcome boldly, protect fiercely, and never be afraid to flip a table… or a guy if necessary.

Stay Salty.
The Hospitality Cycle: Four Key Phases That Make a Difference

January 31st, 2025

Back in the fall of 2022, right after we packed up and moved to Georgia, I had a dream. And not just any dream. The kind of dream that shakes you to your core, the kind that leaves you questioning reality when you wake up. Now, I won’t get into all the details of the dream just yet (that’s a story for another day), but I will tell you this: it was so real, so vivid, that when I woke up, I still could see a wound on my hand that happened in my dream. We’re talking about a full-blown, gory, “I-should-probably-go-to-the-hospital” nightmare fuel, kind of wound. And the kicker? My hand hurt. Not an “oh, I must’ve slept on it funny” kind of hurt. This was a deep, searing pain, like I’d been stabbed straight through. The vision of the wound disappeared after a while, but the pain lingered most of the day, well into my shift that night.

Now, I’m not saying every dream is from the Lord. As good ol’ Scrooge once said, sometimes it’s just undigested beef. But growing up in the church, I know that God has a way of speaking in all sorts of ways, including dreams. And in that moment, I did what any grown man does when he has a dream that rattles his soul…I called my Father.

Now, this is where you might expect me to say, Yes! I called on my Heavenly Father! Nope. I mean, yes, eventually. But first, I screamed for Daddy, just instead of from in bed, it was from Facebook messenger. My dad’s been a pastor for a long time. I like to joke that he started preaching back with John Wesley preaching in Savannah. (Sorry, Dad.) But when I asked if he had any experience with dream interpretation, he just said, “Nope, but I know a guy.”

Enter “Joe.” (Not his real name, because, well, I didn’t ask permission to use it.) Joe pastors a church up in New England, and let me tell you, this man is the real deal. You ever meet someone and immediately think, oh, this guy talks to God at the Moses level? That’s Joe. The anointing on this man is unreal.

So, I set up a time to talk with him, walked him through the dream, and he helped me unpack what everything meant. But then, he hit me with something that humbled me to my core. He said, God has a plan and an anointing for you…a BIG one…but you’ve been running from it. Stop it. Right now. God is saying, “Crap or get off the pot,” because if you don’t start walking in it, He’s going to give it to someone else. The line in the sand has been drawn.

Yeah…that stung. And, of course, I’ve had some “church folks” push back, saying, God wouldn’t do that! But, uh… yes, He would. And He has. We’ve seen it in the Bible more than once. Moses was supposed to lead the Israelites into the Promised Land; except, whoops, Joshua had to do it instead. Saul was supposed to have a dynasty, but his kingship got handed over to David, and his bloodline lost the throne. It happens.

But here’s the part that sticks with me the most: Joe didn’t just drop that truth bomb and walk away. He offered to mentor me to come alongside me as I figured out what stepping into that calling looked like. And if it weren’t for that hospitality, his willingness to take the time, to listen, to tell me the hard truth, and to guide me through it. I can tell you; I wouldn’t be where I am today if it was not for him.

And that, my friends, is the power of true, godly hospitality. It’s not just about meals and handshakes, it’s about walking alongside people, helping them see the line in the sand, and making sure they don’t trip over it.

Joshua 24 isn’t just a history lesson; it’s a full-blown leadership masterclass wrapped in a covenant renewal. It’s a moment of checking in, calling up, and sending out. If you’ve ever wondered how hospitality fits into the grand scheme of faith, Joshua lays it all out right here. It’s not just about making people feel welcome, it’s about inviting them into something deeper, walking with them, and knowing when to step back and letting them grow.

So, let’s break it down:

Step 1: The Check-In (Verses 1-13)

Joshua gathers all the tribes at Shechem, which, in ancient Israelite terms, is the equivalent of calling a family meeting. And not just any meeting, the kind where Dad sits everyone down and says, “Alright, let’s talk about how we got here.” But instead of bringing out embarrassing childhood stories, Joshua lays out God’s track record.

He reminds them of everything God has done, from Abraham’s calling to the Exodus from Egypt, through the wilderness, and into the Promised Land. It’s like a highlight reel of divine intervention, a reminder that they didn’t get here on their own.

Stop treating it like a one and done task, How often do we show hospitality and think our job is done? We invite someone over, serve a great meal, maybe even have a deep conversation, but then what? Joshua reminds us that true hospitality is ongoing. It’s not just about serving food, it’s about creating a space where people feel like they belong.

Checking in with people matters. It’s easy to assume they’re fine, but real hospitality means following up. Are they still growing? Are they still walking the path? If all we do is offer a meal without offering a relationship, we’ve missed the point. If we aren’t keeping up with those we serve, we’re just running a drive-thru, not building a community.

Step 2: The Line in the Sand (Verses 14-15)

Now, Joshua isn’t one for half-measures. He looks the people dead in the eye and says, “Alright, enough reminiscing, what’s it going to be? You either serve the Lord, or you go chase after the false gods of your ancestors. But as for me and my house? We serve the Lord.”

Boom. Line drawn. No waffling, no second-guessing.

Hospitality Lesson: Invite Others to Stand With You

It’s not enough to serve people, you must invite them into something greater. Joshua is essentially saying, “Look, I’ve made my choice. I know where I stand. But what about you?”

Hospitality isn’t just about welcoming people; it’s about challenging them. It’s easy to feed someone and send them on their way, but real hospitality is discipleship. If all we do is meet people’s physical needs but never invite them to grow spiritually, we’ve only done half the job.

When we extend hospitality, we should also extend an invitation to something deeper. Whether it’s a friendship, a faith walk, or a community, people need to know they’re welcome not just in our homes, but in our lives. My sister and Robyn and I often say a phrase to each other, “ministry isn’t what you do, it’s who you are”; the same goes for hospitality. If you never take away anything else from what I say but you get that, I would be just as happy.

Step 3: The Reality Check (Verses 19-27)

Now, the Israelites are all pumped up. They hear Joshua’s speech, and they’re shouting back, “Yes! We will serve the Lord!” They’re practically fist-pumping, ready to commit.

But Joshua, in full veteran-leader mode, basically says, “Are you sure? Because this isn’t a game.” He warns them that serving God is serious business. It requires sincerity, faithfulness, and a willingness to stay committed when things get tough. He even sets up a stone as a witness, like a permanent reminder of their vow, an ancient version of “no takebacks.”

Hospitality Lesson: Be Honest About the Cost

True hospitality isn’t just warm and fuzzy, it comes with heartache, disappointment, and sometimes betrayal. We love the idea of opening our doors, but the reality is, relationships are messy. People will let you down. They will walk away. Some will take what you offer and never come back.

But here’s the kicker: we do it anyway.

Joshua reminds us that following God isn’t about convenience, it’s about commitment. And that applies to hospitality, too. If we only serve when it’s easy, we’re not really serving. Hospitality means sticking around when things get complicated, having hard conversations, and walking with people through their struggles.

Yes, it can break your heart. But the reward? It’s worth every tear.

Step 4: The Send-Off (Verses 28-33)

The chapter wraps up with Joshua dismissing the people to go claim their inheritance. He doesn’t micromanage them. He doesn’t hold their hand. He lets them go. When Joshua finally passes away, the elders take up the mantle, keeping the people on the right track.

Hospitality Lesson: Let People Grow and Go

The Church I grew up in had a mantra: “Win, Equip, Send.” Sending might just be the hardest part of hospitality: knowing when to step back. Whether it’s our kids, new believers, or people we’ve mentored, our job isn’t to keep them under our wing forever.

Too often, we cling too tightly. We want control. We think, “They’re not ready yet.” But if we don’t let people step into their own calling, we stunt their growth.

Hospitality is about empowerment. It’s about equipping people so they can stand on their own. Just like Joshua didn’t hold onto leadership forever, we must recognize when it’s time to shift from teacher to co-laborer.

If we don’t allow relationships to evolve, we end up hurting them. More often than not, we damage what we’re trying to build by refusing to let people step into their own.

Final Thoughts: The Hospitality Cycle

Joshua 24 teaches us that hospitality isn’t just about a warm welcome, it’s about walking with people, challenging them, and then empowering them to do the same for others.

Think about it:

After we have built a relationship We;

Check in (because relationships need maintenance).

Challenge (because hospitality without discipleship is just customer service).

Tell the truth (because pretending things are easy helps no one).

And let go (because hospitality is about equipping, not controlling).

If we’re only serving meals but not making disciples, we’re just running a restaurant, not a ministry.

So, let’s check in with people. Let’s challenge them to stand with us. Let’s be real about the cost. And when it’s time, let’s release them to go and do the same.

That’s how we build something that lasts.

Now, who’s ready to roll out the welcome mat and get to work?

Stay Salty.
How Not to Make Meatloaf (and Why Small Wins Matter)

January 28th, 2025

Working in the kitchen for over 25 years has taught me a lot. Some lessons came in little bites over time, others hit like a flaming sauté pan to the face. Now, my wife… bless her heart… has not spent 25 years in a professional kitchen. And, in our early days of marriage, that fact became painfully, sometimes hilariously, clear at dinnertime.

One particular dish, comes to mind. The very first dinner she ever cooked as my wife. We had been asked to house-sit for my parents, keeping an eye on my younger siblings and my grandmother. Wanting to impress her new husband and the whole family, my wife threw herself into making dinner. She decided on meatloaf. Classic, right? Comforting, homey, simple… in theory.

When she called us to the table, she proudly presented the dish. And, well… it was definitely loaf-shaped. And it probably contained meat. I’ll never forget the moment. My younger brother leaned over and whispered, “What is that?” I shot him a look and muttered, “It’s dinner. If I have to eat it, so do you.”

But the real dagger came from my sweet, soft-spoken, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly Southern grandmother, Mama. She took one look at the plate, then at my wife, then at me, and calmly announced, “I have a can of soup upstairs,” before standing up and leaving.

My poor wife was devastated. And like any good husband would in that moment, I did the only reasonable thing…I lied. I told her it was great, kept a straight face, and ate every last bite.

Fast forward a few years, and my wife, ever the brave soul, decided it was time for a rematch with meatloaf. This one was… less loaf-shaped. And she claimed it was meat. But before I even opened the oven, I swear I could hear Latin being chanted backwards from inside. We ended up needing to call in the Ghostbusters, Mystery Inc., and the Winchester brothers. After they all took one look and said, “Yeah… you’re on your own, man,” I resorted to the only weapon left in the house, completely out of holy water, I hurled ketchup at it while screaming, “The power of Christ compels you!”

After that, meatloaf was banned in our home for a very, very long time.

But then, years later, my wife made meatballs. And you know what? They were good. Dare I say… great. Now, anyone who has made meatballs knows that a meatloaf is just a badly shaped meatball. But here’s where I messed up, I didn’t celebrate her win like I should have. I didn’t acknowledge how big of a deal it was for her to take another shot at something that had haunted our kitchen like a culinary poltergeist.

So, right here and now, I want to say, Hannah, I’m sorry. I should’ve made a bigger deal out of those meatballs. You crushed it that night. And I should’ve let you know just how proud I was of you.

Also, if you ever want to try making meatloaf again… just, uh, give me a heads-up so we can pray up and anoint the house first.

Life’s a wild ride, isn’t it? We’re all racing to hit milestones, achieve goals, and cross off to-dos. But here’s the thing, how often do we actually hit the brakes to celebrate the wins, big or small? Too often, we treat victories like they’re just the bare minimum. “Oh, you succeeded? Great, moving on.” No high-five, no shout-out, just a shrug and a quick pivot to the next thing. But what if we’re missing out on something deeper, something richer? Let’s dive into what it means to truly celebrate wins, recognize achievements, and show generosity in how we allocate credit, to others and to God.

Here’s a truth bomb: a small win for one person might be a massive victory for someone else. Think about that friend who’s been trying to quit smoking for years and finally goes a week without a cigarette. To them, that’s a huge, life-altering moment. Or that coworker who finally cracks the code on making decent coffee after years of creating what tastes like boiled sadness. These are wins worth celebrating. The problem is, we’re conditioned to see success as a spectrum. If it’s not a gold medal or a standing ovation, it barely registers. That’s messed up.

We’re meant to celebrate each other. Not just the promotions, the engagements, or the new babies, but the everyday victories; like waking up and choosing to fight another day. Celebrating is about saying, “I see you. I’m with you. And I’m proud of you.”

Now let’s talk about giving credit where credit is due. This one hits hard, doesn’t it? How often do we gloss over someone’s effort or downplay their role in a success story? It’s like giving someone half a trophy and saying, “This is all you get because I’m keeping the rest.” That’s not how this works. Recognition is a form of generosity. When you share credit, you’re not just patting someone on the back, you’re lifting them up. You’re saying, “Hey, your contribution mattered, and I’m better because of it.”

But let’s get real for a second. The place we mess this up the most isn’t just with people; it’s with God. How often do we forget to give Him credit for what we have and what He’s done? Spoiler alert: way too often. We’re quick to pat ourselves on the back for our hard work, but who gave us the strength, the resources, the opportunities? Exactly. God deserves the ultimate shout-out.

Now, let’s shift gears to the book of Joshua. Chapters 11-19 read like an epic adventure, think Lord of the Rings but with fewer hobbits and more divine intervention. This isn’t just a story about conquering land; it’s a masterclass in hospitality, celebration, and generosity. Let’s break it down.

Picture this: Joshua and the Israelites are up against a coalition of northern kings who thought teaming up would make them unstoppable. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. With God as their strategist, the Israelites wipe the floor with them. It’s a classic case of “if God is for us, who can be against us?”

God’s guidance here is like the ultimate act of hospitality, creating a safe space for His people to thrive. Hospitality isn’t just about offering someone a cup of tea; it’s about making them feel secure, valued, and cared for. When you have a chance to show hospitality, whether it’s a dinner party or a simple coffee date, think about how you can create an environment where people feel safe enough to let their guard down. Just, you know, leave the flying burgers out of it.

This chapter is basically a highlight reel of victories. It lists all the kings the Israelites defeated, kind of like a trophy case on display for everyone to see.

Celebration is woven into the fabric of community. When we acknowledge achievements, we’re not just boosting someone’s ego; we’re building them up and strengthening bonds. Whether it’s someone’s first time hosting Thanksgiving or finally nailing grandma’s biscuit recipe, these moments matter. Call them out, celebrate them, and let people know their wins aren’t just noticed, they’re appreciated.

Here, Joshua starts handing out land like it’s candy on Halloween. Sure, there’s more to conquer, but he ensures everyone gets their fair share.

This is where we see generosity in action. Joshua’s leadership ensures that everyone, from the biggest tribe to the smallest, gets what they need. It’s a reminder that true hospitality is about fairness and generosity. Think about your own table. Are you making sure everyone gets a slice of the pie? Or are you hoarding the good stuff for yourself?

These chapters dig deeper into how the land is divided among the tribes. Spoiler: it’s not just about geography; it’s about legacy, promises kept, and God’s faithfulness.

Hospitality isn’t just about what happens in the moment; it’s about the long game. When you make a promise, keep it. When you offer someone a seat at your table, make sure they feel like they belong there. Joshua’s careful distribution of the land is a testament to the importance of honoring commitments. It’s a reminder that hospitality is as much about integrity as it is about generosity.

Celebrate Wins, Big and Small: Don’t downplay achievements. Acknowledge them, celebrate them, and let people know they matter.

Be Generous with Credit: Whether it’s recognizing a friend’s effort or giving God the glory for His blessings, be generous in allocating credit.

Create Safe Spaces: Hospitality is about more than food and drinks; it’s about making people feel secure and valued.

Honor Commitments: Just like Joshua honored God’s promises, we’re called to honor the promises we make to others.

So, here’s the challenge: the next time someone in your life scores a win, no matter how small, celebrate it. Be the loudest cheerleader in the room. And when you reflect on your own victories, remember to give credit where it’s due, especially to the One who’s made it all possible. Life’s too short not to celebrate, recognize, and share generously. Let’s make sure our tables, our lives, and our hearts reflect that truth.

Stay Salty Friends
When Hospitality Stops the Sun: Big Moments, Big Impact

January 24th, 2025

Working in the kitchen of a private school was like stepping into a culinary world tour. We had students from every corner of the globe, and with them came a calendar packed with every holiday you can imagine, some I’d never even heard of. At first, this meant a lot of extra work, cooking dishes I’d never seen, let alone eaten. I’m not going to lie; in the beginning, it felt like a headache. Learning how to make a random dish from some far-off country felt like more trouble than it was worth.

But then something changed. I started connecting with the students. These weren’t just recipes, they were pieces of home for kids who were oceans away from everything familiar. The more I got to know them, the more I realized how much it meant for them to have even a taste of what they’d left behind. Cooking those special dishes became less of a chore and more of a privilege, especially when I saw how much joy it brought them. A bite of home could chase away the homesickness, even if just for a moment.

Fast forward to when I got into the hotel industry. I started working with exchange programs like TN and J1, which bring young adults from around the world to experience hospitality in the U.S. If you think those students at the school missed home, these interns had it even rougher. Most of them landed here with nothing, no family, no support system, just a suitcase and a dream.

Remembering those moments from the school kitchen, I made it a habit to look out for them. Anytime I saw one of the interns looking down or struggling, I’d whip up a meal from their home country and hand them a plate. It didn’t take much on my end, just a little research and effort, but the reactions were always worth it.

I’ll never forget one intern from the Middle East. He’d been having a tough time adjusting, and as luck would have it, we had a Middle Eastern-themed meal coming up. I made it my mission to get it right, down to the tiniest detail full on GO BIG OR GO HOME. When I handed him the plate, his reaction floored me. He looked up from the food with tears streaming down his face, whispering, “Thank you” over and over. Then he asked me, “When did you go to the Middle East to learn how to cook this?”

I laughed and told him I’d never been there; I’d just done my homework. His response broke me. He said he’d been deeply homesick and that this meal was the first time he’d felt any real happiness since coming to America.

For me, it was just another day in the kitchen, but for him, it was everything. It reminded me that food isn’t just food, it’s comfort, it’s connection, and sometimes, it’s the bridge that helps someone feel a little less alone.

In Joshua 10, we witness a truly epic moment that could easily double as the climax of a blockbuster movie: God pulls off the ultimate act of hospitality by stopping the sun in the sky. Yes, you heard that right! This isn’t just a cool magic trick; it’s a divine intervention that reshapes our understanding of hospitality, support, and God’s provision. Grab your popcorn; we’re diving into the drama!

Picture this: the Israelites are locked in battle against the Amorites, a coalition of five kings who aren’t exactly sending friendship bracelets. The stakes are sky-high, and Joshua, with all the boldness of a leader who knows Who’s got his back, raises his voice to the heavens. He commands the sun to stand still over Gibeon and the moon to freeze in the Valley of Aijalon (Joshua 10:12-14). Talk about shooting your shot!

And God’s response? Forgive the phrase… “Hold my beer!” In a move that defies the laws of physics and time, He stops the sun in its tracks, giving the Israelites the extra daylight they need to secure victory. This isn’t just about flexing divine power; it’s about rolling out the cosmic red carpet for His people. God’s gesture is as grand as it gets, showing His love and care in a way that leaves no room for doubt. I am going to touch quickly on this. Think of what kind of relationship with God Joshua had for him to ask this and God to say sure without hesitation. Remember hospitality is all about relationships, building and deepening. Our gestures of hospitality never lessen as relationships grow. Having a relationship with someone does not give freedom to phone it in.

By hitting the cosmic pause button, God doesn’t just give the Israelites a tactical advantage; He provides protection and ensures their success. This act of divine hospitality underscores a crucial point: true hospitality goes beyond meeting immediate needs. It’s about creating opportunities, offering support, and ensuring those you serve feel secure and valued. God’s act isn’t just grand for the sake of grandeur; it’s purposeful, intentional, and deeply loving.

For God, stopping the sun is no big deal. He’s the Creator, after all. But for the Israelites in the heat of battle, it’s monumental. This reminds us that hospitality isn’t about how grand an act seems to us; it’s about how impactful it is to the person we’re serving. What feels like a small gesture to us might mean the world to someone else.

Sometimes, we are called to do big things for others, whether it’s easy for us or not. We serve a large and grand God, and our acts of love and hospitality should reflect His greatness. There will be moments when stepping up might stretch us or push us out of our comfort zones, but that’s part of the sacrifice of worship to God. When we go beyond what feels comfortable to show His love, we mirror His heart for others. After all, our willingness to serve in big and bold ways demonstrates the same care and hospitality that God shows us daily.

God’s intervention shows that real hospitality is about stepping in when someone needs a hand, or in this case, a little more sunshine. Just as He extended the day for the Israelites, we’re called to extend our resources, time, and love to those in need. Maybe it’s lending a listening ear, helping a neighbor with groceries, or offering words of encouragement. Whatever the act, true hospitality recognizes the need and meets it with open hands.

Stopping the sun? That’s next-level hospitality. It challenges us to go beyond the bare minimum and embrace the extraordinary. Sometimes, this means stepping out of our comfort zones, making sacrifices, or doing something unexpected to make others feel valued. Hospitality isn’t just about opening your door; it’s about opening your heart and going the extra mile, or ten. Go big or go home when it comes to hospitality.

Joshua’s bold request shows the power of asking for help and being heard. God listened and responded in a way that was both specific and profound. In our own acts of hospitality, we’re called to listen carefully to those we serve. Are they stressed, lonely, or struggling? By tuning in to their needs and responding with intention, we can offer the kind of support that truly matters.

God didn’t just stop the sun for the sake of a spectacle; He did it to give His people what they needed to succeed in a grand way. Similarly, our hospitality should aim to empower and uplift others. Whether it’s through mentorship, sharing resources, or simply being a source of encouragement, we can create spaces where others feel supported and able to thrive. In that we should be grand too.

The halting of the sun in Joshua 10 isn’t just a cool biblical trivia fact; it’s a powerful testament to God’s hospitality and His commitment to His people. It shows us that hospitality isn’t about the size of the gesture, it’s about the heart behind it. Whether it’s preparing a feast for friends, offering a kind word, or stepping in with grand gestures when the moment calls for it, hospitality is about showing love and care in ways that resonate deeply with those we serve. In that we should always do it to the best of our ability and beyond.

So, let’s take a page from this divine action movie scene and reflect God’s heart in our interactions. Let’s be generous, attentive, and willing to go all out. Because sometimes, holding the sun in the sky is exactly what’s needed to make someone’s day or, in this case, their battle. And while we may not have cosmic powers, we can certainly create moments of impact that feel just as grand to those we serve.

Stay Salty Friends.
Stay Salty: Living out Matthew 5:13

January 16th, 2025

Picture it, there we were, my wife Hannah and I back in 2021, kicking around the idea of packing up our lives and leaving behind the cozy, maple-syrup-soaked hills of Vermont. Now, let me tell you, Vermont isn’t just where we were born and raised. No matter where we’d end up, Vermont would always hold a special place in our hearts. Even if all my family had scattered like leaves in the wind, it would still be tethered to the Green Mountains.

I remember the day it all changed. We were clawing our way out of the pandemic fog, and life as I knew it was shifting faster than a New England weather forecast. The Inn I worked at was being sold, and I had hit my limit with everything about the state I once adored. So what did I do, I came home, kicked the door open, and announced with dramatic flair, “That’s it. We’re moving!”

Now, to set the stage, you need to know this wasn’t my first declaration of this kind. Every six to nine months, I’d hit my breaking point and proclaimed, “We’re outta here!” And every time, Hannah would calmly remind me that if I wanted to move, I’d be doing it solo because she wasn’t leaving our families. But this time was different. This time, she looked me in the eye and said, “Okay. Where are we moving to?”

I won’t lie, I nearly fell over. But once I picked my jaw up off the floor, I did what any sane man would do: I started packing boxes. We didn’t have a destination yet, mind you, but we were moving.

Now, Hannah and I had a plan, or so we thought. We were going to North Carolina, back to the Blue Ridge Mountains where my parents had grown up. I love those mountains, the air, the views, the wilderness. Nothing beats an early morning in the Blue Ridge with the mist rising like a promise from God. Well, we prayed and told the Lord, “We’re heading to North Carolina.”

And you know what God did? He laughed.

Instead of North Carolina, God redirected us to Georgia. At first, I didn’t panic. I thought, there are some decent mountains up near the SC/TN line. We’ll be fine. But then came the real kicker: we weren’t moving to the north Georgia mountains. Nope. God pointed His heavenly GPS straight at Savannah.

Savannah. Where the only mountains are made of sand, and the closest thing to wilderness is a swamp full of gators. Do you know what Savannah doesn’t have? Mountains. You know what it does have? Beaches. And let me be perfectly clear…I hate the beach!

The beach has people (ugh), sand that infiltrates every crevice of your body (double ugh), and salt that refuses to leave you alone. My son learned this the hard way when he tried to drink ocean water. Bless him. And you don’t even have to get in the water to feel the salt; it’s in the air, on your skin, and stuck in your car for eternity. The last time I had this much salt and sand in my trunk, it was from winter road grit back in Vermont.

But here’s the thing about all that salt: it sticks to you in ways you’d never see coming. Even after you wash it off, your skin feels… different; softer, healthier, like someone just peeled back three layers of Vermont-grade winter skin and let you start fresh. And wouldn’t you know it, my allergies practically packed their bags and moved out when we hit the coast. That salty air works its magic, even if I avoid the beach like it’s a family reunion you weren’t ready for.

That’s the funny thing about salt, it’s relentless. Once it’s been added or applied, it’s there for good. You can try to scrub it away, dilute it, hide it, but it’s already done the work. And if it’s in a soup, sure, you can add a little water, but let’s not kid ourselves, the salt isn’t going anywhere. Take a pot of water, throw in a spoonful of salt, and let it boil all day long. You’ll end up with nothing but an empty pot and a crusty ring of salt clinging to the bottom like it owns the place.

Salt doesn’t just flavor, it stays, it lingers, it transforms. Let me tell you, as someone that owns a car that was from the North. Even the salt from the roads leaves their mark. We are now seeing that in how quickly it rusted out from the wet, salty GA air. Whether it’s on your skin or in your soup, it leaves a mark that’s impossible to ignore.

Matthew 5:13, where Jesus tells His disciples, “You are the salt of the earth,” is way more than a catchy metaphor, it’s a rallying cry. This isn’t just about sprinkling a little flavor into life; it’s a call to action, a challenge to influence, preserve, and transform the world around us. And if we want to fully grasp the weight of this statement, we’ve got to understand how people used salt back in Jesus’ time. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t just for flavor

Back then, salt was essential. People living in that region often got their salt from the Dead Sea, but this wasn’t the neat little NaCl you have dumped all over your McDonald’s fries. It was a blend of salts, packed with a variety of uses that went way beyond seasoning. Jesus’ audience would’ve immediately picked up on the many layers of meaning in His words, and we’re going to unpack a few of those now.

First, salt preserved food. Without refrigerators or freezers, people relied on salt to prevent their food from spoiling. When Jesus called us the salt of the earth, He was reminding us of our role in preserving what is good in a world that constantly trends toward decay; morally, spiritually, you name it. And this is where hospitality plays a huge role. When we open our homes, our tables, and our lives to others, we’re preserving the goodness of God’s grace and truth. Sharing a meal or offering a listening ear might seem small, but these acts preserve something sacred in a world that’s starving for connection.

Salt isn’t just about preservation, though; it’s also about flavor. Think about how bland food is without salt. (Ever eaten an unsalted dish? Tragic.) Salt enhances and brings out the best in whatever it touches. That’s our job as believers, to bring out the best in others and in the world around us. When we embody Christ’s love, joy, and kindness, we add richness to life. And when we host others with genuine care and offer encouragement, kindness, and maybe a slice of pie; we’re seasoning their lives with something that leaves a lasting impression.

Salt also had medicinal purposes in ancient times. It was used to clean wounds and promote healing. Let’s face it, life leaves people banged up. As the salt of the earth, we’re called to be agents of healing. Hospitality can be a powerful tool for this. A welcoming home, a warm meal, or even a heartfelt conversation can provide the balm someone needs to start healing emotionally or spiritually. We’re not just called to stand by and watch people hurt; we’re called to roll up our sleeves and bring healing where we can.

Here’s a lesser-known fact: one of the top three salts from the Dead Sea was potassium chloride (KCl). Its main use was fertilizer. Gardeners today know it as potash, and it’s a key ingredient for helping plants absorb water and grow stronger. This adds another dimension to Jesus’ words. As salt, we’re not just preserving or seasoning; we’re enriching the soil around us, helping others draw closer to God and bear spiritual fruit. Hospitality plays a big role here too. When you mentor a new believer, create a welcoming space, or even just encourage someone in their faith, you’re helping to fertilize the soil of their lives. You’re helping them soak up God’s living water and produce fruit that lasts.

Here’s the kicker: Jesus didn’t say, “You are NaCl, so go season life,” or “You’re KCl, so stick to fertilizing.” Nope. He said, “You are salt.” Period. That means we’re called to be all the salts in the sea, all the time. We’re not limited to one role. We’re meant to preserve, season, heal, and help others grow, sometimes all at once. And unlike literal salt, we’re not limited to doing one job at a time. We can be healing someone’s wounds while seasoning their life and helping them grow in Christ.

This is where I must drop a line from Bill Belichick: “Just do your job.” That’s it. Don’t overcomplicate it. Don’t stress whether YOUR fruit looks bigger or YOUR’S is prettier than someone else’s. If you focus on helping others heal, grow, and thrive while staying watered by being connected to God yourself, the fruit will come. Abundantly.

Hospitality is one of the clearest ways to live out this salty calling. Think about your home or church as fertile soil, enriched by the salt of love, kindness, and encouragement. How can you make it a place where others feel nourished and supported? Maybe it’s as simple as inviting someone over for coffee or offering a prayer for someone who’s struggling. These small acts of hospitality can have a huge impact, helping others feel seen, valued, and loved.

Here’s the truth: a salty church is a thriving church. When we’re committed to preserving God’s truth, enhancing the lives of those around us, and helping others grow spiritually, we create a community that’s irresistible. People are drawn to places where they feel loved, supported, and challenged to grow. Communities where churches actively engage in hospitality often see lower rates of loneliness, higher levels of trust, and more opportunities for spiritual and personal growth.

As Christians, we’re called to preserve the moral fabric of society, enhance the quality of life, and foster spiritual growth. That’s what it means to be the salt of the earth. And when we live this out, we glorify God and draw others to Him. A salty church, one that preserves, seasons, heals, and helps people grow and becomes a beacon of hope in a world that desperately needs it.

Living as salt requires action. It means being intentional about fostering connections and creating opportunities for others to experience God’s love. Maybe that looks like reaching out to someone who needs encouragement, offering mentorship, or opening your home to a neighbor. Maybe it’s sharing your testimony or praying with someone who’s struggling. Whatever it is, let your actions point others to Christ.

Matthew 5:13 calls us to be salt, to influence, preserve, enhance, and heal the world around us. Through Godly hospitality, we create spaces where others can encounter God’s love, drink deeply from His living water, and bear fruit that lasts. So, let’s commit to being the salt of the earth. Let’s preserve what is good, season life with God’s love, heal the broken, and help others grow in their faith. And remember: JUST DO YOUR JOB! If YOU focus on being the salt God called YOU to be, YOU’LL see the fruit, in YOUR life and in the lives of those AROUND YOU.

And remember, Stay Salty my Friends.
Gifts Fit For A King: The Hospitality We See

December 20th, 2024

In the quiet hills of Vermont, where snow blankets the world in December and the church steeples stand like sentinels of hope, my home church had a tradition that embodied the true spirit of Christmas. Every year, they set out a simple table. It wasn’t adorned with fancy decorations or filled with expensive gifts; instead, it was a collection point for items donated by members of the congregation.

The items on this table weren’t flashy or new but gently used treasures—clothes, toys, books, and household items—that still had plenty of life left in them. These donations became gifts for those in need, a way for our little church to extend hospitality and generosity during the holiday season. Watching this table fill up year after year was like witnessing God’s provision in action, a small miracle of kindness and community.

When my wife and I had kids, we wanted to instill in them this same spirit of giving. That’s when the Yearly Toy Purge was born.

The Yearly Toy Purge

Every December, as the Christmas season approached and the house began to fill with the anticipation of new presents, we handed each of our kids a large bag and gave them one simple instruction: Fill it.

At first, this was met with mixed reactions. Our kids were young, and the idea of parting with their toys was, let’s say, less than thrilling. They’d try to sneak in toys with missing parts, ripped books, or clothes that had seen better days. That’s when the life lesson kicked in.

“Would you want to receive this as a gift?” we’d ask.

The kids would pause, realizing that broken toys and ruined clothes weren’t gifts—they were trash. We explained that generosity isn’t about giving what you don’t want; it’s about giving something that can bring joy or be useful to someone else. Over time, they learned the difference, and the Yearly Toy Purge became less about clearing space and more about sharing blessings.

The Joy of Giving

What started as a teaching moment for our kids soon became one of our family’s favorite traditions. Each year, we’d fill the bags with gently used toys, clothes, and books, load them into the car, and head to the church to drop them off.

There was something magical about seeing the table at church fill up, knowing that each item would find its way into the hands of someone who needed it. And the best part? Watching the items disappear. A toy dinosaur would vanish one day, a puzzle the next. We’d smile, knowing that somewhere out there, a little boy or girl was receiving a gift they might not have had otherwise.

The joy in our kids’ faces as they watched the fruits of their generosity unfold was something words can barely capture. They no longer needed reminders—it was the kids who started reminding us when it was time for the yearly donation.

The Spirit of Hospitality

The table at our church wasn’t just a collection point for donations; it was a symbol of the hospitality of generosity.

In 1 Peter 4:10, we’re reminded:

“Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.”

That table was an open invitation to live out this verse. It wasn’t about giving flashy or expensive gifts but about offering what we had to serve others. It taught our family—and our whole church—that hospitality isn’t just about welcoming people into your home. It’s about opening your heart and sharing what you’ve been blessed with to bless others.

Life Lessons for the Holidays and Beyond

Through this tradition, our family learned several invaluable lessons:

Generosity Begins at Home

The Yearly Toy Purge wasn’t just about cleaning out closets; it was about cultivating a habit of giving. Our kids learned that generosity starts with recognizing the blessings you have and being willing to share them.

Giving Is a Form of Hospitality

Hospitality isn’t always about inviting people into your home. It can be as simple as giving someone a toy, a book, or a piece of clothing that says, “You are seen, and you are valued.”

The Joy of Selflessness

There’s a unique kind of joy that comes from giving. Watching our kids find happiness in sharing their belongings reminded us of Acts 20:35:

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Thoughtfulness Matters

Teaching our kids to give thoughtfully—to only donate items in good condition—reinforced the idea that generosity isn’t about getting rid of junk. It’s about honoring the dignity of the recipient.

Keeping the Spirit Alive

Though we’ve moved away from Vermont, the tradition of the Yearly Toy Purge remains a cornerstone of our holiday season. It’s more than just a family activity—it’s a way of keeping the spirit of hospitality and generosity alive.

As the kids have grown, so has their understanding of why we give. They know that the act of giving isn’t just about the items; it’s about the message those items carry. Each toy, each piece of clothing is a small token of God’s love, passed from one person to another.

And every year, when we see the joy on our kids’ faces as they load up their bags, or when we picture the smiles of the children receiving the gifts, we’re reminded of one simple truth:

Hospitality, at its core, is about making space—for others, for generosity, and for the love of Christ to shine through.

A Tradition Worth Sharing

The table at our church in Vermont might have been a simple idea, but its impact was profound. It taught us all that hospitality doesn’t require grand gestures or perfect circumstances. It just requires a willingness to give and a heart open to serving others.

So this holiday season, whether it’s through a toy purge, a donation table, or simply opening your home to someone in need, take a moment to reflect on the hospitality of generosity. Because in giving, we don’t just share our blessings—we create space for the love of God to work in and through us.

When you picture the Magi—the wise men rolling into the Christmas story—you probably see three regal figures with robes and camels, following a star like it’s the ultimate GPS. They arrive bearing gifts that would put any Secret Santa exchange to shame: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But who were these travelers, really? And what can their story teach us about how to live with hospitality, faith, and generosity? Let’s dig into their backstory, their cameo in the greatest story ever told, and the lessons they left us—bonus points for how it all connects to St. Nick and some of our favorite Christmas traditions.

Who Were the Magi, Anyway?

The word “Magi” comes from the Greek magoi, which sounds fancy because it was. These guys were a priestly crew from ancient Persia, experts in astronomy, spirituality, and ancient prophecies. Think of them as the Ph.D. theologians-slash-astrologers of their time.

Their lineage likely links back to the days of Daniel (yes, the lion’s den guy). Remember when Daniel was in Babylon, interpreting dreams and climbing the royal ladder? He probably dropped some Jewish Messianic prophecy knowledge on these scholars, setting the stage for the Magi to anticipate a King like no other.

When they saw that star, they didn’t just hop on a whim and say, “Road trip!” These men were the real deal—wise, learned, and dedicated to finding the truth, even if it meant a brutal journey.

The Magi’s Big Moment

Cue Matthew 2:1-12. The Magi arrive, gifts in hand, ready to honor the newborn King. But let’s pause here and dig into why their gifts and journey matter so much.

The Gifts

Gold: Fit for a king. Jesus wasn’t just any baby—He was the King.

Frankincense: Symbolizing worship and divinity, pointing to Jesus as our High Priest.

Myrrh: Spicy foreshadowing alert! Myrrh, used in burial, pointed to His ultimate sacrifice.

These weren’t just random trinkets they picked up at a duty-free shop. The Magi knew who Jesus was, and their gifts reflected His identity and mission. On a practical note, these treasures probably funded Mary and Joseph’s escape to Egypt. Talk about timing.

The Journey

These guys didn’t Uber their way to Bethlehem. They trekked from the East—likely Persia or Babylon—facing dangers and discomfort because they believed honoring Jesus was worth it. Hospitality, in this case, meant bringing their very best, even when it was inconvenient.

The Humility

Here’s the kicker: despite their wealth and wisdom, the Magi knelt before a child born in a humble setting. They remind us that true greatness bows to true holiness, recognizing God in unexpected places.

The Magi’s Influence: Passing the Torch

The Magi weren’t just travelers—they were legacy builders. Their knowledge of the Messianic prophecies wasn’t accidental. It came from centuries of faithful teaching and preparation, starting with Daniel’s influence.

Passing down truth, whether through mentorship, teaching, or storytelling, is its own act of hospitality. Proverbs 11:25 nails it:

“Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered.”

The Magi’s dedication to preserving and sharing this knowledge meant that, when the moment came, they were ready—and they helped others see the light, literally.

Hospitality Lessons from the Magi

The Magi’s actions are like a masterclass in hospitality. Let’s break it down:

Generosity

Their gifts weren’t just thoughtful—they were sacrificial. Similarly, we’re called to give with intention, whether it’s our time, talents, or treasures. Remember 2 Corinthians 9:7:

“God loves a cheerful giver.”

Sacrifice

Hospitality isn’t always convenient. The Magi left their homes, braved hardships, and offered their best. Real hospitality often requires stepping out of our comfort zones to serve others.

Welcoming the Stranger

The Magi’s inclusion in the Christmas story is a nod to God’s inclusive hospitality. Gentiles honoring the King of the Jews? That’s Galatians 3:28 in action:

“There is neither Jew nor Gentile… for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

From the Magi to St. Nicholas: A Legacy of Generosity

Fast forward a few centuries, and we meet St. Nicholas, the OG Santa Claus. Like the Magi, Nicholas was all about selfless giving to honor Christ.

Generous Giving

St. Nicholas is famous for slipping dowries to poor families, saving daughters from slavery. The Magi’s gifts weren’t just symbolic; they were practical, too. Both show us how generosity meets both physical and spiritual needs.

Defender of Truth

Nicholas wasn’t just a gift-giver; he also threw down (literally, if the Nicaea stories are true) for the truth of Christ’s divinity. The Magi’s gifts proclaimed Jesus’s identity, just as Nicholas defended it.

Christmas Symbols: Signs of Hospitality

Before you dismiss Christmas traditions as “too commercial,” remember their deeper meanings:

The Star: It guided the Magi and symbolizes divine hospitality, reminding us to seek and find Christ (Matthew 7:7).

The Evergreen Tree: A picture of eternal life, its lights representing Jesus as the Light of the World (John 8:12).

Gift-Giving: Inspired by the Magi and St. Nicholas, this tradition reflects God’s ultimate gift—His Son (John 3:16).

Living the Magi’s Legacy

This Christmas, let’s follow the Magi’s lead:

Give Generously: Offer your best to others, whether it’s your time, energy, or resources.

Welcome the Stranger: Embrace those outside your usual circle with God’s love.

Pass Down Wisdom: Share truth and guidance with the next generation.

Stand for Truth: Defend the gospel with grace and humility.

The Magi’s story is about more than a long journey and fancy gifts. It’s a reminder that hospitality, generosity, and faith are acts of worship that reflect God’s heart. As we celebrate this season, let’s embody their legacy, leading others to the Light just as they followed the star to the King.
The Real Santa: Defender of Truth

December 19th, 2024

When I think back to my childhood, the magic of Christmas wasn’t just in the twinkling lights, the smell of cookies baking, or the thrill of presents under the tree. No, the true enchantment came from the lengths my Mama, Papa, and Nana went to keep the spirit of Santa Claus alive. To them, Santa wasn’t just a jolly guy in a red suit but a living, breathing symbol of generosity, kindness, and unbridled joy.

I still remember one Christmas Eve when I was about eight years old. I decided to test my theory that Santa was more myth than man. Armed with curiosity, I crept out of bed and tiptoed toward the living room. There, bathed in the glow of the Christmas tree, was Nana, coming back from the placement of gifts under the branches. My young heart skipped a beat. Was Santa a sham? The thought was almost too much to bear.

But Nana, bless her quick thinking and mischievous grin, didn’t miss a beat. With a twinkle in her eye, she shooed me back to bed and whispered, “Santa just left. I was up talking to him because we’re old friends. He wanted to make sure everything was perfect before he headed to the next house.” That was all it took. The magic was preserved, and I drifted back to sleep, comforted by the image of Nana and Santa sharing a laugh over milk and cookies.

As I grew older, the thrill of receiving presents evolved into a deeper joy—the joy of giving. I began to understand that Santa wasn’t just about toys or stockings; he was about embodying a spirit of selfless generosity. Today, I even don the red suit myself during the Christmas season. Playing Santa has become one of my favorite traditions. There’s nothing quite like seeing a child’s face light up as they share their wishes or watching a parent’s eyes glisten with nostalgia. It’s a privilege that I treasure deeply. And yes that is me in the photo.

Not everyone, however, shares my enthusiasm for Santa Claus. I learned this the hard way during my first Christmas dating my wife. My future mother-in-law, with a mix of concern and conviction, informed me that Santa was an “enemy of Christ.”

“Santa?” I asked, baffled. “The jolly guy who brings toys?”

She proceeded to explain her reasoning: Santa lurks in fireplaces like the smoke of hell, his name rearranged spells “Satan,” and his jolly persona distracts people from the true meaning of Christmas. At first, I thought this was a one-off perspective, but as the years went by, I encountered others who shared similar sentiments. To some, Santa Claus is seen as a rival to Jesus, a symbol of commercialism, or even a pagan imposter.

This couldn’t be further from the truth. To understand the real Santa Claus, we need to travel back to the 4th century and meet St. Nicholas of Myra. This Christian bishop, known for his unwavering faith and profound generosity, lived in what is now modern-day Turkey. St. Nicholas was a fierce defender of Christian orthodoxy, particularly during a time of great theological upheaval. The Arian heresy, which denied the full divinity of Jesus, was gaining traction, and Nicholas wasn’t having it. Legend has it that during the First Council of Nicaea in 325 AD, he was so incensed by Arius’s arguments that he punched him in the teeth, (insert the POW words in the air like 60’s Batman show) then picked him up tossed him out of the meeting in to the cold street in the mud and turned and looked at the rest of the group and asked if anyone else agreed with him. While this act might not make the modern WWJD playbook, it underscores Nicholas’s passionate commitment to protecting the truth of Christ.

But St. Nicholas wasn’t just a theological heavyweight; he was also a man of action. Stories abound of his secret acts of kindness, the most famous being his gifts to a poor man’s three daughters. Unable to afford dowries, the girls faced the grim prospect of lives in servitude. Nicholas, moved by their plight, secretly delivered bags of gold to their home, ensuring their futures were secure. This legacy of selfless giving became the foundation for the Santa Claus tradition we know today.

St. Nicholas’s anonymous generosity perfectly reflects Jesus’s teaching in Matthew 6:3-4:

“But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.”

Nicholas’s actions remind us that true hospitality and generosity aren’t about seeking applause but about serving others with a pure heart. This spirit of giving lies at the heart of both the Christmas season and the Christian faith.

Why the Hatred for Santa? So, why do some Christians bristle at the mention of Santa Claus? Here are a few common arguments and why they miss the point: “Santa Distracts from Jesus” It’s true that Christmas can sometimes become overly commercialized. But that’s not Santa’s fault. When presented as a symbol of generosity and kindness, Santa can actually point us back to Jesus, whose birth we celebrate during this season. St. Nicholas’s story is one of Christlike love—giving sacrificially to bless others. Far from being a distraction, Santa’s example invites us to embody the same generosity and hospitality that Jesus teaches. “Santa Has Pagan Origins?” While it’s true that many cultural symbols have complex histories, the core of Santa Claus is deeply rooted in Christianity. St. Nicholas’s life and legacy have inspired countless acts of kindness and hospitality over the centuries. Rather than focusing on any perceived pagan connections, we should celebrate the ways his story reflects the love and generosity of Christ.

Beyond Santa Claus, many Christmas traditions carry profound spiritual significance. Let’s explore a few:

The Christmas Tree: A Sign of Eternal Life

The evergreen tree, which remains lush throughout the year, symbolizes eternal life in Christ. Jeremiah 17:7-8 says: “Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream.” Martin Luther is credited with popularizing the tradition of decorating trees with lights to reflect the light of Christ.

Gift-Giving: A Reflection of God’s Generosity

The tradition of giving gifts mirrors the gifts of the Magi (Matthew 2:11) and God’s ultimate gift of His Son (John 3:16). Far from being about materialism, gift-giving reminds us of God’s boundless generosity and inspires us to share with others.

Christmas Lights: Shining the Light of Christ

Jesus said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12). Twinkling lights symbolize Christ’s light breaking into the darkness of our world.

Lessons in Hospitality from St. Nicholas

Give Generously

St. Nicholas’s secret acts of kindness remind us to give freely, as Jesus teaches in Matthew 10:8:

“Freely you have received; freely give.”

Welcome the Outcast

Romans 15:7 encourages:

“Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God.”

St. Nicholas’s care for the marginalized reflects this inclusive hospitality. His generosity wasn’t limited to those who could repay him; it extended to anyone in need.

Defend the Truth

Like St. Nicholas, we are called to stand firm in our faith. Ephesians 6:14 says:

“Stand firm, then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place.”

Nicholas’s defense of Christ’s divinity at the Council of Nicaea reminds us that standing for truth is a form of hospitality—it invites others into the life-giving knowledge of who God truly is. Defending the truth as an act of hospitality might not be the first connection that comes to mind, but think about it for a second. At its core, hospitality is about welcoming others—making space for them to feel safe, cared for, and valued. It’s not just about putting out a cheese board and fluffing some throw pillows (although let’s not discount the power of a good charcuterie spread); it’s about creating a place where people can encounter something real. And what’s more real, more solid, than the truth?

Here’s the thing: truth, for us as believers, isn’t just an abstract idea or a philosophical debate. Truth has a name, and that name is Jesus. Remember what He said in John 14:6? “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” So, when we defend the truth, we’re not just protecting a concept—we’re standing up for the very heart of our faith and, in doing so, creating an open invitation for others to meet Jesus for themselves.

This wasn’t just a theological disagreement; Arius was messing with the foundational truth of who Jesus is. Now, I’m not saying we should go around decking people in the name of truth—let’s keep our hands to ourselves, violence is not the answer……..until it is—but what Nicholas did was about more than passion. He was defending the truth to protect the faith of the church, ensuring people could encounter the real Jesus: fully God, fully man, fully capable of saving us.

In a way, St. Nicholas’s fiery stance was a kind of hospitality. Stick with me here. By safeguarding the truth, he was creating a spiritual home where future generations—people like you and me—could find Jesus as He truly is. He was standing guard at the door, making sure that what we walked into wasn’t some watered-down version of the gospel but the real deal, the kind of truth that transforms lives.

Hospitality also means protecting the vulnerable, and let’s be honest, a lot of people today are vulnerable to lies. The world is a buffet of half-truths, twisted narratives, and outright deceptions, all served up with a side of confusion. When we defend the truth, we’re essentially pulling people out of the chaos and saying, “Hey, you don’t have to stay lost in all that. There’s clarity, there’s peace, and it’s right here.”

But here’s where the rubber meets the road: how we defend the truth matters. It’s not about swinging verbal punches like a theological Rocky Balboa. It’s about inviting people into the truth with love and respect. Remember what Peter said? “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect” (1 Peter 3:15). That’s the difference between hospitality and hostility. Hospitality says, “I care about you, and I want to help you see the beauty and freedom in this.” Hostility just wants to win the argument.

Think of defending the truth like hosting a dinner party. You don’t throw open the door and start shouting, “You better love my lasagna, or you’re wrong!” No, you invite people in, you set the table, you create an atmosphere where they feel comfortable enough to take that first bite. When we defend the truth, we should do it in a way that makes people want to lean in, not run for the hills.

In practical terms, this could mean having a heart-to-heart with someone who’s wrestling with doubt, answering their questions with honesty and patience instead of rushing to “win” the conversation. Or it might look like taking a stand against a lie in the public sphere—not with arrogance, but with the quiet confidence that comes from knowing the truth is worth fighting for. It could even be as simple as living in such a way that your life becomes a living invitation to meet Jesus.

At its core, defending the truth is about extending an invitation. It’s like saying, “Come on in. Let me show you what’s real. Let me introduce you to the One who can give you rest for your soul.” That’s the heart of hospitality, isn’t it? Making space for others to encounter something—or Someone—that changes everything.

So, let’s not think of defending the truth as some combative task reserved for theologians and apologists. It’s something we’re all called to do, and when we do it with love, humility, and a heart for others, it becomes one of the most radical acts of hospitality we can offer. Truth isn’t a wall that keeps people out; it’s a door that welcomes them in. And when we stand at that door, ready to hold it open, we’re doing exactly what Jesus calls us to do.

To close, let’s revisit the famous 1897 editorial from the Chicago Sun-Times in response to 8-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon’s question, “Is there a Santa Claus?” The reply beautifully encapsulates the spirit of St. Nicholas:

“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.”

Santa Claus, rooted in the life of St. Nicholas, is not a distraction but a reminder of the spirit of giving and hospitality that Jesus embodies. As we celebrate Christmas, let’s reclaim the true meaning behind its symbols and traditions. By showing hospitality, defending the truth, and giving generously, we reflect the heart of God and the legacy of St. Nicholas. Because yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus—and through Christ, the love and generosity he represents can live on in each of us.
Tinsel and Truth: Unwrapping the Deeper Story of the Nativity

December 18th, 2024

Every year, my home church hosted a Christmas Eve White Gift Service. It was one of those deeply cherished traditions that felt like stepping into a warm, familiar storybook. The centerpiece of the evening was always the living nativity, performed by the children of the church. To call it a “production” might be a stretch—it was more like a holy chaos with tinsel halos and bathrobe shepherds. But it was the kind of chaos that made your heart swell with joy.

One year in particular stands out vividly in my memory. My sweet little girl, along with her angelic squad of friends, donned glittery tinsel halos and glided down the aisle as if heaven itself had commissioned their performance. Their eyes sparkled with the innocence and wonder only children can muster on Christmas Eve. Meanwhile, my nephew took on the role of a shepherd. Clutching his staff like he’d just wrangled a flock of real sheep, he stood proud, fully embodying his part.

And then there was the lamb. A very distracted, very two-year-old lamb.

This little boy—a church families youngest—had been roped into the role mostly because someone needed to crawl around in fuzzy pajamas. But rather than meekly following the shepherds, he spent most of the service alternating between trying to remove his lamb ears and making a break for the Christmas tree in the corner. At one point, he plopped down center stage, happily chewing on what I’m pretty sure was part of the manger, all while waving to people and trying to grab the lit candles. The audience, of course, adored him. There’s something about a toddler in costume that makes even the most solemn congregants grin from ear to ear.

The culmination of the service was always the giving of symbolic gifts to Jesus for His birthday. Each family brought a simple piece of paper with something from our life that we want to give to Jesus—a “white gift”—which was placed at the foot of the altar. Watching my friends and family lay their small offerings before the nativity scene filled me with a quiet kind of reverence. It was a moment to pause amidst the busyness of the season and reflect on the heart of Christmas.

But as my thoughts wandered, I couldn’t help but think of the people in my life who shared their birthdays with this festive season. My dad, my father-in-law, and my brother-in-law all have birthdays that fall inconveniently close to Christmas. And by “inconveniently,” I mean they’ve been shorted on birthday celebrations more times than I can count.

Growing up, my dad’s birthday presents were often wrapped in leftover Christmas paper. My father-in-law’s birthday cakes sometimes might as well of had poinsettias along with candles. And my brother-in-law? Well, his birthday parties were usually merged with whatever family Christmas gathering was already on the calendar.

I’ve often wondered whether it’s a blessing or a curse to share your birthday with the most celebrated holiday of the year. On one hand, the entire world seems to be in a festive mood. There are lights, music, and feasts galore. But on the other hand, does your special day get lost in the shuffle? Does the joy of the season overshadow the celebration of you?

As I watched those children every year, their faces glowing in the candlelight of the sanctuary, made me realized that perhaps it depends on perspective. Sharing your birthday with Christmas might feel like being a shepherd—humble, overshadowed by angels and kings—but it also means your day is woven into the greatest story ever told. To be celebrated alongside the birth of Christ is, in its own way, a profound honor. It’s a reminder that the best gifts aren’t wrapped in paper but are found in love, family, and the shared joy of the season.

That Christmas Eve, as the last notes of “Silent Night” filled the church and the children paraded out in their mismatched costumes, I held onto the sweetness of the moment. My little girl, my nephew, and yes, even the distracted lamb, had reminded me of the beauty of simplicity. And as I thought about those December birthdays in my family, I decided that maybe—just maybe—it’s not about whether you’re shorted or celebrated. It’s about the love you give and the love you receive, no matter the season.

And then there’s Jesus—His first birthday had angels singing His praises, and His last was marked by being beaten and put to death. At this point, you’re probably looking up and saying, “Wait a second, that’s Easter, not Christmas.” To which I’d reply, “Ah, you must not have done much sheep farming, have you?”

Ah, the birth of Jesus—the story that’s been told and retold so many times it feels like we were there. Cue the shepherds, the angels, and that star brighter than your neighbor’s Christmas light competition. But beneath all the cozy nativity vibes lies a narrative packed with symbolism, unexpected heroes, and a hospitality so radical it changes the way we’re called to live.

So, grab a cup of coffee (or a mug of eggnog if you’re feeling festive), and let’s dive into the deeper layers of this timeless story.

When Was Jesus Born, Really?

Spoiler alert: it probably wasn’t December 25th. Most scholars agree that Jesus was likely born in spring, and there’s biblical evidence to back this up. Remember that verse in Luke 2:8? “And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.” Here’s the deal: shepherds didn’t hang out in fields during winter—too cold. Instead, this detail points to lambing season, which happens in the spring.

And speaking of lambs, Bethlehem was the place for producing sacrificial lambs for the temple. These lambs had to be flawless—no blemishes, no imperfections. The shepherds around Bethlehem weren’t just casual caretakers; they were pros, tasked with protecting these lambs and preparing them for their sacred purpose.

Now, think about it: Jesus, the Lamb of God, was born in Bethlehem, laid in a manger, and wrapped in swaddling cloths. Sound familiar? It should. This was exactly how sacrificial lambs were handled—born in caves, wrapped up tight to protect them, and placed in stone mangers to keep them safe. The symbolism is about as subtle as a trumpet blast. From the moment He entered the world, Jesus was marked for a divine purpose: the ultimate sacrifice for humanity.

Let’s talk about the shepherds. We tend to picture them as peaceful, pastoral figures with halos and well-behaved sheep. Reality check: these guys were gritty, smelly, and considered the outcasts of their time. They weren’t rolling up to temple worship because their line of work made them ceremonially unclean.

But here’s the twist: these same shepherds were entrusted with the most important job in Bethlehem—protecting the sacrificial lambs. And when the angels showed up to announce Jesus’ birth, they weren’t just cluing the shepherds in on a cute baby in a manger. They were calling them to witness and guard the Lamb of God Himself.

Now, add this layer of drama: King Herod had issued a terrifying decree to kill every boy under the age of two. The city would’ve been crawling with Roman soldiers enforcing the census and keeping tabs on the population. Bethlehem wasn’t just bustling; it was a powder keg.

Knowing this, the shepherds’ role takes on even more significance. These men, who were already skilled at protecting lambs, now had an even greater charge—to watch over the newborn Lamb of God in a city packed with danger. Their presence at the manger wasn’t just a cameo; it was an act of courage and devotion.

We can’t forget about the innkeeper. Sure, he doesn’t get much screen time in the Gospel account, but his role is crucial. Overcrowded conditions, Roman guards everywhere, and no room at the inn—sounds like a recipe for chaos. Yet this unnamed host made room for Mary and Joseph in a stable.

Was it ideal? Nope. Was it necessary? Absolutely. The stable became a sanctuary, and the innkeeper’s simple act of hospitality reminds us that making space for others—even when it’s inconvenient—is at the heart of Christ-like love.

The Christmas story overflows with hospitality. The shepherds left their fields to celebrate Jesus. The innkeeper found room when there was none. Even the angels got in on the action, throwing the ultimate heavenly concert to announce the birth of the Savior.

But hospitality isn’t just about making people comfortable. It’s about creating a space where they can encounter grace, joy, and love. Think about the shepherds again. They didn’t just show up to admire the baby; they stayed to protect Him, fulfilling their role in the story. Their actions challenge us to do the same—to stand up for the vulnerable and offer refuge to those in need.

So, what does this all mean for us? How do we carry the spirit of the nativity beyond the holiday season?

Be Present: In a world that’s constantly on the go, giving someone your full attention is a gift that speaks volumes.

Make Space: Hospitality doesn’t require a Pinterest-worthy home. It’s about opening your heart and sharing what you have, no matter how humble.

Serve with Courage: Like the shepherds, step up to protect and care for those who need it most, even when it’s risky or inconvenient.

Celebrate Together: Hospitality isn’t just about meeting needs; it’s about creating moments of joy and connection that point back to God’s love.

Jesus’ birth wasn’t just a historical event; it was an eternal invitation. From the shepherds guarding the Lamb of God to the innkeeper making room in a stable, every act of hospitality in the nativity story reflects God’s radical love and grace.

So, as we celebrate His birth this year, let’s remember the deeper call of the Christmas story. Let’s embrace a lifestyle of welcome, protection, and love—one that points others to the ultimate Host who invites us all to His table of grace.

Because at the end of the day, the nativity story isn’t just about a baby born in Bethlehem. It’s about a God who made room for us—and calls us to do the same for others.
Ugly Sweaters and Sacred Spaces: A Christmas Reflection

December 17th, 2024

This past Sunday, our church hosted its annual Ugly Christmas Sweater service. To say it was a spectacle would be an understatement. There was a Rasta tie-dyed Santa, Christmas cow sweaters, and what I’m pretty sure was a Dominic the Donkey shirt in the mix. One brave soul went full Grinch, complete with pointy green shoes. (Shout out to Pastor Stoney for that masterpiece!) As I sat there taking it all in, something stirred in my memory—those sweaters from my Nana.

Now, let me tell you about my Nana’s Christmas sweaters. They weren’t your run-of-the-mill ugly sweaters; they were next-level, handcrafted monstrosities. Think snowmen with googly eyes, Christmas trees stitched with real jingle bells, and reindeer that stared into your soul like they knew all your secrets. These colorful, itchy creations made us look like a Hallmark holiday special gone hilariously wrong. If Ralphie had been given the choice between his pink bunny onesie and one of Nana’s sweaters, he would’ve taken one look, grabbed his trusty Red Ryder BB gun, and shot out his other eye just to escape.

Nana didn’t stop at just one sweater per person, either. Oh no. She’d gift us three sweaters—each in different sizes. At the time, we assumed she just couldn’t remember our sizes. But looking back, I think she was playing the long game. “You’ll grow into it,” she’d say with a wink, like she was training us for some epic sweater marathon where we’d age gracefully into the wooly works of art.

Every Christmas morning, we’d sit around unwrapping these sweaters, already knowing what was inside but laughing anyway. Nana would perch in her rocking chair, beaming as we tried them on. “Don’t you look festive?” she’d say, while we nodded politely, itching to peel off the scratchy fabric. But here’s the thing—we secretly loved them. Not because they were stylish (they absolutely weren’t), but because they were her.

Nana’s sweaters weren’t just gifts; they were pieces of her heart. Every gaudy sequin and every oddly placed pom-pom reminded us that she cared. She thought of us. She wanted to give us something that screamed “you’re loved” in her own quirky way.

And as strange as it might sound, those sweaters remind me of the priestly garments described in Exodus—and the holiday traditions we carry on today. In Exodus, God commanded the Israelites to create robes for the priests, garments that were more than just clothing. They were rich in symbolism and meaning, stitched with care and intention. Each detail reminded the Israelites of their connection to God. Nana’s sweaters, in their own chaotic way, served a similar purpose: they made us feel seen, loved, and connected.

Nana’s sweaters—and the priestly robes—share a common thread (pun intended……..your welcome and yes that’s for you Stoner): intentionality. God didn’t tell the priests to throw on any old tunic before stepping into the Tabernacle. Their garments were meticulously designed, layer upon layer, reflecting their role as mediators between heaven and earth. Similarly, Nana didn’t just grab sweaters off a rack. She hunted for the quirkiest designs she could find, pouring her time and energy into choosing something uniquely “us.”

This intentionality carries over into how we prepare for Christmas. When we hang ornaments, bake cookies, or string lights, we’re doing more than decorating; we’re creating spaces of belonging. Every strand of tinsel, every flickering candle, every plate of sugar cookies says, “You matter. You belong here.” Just like Nana’s sweaters, it’s not about perfection—it’s about presence.

Let’s be real: Nana’s sweaters were far from perfect. The sleeves were too long, the patterns were loud enough to be seen from space, and the fabric was scratchy enough to rival sandpaper. But they were perfect in their imperfection. They reminded us that love doesn’t have to be polished to be meaningful.

The same is true for our holiday traditions. The Christmas tree might be lopsided, the sugar cookies might be slightly burnt, and the lights outside might flicker in a way that screams “call an electrician.” But none of that matters. What matters is the effort, the thought, and the love behind it all.

Nana’s sweaters taught me to embrace that imperfection. Today, as my family and I deck the halls, I don’t stress about making everything picture-perfect. Instead, I focus on creating moments that matter. Whether it’s hanging a crooked star on the tree or baking cookies with my kids (and letting them go wild with the sprinkles), it’s about the joy, the laughter, and the togetherness.

Thinking about those sweaters also makes me reflect on the sacredness of the spaces we create during the holidays. The Tabernacle in the Old Testament was a sensory masterpiece, designed to bridge the gap between heaven and earth. Every detail—the embroidered cherubs, the golden lampstand, the Showbread table—was intentional, inviting God’s presence and connecting the Israelites to something greater.

In a way, our homes during Christmas become modern-day Tabernacles. The twinkling lights remind us of the Star of Bethlehem, guiding the wise men to Christ. The greenery echoes the evergreen hope of the season. And the candles in the windows—rooted in Irish tradition—symbolize hospitality, declaring that there’s room in our hearts and homes for others.

These details aren’t just for show; they tell a story of invitation and belonging. Just as the Tabernacle was a place where God dwelled among His people, our holiday preparations create spaces where love, joy, and connection can thrive.

Of course, hospitality isn’t just about the physical space; it’s about the heart behind it. The priests in Exodus prepared themselves through ritual washing, ensuring they were ready to serve in God’s presence. Similarly, our holiday preparations—cleaning, decorating, baking—aren’t about achieving perfection. They’re acts of love, small ways of saying, “I’m ready to welcome you.”

This preparation extends beyond our homes. It’s about readying our hearts to embrace the season’s true meaning. Untangling Christmas lights might feel like a chore, but it’s also an opportunity to reflect on the Light of the World. Baking cookies might be messy, but it’s a chance to create something that brings joy to others. Every task, no matter how small, becomes an act of worship when done with love and intention.

One of the most striking elements of the Tabernacle was the Golden Lampstand, which symbolized God’s presence. At Christmas, we carry on this tradition with the glow of lights in our homes. Whether it’s a string of bulbs on the tree or a single candle in the window, these lights are more than decoration; they’re declarations of hope.

They remind us of the Light of the World, born in a humble stable in Bethlehem. They remind us that even in the darkest nights, there is a light that cannot be extinguished.

Now, as an adult, I find myself wishing I still had one of Nana’s sweaters. Not to wear (well, maybe for an ugly sweater party), but to hold onto as a tangible piece of her. Those sweaters weren’t just clothing; they were symbols of her love, her care, and her desire to make us feel special.

This holiday season, I’m inspired to carry on her legacy. Every ornament I hang, every dish I prepare, every strand of lights my son and I wrestle into place—it’s all about creating spaces where people feel loved and valued. It’s about saying, “You matter. You belong here.”

Because at the end of the day, Christmas isn’t about the decorations or the gifts. It’s about the thought, effort, and love that go into them. It’s about the hospitality that makes others feel seen, valued, and connected.

Nana’s sweaters weren’t pretty, but her love was. And that’s what I want to pass on to my family and everyone who steps into my home this season. Because love doesn’t have to fit perfectly; it just has to be present.

So as we string the lights, bake the cookies, and gather around the table, let’s remember the deeper meaning behind it all. Just as the Tabernacle pointed to God’s presence among His people, our holiday homes can point to the joy and light of Christ.

Let’s embrace the imperfect, the quirky, and the heartfelt. Let’s create spaces where love shines brightly, just like those sweaters from Nana.

And who knows? Maybe one day, my kids will look back on our Christmases and laugh about the traditions we’ve created—crooked stars, burnt cookies, and all.

Because at the heart of Christmas is this simple truth: love doesn’t have to be pretty to be meaningful. It just has to be present.
Yippee-Ki-Yay, It’s Christmas: A Tabernacle-Inspired Take on Holiday Hosting

December 13th, 2024

Thanksgiving weekend in our house isn’t just a time to polish off the turkey leftovers (though let’s not pretend those sandwiches aren’t a highlight). It’s the sacred kickoff to the Christmas season—a whirlwind of nostalgia, chaos, and enough twinkling lights to rival the Vegas Strip. It’s messy, it’s magical, and it’s hands-down one of my favorite family traditions.

The morning typically begins with our youngest, Nessah Lou, tearing through the house like a sugar-fueled elf, declaring it’s time to watch The Grinch. She’s relentless, folks—every single year, she crowns it the official Christmas movie. Alex tries to stage a rebellion with anything but the Grinch, Eliana campaigns for A Charlie Brown Christmas, and Hannah pushes hard for Elf. And me? Let’s be honest—my vote’s always for Die Hard. Because nothing screams “holiday spirit” like Hans Gruber taking a tumble off Nakatomi Plaza.

While the cinematic debate rages on, the rest of us start dragging out the Christmas bins. The living room quickly morphs into a glitter-coated battlefield: garlands everywhere, lights in knots that defy the laws of physics, and ornaments peeking out of tissue paper like old friends. The tree, our annual MVP, takes its rightful spot in the middle of it all—ready to wear its history on its branches.

Decorating the tree is less about aesthetics and more about storytelling. My wife carefully hands me a heavy ornament of Santa kneeling at the cross, reminiscing about our first Christmas as newlyweds. The kids giggle as they uncover a comically large reindeer gifted by my in-laws, and somewhere in the chaos, a few relics from our childhoods make their way onto the branches. Every ornament holds a memory, and as they go up, so do the stories—woven together like the lights we struggle to untangle every year.

Meanwhile, the kitchen becomes ground zero for our holiday baking adventures—or, more accurately, misadventures. Someone inevitably forgets an ingredient (how do you miss the flour in cookies?), frosting ends up in places it has no business being, and we spend as much time laughing as we do baking. We debate who gets the cookies this year—teachers, neighbors, friends—and I make my usual case for scaling back because, let’s face it, I will eat half the batch if they stick around too long.

Amid the fun, there’s always a twinge of homesickness. My wife and I share how much we miss our families—siblings, parents, nieces, and nephews. It’s bittersweet, this time of year. But there’s gratitude, too, for the traditions we’ve built here with our little crew.

One of my favorite traditions is placing candles in the windows, a nod to my Irish heritage. It’s a simple gesture—a symbol of welcome, a beacon for the weary traveler, much like Mary and Joseph seeking shelter that first Christmas night. Watching my kids light those candles (battery-powered, because, you know, safety) is a quiet moment that feels sacred. It’s a reminder of what this season is really about—hope, hospitality, and making room for others.

Outside, my son and I tackle the lights. Every year, we dream big—visions of Clark Griswold-level brilliance dancing in our heads. My wife, the voice of reason, tries to rein us in. “We don’t need to be seen from space,” she says, shaking her head as we push our luck. Still, we manage to string up enough lights to give the house a warm, welcoming glow.

Of course, no weekend like this is complete without a little drama. There’s always a spat—usually about me wanting to go overboard on something (guilty as charged). But we always find our way back to the bigger picture: the love and joy that make all this effort worth it.

By Sunday night, the transformation is complete. The house feels alive—not just with decorations, but with the heart behind every detail. As we sit together in the glow of the tree, with Nessah Lou inevitably asking to watch The Grinch again, I can’t help but feel a swell of gratitude.

This weekend isn’t just about getting the house ready for Christmas. It’s about preparing our hearts—making space for the season and the people it might bring. It’s messy, noisy, and far from perfect, but that’s what makes it beautiful.

Because in the end, the greatest gifts aren’t the ones under the tree—they’re the laughter, the memories, and the messy, magical chaos we get to share. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The weeks leading up to Christmas can feel like a marathon—cleaning, decorating, baking, and arranging every last detail to make our homes holiday-ready. It’s enough to make anyone’s head spin. But what if, somewhere between untangling lights and scrubbing counters, we paused to consider why we’re doing it all? Turns out, the story of the tabernacle in Exodus might hold a little inspiration. Spoiler alert: it’s not just about perfecting the decor; it’s about preparing a space where love, connection, and care take center stage.

Here’s how lessons from the tabernacle can shape the way we prepare our homes—and our hearts—for the Christmas season.

The tabernacle wasn’t just a fancy tent; it was God’s way of saying, “I’m right here with you.” Portable, approachable, and smack-dab in the middle of the camp, it was a symbol of His presence among His people. Christmas is our chance to channel that same open-door spirit.

Let’s be real—your home doesn’t need to look like a spread from Better Homes & Gardens to feel welcoming. Whether the floors are gleaming or the laundry’s still lurking in a corner, the heart of hospitality isn’t about perfection; it’s about connection. When we invite others in, we mirror God’s presence in the tabernacle, reminding them, “You belong here.”

God’s instructions for the tabernacle were Pinterest-level specific—embroidered cherubs, golden lampstands, the works. But it wasn’t about showing off; it was about intentionality. Every detail was a reminder to the Israelites of just how much they mattered to Him.

In the same way, the little touches we add—twinkling lights, the smell of cinnamon, or a table set with care—say to our guests, “You’re worth this.” Maybe it’s making their favorite cookies or creating a cozy spot to chat by the fire. These small gestures echo God’s love in ways that words often can’t.

The tabernacle wasn’t a solo project. It was a full-on community effort—everyone pitching in with what they had. Gold, silver, goat skins (hey, don’t knock it till you try it). Christmas prep doesn’t have to be a one-person show either.

Let the kids decorate cookies (even if half the frosting ends up on the dog). Ask friends to bring a dish to share. Rope your spouse into hanging lights or arranging chairs. Every contribution, big or small, adds to the celebration and strengthens the bonds between us.

The tabernacle was designed to guide worshippers closer to God, step by step. Our Christmas prep can do the same—create an atmosphere that draws people in. Twinkling lights, a crackling fire, the scent of baking cookies—these aren’t just festive extras. They’re cues that say, “Relax. You’re home here.”

Whether it’s a loud, laughter-filled feast or a quiet moment around the tree, the environment we create helps usher in the kind of connection that makes the season unforgettable.

In the tabernacle, every item had meaning. The lampstand, the Showbread table—none of it was random. It reminded the Israelites of God’s provision and presence. Likewise, the things we put out at Christmas—the stockings, nativity sets, or even that scrappy, handmade ornament from kindergarten—tell a story.

Decorate with purpose. Let the nativity remind you of the gift of Christ. Let the ornaments carry the weight of family history. These little touches turn our homes into places where love and memory live side by side.

Here’s the thing about the tabernacle: it wasn’t grand because of its size or extravagance. Its sacredness came from God’s presence. And that’s the heart of Christmas, too. It’s not about throwing the fanciest party or finding the perfect gift. It’s about the moments that bring us closer—shared laughter, heartfelt conversations, or simply sitting together in the glow of the tree.

Even when things go sideways (and let’s face it, something always does), grace carries the day. Maybe the cookies burn, or the cat knocks over the tree—lean into forgiveness, humor, and the beauty of imperfection. After all, hospitality isn’t about nailing it; it’s about showing love.

The Israelites brought their best to God in the form of burnt offerings, creating a “pleasing aroma” of devotion. In our own way, every act of preparation—sweeping the floors, stringing up garlands, baking that third batch of cookies—can be an offering of love.

As we ready our homes, we’re also readying our hearts—welcoming not just our guests, but the Christ child who’s at the center of it all. The lights remind us of the Light of the World, the meals we share echo His provision, and the gifts we give point to the ultimate gift of salvation.

This Christmas, let’s take a cue from the tabernacle. Open your doors wide, set the table with care, and create a space where love can thrive. It’s not about getting everything right—it’s about making room for the sacred moments that remind us why we celebrate in the first place.

Because at the heart of it all is Emmanuel—God with us. And that’s the kind of hospitality worth sharing. And to that I say Yippy Ki Yay…………Merry Christmas!
Whoville in Vermont: Finding God’s Grace in Family Chaos

December 12th, 2024

Christmas at the Gantt household in Vermont wasn’t for the faint of heart—or the light of appetite. With five siblings, their spouses, a hoard of grandchildren, and Aunt Donna (who wasn’t technically family but earned her place at the table every year), the holidays were nothing short of organized chaos. And then there were the “strays”—friends, neighbors, and anyone else Mom and Dad insisted needed a good meal and a healthy dose of our brand of holiday madness.

Picture a Norman Rockwell painting—but instead of serene, quiet charm, think flying wrapping paper, shouting matches over how to carve the turkey (or ham, depending on who won the food war), and the clatter of every dish in the kitchen as it competed for space on the stovetop. Even the Grinch would’ve thrown in the towel at the sheer noise, noise, noise spilling out of that old farmhouse.

My older brother—seven kids in tow—always brought the biggest entourage. His two oldest were married, one with a baby of her own, which meant he was a grandfather before the rest of us were ready to admit we were that old. My older sister had three kids, one expecting her first just after Christmas. My three held their own, often teaming up with the younger cousins to create a little extra mischief. Then there were my younger brother and sister, each wrangling their own mini-mobs.

And let’s not forget the strays—friends without plans, coworkers who’d become family, and even the occasional neighbor who just needed a little Christmas cheer. Mom and Dad taught us to make room, not just at the table but in our hearts.

Now, let’s talk food—because in our family, the kitchen was equal parts battlefield and sacred ground. Most of us preferred ham, but Bryan, our turkey-or-die sibling, ensured the oven pulled double duty every year. The sides were a mix of tradition and drama. Broccoli casserole, sweet tea, Aunt Helen’s cherry yum yum—all had to make their appearances. Each dish came with its own legacy, and woe to the sibling who messed up Mama’s chocolate éclair cake. (No pressure, right?)

Despite the chaos, the table somehow groaned under the weight of it all—plates piled high with the flavors of our shared history. The kitchen may have been a frenzy, but it was love that fueled every bite.

Under the tree, the presents piled up until the living room looked like a department store explosion. But the gifts, as shiny and abundant as they were, were never the point. The real treasure was the laughter, the stories, and the unmistakable warmth of being surrounded by family—flawed, noisy, wonderful family.

From the outside, our farmhouse must have looked and sounded like Whoville on steroids. Kids squealed, adults bickered over card games, and Aunt Donna told jokes so corny they could’ve passed as Dad’s. It was pure chaos, but it was also pure joy.

Much like the Israelites in the wilderness, we weren’t perfect. There were grumblers, complainers, and moments of sheer exhaustion. But just as God brought water from the rock, He poured His love into our gatherings, sustaining us with laughter, connection, and enough sweet tea to fill a swimming pool.

That farmhouse at Christmas was a snapshot of God’s hospitality. It wasn’t about perfection—it was about making space. Space for people, for joy, for gratitude. Like the festivals of Israel, our gatherings were messy, loud, and sacred, a testament to the abundance of His blessings.

Looking back, I’d give anything to squeeze into that old farmhouse again, shoulder to shoulder with my family. To hear the kids’ laughter, the clatter of dishes, the chaos of cousins swapping stories by the tree. Because at the heart of it all, it wasn’t the food or the gifts that mattered—it was us. A living, breathing reminder of God’s faithfulness.

This Christmas, whether you’re crammed into a bustling house or savoring a quiet celebration, take a moment to cherish the mess. The effort, the noise, the people—it’s all part of the beauty. Because in the end, the best gifts aren’t under the tree. They’re around the table, in the faces of loved ones, and in the sweet knowledge that God’s love is the thread tying it all together.

Hospitality during the holidays can feel like trying to keep a soufflé from collapsing during a tornado. Add in those delightful extra personalities—like Uncle Joe, who has opinions about everything, or the cousin who’s allergic to both gluten and fun—and suddenly, you’re Moses in the wilderness, staring at a rock, wondering how to turn it into something life-sustaining.

But here’s the good news: Exodus 17:1-7 and Israel’s festival traditions have some timeless lessons that hit close to home during the Christmas season. So, let’s unpack them, shall we?

In Exodus 17, the Israelites were basically throwing a desert-sized tantrum. No water, no patience, no chill. And God? Instead of smiting them with a heavenly “I told you so,” He gave them water from a rock. Through Moses, He met their need with provision, not condemnation.

Fast forward a few millennia to Christmas morning: the stockings are hung, the tree is lit, and someone’s already complaining about the lack of cinnamon in the French toast. Sound familiar?

The story of the rock reminds us to look past the noise (and the grumbling relatives) to the needs beneath. Like God at Horeb, we’re called to respond with grace—whether it’s pouring someone an extra cup of coffee or just biting our tongues when Aunt Mildred critiques our “modern” choice of holiday decor.

The Israelites’ festivals weren’t just excuses to party—they were deeply meaningful gatherings designed to remember God’s faithfulness and provision. They feasted, they celebrated, and they probably had their own version of a cousin sneaking a second helping of pie.

Christmas, in its ideal form, mirrors these festivals. It’s less about the presents and more about the presence—gathering around a table, a tree, or even just a cozy couch to connect with loved ones. Whether you’re sharing Nana’s broccoli casserole or arguing over the best Hallmark Christmas movie, these moments are sacred in their own messy way.

Let’s face it: holiday gatherings can bring out both the holiest and the hangriest sides of humanity. Moses dealt with his share of complainers, and instead of losing it, he turned to God for wisdom.

So, when the turkey’s a little dry (it happens, people) or someone’s grumbling about the lack of gluten-free stuffing, channel your inner Moses. Grace under pressure is the secret sauce of hospitality—and it pairs well with just about anything on the holiday menu.

In the wilderness, God didn’t just provide water—He threw in manna and quail for good measure. It’s like ordering a burger and fries and getting a free milkshake, too.

Christmas is all about abundance, but not the kind that’s wrapped in shiny paper. It’s about the Bread of Life, born in a town literally called “House of Bread,” arriving to satisfy our deepest hunger.

As we exchange gifts, let’s remember that the spirit behind them matters more than the price tag. A simple act of kindness—helping wash dishes, sharing a laugh, or offering a prayer—can often outshine the most extravagant present.

The star over Bethlehem was the original Christmas light, guiding shepherds and wise men to the greatest gift of all. Today, our twinkling lights are reminders of that same hope—the Light of the World who dispels darkness and brings joy.

Be the light this season. Invite a neighbor who’s alone to dinner, or volunteer at a shelter. Even a small gesture can shine brightly in someone’s life, reminding them of the hope we celebrate.

Moses named the place where God provided water “Massah and Meribah,” a nod to both the grumbling and the miracle. Christmas is our modern-day “Massah and Meribah”—a time to reflect on God’s faithfulness, even in the middle of holiday madness.

Take a moment to pause amidst the chaos. Share stories of gratitude, offer a prayer before the feast, or just look around the room and soak in the beauty of those gathered with you. These quiet moments are what turn a holiday into a holy day.

Hospitality during the holidays isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. Whether your table is set with matching plates or a hodgepodge of whatever was clean, the point is the people around it.

Like Moses striking the rock or Jesus being born in a manger, true hospitality isn’t flashy. It’s found in small, meaningful acts: making room for others, meeting needs, and reflecting God’s love in how we care for those around us.

So this Christmas, embrace the mess, the noise, and the occasional kitchen disaster. Open your heart, give generously, and let your light shine. Because the greatest gift isn’t under the tree—it’s the love we share and the grace we give.

Because at its heart, Christmas isn’t just about what we receive—it’s about what we give and the light we bring to others. So let’s roll up our sleeves, open our hearts, and make this season a reflection of God’s abundant love, and don’t forget to baste the bird. Seriously.
From Manna to Miracles: Finding God’s Abundance This Christmas

December 11th, 2024

The Joy of Giving: Reflections on Christmas Past

When I dig through my mental attic of Christmas memories, it’s not the shiny packages or big reveals that steal the spotlight. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my share of surprises—like the year I got a watch that lasted just long enough to survive Christmas dinner—but those moments pale next to the joy of giving. The memories that really stick are the ones where I got to play a small part in someone else’s Christmas miracle.

Let me tell you three stories that shaped the way I see the season of giving.

I was a teenager when I found out that a family from our church—a family I had known since birth—was staring down the barrel of a gift-less Christmas. Times were tough, and their parents had quietly confided in my folks. Now, I couldn’t stand the thought of that family waking up to find nothing under their tree. It gnawed at me like a bad itch.

At the time, I was working and had been since nine years old and hoarding my pay like a squirrel stocking up for winter. But instead of new sneakers or video games, I decided my savings had a bigger purpose. I hit the stores and picked out gifts for each family member, imagining their smiles as I shopped. Then, on Christmas Eve, I donned a Santa suit—because why not add some flair?—loaded the gifts into my friends car, and delivered them stealthily to their doorstep like the jolliest ninja in history.

Driving away, I felt a joy that no gift I’d ever unwrapped could match. It wasn’t about applause or recognition (I never told them it was me and this is the first time admitting it other than to my friend that drove as well as Mom and Dad). It was about knowing I had a hand in making someone’s Christmas morning unforgettable. That’s when I learned one of life’s sweetest lessons: the real magic of Christmas lives in what we give.

Fast forward a few years to married life, and my wife and I caught wind of some nieces and nephews facing a Christmas tree-less holiday. Now, I don’t know about you, but a Christmas without a tree feels like a campfire without marshmallows—just wrong.

We sprang into action, hunting down the perfect tree—a real beauty, full and lush, the kind of tree that practically jingles when you see it. We hauled it over to their house, left it on the front step like an overgrown green gift, and slipped away, knowing they’d wake up to something special.

The tree wasn’t just about the lights and ornaments. It was about saying, “You’re seen. You’re loved. And Christmas is a time to remember that.” We ended up pulling off this Christmas tree caper twice, and each time, the joy was just as bright.

The third story is less about me and more about the pure joy I got to witness. My niece, Bug, had one wish: an American Girl doll. You know the kind—beautiful, overpriced, and the centerpiece of every little girl’s Christmas dream. Bug wanted that doll like I want a beer after a long day.

That year, someone in the family made it happen. When Bug unwrapped her dream, the room practically shook with her squeals of joy. She hugged that doll like she’d just won the lottery. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she cradled her treasure, and I swear, for a moment, the whole world felt brighter.

That moment wasn’t just about a doll. It was about love poured into a gift, about a little girl feeling seen and cherished. It was a picture of what Christmas is all about: joy fueled by love.

So why am I telling you all this? Not to pin a medal on my chest or toot my horn, but to share the truth these moments taught me: the best parts of Christmas aren’t in the things we receive. They’re in the things we give. Whether it’s playing Santa for a family in need, surprising someone with a towering tree, or watching a little girl’s face light up over a doll, these moments remind me of God’s generous heart. When the Israelites were hungry in the wilderness, He didn’t just scrape by with scraps. He poured out manna and quail, meeting their needs with abundance.

At Christmas, God gave us the ultimate gift: Jesus Christ. Born in a humble stable, He came to meet not just our daily needs but the deepest hunger of our souls. And when we give—whether it’s a wrapped gift, a warm meal, or simply our time—we’re mirroring that divine generosity in our own small way.

Looking back, the gifts weren’t about price tags or wrapping paper. They were about love and thoughtfulness, about creating moments of connection and joy. This Christmas, I’m challenging myself—and you—to focus less on what’s under the tree and more on the heart behind it. Whether it’s helping a neighbor, sharing a meal, or just lending a listening ear, every act of giving reflects the love that began on that first Christmas night.

Because at the end of the day, the greatest gift isn’t what we unwrap. It’s what we give away. And in those moments of giving, we catch a glimpse of the joy that makes this season truly magical.

If you’ve ever wondered what Christmas and wandering through a desert have in common, buckle up, because Exodus 16 is about to blow your gingerbread-scented mind. Picture this: the Israelites, fresh out of Egypt, are trudging through the wilderness, hangry and whining like kids on a road trip with no snacks. God hears their complaints (because He’s not deaf, even if they were loud enough to wake Moses) and rains down manna and quail like a divine Uber Eats.

Now, this isn’t just some cool Old Testament miracle. When you hold it up next to the Christmas story, the connections practically sing “O Holy Night.” Manna in the wilderness, Jesus in the manger—both shout about God’s hospitality, provision, and grace. So, let’s break this bread (pun very much intended) and see how these ancient crumbs lead us straight to the heart of Christmas.

Manna wasn’t just food; it was proof that God had the Israelites’ backs, even when they acted like ungrateful toddlers. Every morning, they woke up to a heavenly breakfast delivery, just enough for the day. Fast forward to Bethlehem—whose name, fun fact, means “House of Bread”—and we meet Jesus, the ultimate Bread of Life (John 6:35). Coincidence? Not a chance.

While manna kept stomachs full in the wilderness, Jesus fills the deepest hunger of the human soul. And isn’t that what Christmas is about? Breaking bread together, whether it’s Grandma’s rolls or Aunt Sue’s lumpy mashed potatoes, is a way of celebrating God’s provision.

Christmas Takeaway: Next time you’re sitting around the holiday table, think about how God fed the Israelites one day at a time and how He sent His Son to sustain us for eternity. And hey, maybe pack an extra plate of cookies for that neighbor who could use a little love.

When the Israelites got dramatic about their lack of variety (because heaven-sent bread wasn’t fancy enough), God didn’t smite them—He gave them quail. Talk about over-the-top generosity! Similarly, the gift of Jesus isn’t just meeting a need; it’s extravagant grace wrapped in swaddling clothes.

At Christmas, we mirror this in our gift-giving. Sure, your handmade soap or festive socks might not rival God’s blessings, but the thought counts. Every gift is a chance to reflect the overabundance we’ve received.

Christmas Takeaway: Be generous this season—not just with presents but with your time, patience, and kindness. And if someone gives you socks, remember: God gave quail, so at least try to be grateful.

Here’s a detail I love about Exodus 16: God listens. When the Israelites start their wilderness rant, He doesn’t roll His eyes or tune them out. Instead, He acts with compassion. Fast forward to the Christmas story: humanity cries out for a Savior, and God responds by sending Jesus.

This is a great reminder that sometimes the best gift you can give is your ears. People need to be heard—whether it’s your aunt’s “quick” story about 1973 or your friend venting about life.

Christmas Takeaway: Listen. Really listen. That simple act of attention can be the warm hug someone didn’t even know they needed.

When God provided manna, it was more than food; it was reassurance. His presence transformed the wilderness into a place of refuge. The same thing happened in Bethlehem. Jesus wasn’t born in a palace—He entered the world in a humble stable. Yet, that stable became a beacon of hope.

Hospitality doesn’t require a big house or a Pinterest-worthy spread. It’s about making people feel welcome, whether you’re serving a feast or reheated leftovers.

Christmas Takeaway: Be like that stable. Open your doors (or at least your heart) to someone who could use a little light in their life.

Manna in the morning was God’s way of reminding the Israelites He was with them. Centuries later, a star over Bethlehem lit the way to the newborn King. Both are powerful symbols of God breaking through the darkness to bring hope.

And those Christmas lights on your house? They’re not just for aesthetics—they’re a reminder that God’s light still shines, guiding us through life’s wilderness.

Christmas Takeaway: Be someone’s light. A kind word, a helping hand, or a simple smile can illuminate someone’s dark day.

Exodus 16 teaches us that gratitude is more than saying “thanks”—it’s trusting in God’s faithfulness. Manna was a daily reminder for the Israelites to rely on God, just like Christmas is a yearly reminder to celebrate the greatest gift of all.

Christmas Takeaway: Take a moment during the holiday chaos to pause and thank God—for the big things, the small things, and everything in between. And maybe encourage your family to do the same.

Whether He’s providing manna in the wilderness, quail in the desert, or a Savior in a manger, God’s hospitality is always over-the-top. This Christmas, let’s carry that spirit forward. Listen more, love generously, and make everyone who crosses your path feel like they’ve come home.

Because at the end of the day, Christmas isn’t just about receiving the gift of Jesus—it’s about sharing His love in ways that turn ordinary moments into something holy. So, go ahead, be someone’s manna this season. You just might be the miracle they’re waiting for.
Generations Gathered: How Passover, Hanukkah, and Christmas Call Us to Connection

December 10th, 2024

Every year, like clockwork, we’d pile into the car for the trek down to North Carolina. The mountains there always seemed to breathe out Christmas, even if the air was warmer than Vermont’s. My Nana—Dad’s mom—would meet us at Mama and Papa’s, my mom’s folks. Each visit was a patchwork quilt of traditions, quirks, and cozy chaos that still wraps around my heart like a well-loved blanket on a cold night.

The highlight of the trip? My great-grandmother’s Christmas party. And let me tell you, this wasn’t your typical family get-together. For starters, my much-older cousins would be there. Seeing them only once a year made it both thrilling and awkward. They’d ask about my life, and I’d stammer something about school or my latest toy obsession, all while feeling like the tiniest fish in a very grown-up pond.

But the party itself? That was pure holiday magic. Store-bought snacks spread out like a feast—Little Debbie Christmas tree cakes that tasted like a mix of sugar and cardboard with a wonderful coating of corn syrup and oil in your mouth, but were devoured with glee. Gifts for the kids were a must, even if they were small and practical. It wasn’t about the what, but the why—the tradition of giving, the joy of unwrapping something handed to you with love.

Dad always brought us back to the real reason we were there. He’d gather everyone, his voice deep and steady as he read the Christmas story from Luke 2. Those words floated across the room, alive with meaning—a sacred pause in the festive chaos, reminding us of the hope and love that started it all.

Then Mom would take her place at the piano, effortlessly striking up carols. We’d belt out the classics, each off-key note adding its own charm. There’s nothing quite like trying to hit the high notes in O Holy Night while standing next to a second cousin you only half-remember. Awkward? Sure. Beautiful? Absolutely. In those moments, we weren’t just family by blood—we were a choir, celebrating the season as one.

After the carols, the grown-ups turned to the man in red. “Excited for Santa?” they’d ask, and our enthusiastic nods were all the encouragement they needed. My siblings and I would race outside, ignoring Nana and Mama’s frantic calls to grab coats. We’d scan the sky, every blinking airplane light instantly transformed into Rudolph leading the way. “I see it!” one of us would shout, and the rest would squint into the darkness, caught in the magic only kids can conjure.

Sure, the party could feel a little awkward—reconnecting with relatives who were more like acquaintances. But it was grounding, too. There’s something about being with people who share your roots, even if only briefly. The laughter, the songs, the stories—they stitched us together, year after year, into something bigger than ourselves.

Looking back, those gatherings shine brighter than ever. The cardboard-flavored snacks, the nervous cousin chats, the plane-spotting antics, and the quiet reverence as Dad read the Christmas story—they’re all pieces of a memory mosaic that feels like home.

Those Christmases weren’t just holidays; they were lessons in tradition, family, and the beauty of togetherness. And now, as I reflect, I see how they mirror something deeper, something ancient—traditions like Passover and Hanukkah that also weave stories of hope, faith, and God’s faithfulness through the generations.

At my great-grandmother’s party, we came together to remember the birth of Christ and to reconnect as family. Passover and Hanukkah do the same—drawing families to reflect on God’s provision and redemption. Whether it was Dad reading from Luke or the Israelites recounting the Exodus, the heart of it was the same: gathering to remember, to honor, and to hope.

And just like we’d huddle together to “spot” Santa in the night sky, those ancient traditions celebrate signs of deliverance and light—God’s presence breaking through darkness. They remind us that no matter how scattered we may feel, coming together for what truly matters anchors us in hope, love, and His promises.

So this season, whether it’s with store-bought snacks or sacred stories, let’s gather, remember, and celebrate the ties that bind us. After all, those ties—woven with faith, family, and a little holiday magic—are the real gift that keeps on giving.

Exodus 13:5-8 and 15:22-27 are bursting with themes of divine hospitality that tie beautifully into the holiday seasons of Passover, Christmas, and Hanukkah. These moments of God’s provision and guidance offer a deeper understanding of how we, too, can extend hospitality to others, rooted in memory, community, and transformation. Let’s dive in and explore the connections between these sacred stories and the holidays we celebrate today.

In Exodus 13:5-8, God promises the Israelites a land “flowing with milk and honey,” a lush and abundant home after their journey from slavery. This image isn’t just about survival—it’s about thriving, much like the joy we experience during Christmas feasts or Hanukkah celebrations.

The promise of milk and honey is a stark contrast to the unleavened bread and bitter herbs of the Passover meal, reminding the Israelites of their journey from scarcity to abundance. The birth of Christ echoes this promise. Jesus, the “Bread of Life” born in Bethlehem (the “House of Bread”), comes to bring spiritual abundance to a world in darkness. In the Hanukkah miracle of the oil lasting eight days is another testament to God’s provision. Just as the Israelites received daily manna in the wilderness, the oil symbolizes God’s sustaining power in times of need. God’s hospitality invites us to reflect on how we can create abundance in our own lives and homes—not necessarily with material wealth but with generosity, kindness, and warmth that bring others joy and comfort.

Rituals like eating unleavened bread, lighting menorahs, or retelling the Christmas story are vital to keeping traditions alive and fostering connection.

Eating unleavened bread during Passover connects the Israelites to their history, a communal reminder of their escape from Egypt. Lighting the menorah recalls the miracle of the oil and the rededication of the temple, symbolizing hope and faith in God’s provision. The lighting of candles and stringing of lights during Christmas reflects the arrival of Christ as the Light of the World, illuminating our lives with His grace. The Lighting of Christmas Lights also is an Irish tradition to show that there is room in our hearts for the new Christ child in our homes.

Each tradition emphasizes the importance of memory and teaching, passing down stories of God’s faithfulness to the next generation. Whether it’s through a shared meal or lighting candles together, these moments foster a sense of belonging and purpose, teaching us to see God’s hand in both the everyday and the extraordinary.

Exodus 15:22-27 recounts the Israelites encountering bitter water at Marah, only for God to transform it into sweet, drinkable water. This act of provision parallels the ways God brings light and hope through Hanukkah and Christmas. The menorah lights shining in the darkness of oppression mirror the transformation of bitterness into sweetness—a reminder of God’s power to turn despair into hope. Christ’s arrival is the ultimate act of sweetening life’s bitterness. He turns sorrow into joy, sin into redemption, and hopelessness into eternal promise.

Hospitality during the holidays reminds us to meet people where they are, offering grace and understanding. Whether it’s helping someone carry their burdens or simply sharing a meal, we can be instruments of God’s sweetness in a bitter world.

The unleavened bread of Passover, the oil of Hanukkah, and the Bread of Life born at Christmas all speak to God’s desire to nourish His people—body, mind, and spirit.

The unleavened bread reminds us to strip away distractions and focus on God’s provision. The oil that kept the menorah burning symbolizes the sustaining power of God’s presence in our lives. Jesus, the Bread of Life, offers spiritual nourishment that transcends physical needs, connecting us to God in a way no earthly meal can. As we celebrate these holidays, let’s embrace the deeper meaning of these symbols, sharing not just food but the spiritual sustenance of love, faith, and kindness.

From the blood of the Passover lamb to the miraculous light of Hanukkah and the birth of Christ, each story reveals God’s balance of justice and mercy. The lamb’s blood marked the Israelites for salvation, a precursor to Christ’s sacrifice on the cross. The rededication of the temple reflects God’s justice in restoring His people and His mercy in sustaining them. The birth of Christ marks God’s ultimate act of mercy, offering redemption to all who believe. This holiday season, let’s embody that justice and mercy by extending grace to others. Whether it’s forgiving a wrong, helping someone in need, or simply offering a kind word, our actions can reflect the heart of God.

Passover, Hanukkah, and Christmas each invite us into a story of radical hospitality—a call to open our homes, our hearts, and our lives to others. Host a meal that welcomes the lonely or marginalized. Share your light, both figuratively and literally, with those in darkness. Teach your children and others the stories of God’s faithfulness, weaving them into the fabric of your celebrations.

This holiday season, let’s take the lessons of these sacred stories to heart, creating spaces of warmth, generosity, and love. After all, the true essence of these holidays isn’t just in the rituals or traditions—it’s in the relationships we build and the love we share, reflecting God’s ultimate hospitality to us all.
From Passover to Christmas: A Season of Radical Hospitality

December 6th, 2024

Alright, folks, let’s dive into Exodus 12—the epic tale of the Passover, where the Israelites figured out that escaping slavery in Egypt is a bit like throwing a surprise party for yourself: it’s messy, chaotic, and you really hope everyone shows up on time. This meal is packed with symbolism and significance, showcasing not just God’s rescue mission but also His desire for some good ol’ quality time with His people. Buckle up as we dig into the deliciousness of God’s hospitality, themes of salvation, and the profound symbolism hidden in that Passover spread and the correlation with Christmas.

God’s Hospitality and Desire for Relationship

First up, we’ve got God as the ultimate Christmas host, setting the stage for a meal that’s not just a feast but a declaration of salvation. Picture this: a spotless lamb chosen with care, its blood painted on doorposts like a holiday wreath marking homes of hope and trust. It’s the ultimate invitation, God’s way of saying, “Come under my protection, find safety at my table, and celebrate the gift of deliverance.” While the darkness of judgment loomed, God’s people gathered in light and faith, feasting on His promise of rescue.

This moment wasn’t just about obedience; it was about trust and relationship—God showing up not as a distant figure but as a present provider. It’s as if He were saying, “Let’s make this a night to remember. Trust me, follow me, and see how I turn fear into freedom.” Like a family gathered around the tree, this was about connection and promise, a foretaste of the ultimate gift to come.

Now, fast forward to the greatest Christmas of all—the night Jesus was born. That first Passover, with its lamb and its blood of protection, was a shadow of what God was preparing. In Bethlehem, under a starry sky, God delivered the ultimate spotless Lamb: Jesus, His Son. Wrapped not in holiday paper but in swaddling clothes, Jesus came as the fulfillment of God’s promise—a gift not for one nation but for the entire world.

Just as the lamb’s blood marked the Israelites’ homes, Jesus’ sacrifice marks our hearts, freeing us from the slavery of sin and inviting us into the family of God. It’s the ultimate Christmas miracle: the Lamb of God born to bring light to our darkness and life to our weary souls.

This Christmas, as we gather around festive tables and exchange gifts, let’s remember the greater gift—the invitation to feast at God’s table, covered by His love and grace. It’s an open invitation, not just for a night but for eternity. So hang the wreaths, light the candles, and celebrate, knowing the ultimate host has made room for you in His home, His heart, and His Kingdom.

Unity and Community

Let’s talk about the Passover meal—it’s so much more than survival food. It’s hospitality at its most profound. God didn’t just hand out a recipe; He orchestrated a feast designed to bring people together. Family, neighbors, and friends gathered around the table, each contributing something, each reminding the other: We’re in this together. It’s a moment that says, “You’re not just part of a meal; you’re part of a story bigger than yourself.”

Sound familiar? It should. It’s the same vibe we get at Christmas. Two distinct celebrations with unique histories and focuses, yet both rooted deeply in hospitality. Passover was God preparing His people for deliverance, inviting them into a sacred act of trust and protection. Christmas? That’s the ultimate display of hospitality—God sending His Son, Jesus, to pitch a tent among us, bringing hope, peace, and salvation to a weary world.

Think about the first Christmas. Mary and Joseph are scrambling for a place to crash, and a humble stable becomes the best Airbnb in town. The innkeeper didn’t have much, but he made space for the Savior of the world. Then you’ve got the shepherds—uninvited by earthly standards but personally summoned by heaven to join the celebration. It’s a scene drenched in hospitality: people offering what little they have to make room for something extraordinary.

Both Passover and Christmas push us toward a deeper hospitality—one that’s not just about food or space but about heart. These celebrations invite us to fling our doors wide open, not just for friends and family, but for anyone in need of love, grace, and belonging. Passover calls us to look back with gratitude for deliverance, while Christmas invites us to look forward with hope, embracing the gift of Immanuel—“God with us.”

And here’s the thing: in our own lives, we can channel this same spirit. Passover tables are filled with food, stories, and shared memories of God’s faithfulness. Christmas gatherings overflow with meals, gifts, and moments of connection that nurture relationships. Both create a sacred space where God’s provision and presence are celebrated.

So, this holiday season, why not mash up the hospitality vibes of both? Add an extra chair to your table. Invite someone who might otherwise spend the season alone—a neighbor, a coworker, a stranger who could use a little love. Your act of kindness might just be the reminder they need that they’re not forgotten.

Because when we embrace the radical hospitality of these sacred celebrations, we reflect the heart of God—a heart that always makes room, always welcomes, and always offers grace. That’s the kind of table worth setting.

Let’s look at the symbolism in the Passover Meal and the connections to the hospitality found in both holidays

The Unblemished Lamb:

Let’s talk about that unblemished lamb. It’s the VIP of the evening, representing innocence and purity, while also giving a cheeky nod to Christ, the ultimate Lamb of God. Just as the lamb’s blood saved the Israelites from an unpleasant fate, Christ’s blood is our heavenly insurance policy—no deductible required! This sacrificial element of the lamb reminds us that, well, redemption doesn’t come free, and God’s got a high standard for what He’ll accept.

When we chow down on that symbolism, we see that God’s hospitality comes with a price tag. It’s not about handing out free samples; it’s about recognizing the weight of what’s at stake.

Passover: The lamb was central to the Passover meal, chosen without blemish (Exodus 12:5). Its blood on the doorposts saved the firstborn from death during the tenth plague, symbolizing God’s protection and mercy. This lamb wasn’t just a meal; it was a tangible representation of God’s covenant and a foreshadowing of future deliverance.

Christmas: Jesus’ birth is heralded by angels as “good news of great joy for all the people” (Luke 2:10-11). John the Baptist later identifies Jesus as “the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29). His birth signals the beginning of His ultimate role as the sacrificial lamb, whose death would bring deliverance from eternal death. This connection between lamb and Savior ties Jesus to the heart of Israel’s salvation story, fulfilling its ultimate purpose.

Bitter Herbs and Unleavened Bread: The Taste of Freedom

Bitter herbs? That’s the taste of slavery, my friend. They’re there to remind the Israelites of what they endured in Egypt, paired with unleavened bread that screams, “Pack your bags—we’re leaving NOW!” It’s a menu for survival, but also for hope, urging them to embrace freedom without looking back. Fast forward to Bethlehem (aka “House of Bread”), where the Bread of Life himself shows up. Jesus, born in the humblest of settings, comes to nourish us spiritually, just like that unleavened bread sustained the Israelites. While Passover bread points to hasty liberation, Christ’s arrival promises freedom from sin—and this time, it’s eternal.

Together, they say this: Let go of what holds you back. Whether it’s Pharaoh or fear, leave it behind and embrace the hope that God’s got you covered.

The Blood of the Covenant: Protection and Grace

Picture it—lamb’s blood on doorposts, marking homes as places of safety. It’s not just a protection plan; it’s a declaration from God: “These are my people.” The lamb’s sacrifice was their ticket to salvation from judgment. Enter Jesus, the Lamb of God, who takes that symbolism to a whole new level. His blood doesn’t just mark doorposts—it marks hearts, sealing believers with grace and redemption. The Passover lamb pointed to Him all along, and His sacrifice on the cross shouts God’s unrelenting commitment to rescue us. From the blood on wooden doorframes to the wood of Calvary’s cross, the message is clear: God’s hospitality isn’t just about physical safety; it’s about eternal belonging.

Justice and Mercy: God’s Call to Repentance

The final plague in Egypt—the death of the firstborn—is a sobering reminder that sin carries a cost. But for those who followed God’s instructions, there was grace in the form of the lamb’s blood. It’s a gut check and a lifeline wrapped into one. Then comes Jesus, the ultimate lifeline. His arrival is God saying, “I’m giving you another chance—this time, through My Son.” His mission wasn’t to condemn but to save (looking at you, John 3:17). While sin is serious, Christmas shows us that God’s mercy is even greater. Both holidays call us to reflect on our need for grace while celebrating the lengths God goes to bring us back to Him.

The Ultimate Hospitality: Redemption at the Table

Every year, the Israelites gather to eat, remember, and tell the story of their deliverance. It’s not just a meal—it’s a foretaste of the redemption God had planned all along through Christ. The nativity scene takes that hospitality and cranks it up to 11. From a stable to shepherds and magi, God’s welcome mat is rolled out for everyone. The Incarnation is God’s ultimate “Mi casa es su casa,” saying, “I’m here to stay—and to save.” Whether it’s the lamb on a Passover table or the Savior in a manger, the message is the same: God’s heart is wide open, and His invitation stands.

Passover and Christmas remind us that we’re all invited to God’s table—a place of redemption, reflection, and relationship. The symbols of bread, blood, and sacrifice connect these two celebrations in a way that only God could orchestrate.

So, what’s the takeaway? Let’s embrace the spirit of these holidays by making room—at our tables and in our hearts. Whether you’re hosting a Seder or hanging stockings, channel the same hospitality God shows us. Invite someone who needs love, a meal, or just a reminder that they’re not alone.

Because from Egypt to Bethlehem, God’s story has always been about bringing us from darkness to light, from bondage to freedom, and from separation to belonging. In His house, there’s room for everyone.

Passover, Christmas, and St. Nicholas—three seemingly different things with one thing in common: radical hospitality. Each teaches us something about God’s love, generosity, and grace, and each offers a challenge this holiday season.

Make Room for Others: Welcoming the Stranger

Passover: The Israelites were told to invite their neighbors, their families, and anyone who would join in to share in the Passover meal. It was about building community, about making sure no one was left out of the celebration of God’s provision.

Christmas: Jesus didn’t just come for the VIPs—He came for everyone. Shepherds, wise men, outsiders—if you had a pulse, you were invited to see the Savior.

St. Nicholas: Known for secretly gifting to the poor and the marginalized, St. Nicholas didn’t care who you were or what you had. If you were in need, he made room for you.

Application: This Christmas, let’s make space for those who don’t usually get invited to the holiday table. Share a meal with someone who could use it, whether it’s a neighbor, a coworker, or someone who just needs to feel like they belong. Hospitality is about more than sharing what we have; it’s about extending a hand to others who need it.

Share the Bread of Life: Sustenance for the Soul

Passover: That unleavened bread wasn’t just a symbol of rushing out of Egypt; it was a symbol of purity, freedom from sin, and a fresh start. It’s bread with a mission.

Christmas: Jesus, born in Bethlehem (aka “House of Bread”), didn’t just show up to celebrate a birthday. He showed up to offer Himself as the Bread of Life—spiritual nourishment for our weary souls.

St. Nicholas: His generosity wasn’t limited to material gifts. He fed the hungry, especially children, giving out of what he had to share, just as Jesus feeds us spiritually.

Application: This Christmas, don’t just fill a plate with food—fill a heart with hope. Whether you’re sharing a meal or sharing the message of Christ, let your hospitality feed more than just the body. Share the Bread of Life—both literally and spiritually—with those you encounter this season.

Extend Grace and Forgiveness: A Heart of Reconciliation

Passover: The blood of the lamb marked the Israelites for salvation, keeping them safe from judgment. It was grace on full display, allowing them to walk into freedom.

Christmas: Jesus’ birth wasn’t just a nice story; it was God’s ultimate act of reconciliation. He came to forgive sins, to restore us to Himself.

St. Nicholas: Known for helping reconcile broken relationships, St. Nicholas wasn’t just a gift-giver—he was a peacemaker. He helped settle disputes and forgive debts.

Application: This Christmas, it’s time to practice forgiveness. Reach out to someone you’ve been holding a grudge against. Let go of past hurts and extend the same grace that Christ (and St. Nicholas) extended to us. True hospitality includes a heart of reconciliation.

Recognize the Cost of True Hospitality: The Sacrifice of Love

Passover: The lamb’s blood wasn’t free. There was a cost. But that sacrifice was the key to freedom.

Christmas: Jesus didn’t come to cozy up in a stable and call it a day—His birth marked the beginning of a life of sacrifice. He came to serve and give His life for many.

St. Nicholas: St. Nicholas didn’t just hand out gifts from a comfy chair—he gave up his wealth, his comfort, and his safety for the sake of others. His generosity often came at a personal cost.

Application: True hospitality isn’t just about a spread of fancy appetizers. It’s about sacrifice. Whether it’s time, money, or energy—this Christmas, let’s give sacrificially, just like Joseph, Jesus, and St. Nicholas did. It’s through our sacrifices that we bring real change to others.

Celebrate the Freedom We Have in Christ: Embrace New Beginnings

Passover: The Israelites’ exodus wasn’t just an escape—it was a fresh start, a new beginning, made possible by God’s protection.

Christmas: Jesus’ birth signified a new beginning for all of humanity. His life, death, and resurrection offer freedom from sin and the chance to start over.

St. Nicholas: The gifts St. Nicholas gave weren’t just material—they were symbols of the freedom found in Christ. He brought hope to those in need, showing that no matter your circumstances, God’s love offers freedom.

Application: This Christmas, let’s celebrate the new beginnings we have in Christ by helping others embrace theirs. Whether it’s offering forgiveness, inviting someone into a new chapter, or simply providing a safe space for healing, be a part of God’s mission to bring freedom to those around you.

Conclusion: The Hospitality Challenge This Christmas

So, what’s the takeaway God’s hospitality isn’t about fancy dinners and perfect presents. It’s about making room for others, sharing what we’ve been given, forgiving freely, and offering grace at a cost. This Christmas, let’s take up the challenge to extend that kind of radical hospitality. Make space at your table, share the Bread of Life, forgive with grace, and sacrifice for others.

When we live out this kind of hospitality, we reflect God’s heart and spread the light of Christ to those around us. This holiday season, it’s not about the decorations or the food—it’s about the love, grace, and reconciliation that we offer to others. So, open your homes, your hearts, and your lives. That’s what makes Christmas the most wonderful time of the year.
Turning Famine into Feasts: Hospitality That Heals (PART II Hospitality Harder…..)

December 3rd, 2024

Alright, let’s talk about Joseph’s wild ride from the pit to the palace, and how it’s a wake-up call for us to be hospitality ninjas at a moment’s notice. You see, when Pharaoh started having dreams about fat cows and skinny cows, it was like a scene straight out of a bizarre cooking show. Nobody in Pharaoh’s circle could figure out what it all meant, but Joseph? He stepped up, ready to roll. And that’s because he was spiritually prepped—like the ultimate Boy Scout of faith!

Spiritual Preparedness: More Than Just a Buzzword

Joseph didn’t get caught with his pants down when the opportunity knocked. He had been through enough ups and downs to know that keeping a close relationship with God was the secret sauce. Just like you wouldn’t want to throw a dinner party without checking if you have enough chairs (or food), we need to be in tune with divine guidance so we’re ready when life throws us a curveball. Think of it as spiritual insurance for those unexpected moments—like when Aunt Linda drops by unannounced.

Get Your House in Order: Where Ministry and Hospitality Begin

When the famine struck Egypt, Joseph didn’t just pull a solution out of thin air. He had spent years preparing, stockpiling grain like it was Black Friday. His readiness didn’t just save his family—it saved an entire nation. But Joseph’s story isn’t just about emergency prep or strategic planning. It’s about getting things in order before the storm hits. And in our lives, there’s no place more important to start than at home.

Think about it: how can we serve others if we haven’t first tended to the relationships and responsibilities in our own household? Ministry, hospitality, and connection all start under your own roof.

Start with Your Family Table

In hospitality, the family table is ground zero. It’s where relationships are built, trust is nurtured, and love is practiced. Before Joseph saved Egypt, he reconciled with his brothers in his heart—and in person as soon as he could. This repaired the family fractures that could’ve kept them apart forever.

For us, this means focusing on the people closest to us before extending our hands to the wider community. It’s hard to create peace in someone else’s life if your own house is in chaos. Maybe it’s making time for family dinners where everyone can share their day. Maybe it’s prioritizing date nights with your spouse or intentional conversations with your kids. These moments create a foundation of love and connection that flows outward when it’s time to serve others.

Prepare for the Unexpected

Joseph didn’t wait for the famine to hit before he started preparing. He worked ahead, stockpiling grain so Egypt wouldn’t be caught off guard. The same principle applies at home. Maybe it’s as simple as keeping a stash of quick meals in the freezer for unexpected guests. Maybe it’s setting aside time and resources to help a neighbor or friend when the need arises.

Preparation isn’t just practical—it’s spiritual. When our homes are places of peace and readiness, we’re better equipped to handle the unexpected without breaking a sweat.

Teach Generosity at Home

Hospitality isn’t just about serving others; it’s about modeling generosity for the next generation. Joseph used his position to not only help strangers but to care for his family. At home, this might mean showing your kids what it looks like to give freely, whether that’s inviting someone over for a meal or donating time and resources to a cause.

Ministry starts when we teach those under our roof that hospitality is a lifestyle, not an event. A child who learns to share their toys today becomes the adult who shares their table tomorrow.

Reconcile Before You Reach Out

One of Joseph’s most powerful moments wasn’t just feeding Egypt—it was reuniting with his brothers. His ability to forgive and repair those relationships strengthened his family and set the stage for them to flourish in Egypt.

At home, this might mean addressing the tough conversations or lingering conflicts we’ve been avoiding. If there’s tension at your own table, how can you bring peace to someone else’s? Hospitality is hollow if it’s built on unresolved strife. Reconciliation at home opens the door for authentic connection with others.

Create a Haven of Peace

Joseph didn’t just stockpile grain; he created a system that brought stability to a nation in turmoil. Your home can be the same—a refuge in a stormy world. But that kind of haven doesn’t happen by accident.

It’s in the small things: a clean and welcoming space, a meal prepared with love, or simply being present for each other. A home rooted in peace and care becomes the launching pad for ministry that goes beyond its walls. It’s not about perfection; it’s about making space for people to feel seen, valued, and loved.

Why It Starts at Home

Hospitality that starts at home isn’t just about being organized or prepared—it’s about creating a culture of care that extends outward. A well-ordered home sets the tone for everything else in life. It allows us to serve others from a place of abundance rather than burnout.

Joseph’s story teaches us that preparation and reconciliation aren’t just practical—they’re holy. Before we can extend God’s love to the world, we need to live it in our own kitchens, dining rooms, and living spaces. So, get your house in order—not just with casseroles in the freezer or a stocked pantry, but with hearts ready to love, forgive, and serve. Because true ministry always starts where we are.

Hospitality When It Counts

Fast forward to the famine, and Jacob’s sons are heading to Egypt looking like they’ve just walked out of a bad sitcom. They needed food, and Joseph had the perfect setup. This is where hospitality shines—especially when you’re dealing with family drama. We can learn from Joseph’s ability to put aside the past (and his brothers’ betrayal) to offer them what they needed most: compassion and a whole lot of grain.

Forgiveness Served Hot

Joseph throws a grand feast for his brothers, and it’s not just a meal; it’s like a masterclass in forgiveness. Instead of throwing a grudge party, he opens his home, proving that true hospitality is all about letting go of past hurts and welcoming others with open arms. Remember, just because someone hurt you doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a meal—or at least a snack!

Creating Space for Connection

That big feast wasn’t just about filling bellies; it was a chance for restoration. When you invite someone over, it’s a golden opportunity to mend fences and strengthen bonds. It’s like hitting the refresh button on your relationships. So, the next time there’s a spat at the family dinner, just remember: a shared meal can heal more than just hunger.

Be the Prepared Host

So, how do we take Joseph’s epic story and apply it to our own lives? Here’s the scoop:

Anticipate Needs: Keep an eye on your crew. Sometimes, all it takes is a simple “How’s it going?” to know if someone’s struggling.

Be Proactive: Have a plan—whether it’s extra snacks for surprise visitors or a backup casserole for emergencies. Think of it as your personal hospitality toolkit.

Foster Generosity: Teach your kids (or remind yourself) that kindness isn’t just a nice idea; it’s a way of life. Volunteer, share, and be that person who helps when others are in a bind.

Encourage Reconciliation: Use your hospitality superpowers to bring people together. Host that family dinner where everyone gets to air their grievances over mashed potatoes.

Create a Safe Haven: Make your home a comfy spot where folks feel valued and loved. A little warmth goes a long way in making others feel at home, even when life’s thrown them a curveball.

The Hospitality Challenge

Joseph’s saga isn’t just ancient history; it’s a guide for us today. Being ready to show hospitality can change lives. So, let’s channel our inner Joseph and be prepared to roll out the welcome mat—even if it means putting aside our own drama. By extending kindness, we’re reflecting the heart of God and creating spaces where healing, connection, and good vibes can flourish. After all, hospitality isn’t just about food; it’s about filling souls, one meal at a time.
Turning Famine into Feasts: Hospitality That Heals (PART I)

December 2nd, 2024

Alright, folks, gather ’round! Let’s talk about Joseph—the guy who went from pit to palace faster than you can say “dream interpretation.” Picture this: Pharaoh is tossing and turning at night, haunted by visions of seven fat cows munching away, followed by seven scrawny cows who look like they just ran a marathon. His advisors? Totally clueless. But fear not, Joseph is on the way to save the day, and it’s about to get biblical.

Spiritual Preparedness: Be Like Joseph, Not Your Average Joe

Now, Joseph wasn’t just sitting around in the pit feeling sorry for himself. No, sir! He was spiritually prepared, like a boy scout with a dream dictionary. Through all the drama—brothers selling him off, getting tossed in jail—he kept his ear to God’s voicemail. So, when the opportunity knocked, Joseph was like, “Hey, God, I got this!”

Let’s be real here: how’s your relationship with God? Are you so busy scrolling through social media that you’re missing divine messages? It’s time to pray, study Scripture, and keep your spiritual antenna up—especially when life gets dicey.

Grain Hoarding 101

After Joseph lays out the dream for Pharaoh—hello, famine and feast—he goes all-in on strategic planning. Joseph starts hoarding grain like a squirrel preparing for winter. He’s got a seven-year plan that would put any self-help book to shame.

Actionable Steps: Take a page out of Joseph’s book. Stock up on your resources! Whether it’s food, finances, or a few friends to lean on when things get rough; don’t wait until you’re in a pickle. Prepare your household like you’re gearing up for an apocalypse—just remember to throw in some snacks!

The Call for Hospitality: When the Fam Comes Knocking

Enter Jacob, Joseph’s dad, sending his sons to Egypt for food. Cue the dramatic music! Joseph’s all grown up, but there’s still some family baggage hanging around. He sees his brothers and you know he’s thinking, “Should I hug them or throw them into the Nile?” True hospitality shows up when the chips are down. Instead of throwing his brothers under the bus for their past shenanigans, he steps up, ready to assess their character and, let’s be honest, see if they’ve changed.

It’s not just about putting a meal on the table; it’s about dishing out some compassion and connection. Sure, they may have wronged you in the past, but sometimes you need to channel your inner Oprah and say, “You get a hug, and you get a hug!

Empathy and Understanding: The Ultimate Family Reunion

Joseph decides to put his brothers through a little character test. I mean, who wouldn’t? “Let’s see if these guys have learned anything since the whole ‘selling me into slavery’ incident.” It’s like a reality show where the prize is trust, and the stakes are high. When you’ve got a past like that, trust doesn’t come easy. But Joseph teaches us that creating a safe space is key. Hospitality isn’t just a one-time thing; it’s about nurturing an environment where people can show their vulnerabilities without fear of judgment.

The Reunion and Restoration: Grab the Tissues!

Fast forward: The famine continues, and Jacob’s sons head back to Egypt—this time with Benjamin. You better believe Joseph’s emotions are running wild. It’s the kind of reunion that makes you want to break out the popcorn…and tissue boxes.

Joseph throws a feast for his brothers that’s not just about food—this is about healing old wounds. You could say he’s really serving up forgiveness on a silver platter. True hospitality is like a strong foundation—without it, everything crumbles. It’s time to let go of past grudges and embrace grace like it’s your favorite pizza topping.

Prepping Your “Kitchen” for Hospitality: Lessons from Joseph for Work and Home

Joseph’s story isn’t just a fascinating drama; it’s a masterclass in hospitality. Whether you’re managing the chaos of a restaurant kitchen, hosting friends around your dinner table, or simply looking for ways to show kindness, the principles Joseph lived out are as relevant now as they were in ancient Egypt. Let’s dig in and unpack these timeless lessons, with a little seasoning from the culinary world

1. Anticipate Needs: Be the Friend Who Listens and the Server Who Sees

In the world of hospitality, anticipating needs is what separates the amateurs from the pros. It’s the server who notices an empty glass before a guest has to ask or swaps out a dropped fork without a word. Joseph nailed this when he foresaw Egypt’s famine and prepped like his life (and everyone else’s) depended on it—which it did.

At home or work, it’s about paying attention. Is your friend drowning in stress? Drop off dinner or take the kids off their hands for a night. Got a coworker looking like they’re one email away from imploding? Jump in and lighten the load. Whether it’s a restaurant guest or your neighbor, anticipating needs isn’t just good service; it’s the foundation of real connection.

2. Be Proactive: “Mise en Place” Isn’t Just for Kitchens

In any great kitchen, “mise en place”—a fancy French way of saying “everything in its place”—is gospel truth. Before the first ticket even hits the line, the knives are sharpened, the ingredients are prepped, and backups are ready. That’s how Joseph handled Egypt’s crisis. He didn’t wait for the famine to show up uninvited; he started filling storehouses long before anyone felt a hunger pang.

At home, proactive hospitality might look like keeping the pantry stocked, the guest bed fresh, and your heart ready for unexpected visitors. When someone shows up in need—whether for a warm meal or a warm conversation—you’ll be ready to say, “Come on in,” instead of scrambling like your kitchen is on fire.

3. Cultivate Generosity: The Little Extras Matter

The hospitality industry thrives on the little extras. It’s the complimentary appetizer, the thoughtful plating, or the handwritten note with the check. Those small touches transform a meal into a memory. Joseph understood this. When famine hit, he didn’t hoard the grain for himself or upsell it at a premium; he distributed it generously, saving lives by the thousands.

At home, generosity might mean sharing a casserole with your neighbor or giving your time to someone who just needs to talk. It’s not about extravagance—it’s about giving freely, even when you feel like you don’t have much to spare. Whether in a five-star kitchen or around your family table, generosity isn’t about the size of the gesture but the size of the heart behind it.

4. Foster Reconciliation: Food Is the Great Icebreaker

Meals have a way of breaking down walls. How many apologies, reunions, and new beginnings have started over a shared dish? Joseph, with every reason to hold a grudge, used his power to reconcile with the very brothers who sold him into slavery. Talk about grace served on a platter.

In your life, this could mean hosting a dinner to mend fences or simply inviting someone you’ve drifted apart from out for coffee. Food is often the gateway, but it’s the willingness to offer forgiveness and understanding that makes reconciliation stick. Hospitality, at its best, heals the heart as much as it fills the stomach.

5. Create a Safe Haven: Hospitality That Feels Like Home

In the restaurant biz, ambiance is everything. The right lighting, warm smiles from the staff, and a vibe that says, “You’re welcome here,” can make all the difference. Joseph didn’t just feed the hungry; he created a system that brought stability to a chaotic world.

At home, this might mean making your space cozy and inviting—blankets on the couch, a kettle always ready to boil, or simply an environment where people feel safe to be themselves. Beyond the physical, it’s about emotional and spiritual safety, too. Your hospitality should say, “This is a place where you’re seen, valued, and loved.”

Work and Home: Hospitality as a Lifestyle

Whether you’re running a kitchen or running a household, the heart of hospitality is the same: it’s about creating a space where people feel cared for. Joseph’s story shows us that hospitality isn’t just about meeting immediate needs—it’s about anticipating, preparing, and giving generously to foster connection and healing.

So, whether you’re plating up a signature dish for a customer or serving soup to a friend in need, remember this: every act of hospitality, no matter how small, reflects God’s love for His people. Be ready. Be generous. Be kind. And always keep your “kitchen” prepared to serve something that nourishes both body and soul.

Because at the end of the day, hospitality isn’t just what you do—it’s who you are.

Be the Joseph in Your Community

Joseph’s saga reminds us that life can throw some crazy curveballs, but preparedness and hospitality can make all the difference. Whether you’re facing a famine or just the everyday chaos of life, let’s channel our inner Joseph and be ready to extend a warm welcome, create safe spaces, and build connections. Be ready to turn your home into a hub of healing and connection. After all, the world could use a little more love and grace, especially when times get tough!
Deception at the Table: The Cost of Twisting Hospitality

November 29th, 2024

Let me tell you a little story about Jacob, Esau, and their family dynamic—talk about a soap opera packed with tension and a whole lot of questionable choices! Rebekah, bless her heart, decided to help Jacob pull off a little family heist by deceiving poor blind Isaac. Instead of creating a warm and loving home, this household was a hotbed of manipulation and favoritism. What should have been a safe space for trust turned into a stage for deceit and betrayal.

Jacob’s Deception: Lessons from the Kitchen and Beyond

When Jacob strolled into Isaac’s room, boldly proclaiming, “I am Esau, your firstborn,” he wasn’t just spinning a little white lie—he was hijacking a story that wasn’t his to tell. This wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment slip-up; it was a full-blown, premeditated act of deception. Let’s not forget that Rebekah, Jacob’s own mother, had whipped up a meal with the care and precision of a top-tier chef, all to fuel this con. What should’ve been an act of love—food prepared to nourish—was weaponized in a plot to steal Esau’s blessing.

Food has this magical ability to bring people together. It’s a universal language of connection, trust, and love. But Jacob? He turned the table into a battlefield, using a shared meal to divide instead of unite. What should’ve been a sacred moment of family and hospitality left the house shattered, with Esau betrayed, Isaac blindsided, and the whole family dynamic flipped upside down.

Kitchen Confessions: When Credit’s Stolen, Everyone Loses.

This whole “stealing credit” vibe isn’t just a biblical thing—it’s a hard reality in kitchens everywhere. Picture this: it’s the end of a grueling dinner service. The head chef strides out to thunderous applause, beaming like a rockstar. But back in the trenches? It’s the line cooks who’ve been sweating over the stoves, meticulously plating dishes, and keeping the whole operation from collapsing.

And yet, the chef takes the bow. They bask in the glory while the team watches from the shadows, knowing they’re the ones who made it happen. Trust me, I’ve seen it. And let me tell you—it’s a gut punch. Stealing credit doesn’t just bruise egos; it fractures relationships. It’s Jacob and Esau all over again, with resentment simmering like a pot ready to boil over.

What Jacob’s Tale Teaches Us

Jacob’s story isn’t just about deceit; it’s a warning about what happens when we claim what isn’t ours—whether it’s a blessing, recognition, or even someone else’s hard work. Manipulating trust for personal gain always comes with consequences. For Jacob, it meant running for his life, estranged from his family and burdened with guilt. In the kitchen, it’s the slow unraveling of team morale, respect, and trust.

True leadership—whether at home, in the kitchen, or in any community—isn’t about stepping over others to get ahead. It’s about raising others up, celebrating shared successes, and building trust that lasts. Jacob could’ve worked alongside Esau, strengthening their bond instead of tearing it apart. Likewise, a head chef who shares the spotlight with their team turns a good kitchen into a great one.

Turning the Heat Down: The Power of Integrity

Jacob’s deception eventually caught up with him, as it always does. His story reminds us that integrity is the foundation of everything lasting—whether it’s relationships, success, or trust. Food and hospitality are about more than just what’s on the plate. They’re about building bridges, fostering connection, and creating something greater than the sum of its parts.

So, whether it’s recognizing a line cook’s perfect sauce or simply being honest in our relationships, the takeaway is simple: when we act with integrity, we create something that endures. In the kitchen and in life, let’s aim to be the kind of people who celebrate the contributions of others. Because the best meals—and the best lives—are built on shared effort, trust, and a whole lot of love.

The Consequences of Deceitful Hospitality

What did Jacob gain from his little ruse? Isaac’s blessing—sure, it’s shiny and coveted, but just like that, it spirals into chaos. Esau’s fury sends Jacob packing, fleeing for his life. What should have been a family celebration became a rift so deep, it separated the two brothers for years, leading to a whole lot of heartache and regret.

Emotional and Spiritual Ramifications

Let’s not ignore the emotional fallout here. Esau’s heartbreak turns into bitterness, while Jacob’s slick moves send him into exile, filled with regret. Spiritually, Jacob misses the mark on what it really means to be chosen by God. Sure, he snatched the blessing through trickery, but in doing so, he missed out on the true essence of faith—integrity and faithfulness.

A Broader Reflection on Hospitality

This whole saga serves as a wake-up call about what hospitality is really about. True hospitality should be rooted in love, generosity, and authenticity. It’s a reflection of God’s heart—inviting us into community without strings attached. It’s about serving others for their benefit, not just for some personal gain.

The Tale of Trust Broken

The church I used to go to reminded me a lot of Jacob’s story—everything looked good on the surface, but underneath, there was manipulation, misplaced priorities, and a lot of broken trust. From the outside, it was the picture of a thriving, Christ-centered community: charismatic pastor, uplifting music, and smiles so polished they could rival the sanctuary’s brass handles. But as time went on, I began to see cracks in the glossy facade, and those cracks revealed something troubling.

Like Jacob claiming Esau’s blessing, this church leadership had a way of twisting something sacred into something self-serving. They often spoke from the pulpit about their passion for outreach and caring for the “least of these.” Their stories painted a picture of a church with open arms, ready to meet people in their brokenness.

Then came the moment of truth. The opportunity arose to start a ministry specifically aimed at helping the homeless and struggling families in our area. It seemed like the perfect way to live out those sermons and align with Christ’s teachings. But when the idea was brought to leadership, their response was jaw-dropping:

“We don’t need to help those kinds of people. Other people do that.”

Instead, they pivoted the conversation to focus on “serving” the community in a way that aligned with their true priority: catering to the older, wealthy white women who kept the church coffers full. These were the people they wanted to feel seen, valued, and cared for—not the struggling families, not the man sleeping on a park bench, and certainly not the marginalized voices Jesus so often sought out.

Hearing those words made my stomach turn. Just like Jacob using food to manipulate his way into a blessing, this church was using the idea of ministry to prop up their own image. It wasn’t about reflecting God’s heart; it was about maintaining appearances and financial security.

After that, everything changed. The sermons that once seemed inspiring now felt hollow. Words like “outreach” and “service” rang empty, knowing they came from a leadership more concerned with comfort than calling. Their refusal to act wasn’t just disappointing—it was a betrayal of trust.

True ministry isn’t about catering to those who already have plenty. It’s about rolling up your sleeves and going to the margins, meeting people in their pain, and offering love with no strings attached. The Jesus I know didn’t come for the comfortable; He came for the outcast, the overlooked, and the lost.

Much like Jacob’s story, this church had all the trappings of hospitality but none of the heart. They had the resources to make a real difference, just as Jacob had his family’s traditions and blessings. But instead of using them to bring people closer to God, they twisted them into tools for self-preservation. And just like Jacob’s actions left his family fractured, the church’s choices created a rift—one that still leaves a bad taste to this day.

True hospitality, true ministry, isn’t about serving those who can give something back. It’s about giving with no expectation of return, reflecting the love of Christ in its purest form. Anything less isn’t service—it’s manipulation. And manipulation never builds trust; it only tears it apart.

The Biblical Call to Authentic Hospitality

Throughout the Bible, hospitality shines as a virtue. Hebrews 13:2 reminds us not to forget to show hospitality to strangers, hinting that some folks may even be angels in disguise! This isn’t just about hosting dinner parties; it’s about creating a welcoming environment that radiates God’s grace. When we extend hospitality without ulterior motives, we open doors to meaningful connections and spiritual growth.

Lessons on Integrity and Trust

Jacob’s story teaches us a thing or two about integrity. Taking credit for acts of kindness for selfish reasons? Yeah, that erodes trust faster than a soggy biscuit. In a world that often celebrates cunning over honesty, this biblical narrative urges us to uphold integrity, even when it’s tempting to cut corners.

Building a Culture of Genuine Care

As followers of Christ, we’re called to create a culture of genuine hospitality in our communities. That means extending kindness and generosity without expecting anything in return. When we approach hospitality with open hearts, we reflect God’s love and create spaces where trust and authenticity thrive.

The Call to Repentance and Restoration

Now, here’s where things get interesting. The story of Jacob and Esau highlights the possibility of repentance and restoration. Sure, Jacob deceived his father, but he eventually undergoes a transformation. When he returns to Esau, he does so with humility, seeking reconciliation. It shows that even the most wayward can find their way back to grace.

The Power of Forgiveness

And let’s not forget Esau’s willingness to forgive. Their reunion is a powerful reminder of the healing power of forgiveness. It’s like a masterclass in how to mend relationships, even after deep wounds have been inflicted. Genuine hospitality includes the ability to mend broken ties and extend grace—something we could all use a bit more of.

In the end, Jacob and Esau’s story is a vivid reminder of the dangers of using hospitality and family ties for personal gain. Jacob’s deception exposes the destructive power of manipulating trust and the spiritual fallout that follows. But the biblical call to authentic hospitality invites us to embrace genuine love and service, fostering community and trust. As we reflect on this tale, let’s strive to approach our relationships with integrity, compassion, and a spirit of selflessness, following Christ’s example in every interaction. By doing so, we honor God and enrich the lives of those around us, building a community rooted in love and grace.
When Hospitality Changes Everything: Lessons from Abraham’s Table

November 25th, 2024

Alright, so here’s Abraham in Genesis 18, setting the gold standard for hospitality. He’s just minding his business, hanging out under some shade in the heat of the day, when three strangers show up. Instead of a casual “Hey, y’all hungry?” Abraham runs out to meet them. Not a mosey, not a brisk walk—he runs, practically tripping over himself to get these guys some food. You’d think he was on “Top Chef: Wilderness Edition” the way he sets up a five-star spread. He doesn’t know who they are, but he treats them like royalty.
Picture this: Abraham says, “Let me get you a little snack.” Translation? He calls Sarah to make fresh bread from the finest flour, picks the best calf from the herd, and has a full spread going before you can say “appetizers.” He’s not throwing together crackers and peanut butter here—he’s giving them the red-carpet treatment. This isn’t just kindness; it’s enthusiasm mixed with a serious case of “make yourself at home.” Abraham’s hospitality goes above and beyond because, to him, these strangers could be anyone, even angels. And in treating them this way, he shows that true hospitality treats every guest like they bear the image of God.
Back in Abraham’s day, showing up to someone’s tent and getting a meal wasn’t just convenient; it was essential. No McDonald’s or Motel 6 out in the desert—just you and the sand, maybe a few wandering sheep. So when these guys show up, Abraham doesn’t just feed them; he makes sure they feel respected and at peace. It’s almost like he’s saying, “Come in, sit down, don’t worry about a thing.” He’s creating a little sanctuary right there under that tree. The way Abraham welcomes these strangers is a model for us—a reminder that hospitality isn’t just feeding people. It’s about creating a space where folks feel seen, valued, and, dare I say, downright special.
Now, growing up in New England, When I was a kid, one of my most vivid memories was tagging along with my mom to visit a pair of Russian immigrant friends. These weren’t just any friends—they were survivors. Back in Russia, they’d been treated as less than human simply because they were deaf. Over there, being deaf was like wearing an invisible “unworthy” sign. But here in the States, they were carving out a new life, clinging to their culture and pouring their warmth into anyone lucky enough to cross their threshold.
From the moment we walked through their door, it was like stepping into a whole new world. They’d light up as if the president and his entourage had just strolled in. They didn’t have much—honestly, barely enough to call a full pantry—but what they did have, they shared with an open-heartedness that felt downright royal.
Without fail, they’d reach for this old tin of Russian cookies. I’m talking a tin that looked like it had been passed down through generations, its lid more dents than metal, its paint scuffed like it had seen a thousand tea times. And those cookies? Well, let’s just say the FDA would’ve called them a dental hazard. Hard as bricks and probably older than I was, they’d take all the strength in your jaw to crack. But there was no saying no. Refusing would’ve been like turning down a seat at their table of honor.
And then came the tea. Poured with all the precision of a master jeweler, steaming and fragrant, into cups that didn’t match but had clearly been loved. Those mismatched cups were like little snapshots of their journey—each one carrying its own story of resilience.

Here’s the thing: it wasn’t about the taste of the cookies or the fanciness of the tea. It was about the act. The care. The unspoken message in every crumb and sip: You’re welcome here. You matter. In that tiny living room, surrounded by people who had lost so much but still gave like they were rich, I felt the purest form of hospitality.
Looking back now, it all hits differently. In a world that loves to measure generosity in dollars and Instagram-worthy spreads, they taught me the sacredness of giving what you can with your whole heart. Those rock-hard cookies and that simple tea? They left an impression sweeter and more enduring than any five-star feast ever could.
It’s a lesson that stuck with me: hospitality isn’t about the menu or the presentation—it’s about the love behind it. It’s about the way you make people feel. And those Russian friends? They made us feel like royalty every single time.
Back to Abraham and his impromptu feast—imagine how that first hot meal on the road must’ve felt to those strangers, especially with Abraham giving them the best he had. It was like he took the time to say, “You matter here,” with every bite. And then, the big plot twist: after they’ve eaten, one of these visitors drops the news that Sarah, Abraham’s wife, will have a son within the year. This isn’t just hospitality; it’s hospitality with a serious bonus round. Abraham’s generosity isn’t just rewarded with a “thanks” but with a promise that changes everything. Out of that simple act of sharing a meal comes the promise of a son—one who’d be the beginning of generations to come, leading all the way to Israel, and eventually, to Christ.
Abraham’s story sets the tone for how we’re called to show up for others. Hospitality isn’t about breaking out the fine china or making a meal Martha Stewart would approve of. It’s about giving what we have, no matter how humble, with a whole heart. And sometimes, that looks like sharing your space, offering an open ear, or just creating a place where someone feels they belong.
And let’s be real—hospitality isn’t always convenient. Abraham didn’t hand these guys leftovers; he took his best calf, his best bread, and put his resources on the line. It’s a reminder that true hospitality is sacrificial. Whether it’s pulling an extra chair to the table, giving our time, or making room for someone in our lives, that willingness to share what’s meaningful is what makes hospitality sacred.
At the end of their visit, Abraham’s guests leave, but not before leaving a mark on his life. That meal, that open-hearted moment, becomes a blessing that ripples far beyond one afternoon. When we go out of our way for others, we participate in something bigger than just feeding folks. We open doors for God to work through those small acts in ways we may not even see.
So, next time you’re wondering if a small gesture matters, remember Abraham under that tree. A little bread, a little meat, a whole lot of heart—and out of that, blessings beyond his wildest dreams. Whether we’re serving up a feast or just pouring coffee for a friend, every act of welcome has the potential to become something holy, something that could change the lives of everyone at the table. Just maybe, in feeding others, we’ll find ourselves blessed in ways we never expected.
When the Storm Hits: How Hospitality Becomes Hope

November 23rd, 2024

Is hospitality always about whipping up a hot dish? Not necessarily. Sometimes, it’s about showing someone the ropes, just like God did with Noah. Instead of serving up a five-course meal, God gave Noah the ultimate survival guide, complete with blueprints for an extended stay on a floating barn. He didn’t just hand Noah supplies and say, “Good luck with the rain!” God walked him through the process, equipping him for the journey ahead. That’s hospitality too—meeting someone’s needs in the moment, even if it’s not food-related.

I saw this kind of hospitality in action when my family moved to Georgia. One of the first people we met was our realtor, and let me tell you, she was more than just someone helping us find a house. She quickly became our unofficial tour guide to Southern life. In our first interaction, we discovered we’d grown up just 20 miles apart—a small-world moment that made us feel right at home in a new place.

She didn’t stop at showing us houses. She became a lifeline for everything we needed to figure out, from the best grocery stores to the go-to Dunkin’ for a perfect cup of coffee. (And if you grew up in New England, you know how crucial that intel is!) To this day, she’s not only a close friend but a resource we’re endlessly grateful for. God placed her in our lives right when we needed someone to help us navigate, and she embraced the role wholeheartedly.

That’s the beauty of hospitality—it’s not limited to the table. Sometimes, it’s as simple as showing up, offering guidance, or helping someone feel a little less lost in the wilderness they’re wandering. Like Noah’s ark-building crash course or my realtor’s Dunkin’ recommendations, hospitality is about equipping others for the road ahead. It’s about making people feel cared for, whether you’re handing them a meal or handing them a map.

So, here’s the setup: God tells Noah, “Alright, round up the family, and don’t forget a few extra pairs of animals for the ride.” Rain was coming, and not just for an afternoon sprinkle—forty days and forty nights of the stuff. This wasn’t just packing for the weekend; this was the ultimate prepper setup. And sure enough, God wasn’t arranging a garden on board or dropping down a miracle every day. He left Noah with instructions and a game plan, so that when it came time to eat, Noah could feed his family right.

Now, I know about rough weather. Growing up in New England, when November rolled around, there were days when the cold crept into your bones, damp as the rain pouring outside. That’s when my family knew exactly what to do—make a big pot of chili. There was something about ladling out a steaming bowl on a dark, chilly day that warmed you up from the inside out. The smell alone would pull you in from anywhere, fighting off that bone-deep cold just long enough to remind you, you were home, safe, and surrounded by family.

Picture Noah’s family on that ark, cold, tired, maybe a little homesick. After all, the world they’d known was now underwater, and they were adrift with nothing but the animals, the waves, and each other. It probably took a couple of days to get their bearings, but once they did, I bet that first warm meal was a lifesaver. I imagine them huddled together, sharing a pot of stew in the dim light, finding a tiny bit of normalcy amid the storm. God could’ve let them sleep through the trip or rained down manna, but He didn’t. He set things up so they’d have to come together, share in that ritual of making a meal, sitting together, and connecting.

Hospitality doesn’t have to be a five-course meal with your fine china or a Pinterest-worthy table setting. Sometimes, it’s as simple as showing up and using what you’ve got—just like God did for Noah. When the rain poured and the floodwaters rose, God didn’t hand Noah a mansion on a hill or a luxury cruise liner. Instead, He gave him a floating barn, a detailed plan, and the promise of His presence. Noah and his family shared meals, worked together, and built a bond forged in survival, knowing that everything they had come from God’s provision.

I saw that same kind of roll-up-your-sleeves hospitality firsthand during one of Georgia’s big storms. When the power went out across the state, families were left sweating in the dark—no electricity, no water, no hot meals, and, let me tell you, no AC. In the stifling Southern heat, that’s no joke. But instead of sitting pretty, our church stepped up in the biggest way.

The church still had power, and they took that blessing as a green light to act. They threw the doors wide open like Noah building an ark for the neighborhood. Need a cool place to rest? Come on in. Can’t reach your family because your phone’s dead? We’ve got outlets ready for you. Hungry? No problem—we’re firing up the grills.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was exactly what people needed. Everyone brought whatever they could spare—some meat from a thawing freezer, sides thrown together in a pinch—and the parking lot became a community cookout. But it wasn’t just about the food. It was about creating a space where folks could breathe, laugh, and remember they weren’t in this alone. People prayed together, swapped stories, and found hope in the simple act of sharing a meal and a moment.

It reminded me of Noah and his family huddled on that ark. Their meals weren’t extravagant, but each one was a testament to survival, trust, and a God who saw them through the storm. That parking lot cookout felt like a modern-day ark—a place where people leaned on one another and God’s provision in a time of need.

Hospitality doesn’t always come with a tablecloth and fine wine. Sometimes, it looks like a hotdog on a paper plate, a cold room on a sweltering day, or even just a phone charger offered with a smile. It’s about stepping into the mess, meeting people right where they are, and reminding them—and yourself—that God’s provision shows up even in the storms.

And that’s what hospitality is at its core—not about the food, but about showing up for others, making room, providing what’s needed. And it doesn’t have to be gourmet. Can you drop off some canned goods for a neighbor whose struggling? Offer to take someone grocery shopping? Grab a cup of coffee with the new guy and ask him how he’s settling in? These simple acts—small gestures of kindness—build relationships, just like those family dinners on the ark. It’s all about connection, helping someone feel seen, known, and cared for.

Now watch this, do you know what did Noah do when that door finally opened, and they stepped back onto solid ground? First thing, he set up an altar, lit up the new world’s first Holy Cook-Out, and sent up a smoke signal to God as a “thank you.” It wasn’t the smell of the barbecue itself that earned God’s promise never to flood the Earth again—it was the relationship Noah had built with Him. It was that trust, that bond, that connection, showing gratitude even after all they’d been through. Because hospitality—true hospitality—isn’t about a fancy meal. It’s about creating space for someone to feel at home, even if that “home” happens to be a smelly, overcrowded ark in the middle of a flood or a Church in a strip mall in GA. And if we can learn that….. we will be all the better for it. Whether we’re ladling out chili on a rainy New England day or huddling up for a meal on a floating ark
God’s Garden Plan: Hospitality and Fellowship from the Start

November 22nd, 2024

Growing up, my mom’s garden wasn’t just a patch of dirt—it was her magnum opus. Seriously, Eden might’ve taken one look and thought, “Okay, this is a bit much.” Rows of tomatoes, beans, squash, and everything else you’d need for a Southern feast stretched as far as my childhood eyes could see. And come harvest season? It was like she turned into the CEO of Farm-to-Table Enterprises. Our pantry shelves were lined with jars of home-canned goodness, each one a testament to her hard work and God’s provision.

And it wasn’t just the garden. Add a haul from leftovers that were going to be tossed out from the local farmers market and the occasional food donations from church, and somehow, we never went hungry. God’s math didn’t just add up—it multiplied. Looking back now, I see those meals for what they really were: more than food. They were love, care, and a healthy dose of faith all plated up and served with a side of “we’re gonna make it.”

That same care is what I see in the story of Eden. God didn’t just slap some dirt together and call it good; He set the table. Before humanity even got there, He already had the whole menu planned out and the produce aisle fully stocked. Genesis 1:11 gives us the play-by-play: “Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it.” Translation? Adam and Eve walked into a buffet so abundant it made Old Country Buffet look like a kid’s picnic. Talk about VIP treatment.

But here’s the kicker: God’s garden wasn’t just about making sure Adam and Eve didn’t go hungry. It was about connection, relationship, and showing them how deeply He cared. That’s the kind of hospitality that hits deeper than a full belly—it feeds the soul.

So, if God put that much intentionality into setting the table in Eden, maybe we should rethink how we’re setting our own. Whether it’s a big family dinner or just sharing a cup of coffee with a friend, there’s power in how we invite others into our lives. Because if God can prepare a feast with that much thought and love, then our tables—however simple—can become sacred spaces too.

God didn’t just craft Eden with a “let’s wing it” attitude; He went full-on Southern hostess mode. Genesis 1:11 tells us, “Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds.” Translation? The table was set before Adam and Eve even knew they’d need a seat. From the first sprout of grass to the juiciest pomegranate, God stocked the fridge, wrote the menu, and laid the foundation for not just survival, but flourishing.

Growing up, I saw this kind of thoughtfulness firsthand, though maybe with a bit more hustle and grit. In our house, it didn’t matter how tight things were—if someone came over, you better believe a pot of coffee or a cup of tea was on the table faster than you could say, “Stay awhile.” Didn’t matter if it was the fancy, good coffee or the bottom-of-the-barrel stuff Mom scored at the dented-can store. Hospitality wasn’t about impressing; it was about offering a seat, a sip, and a sense of belonging. I’ll never forget one particularly lean season when things in our house were tight. Our church came through with some food donations, and among the bags of canned goods and boxed meals, there was something extra special—some meat. This was meant to be our dinner that night. We needed that meal, no doubt about it, but the lessons my parents and the Lanes had planted in me were already taking root in my young mind.

So when one of the mothers of the children that my mom watched in her home daycare walked in our door, looking a little worse for wear, and complaining about how tough things were. I didn’t hesitate. I offered it up, handed it over with a smile, and waved goodbye to what should’ve been our supper. I’d like to tell you it was a proud moment for everyone, but the truth is my mom was as my friends and I would joke “not amused”. That meat wasn’t just food—it was hope on a plate for our family, and she wasn’t thrilled to see it walking out the door.

But here’s the thing: the seeds of generosity she and my dad had sown in me couldn’t be undone, even in her frustration. My parents, and our church family—especially the Lanes—had shown me over and over what it looked like to give, even when there wasn’t much to spare. I didn’t fully understand it then, but they had taught me the sacred act of trusting that God’s provision would come through, even when it seemed impossible.

So my mom stood there, quiet for a long moment, and let that dinner go. She may have been angry, but she didn’t stop me. And that silent moment spoke louder than words: the lesson she’d taught me—to care for those in greater need—was worth more than a single meal.

That night, we scraped together a makeshift dinner from what we had left, and sure enough, it was enough. It always seemed to be enough. Looking back, I see how those lessons shaped me, how they mirrored the kind of hospitality God shows us. In Eden, He prepared abundance and trusted it would sustain. In our home, even with so little, we trusted the same—and somehow, there was always another meal.

This mindset—this faith in the abundance of God’s provision—mirrored what He did in the Garden. Long before we ever felt the pangs of hunger or dreamed of a place at His table, He was already planning. Eden wasn’t just a garden; it was a feast, prepped and plated with love and intentionality. Every fruit, every tree, every little herb growing wild was an act of care, a declaration that God doesn’t just meet our needs—He exceeds them.

If God put that much effort into setting the table in Eden, it makes me think about how we’re setting ours. Whether it’s a hearty meal for loved ones or just offering a simple cup of tea to a neighbor who stops by, it’s about more than food. It’s about saying, “You’re welcome here. You’re seen. You’re cared for.”

Because in God’s house—just like my mom’s—there’s always room at the table, always a fresh pot brewing, and always a reminder that the best meals start with the heart of the host.

He’s the ultimate host. The Creator of the universe took the time to prep a feast, not just to fill bellies but to fill lives. It wasn’t just food; it was a whole experience, designed for us to savor, to enjoy. And if God Himself shows us that level of intentionality, why do we struggle to do the same? God didn’t slap something together last minute; He had everything ready for that first moment when humanity walked in. We could learn a thing or two, right? If He’s willing to go the extra mile to create a space where we feel valued and cared for, maybe we should start being a little more intentional with our own hospitality.

When God gave Adam and Eve “every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it,” He wasn’t just passing out survival food. This wasn’t about hunger, but about fellowship. The food in the garden wasn’t just fuel; it was a way to connect—with each other, with the earth, with God Himself. In Eden, food was a bridge to relationship. Every meal was a reminder that they were cared for, that they were known and loved.

Think about it. How many of our own best memories have food tied to them? Mom’s cookies, family movie night with popcorn, dad’s steaks he would only cook every once and a while. The food is more than a meal; it’s a gateway, a spark that opens up those moments. To this day, if we haven’t seen someone in years, what’s the first thing we say? “Hey, let’s grab a coffee sometime.” Maybe that’s not just culture. Maybe we’re hard-wired by God Himself to share life over a meal, to let food be the connector, the doorway to deeper connection. It’s a tool, designed for us to build bonds.

When God welcomed Adam and Eve into Eden, He didn’t just say, “Go wild, do whatever.” Nope. He gave them one boundary: don’t eat from this particular tree. And that’s not some throwaway rule. It was intentional, a guideline that required trust. God wasn’t trying to kill their vibe; He was making it clear that real relationships, real love, require trust and boundaries. This was freedom, but with purpose.

And here’s where it hits home for us. We’ve got two extremes: some people build walls so thick and high that nobody ever gets in, while others throw the doors wide open and let people walk all over them. But God’s example shows us that true hospitality means welcoming others with open arms but also having lines that protect the health of the relationship. Those lines aren’t barriers; they’re safeguards that keep the good stuff in and the harmful stuff out.

God’s garden wasn’t just about beauty and food; it was the original model for community. Eden was a place where Adam and Eve could thrive, where they could connect with God and each other. And if we’re supposed to reflect God’s character, our churches, our homes, our spaces should echo that. True hospitality isn’t just opening the door; it’s creating an environment that says, “You belong here.” It’s a space where people can breathe, where they feel safe, welcomed, and known.

Imagine if we, as the church, started treating hospitality like God did. If we stopped with the rushed hellos and actually made our homes and our churches places where people felt like they could truly rest, connect, and be themselves. God set the bar high, not because He had to, but because He wanted to. He created a world that shouted, “You matter. You’re cared for.” Let’s be people who echo that, who prepare our tables and open our doors, offering others a taste of the God who’s been setting the table from the beginning.

God’s provision in Eden wasn’t just about food—it was His way of saying, “You’re home.” It’s a reminder that in God’s house, there’s always a seat for everyone, a place where every meal is a celebration of connection, love, and belonging. So, why don’t we make a little more room at our tables?
“Hospitality Unlocked: How Food Opens Hearts to God”

November 21st, 2024

Hi, I’m Andrew Gantt, and I firmly believe life’s best moments happen around a table. Whether it’s a wild family dinner where chaos is the main course, a quiet coffee chat with a side of heart-to-heart, or handing a plate of food to someone who didn’t see it coming, hospitality is where the magic happens. Food isn’t just sustenance, it’s connection, love, and sometimes a bribe to get people to stay a little longer.

Born and raised in the postcard-perfect hills of Vermont as the middle child in a family of six (yes, the forgotten one), I learned early on that food was the glue that held us together. It also doubled as a weapon during dinner-table debates. My Nana, a service industry legend, taught me that food made with heart can heal just about anything—even if her biscuits were closer to charcoal than carbs. From her sweet tea that was 90% sugar and 10% tea. Nana’s lessons stuck with me.

Fast forward a few decades, and I’ve traded Vermont snow for Savannah sunshine, setting down roots in the spicy, soulful South with my high school sweetheart and three amazing kids. Life’s been a mix of grit, grace, and a lot of “What can I make with this random can of beans?” (Shoutout to my spiritual grandparents, Juanita and Ken Lane, for teaching me how to improvise in a kitchen, and how to welcome anyone to your table and feed them body and soul)

Along the way, I’ve learned that real hospitality isn’t about a perfect soufflé or matching napkins—it’s about creating a space where people feel seen, loved, and fed in every sense of the word. It’s about making someone feel like they belong, whether they’re sharing a feast or a PB&J.

That’s why this blog exists: to explore what biblical hospitality looks like in a world where locking the door and pretending you’re not home feels easier. From epic scripture feasts to the small, daily kindnesses that mirror God’s heart, I want to unpack the deeper meaning of “Come as you are.” From the moment God said, “Let there be light,” He was setting the table for us, showing us what it means to invite, include, and love.

After years of burning the midnight oil (and a few too many casseroles), I’ve realized that the heart of God’s story—and our model for living—can be found in hospitality. It’s about opening our doors, our hearts, and our lives to reflect the love He’s shown us. And honestly? Some of the best lessons start with a simple invitation: “Come, sit, eat, and listen.”

So, whether you’re here for bold flavors, biblical insights, or just a good laugh, my hope is that you’ll feel inspired to open your table and your heart a little wider. Pull up a chair, grab a cup of coffee, and let’s dig in—because the best conversations always happen when there’s food on the table and grace in the air.

Food in the Bible isn’t just something to snack on, its true hospitality. Woven into the story like a crucial character, playing a starring role as a symbol of God’s provision, a tool for fellowship, and a metaphor for spiritual nourishment. It shows up over 1,000 times, depending on how many pages you’re willing to flip through, and it’s not just your standard bread and wine (though those do get some serious screen time). There’s everything from olive oil to figs, and let’s not forget about honey—seriously, why don’t we put honey on everything? The Bible sure seems to think we should.

Take honey, for example, which flows through the pages like a divine reminder of sweetness and abundance. “Land of milk and honey” isn’t just a catchy slogan; it’s the promise of a good life, flowing with the richest, sweetest stuff you can find. In a time when sugar wasn’t a thing, honey was the ultimate treat. And it wasn’t just a dessert topping—honey was life, it was hope, it was everything good about God’s blessings wrapped up in one sticky spoonful. You get the sense that if heaven had a taste, it would be honey.

But the role of food in the Bible goes deeper than just satisfying hunger. It’s how God connects with His people, showing up with a loaf of bread or a feast when they least expect it. Whether it’s manna falling from the sky to feed the wandering Israelites or Jesus breaking bread with His disciples, food becomes a divine delivery system for not only physical sustenance but also spiritual truth. God doesn’t just fill stomachs; He fills hearts. This here is the heart of hospitality.

And let’s be real—God could’ve sent any old thing down from heaven to sustain His people, but He chose food, something so deeply personal and tied to human experience. It’s as if God is saying, “I know you’re hungry, not just for bread but for meaning, for connection, for Me.” And so, food becomes a symbol of that relationship, a way for people to experience God’s care in the most tangible form possible.

From the Garden of Eden’s abundance to the Last Supper’s intimacy, food in the Bible is more than just calories. It’s communion, it’s celebration, it’s life itself. So, whether it’s bread, wine, or that seriously underrated honey, food shows up time and again as a reminder that God’s provision is always on the menu.

Let’s take a stroll through the Bible’s greatest food moments—because, let’s be honest, God doesn’t just provide, He serves up some epic meals.

Genesis: Gods Farmers Market

Right off the bat, Adam and Eve hit the jackpot in the Garden of Eden (Genesis 1:29). Imagine it: a paradise so lush it makes Whole Foods look like a convenience store. God lays it all out like a five-star buffet and says, “Dig in! Every fruit, nut, and grain you could dream of—it’s all yours.” No GMOs, no questionable pesticides—just pure, organic bliss straight from the Creator’s hands. This wasn’t survival food; this was culinary art, a feast for the senses, and a divine mic drop: “See how much I care for you?”

Growing up in Vermont, I got a small taste of that Eden vibe—okay, minus the literal walking-with-God part. Our little town had more farms and farmers’ markets than stoplights, each one staffed by people who looked like they’d stepped out of Woodstock or the head shop. These folks weren’t just selling produce; they were on a mission. “This kale will change your life,” they’d promise, while handing over a bag of granola with the enthusiasm of someone sharing the gospel of gluten-free goodness.

And then there was my mom, the queen of her own backyard Eden. Her garden wasn’t just a hobby—it was an ecosystem. Rows of tomatoes, beans, and carrots stretched on forever, like soldiers ready to fight off grocery-store mediocrity. She’d be out there in every season, either bundled up like she was climbing Everest or rocking a giant sunhat that made her look like a Southern belle who got lost in New England; to be honest she was a good old southern girl stuck in New England but I digress.

Harvest time was when the real magic happened. Our kitchen would morph into a chaotic, tomato-scented factory. Pots of bubbling Jelly, jars of pickles, and stacks of fresh veggies turned into a winter survival kit that smelled like heaven. Looking back, it wasn’t just food she was making—it was love, preserved in Mason jars and sealed with care.

Thinking about that garden takes me straight back to Eden. God didn’t just give Adam and Eve food for fuel; He handed them an experience. That first bite of a sun-warmed peach? Pure joy. The crunch of fresh veggies straight from the vine? Bliss. God wasn’t just saying, “Here, survive.” He was saying, “Thrive. Delight. Taste and see that I am good.”

And that’s what my mom’s garden taught me. Food wasn’t just about getting by; it was about celebrating life. Every bite was a reminder of provision(and she would make sure to remind us) of creativity, of love. Whether it’s picking cucumbers in a backyard garden or browsing a farmers’ market bursting with color, the message is the same: God provides, abundantly and with joy in mind.

So here’s the takeaway: life’s better when we pause to savor it—when we taste, really taste, the gifts in front of us. Whether it’s a tomato plucked from a vine or a divine truth whispered through the scriptures, everything points back to the same table: one set by a God who delights in feeding not just our bodies but our souls.

Exodus: Manna and God’s Divine Takeout

Fast forward to the wilderness, and the Israelites are out there wandering like a group of tourists with nothing but sandals, hope, and a serious need for some real food. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve been there—feeling like I’m scraping by, hoping for some miracle to show up. Well, God doesn’t disappoint. He pulls out the ultimate divine takeout: manna. Every morning, this flaky, heavenly bread shows up like clockwork. I can imagine the Israelites waking up, rubbing their eyes, and looking around like, “What in the world is this?” And that’s actually the name—manna. “What is it?” It’s both a question and the answer. God’s basically saying, “Quit stressing. I got you today. Just trust Me, and I’ll show up.”

Growing up in a preacher’s family, I know a thing or two about needing that kind of provision. We didn’t exactly have a budget for fancy meals, and there were plenty of times when the pantry was looking a little too bare. But God always provided. Take, for example, the Boston Barn—the dented can store where we did most of our shopping. It was the place you’d go if you were looking for the kind of groceries that had a little personality—cans with squished sides, boxes with missing corners, and bags that looked like they’d been through a tornado. But hey, if the label was still legible, it was fair game. My mom would pack us up and we’d head down there, picking through the dented cans like treasure hunters. And you’d be surprised what you could make out of a can of beans with a broken lid and a bag of rice with a torn corner.

Then, there were the times when we had to rely on the food donations from the church. Pastors don’t exactly get the golden ticket in terms of paychecks, so there were seasons when we were stretching every dollar—and often praying for a little help. But here’s the thing: every time we were running low, there was always a bag of groceries waiting for us in the church kitchen. God made sure we were never truly without. He always showed up, just like He did for the Israelites in the wilderness. Whether it was manna from heaven or canned beans from Boston Barn, He provided exactly what we needed, exactly when we needed it.

It’s not always glamorous. Sometimes you have to trust that the quail is coming, even when all you see is desert. But God doesn’t just provide; He makes sure there’s a full meal. Even in the wilderness, there’s enough for today—and that’s the kind of provision that keeps your faith steady when things feel dry. God isn’t just about filling your belly; He’s about filling you up with hope, with gratitude, and with the knowledge that He’s got your back, every step of the way.

The Gospels: Meals That Feed More Than the Stomach

Now, Jesus—He knew how to make a meal matter. It wasn’t just about food for Him; it was about transforming every meal into a spiritual masterclass. Take the Last Supper, where a simple plate of bread and wine became a profound symbol of His body and blood. Or the time He fed 5,000 people with a few loaves and fish (John 6:1–14). The guy was a miracle worker, not just in the kitchen, but in the heart. When Jesus broke bread, it wasn’t just about filling up on carbs—it was about filling up on spiritual truths that changed lives forever. He wasn’t just satisfying hunger; He was nourishing souls.

I’ve seen this in real life, too. My church growing up used to organize a community Thanksgiving dinner, and let me tell you—those meals weren’t just about stuffing stomachs, they were about feeding souls. Year after year, we had hundreds of people coming through. Young, old, families, individuals—all kinds of folks. Each one walked through the door and was handed a warm plate of food, but what they walked away with was so much more. We weren’t just serving turkey and stuffing; we were serving hope. There were prayers, conversations about faith, and, most importantly, we were sharing love with everyone who showed up.

Time after time you would see someone chatting with one of the church folk that would be volunteering. At first they would have a stone face and not want to be talking to anyone and soon the mood would change. And then they would be praying together. Then their face would soften, and you could see the weight they had been carrying start to lift. That meal wasn’t just turkey—it was a reminder that someone cared about them, and that God had a seat for them at His table.

And don’t even get me started on Jesus’ kitchen skills. One minute, He’s got a little boy’s lunchbox with a few loaves and fish, and the next minute, He’s feeding a crowd so large it would make a stadium look like a backyard barbecue. It’s like the universe just cleared its throat and said, “Alright, Jesus, show us how it’s done.” There’s something incredible about how He took something so simple and turned it into a divine feast—satisfying hunger, yes, but also opening hearts in ways that only He could.

When we served that community Thanksgiving dinner, we didn’t just fill bellies with mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce; we filled hearts with something deeper. Just like in the Gospels, it wasn’t about the meal—it was about making space for God to work. When you break bread with someone, you’re not just sharing food; you’re sharing hope, connection, and the chance for God to move in ways that go beyond the table.

The Marriage Supper of the Lamb: Heaven’s Spread vs. Memaw and Nana’s Christmas Throwdown

Now, if you want to talk about the feast to end all feasts, look no further than the marriage supper of the Lamb (Revelation 19:9). This isn’t just a meal—it’s the grand finale of heavenly celebrations. Imagine a table so massive, it makes Thanksgiving look like a quick snack before a real meal. This is the kind of spread that says, “Oh, you thought you had enough food at your family dinner? Think again.” We’re talking abundance on a cosmic scale, where every dish is not only perfect but divinely inspired, and the main course? It’s fellowship with God Himself—better than any sweet potato casserole or homemade pie.

Now, if I’m being real, this meal gives me serious flashbacks to Christmas at my southern Memaw house. Every year, it was like an unspoken competition between my Memaw and Nana of them, trying to outdo the other in a battle of who could cook more—and let me tell you, both of them could have fed an army. It’s like the holiday spirit got a little too competitive, and the kitchen was their battlefield. You had the turkey and ham that were roasted to perfection by Nana, the mashed potatoes that Memaw would make from scratch with lbs of butter in them, and a dessert table that could give you a sugar coma just by looking at it.

The spread in heaven is like that—but, on a cosmic scale. Picture this: there’s every dish you could dream of—perfectly prepared, filled with flavors you can’t even begin to imagine, but it’s not about the food itself. It’s about the eternal covenant and the promise that no one goes hungry, because this meal is about fellowship. Memaw and Nana might have been competitive in the kitchen, but even they knew that food isn’t just about filling your stomach—it’s about sharing love and community. Well, in heaven, the meal is God’s love on full display, an invitation to come, sit, and partake in the eternal feast of connection with Him.

So, no RSVP needed for this one—just come as you are, and prepare to have your heart (and soul) filled in ways that would make even Memaw and Nana’s Christmas battle seem like a friendly appetizer. At this table, it’s not about who cooked more; it’s about the joy of simply being there, fully satisfied in His presence.

In the Bible, food isn’t just something to fill your stomach—it’s a symbol of God’s provision, a way to build community, and a reminder of His unending promise. It’s like the ultimate potluck, where everyone’s got a seat at the table and the menu is full of grace.

Let’s dive into the story of God placing Adam and Eve in the lush Garden of Eden—because here, food isn’t just fuel, it’s a love letter from the Creator. God’s provision in this paradise reveals His heart for fellowship, healing, and joy, all served up with a side of deliciousness.

Provision through Creation: Imagine this—God’s not just throwing together some bare essentials; He’s crafting a feast. We’re talking trees “pleasant to the sight and good for food” (Genesis 2:9). It’s like He set up the ultimate backyard BBQ, with every tree and plant offering a menu of flavors and textures that would make even the best farm-to-table restaurant jealous. And let’s be real—it’s not just about keeping Adam and Eve alive; it’s about them thriving. God isn’t just saying, “Here, eat this.” He’s saying, “You’re welcome, and while you’re at it, enjoy yourself!”

This divine spread wasn’t a boring survival diet; it was a gift packed with joy and pleasure. It’s God’s way of saying, “I want you to live well, to savor each bite, to find joy in the little things.” From the sweetness of ripe fruit to the crunch of nuts, everything was designed to nourish the body and delight the senses. God’s first act of provision wasn’t just practical—it was an invitation to experience abundance, to walk in fellowship with Him through the simple act of eating.

In the Garden, food wasn’t just about survival, it was about connection—connection to God, to creation, and to each other. Every bite was a reminder that God’s provision is generous, intentional, and full of joy. It was as if the entire garden was whispering, “Eat, laugh, and be filled, because the One who made you loves to see you thrive.”

In the Garden of Eden, it wasn’t just about survival or stuffing their faces with nature’s finest buffet. Adam and Eve were strolling around, hand in hand, with God Himself. Imagine having a dinner date with the Creator of the universe, no reservations needed. There’s something magical about that image—food becomes a tool for connection, a symbol of peace and unity.

Sharing a meal in this paradise wasn’t just an act of nourishment; it was the original bonding experience. It’s like God was saying, “Sit, relax, let’s share this together.” If breaking bread doesn’t scream fellowship, I don’t know what does. Nothing brings people closer than sitting around a table and enjoying a good meal—except maybe a food fight, but we’re guessing there wasn’t much of that going on in Eden (though it would’ve been epic).

Here, food wasn’t just a necessity; it was the backdrop for community. Each meal was a chance to connect, to share laughter, conversation, and that unmistakable feeling of being in perfect sync with each other and with God. It’s no wonder that throughout the Bible, food keeps popping up in these key moments of fellowship. Because let’s be honest, there’s something sacred about gathering for a meal that goes beyond just filling your stomach—it fills your soul.

Healing through Wholeness: In the Garden, food wasn’t just about keeping hunger at bay—it was about thriving on every level. Imagine living in a world where every bite nourished not just your body, but your mind and spirit too. There was no scrambling to meet basic needs, no processed junk or fast food drive-thru’s; it was the original farm-to-table experience, curated by God Himself. The food was all about balance, bringing wholeness to life, where every meal was medicine and every ingredient a blessing.

The food in Eden symbolized more than just physical nourishment. It represented healing and thriving, a full-body restoration program straight from the Creator. No sickness, no aches, no pains—just a steady diet of vitality. And this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill health food either. It was the five-star version of God’s care for His creation, a feast that left you whole in every sense—body, mind, and spirit. Picture the lush fruits, the vibrant colors, the rich flavors. Each bite was an invitation to experience life at its fullest, to feel alive in ways we can only dream of today.

And while our modern-day indulgences, like chugging a gallon of water after a glass of syrupy sweet tea, might leave us bloated and laughing at our own choices, Eden’s food had none of that aftermath. It was pure, unadulterated goodness, designed to heal and sustain. God’s intention was for food to be life-giving, a symbol of His care and provision. Even today, we get glimpses of this when we gather around a table, sharing a meal that nourishes more than just our bellies—it feeds the soul too.

This wasn’t just some scenic centerpiece to tie the garden together; the Tree of Life represented God’s ultimate gift—eternal life, health, and wholeness for humanity. Imagine taking a bite of its fruit and instantly feeling a kind of vitality that doesn’t just last a few hours, but forever. It wasn’t about grabbing a quick snack; it was God saying, “Here’s a taste of eternity, of life that never fades.”

The Tree of Life symbolized more than just sustenance—it was about thriving on a divine level, a physical manifestation of God’s desire for us to live in perfect health and harmony. No aging, no decay, just an everlasting glow that came from partaking in His endless provision. The fruit wasn’t just nourishing, it was life-sustaining, a reminder that our true source of life is found in God Himself, not in the temporary things of this world.

It’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder what that fruit tasted like. Maybe something sweeter than honey, fresher than anything Whole Foods could dream of stocking. But the real beauty of the Tree of Life was in what it represented—God’s desire to give us more than just food for survival, but food for eternal thriving, an invitation to experience His love and generosity in the most tangible way possible.

So, what does all this mean for us today? Well, the tradition of breaking bread together is still one of the most powerful ways we can meet both our physical and spiritual needs. Here’s how it connects:

In the Garden of Eden, God didn’t just provide food for Adam and Eve—He laid out a spread that would make any modern meal plan look like a sad snack box. Eating was more than just about staying alive; it was about joy, abundance, and celebration. God wasn’t interested in feeding them bland survival rations—He gave them the ultimate feast, filled with color, flavor, and life!

When we gather around a table to share a meal, we’re doing more than just quieting the grumbling in our stomachs—we’re feeding our souls, too. Whether it’s a home-cooked family dinner, a burger on the grill, or even a hot dog all the way from a roadside shack in NC; if you know you know. Meals have this incredible ability to bring people together. Sharing food reminds us of God’s ongoing provision, whether you’re dining on a gourmet feast or simply enjoying whatever’s in front of you. It’s a moment of connection, a reminder that every bite is a gift from above, meant to be savored and shared with others.

Adam and Eve were the original power couple, and food was the ultimate bond between them and God. It wasn’t just about eating; it was about unity, harmony, and relationship. Imagine strolling through the Garden with God, casually picking fruit and sharing it in perfect peace. No awkward small talk, no overcooked steaks—just a perfect dinner party with the Creator Himself. Every bite was a symbol of togetherness, a way to bond without distractions, and a reminder of the beauty of life shared.

Breaking bread is still one of the most genuine invitations to connect with others. Whether it’s a big family dinner or grabbing a bite with friends, food brings us together in a way nothing else can. Around the table, we laugh, we share stories, and we create memories that stick with us longer than the meal itself. And let’s face it, in the age of Instagram, a good food selfie is practically mandatory—because nothing says “community” like showing off that perfect plate to the world! But underneath the filters and hashtags, it’s still about the same thing it always was: food as a way to nourish our souls as much as our bodies.

The Tree of Life wasn’t just a decorative centerpiece in the Garden of Eden; it symbolized God’s desire for eternal connection and spiritual sustenance for humanity. Every bite from that tree was like a direct line to the divine, feeding not just the body but the soul. It represented life in its fullest form—uninterrupted, everlasting, and filled with God’s presence. Food wasn’t just about keeping the stomach full; it was about nourishing the spirit and deepening that eternal bond with the Creator.

Shared meals are still the perfect setting for spiritual nourishment. Jesus showed us time and time again that some of the most meaningful conversations happen over a meal. Whether it’s bread, fish, or your favorite taco night, food opens the door to deeper, soul-level talks. Sharing a meal with others isn’t just about satisfying hunger; it’s an invitation to build a deeper relationship, dive into the kind of life-changing conversations that linger long after the plates are cleared. So, next time you’re sitting down to eat, take a page out of Jesus’ playbook—let that table be a place where faith is shared, questions are asked, and lives are changed, one bite at a time.

In the Garden of Eden, food was more than fuel—it was a symbol of perfect harmony between humanity, God, and creation. There was no stress about where the next meal would come from, no worries about food allergies or picky eaters. It was all abundance and peace, with every bite bringing life, restoration, and joy. But after the fall, that perfect harmony was shattered, and eating became a chore, a necessity for survival rather than an experience of healing and connection.

Sharing a meal still carries the power to heal and restore. Inviting someone to your table isn’t just about satisfying hunger; it’s an offering of grace, a way to break down walls and bring comfort to those who need it. Whether it’s a casual dinner or a holiday feast, something magical happens when people sit down together. Conversations flow, laughter eases tensions, and before you know it, the barriers that seemed so high start to crumble. Sharing food becomes an act of love and restoration—a reminder that sometimes, the most healing thing we can do is pass the mashed potatoes and open our hearts.

In that lush Garden of Eden, food was not just about sustenance; it was life-giving. Every fruit, every grain pointed to God’s ultimate provision, showcasing His desire to nurture His creation with abundance. The nourishment from that divine spread was meant to foster a relationship of trust and gratitude, filling not just bellies but hearts.

Fast forward to the New Testament, and we find Jesus calling Himself the “Bread of Life” (John 6:35). He’s not just talking about the carbs on our plates; He’s reminding us that while our bodies crave food, our souls are hungry for something far deeper. Every time we gather around the table, sharing a meal with friends or family, we’re participating in a sacred act that reflects this truth. Each bite is a reminder of the nourishment that flows from knowing Him—a chance to taste the grace, love, and hope that fills our lives. Just like the bread at the table, He satisfies our deepest hunger, showing us that true fulfillment comes from a relationship with Him. So, as we share meals, let’s savor not just the flavors, but the spiritual sustenance He provides, one delicious bite at a time.

Breaking bread goes beyond mere mealtime; it’s an opportunity to forge genuine connections—both physically and spiritually. It’s like setting the stage for something beautiful. When we gather around the table, sharing food and stories, we create an atmosphere where vulnerability can thrive. Studies show that when people have their basic needs met, such as enjoying a warm meal, they become more receptive to exploring deeper topics, including spiritual discussions.

Think of it as the ultimate trust-building exercise. You might say, “Hey, I fed you; now let’s dive into life’s big questions.” It’s an invitation to move past surface-level chatter and connect on a profound level. Food has this magical ability to break down barriers and open hearts. Sharing a meal can spark conversations about dreams, fears, and faith, turning a simple dinner into a transformative experience. It’s in these moments that we discover the richness of our shared humanity, realizing that a plate of food can be the catalyst for some of the most meaningful conversations of our lives. So, let’s embrace the power of breaking bread together, because every meal is an opportunity to nourish not just our bodies but our souls as well.

And let’s not forget the health benefits! Providing a meal can significantly boost mental and emotional well-being, creating an environment ripe for deeper spiritual engagement. It’s like the old saying goes: “The way to the heart is through the stomach,” especially when that stomach is filled with good food and even better conversation.

When we break bread with others, we’re not just feeding their bodies; we’re also nourishing their spirits. The act of sharing a meal can reduce stress, increase feelings of happiness, and foster a sense of belonging. It’s a beautiful cycle—good food leads to good moods, which opens up the heart for meaningful exchanges.

In a world where isolation often reigns, the simple act of gathering around a table can create connections that heal and uplift. Whether it’s a family dinner, a potluck with friends, or a community meal, the shared experience of eating together provides a sense of unity and purpose. So let’s embrace the joy of cooking and sharing meals, knowing that each bite can be a step toward wholeness—body, mind, and spirit. After all, when you pair delicious food with authentic connection, you create a recipe for joy that lingers long after the plates are cleared!

So, whether it’s through serving a meal or meeting other physical needs, this act of care often serves as the gateway to deeper spiritual conversations. When we share food, we break down barriers and open up avenues for dialogue that might otherwise feel daunting. It’s like handing someone a key to a treasure trove of connection and understanding, inviting them to explore the deeper truths of life together.

And let’s be real—who doesn’t love a good excuse to gather around food? It’s a universal language that transcends cultures, ages, and backgrounds. A pot of chili bubbling on the stove or a plate of homemade cookies fresh from the oven can ignite laughter, storytelling, and camaraderie. These moments create an atmosphere where people feel safe and valued, making it easier to dive into those more profound discussions about faith, purpose, and life’s big questions.

So next time you’re tempted to shy away from a conversation about spirituality, remember the power of food. It’s not just about satisfying hunger; it’s about feeding the soul, creating space for vulnerability, and building relationships that matter. Let’s embrace those opportunities to serve and connect—because in the end, it’s the shared meals and heartfelt conversations that leave lasting impressions and build the foundation for true community.

Using food as a gateway to foster spiritual healing today can be a powerful act of service, hospitality, and care. When we gather around the table, sharing a meal, we’re not just satisfying our hunger; we’re creating an environment ripe for connection, conversation, and transformation. But how you ask?

Creating Community Through Meals: Think about the last time you shared a meal with friends or family. Was it a lively potluck filled with laughter, a backyard BBQ where the grill sizzled with all your favorites, or a cozy dinner party where candles flickered softly, setting the mood? There’s something about the warmth of a home-cooked dish that invites openness and vulnerability, creating a sanctuary where hearts can connect.

When we gather around the table, we’re not just consuming food; we’re engaging in a ritual that strengthens our bonds. These communal meals allow us to drop our guards and embrace authenticity. As the aromas waft through the air and plates fill up, conversations flow more freely, giving us space to share our stories, struggles, and triumphs. It’s like a salve for the soul, reminding us that we’re not alone on our journeys.

Imagine someone pouring out their heart over a steaming bowl of chili or laughing at a shared joke while passing around a basket of homemade bread. In these moments, the food serves as a bridge, connecting us to each other and to something greater.

So, let’s not underestimate the power of shared meals. Let’s organize those potlucks, fire up the grill, and invite friends and family to break bread together. By creating these spaces for connection, we cultivate a sense of belonging and foster healing conversations that can uplift and transform us all. Food becomes more than sustenance; it becomes a catalyst for community, love, and support, reminding us that we are woven together in this beautiful tapestry of life.

Cooking as an Expression of Love: Preparing food for others is an age-old tradition that speaks volumes about care and compassion. When you whip up a comforting dish for someone going through a tough time, you’re not just providing nourishment; you’re extending a hand of support and warmth that goes beyond words. It’s like wrapping them in a cozy blanket made of flavors and aromas.

Imagine the joy on someone’s face when they’re greeted with a warm bowl of homemade soup on a chilly evening or a freshly baked loaf of bread, the steam rising and filling the room with that irresistible scent. These gestures are more than just meals; they’re tangible reminders that they are seen, heard, and cherished. It’s a beautiful way to convey the message, “I see you, and I care.”

In a world that can feel overwhelming and isolating, cooking becomes a love language. Each chop of the knife, every sprinkle of seasoning, is infused with intention and kindness. Picture the laughter shared over a hearty meal, the stories exchanged while stirring a pot, and the comfort that comes from breaking bread together.

So, whether you’re making a pot of chili for a neighbor who’s had a rough day or baking cookies for a friend just because, remember that your culinary creations carry the weight of your compassion. Cooking isn’t just about feeding bodies; it’s about nourishing souls, creating connections, and reminding those around us that love can be served on a plate. Let’s embrace this beautiful tradition and make every meal an opportunity to express our love for others through the art of cooking.

Gathering for Intentional Conversations: Consider transforming mealtime into a sacred space for intentional discussions about faith, healing, and life’s big questions. Picture this: a cozy family dinner or a lively gathering with friends, where the atmosphere is infused with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the rich aroma of good food. By carving out time for deeper conversations, we create an opportunity for profound insights and shared spiritual growth that can leave everyone feeling nourished in more ways than one.

Think about it—who knew that tacos could serve as the perfect backdrop for discussing dreams, fears, and hopes? As we gather around the table, we not only fill our bellies but also open our hearts. The casual setting of a meal naturally encourages vulnerability and openness, allowing us to dive into conversations that matter.

Imagine sharing stories over a delicious spread, each bite fueling not just our bodies but our spirits as well. With every laugh and shared memory, we build connections that remind us we’re not alone on our journeys. It’s in these moments, while passing around the salsa or reaching for that last slice of pie, that we can explore what truly matters in life.

So, next time you host a dinner or share a meal with loved ones, consider making space for those intentional conversations. Let the food spark discussions that dig a little deeper, challenge perspectives, and inspire growth. You never know what insights might surface when the walls come down, and hearts are opened—especially when tacos are involved!

Hospitality as a Spiritual Practice: Opening your home to others can be a transformative act of service, a true ministry of presence and love. When you invite people into your space, you’re not just sharing food; you’re creating an atmosphere rich with acceptance and warmth. Picture your table as a sanctuary, a welcoming haven where barriers dissolve and relationships deepen.

In a world that often feels rushed and disconnected, the simple act of hospitality can be revolutionary. It’s not just about setting a beautiful table or preparing a gourmet meal—though those things are nice, too! It’s about the heart behind it, the intention to make others feel valued and seen. Each dish you serve becomes a vessel of care, each conversation a bridge that connects souls.

Imagine your guests walking through the door, greeted by the delightful aroma of a home-cooked meal and the sound of laughter echoing from the kitchen. As they settle in, the walls that once separated them begin to fade away, replaced by genuine connections and shared stories. In these moments, we realize that food isn’t merely sustenance; it’s a tool for transformation and healing.

Hospitality invites us to slow down and be present with one another. It encourages us to listen and engage, allowing the conversations to flow naturally as the meal unfolds. Whether it’s a cozy dinner party or a spontaneous gathering, each moment spent in fellowship becomes a celebration of community and love.

So, let your home be a place where everyone feels welcome, where the spirit of hospitality reigns supreme. Create an environment that nourishes both body and soul, making every meal an opportunity for deeper connection and shared grace. After all, the heart of hospitality lies in the simple yet profound truth that when we open our doors, we open our hearts.

Volunteering at a local soup kitchen or food pantry is an incredibly impactful way to use food as a means of healing and transformation. When you step into that space, you’re doing so much more than simply filling stomachs; you’re playing a vital role in restoring dignity and fostering a sense of community among those who gather.

Picture the scene, the kitchen bustling with activity, the aroma of comforting dishes wafting through the air, and the sounds of laughter and conversation blending together. Each meal served becomes a lifeline, a moment of respite for someone facing hardship. You’re not just handing over a plate; you’re offering a smile, a kind word, and a reminder that they matter. As you serve, you create opportunities for connection and understanding. Sharing a meal with someone who is struggling can break down barriers, revealing shared experiences and common humanity. In those moments, you remind everyone involved of their inherent worth—each person deserves to be treated with respect and compassion, regardless of their circumstances.

Moreover, this act of service invites you to listen to the stories of others, enriching your own perspective on life. You learn about resilience, hope, and the beauty that can emerge from hardship. Each interaction is a chance to acknowledge the dignity of those you serve, to see them not as statistics or faceless individuals, but as unique souls with dreams, struggles, and histories.

So, whether you’re ladling soup into bowls, distributing bags of groceries, or simply sharing a moment of laughter with a visitor, remember that your service is a powerful expression of love and solidarity. In a world that often feels divided, engaging in service through food can be a beautiful reminder that we’re all in this together, working towards healing and building a more compassionate community, one meal at a time.

One of my earliest and fondest memories of cooking isn’t in some fancy kitchen or high-pressure restaurant—it’s in the small, bustling soup kitchen of my home church, where my spiritual grandparents, Juanita and Ken Lane, ran a food ministry. My dad was the pastor, so I practically grew up there, learning more about life, love, and faith than I ever could’ve imagined. Juanita and Ken, like a second set of grandparents, always had this unshakable belief that no one should ever go hungry, not just for food but for hope.

Thursdays were always the busiest. Donations would pour in, and it was our job to turn a strange assortment of odds and ends—everything from canned beans to overripe tomatoes—into meals that could feed the body and, more importantly, warm the soul. I can still remember Juanita’s raspy voice cutting through the chaos: “Andrew, God didn’t give us this food just to feed people. He gave it so we could be his hands and feet.” She had this way of turning even the most random ingredients into something that made people feel seen and cared for.

Ken an old surly sailor. Would be sorting through the pantry like he was prepping for the apocalypse, but somehow, everything came together. My job? Whatever they needed. One minute I’d be stirring a giant pot of soup; the next, I’d be outside, unloading a truck, loading someone’s car, or helping fill plates for people lined up around the block. We were serving more than food we were serving hope.

There was something sacred about it all. No one cared that we didn’t have fancy ingredients or Michelin stars. They cared that when they walked through those doors, they were going to get a warm meal and a smile. Juanita always reminded me that this was more than just feeding the hungry—it was showing love in its most basic form. And every Sunday when the meal was served, without fail, we’d make sure no one left empty-handed, no one.

Those experiences shaped my philosophy in the kitchen today. Cooking isn’t just about food. It’s about connection, about taking whatever you have and pouring your heart into it to make something that nourishes the soul as much as the body. At that soup kitchen, I learned that even with the humblest ingredients, you could create something that gave people hope. And that lesson, learned alongside my spiritual grandparents, still guides me every time I step into a kitchen.

Celebrating Milestones with Food: Life’s moments—whether they’re monumental milestones or the little victories in between—deserve to be celebrated, and what better way to do that than with food? Think about it: every birthday cake, wedding feast, and even those spontaneous “just because” gatherings serve as delicious reminders that life is meant to be savored.

When you gather around a table, you’re not just sharing a meal; you’re creating memories that bind you together. Picture the laughter echoing off the walls, the clinking of glasses, and the aroma of favorite dishes filling the air. Each bite is infused with love, joy, and the stories that accompany the occasion. Whether it’s the richness of a chocolate cake that marks another trip around the sun or the comfort of a hearty meal shared after a long week, these moments remind us of the beauty in our lives.

Food also acts as a bridge during difficult times. When the world feels heavy, coming together over a meal can lift spirits and remind us of our shared humanity. It’s in these gatherings that we find solace, support, and strength. A pot of homemade soup, a tray of freshly baked cookies, or even a simple bowl of popcorn can transform a somber moment into one filled with warmth and connection.

Celebrating with food invites us to cherish the joy in our lives and to lift each other up during challenges. It’s a way of saying, “We’re in this together,” whether it’s through the sweetness of cake or the heartiness of a shared dish. So, let’s embrace these opportunities to gather, to feast, and to create lasting memories around the table, ensuring that every meal is not just nourishment for the body but also for the soul. Because at the end of the day, life is too short to not celebrate every delicious moment!

Using food as a conduit for spiritual healing invites us to engage more deeply with ourselves and each other, turning mealtime into a sacred experience. It’s not just about filling our plates; it’s about nourishing our hearts and souls. Imagine the warmth that envelops you as the aroma of a home-cooked meal wafts through the air, or the laughter shared over a pot of stew that’s been simmering all day. Each bite becomes an opportunity to connect, to reflect, and to heal.

When we gather around the table, we create a space where vulnerability thrives. It’s in these moments that we can share our stories, our struggles, and our joys. Food becomes the backdrop for meaningful conversations, allowing us to peel back the layers of our lives and truly see one another. We’re not just consuming calories; we’re savoring the richness of human connection.

Embracing the power of food means acknowledging its ability to bring people together, to bridge gaps, and to foster understanding. Cooking for others transforms a simple meal into an expression of love and care. When we pour our hearts into our dishes, we offer a piece of ourselves—our time, our skills, and our compassion.

Let’s make space for love, healing, and connection in every bite. Whether it’s hosting a dinner party, volunteering at a soup kitchen, or simply sharing a meal with a friend, each act becomes a sacred ritual. So, let’s gather around the table, armed with spatulas and smiles, ready to create moments that nourish not only our bodies but our spirits as well. Together, we can transform mealtime into a celebration of life, one delicious bite at a time.

As you dive into this journey, I hope you’ll discover the incredible purpose and sheer joy that comes from using the amazing gift of food—handed down from the Head Chef Himself—to show hospitality to others. It’s not just about filling plates; it’s about building connections and pouring into each other’s lives. So, grab your aprons as we explore some delicious recipes and invaluable lessons from The Father’s Table.