There are chapters in Scripture that feel like a sermon already written, and then there are chapters like 2 Samuel 17, chapters that feel more like a back alley conversation, hushed and tense, where God is doing His most violent work without ever raising His voice. This is not a chapter for people who like clean theology and tidy obedience. This is a chapter for people who understand that faith often shows up covered in dust, sweat, and morally uncomfortable decisions. It’s about betrayal, exhaustion, strategy, deception, and food. Which is to say, it’s about hospitality, not as niceness, but as warfare.

And the first thing this chapter does is strip David of every illusion of strength. David is not the conquering king here. He is not the psalm-writing shepherd boy with divine wind at his back. He is a father betrayed by his son, a leader running for his life, a man whose private sins have detonated into public catastrophe. If you read this chapter honestly, you realize something uncomfortable very quickly: this is the moment when most churches would quietly stop returning David’s calls. He’s unstable. He’s complicated. He’s controversial. He’s no longer safe to associate with. And yet, this is the precise moment where biblical hospitality begins to operate at full force, because hospitality in Scripture is never aimed at the impressive. It is aimed at the imperiled.

The modern Church has trained itself to offer hospitality as a reward system. We welcome the cleaned-up, the loyal, the useful, the ones who won’t embarrass us. Scripture, however, keeps telling the same stubborn story over and over again: God’s redemptive work is most often carried forward by people who open their hands to someone who cannot pay them back and might actually get them killed. Hebrews 13:2 warns us not to neglect hospitality because “some have entertained angels without knowing it,” but what we forget is that most hospitality in the Bible doesn’t feel angelic, it feels risky, inconvenient, and deeply unsafe.

In 2 Samuel 17, the war is already underway before a single loaf of bread appears. Ahithophel’s counsel is devastatingly efficient. Kill David quickly. Scatter the people. End the rebellion cleanly. It is, as the text itself admits, “good advice.” And that line alone should sober us, because it reminds us that not all good strategy aligns with God’s purposes. Proverbs 19:21 tells us, “Many are the plans in the mind of a man, but it is the purpose of the Lord that will stand.” Hospitality becomes the method by which God frustrates what is “good” in human eyes in order to preserve what is covenantally necessary.

Hushai enters the story not with food, but with words, and his hospitality takes the form of delay. He stretches the timeline. He inflames Absalom’s ego. He magnifies fear. He slows the machinery of death just long enough for David to survive another night. This is hospitality that understands Ecclesiastes 3:1 at a molecular level—there is a time for everything, and sometimes the most merciful thing you can do is refuse to let violence move at full speed. In a culture obsessed with immediacy, Hushai’s intervention reminds us that buying time can be an act of love, and slowing destruction can be an act of worship. Hospitality here does not look like welcome mats; it looks like strategic obstruction.

But the chapter turns sharp when we reach Bahurim, because now hospitality stops being theoretical and becomes embodied, dangerous, and personal. Jonathan and Ahimaaz are carrying truth that can save David’s life. They are seen. They are hunted. They are moments away from capture. And they run, not to a fortress, not to an army, but to a house. To a woman. To a well.

This unnamed woman does not hesitate, and that alone should preach. She hides them in the well, covers it, scatters grain, and lies directly to Absalom’s men. There is no commentary in the text condemning her actions. There is no theological disclaimer. The story simply moves forward, because Scripture understands something we often refuse to acknowledge: protecting life sometimes requires confronting systems that prefer order over mercy. Rahab lied to protect the spies in Joshua 2 and was later named in the genealogy of Jesus. The Hebrew midwives disobeyed Pharaoh and lied to preserve life in Exodus 1, and Scripture says God “dealt well with the midwives.” James 2 later holds Rahab up as an example of living faith. The pattern is not accidental. God repeatedly sides with those who choose people over power when the two collide.

This is hospitality stripped of sentimentality. This woman risks her home, her family, and her life. She does not ask for credentials. She does not require proof of innocence. She does not demand moral clarity before acting. She recognizes vulnerability and responds. And in doing so, she becomes an instrument of spiritual warfare more effective than any sword in Absalom’s army. The enemy’s intelligence network collapses not because God thundered from heaven, but because a woman used her well, her grain, and her courage.

Hospitality here operates as camouflage. Grain scattered over a well. Ordinary domestic activity masking divine intervention. This is how the Kingdom often moves, quietly, invisibly, beneath the notice of those addicted to spectacle. Jesus would later echo this logic when He compared the Kingdom to yeast hidden in dough (Matthew 13:33). Hidden does not mean weak. Hidden means undetected until it’s too late.

When David finally reaches Mahanaim, the chapter slows again, and this is where hospitality becomes unmistakably physical. Supplies arrive, not from Israel’s elites, not from those who owe David allegiance, but from outsiders and unlikely allies. An Ammonite. A man connected to Saul’s fallen house. An old man from Gilead. And what they bring is telling: bedding, bowls, grain, beans, lentils, honey, curds, sheep, cheese. This is not celebratory food. This is recovery food. This is what you give people who are shaking, dehydrated, and hollowed out by fear.

The text tells us exactly why they act: “For they said, ‘The people have become exhausted and hungry and thirsty in the wilderness.’” No mention of worthiness. No evaluation of David’s leadership failures. No spiritualized justification. Just exhaustion. Need. Humanity. This aligns perfectly with God’s long-standing command in Deuteronomy 10:18–19, where He describes Himself as the One who “executes justice for the fatherless and the widow, and loves the sojourner, giving him food and clothing,” and then commands His people to do the same. Hospitality is not optional kindness; it is imitation of God’s character.

Here’s where the modern Church should feel deeply uncomfortable: David is being sustained at his lowest point, not his strongest. This is the opposite of how we often operate. We platform success and starve failure. We celebrate restoration stories only after they’re safe. But Scripture shows us again and again, Elijah fed by ravens while hiding (1 Kings 17), Israel sustained by manna in the wilderness, Jesus feeding crowds who would later abandon Him, that God’s hospitality does not wait for people to get their act together. It intervenes to keep them alive long enough for repentance, restoration, and redemption to remain possible.

This entire chapter reveals hospitality as spiritual warfare in its purest form. Every act of protection, every delay, every meal directly undermines the enemy’s strategy. Ephesians 6 tells us that our battle is not against flesh and blood, but against powers and principalities. What 2 Samuel 17 shows us is how often those battles are fought in kitchens, courtyards, wells, and quiet conversations. Hospitality becomes a weapon precisely because it refuses to play by the rules of domination and control.

This is why the early Church took hospitality so seriously. Acts 2 describes believers breaking bread daily, sharing possessions, and caring for one another, and the result was not weakness, but explosive growth. The Roman Empire could imprison preachers and kill leaders, but it could not stop people from feeding one another. It could not stop homes from becoming sanctuaries. It could not stop tables from becoming altars. Hospitality outlived persecution because it made the faith tangible.

So what does this mean for us now, beyond church slogans and welcome teams? It means recognizing that hospitality is not about comfort; it is about cost. It looks like opening your life to people who disrupt your schedule, drain your energy, and complicate your reputation. It looks like covering for someone when telling the whole truth would destroy them. It looks like feeding people who cannot repay you, forgiving people who cannot fix what they broke, and standing with people whose association makes you less respectable.

Jesus Himself framed hospitality as a final metric of faithfulness in Matthew 25: “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” Notice what He does not say. He does not say, “I was impressive.” He does not say, “I was easy.” He does not say, “I made you comfortable.” Hospitality is presented as evidence of allegiance, not personality.

Yes, this kind of hospitality will cost you. It will confuse people who equate faith with safety. It will make you vulnerable. It may never be publicly affirmed. But Scripture is clear: God sees it. Proverbs 19:17 says, “Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the Lord, and He will repay him for his deed.” That repayment is not always material. Often it is the quiet knowledge that you stood on the right side of history when it mattered.

And for those already living this out, the ones opening homes, feeding the exhausted, protecting the wounded, standing in the gap without applause, hear this clearly: you are not foolish, and you are not invisible. You are standing in the long, holy line of people who understood that the Kingdom advances not only through proclamation, but through protection. You are scattering grain over wells. You are feeding kings in exile. You are waging war in the only way that actually lasts.

So here is the call to action, and it is not complicated, just costly: choose your side. Choose people over power. Choose mercy over efficiency. Choose to open your hands when it would be safer to clench your fists. Because hospitality is never neutral. Every table you set, every door you open, every risk you take in love is a declaration of allegiance in a war you cannot see—but are absolutely part of.

Feed the exhausted. Protect the hunted. Slow the machinery of destruction. Open your home, your schedule, your life. Because sometimes the most radical act of faith is not shouting truth from a stage, but quietly keeping someone alive long enough for God to finish what He started.

That’s salt.

That’s light.

That’s hospitality.

And that’s how wars are won.

Saty Salty & Burn Bright

Let’s cut straight to it: far too often, the church has turned hospitality into a polite suggestion instead of a spiritual imperative. We’ve traded the messy, dangerous, life-giving work of noticing need and meeting it for passive waiting: “Well, someone hasn’t asked for help yet, so I guess I’m off the hook.” That’s not biblical. That’s lazy, and it costs lives, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And if you think I’m exaggerating, pull up 2 Samuel 16 and meet Ziba.

David is running. His son Absalom is staging a coup, the kingdom he bled for is unraveling beneath his feet, and betrayal hangs in the air thicker than the dust kicked up by his army. He’s exhausted. Emotionally, physically, spiritually, he’s a wreck. And right there, waiting like a saint in the wilderness, is Ziba.

Ziba isn’t asking, “Do you want a hand?” He isn’t holding a suggestion box. He didn’t text David to see if he was hungry first. No. He saddled donkeys, loaded them with bread, raisins, figs, and wine, and met the king on the road. He saw a need, and he acted. This is the type of hospitality the Bible celebrates.

Here’s the first lesson, and I’ll be blunt: hospitality isn’t frilly. It’s not about fancy tables, Pinterest boards, or “how to make someone feel special” posts for Instagram. It’s about survival, provision, and tangible care. Ziba didn’t bring incense sticks and a good vibe, he brought food, donkeys, and wine. He was a lifeline.

Donkeys, for rest. These men had been walking, running, fleeing. Their bodies were breaking. A donkey wasn’t a luxury; it was salvation.

Bread, raisins, figs, for nourishment. The Bible is full of examples like this. Elisha tells the widow to feed her son, knowing provision will meet the need and keep life intact (2 Kings 4). Feeding someone is often the first step to sustaining them for their calling.

Wine, for refreshment. Because sometimes survival is about more than stomachs. Sometimes it’s about giving a man the chance to breathe before the next storm hits.

Notice a pattern? Hospitality in the Bible is messy, real, practical, and lifesaving. It’s about seeing someone at their breaking point and meeting them there. Hebrews 13:2 says, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” That’s a wild image, angels in disguise. God Himself in need. And how often does the church miss them because we are too busy waiting for someone to “raise their hand” or fill out a help request form?

Let’s be honest: when the body of Christ waits for permission to serve, it fails. People starve emotionally, spiritually, sometimes even physically, while we argue over protocol, committees, and policies. David’s men could have gone without food. David himself could have collapsed from exhaustion. But Ziba saw the need and acted. This is the type of aggressive, initiative-taking, life-giving hospitality we are called to.

Now let’s get a little darker. Hospitality isn’t just about bread and wine, it’s about alignment, allegiance, and spiritual warfare disguised as service. Ziba knew who he was serving. He didn’t just serve David because it felt good or looked righteous; he served him because loyalty in a moment like this matters.

Look at the stakes: David is fleeing his own son. Absalom is taking over the kingdom. Ziba’s actions are political, yes, but also profoundly spiritual. By giving, by providing, he’s saying, “I see the king. I honor the covenant. I participate in what God is doing.” That’s a lesson the modern church has forgotten.

Too often, the church wants to offer hospitality as a neutral, flavorless service. “Here, take a plate of food, or come sit down, or borrow a cup of sugar.” But biblical hospitality communicates allegiance. When we serve in the right moment, we step into God’s plans. We honor the covenant relationships He has established, whether that’s in a family, a friendship, a church, or even a ministry.

Hospitality is a statement. It’s loyalty tattooed on actions, not a cute phrase on a poster. Ziba may have had ulterior motives (he probably did; the Bible is brutally honest about human selfishness), but the act itself carried life, honor, and alignment with God’s purpose.

 Hospitality in contrast to betrayal and cursing

If Ziba is a picture of life-giving action, then Shimei is the picture of what happens when the body of Christ sleeps at the wheel. David is bombarded with curses, stones thrown, insults hurled. Shimei doesn’t bring bread; he brings death and despair.

This contrast is critical: Ziba nourishes and restores life. Shimei attacks and degrades, spreading chaos.

Hospitality isn’t just nice, it’s a weapon against destruction. Proverbs 11:25 says, “Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered.” That’s a two-way street: when we meet needs proactively, life flows in both directions. Conversely, when we sit on our hands or throw rocks from a hill like Shimei, we damage the body, ourselves, and the kingdom.

This is what happens in churches that wait for the perfect ask, the proper invitation, or a committee approval. People get hurt, the community frays, and the next person coming through the door meets a body already exhausted, already fractured, already wounded. Meanwhile, the potential for restoration, for refreshment, for the miracle of God’s plan hitting its mark quietly in the background, slips through our fingers.

This is the lesson most churches refuse to hear. Ziba doesn’t wait to be asked. He doesn’t wait for a bulletin announcement. He doesn’t wait for someone to file a request in triplicate with the temple office. He sees the need and meets it.

Jesus makes this explicit throughout His ministry. He doesn’t wait for someone to request healing or help. He notices: the blind man on the roadside, the widow at the tomb, the leper at the edge of the village, and He acts. Luke 7:11-17, the widow of Nain, for example: Jesus sees her grief and acts before she asks. Hospitality, in its biblical form, is eyes open, hands ready, feet moving.

When the church waits to be told what to do, here’s what happens: Needs fester. Emotional wounds deepen. Spiritual momentum is lost. Members feel invisible. The body loses cohesion. Leadership becomes reactive instead of proactive, always putting out fires instead of preventing them.

And here’s the kicker: proactive hospitality depends on relationship awareness. You can’t meet needs you haven’t noticed. That means we need to know the people around us, pay attention to the messy lives behind the polished appearances, and act when we see a crack forming before it becomes a canyon. James 2:15-16 calls this out: “If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace, be warmed and filled,’ without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that?”

Waiting for permission, waiting for a formal ask, waiting for the “right moment,” is not just lazy, it’s sinful in its consequences.

Here’s the part the modern church seems allergic to: hospitality is never neutral. Ziba doesn’t just hand over bread and wine; he participates in God’s plan. He can’t see the full scope, he doesn’t know if David will reclaim the throne or be killed tomorrow, but his service matters. God’s sovereignty is the backdrop of every act of life-giving hospitality.

David’s escape, his restoration, the survival of the loyal men, and even the eventual collapse of Absalom’s rebellion, are all tied to these small acts of care. Ziba’s obedience intersects with God’s purpose, just like the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37). The Samaritan didn’t wait for instructions. He didn’t ask for permission from the priest or Levite. He saw need and acted, and in doing so, he became an instrument of God’s mercy and plan.

Modern churches rarely understand this. We treat hospitality like a checkbox, not a battlefield. We fail to see that the small, mundane acts of noticing need, carrying water, feeding the hungry, visiting the sick, or sitting with someone in despair are moments where God moves in powerful ways if we step in boldly.

Let’s bring this home in brutal terms: when we fail to act in hospitality at the sight of need, it doesn’t just harm the individual, it damages the body of Christ. Emotional fatigue sets in when people have to beg for help.

Spiritual burnout occurs when small crises fester because the body fails to support one another. Faith erodes when the community doesn’t reflect the hands and feet of Christ. Think about it. How many marriages crumble, how many ministries die, how many young believers walk away because no one noticed their need until it was too late? This is the natural consequence of reactive, permission-based “hospitality.”

The solution is radical awareness. It’s building deep, messy relationships where people know one another well enough to notice when someone is struggling, before they break. Acts 2:44-46 shows the early church doing this: “All who believed were together and had all things in common…they broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts.” That’s proactive hospitality. They weren’t waiting for someone to raise a hand; they were living in relational vigilance, meeting needs as they arose.

So how do we, the modern church, actually live this out? Here’s the blueprint: See the needs around you. Walk through your neighborhood, your workplace, your church, your family, your friends’ lives with eyes wide open. Don’t wait for a formal plea. Notice exhaustion, grief, loneliness, financial strain, spiritual attack.

Build relationships intentionally. Proactive hospitality comes out of connection. You can’t meet needs you don’t know exist. Invest time. Listen. Pray with people. Show up in the mundane moments.

Act immediately where possible. Ziba didn’t have a committee to approve supplies. He didn’t wait for the king to ask. He acted. So should we. Meals, rides, visits, phone calls, texts, prayers, do what you can with what you have.

Understand the stakes. Every act of hospitality participates in God’s plan. Every failure to act risks injury, burnout, and loss of faith. This is spiritual warfare, not a Sunday social club.

Cultivate courage. Some hospitality is messy, uncomfortable, and even dangerous. Ziba didn’t know what Absalom’s forces would do to him if caught. The Good Samaritan risked robbers’ territory. Serving in these ways is part of our calling.

Let me be crystal clear: waiting to be asked for hospitality is cowardice. Waiting for permission is sin. Waiting while people break under the weight of neglect is moral failure. Ziba shows us the alternative: he sees, he acts, he provides.

Biblical hospitality is messy, proactive, courageous, and relational. It intersects with God’s sovereignty, it builds life, and it honors covenant relationships. It’s not about applause, Instagram posts, or polite gestures. It’s about blood, sweat, bread, and donkeys in the wilderness. It’s about meeting the need at the right time, before it spirals into disaster.

If we want a church that functions as God intended, a body alive, vibrant, and responsive to real human need, we have to wake up. We have to open our eyes to the struggles all around us. We have to act boldly, without waiting for a request, a committee vote, or a program outline. We have to see the need, and we have to meet it.

Because here’s the truth: there’s no glory in watching a brother collapse while you fiddle with protocol. There’s no righteousness in letting grief fester because no one asked for help. And there’s no heaven in a church that treats life-giving, kingdom-building, proactive hospitality like an optional extra.

Ziba acted. He saw the king, he loaded the donkeys, and he brought food and wine. And in doing so, he participated in God’s plan, preserved life, and demonstrated loyalty that mattered far more than his own gain. That’s the standard. That’s the bar. And until we raise ours to that level, we’ll keep seeing exhausted saints walking through the wilderness alone, while we sit politely in our pews pretending that hospitality is an optional exercise in good manners.

Wake up. See the need. Act. Don’t wait. Don’t ask permission. Don’t assume someone else will. Because God’s kingdom isn’t built on nice thoughts or polite gestures, it’s built on hands that move before the ask, hearts that see before being told, and feet that follow where the Spirit leads.

See the need. Meet the need. And watch God move.

Stay Salty & Burn Bright

Let me tell you something I’ve learned the hard way in the kitchen:

Nothing blows up faster than a problem the chef refuses to deal with.

I’ve watched it happen more times than I care to admit.

You’ve got this line cook, let’s call him “Chad,” because of course it’s Chad, who keeps cutting corners. He’s not washing that cutting board, he’s handling raw chicken like it’s a suggestion, and he’s prepping fish for the grill on the same station where he just deboned duck.

Every chef sees it.

Every cook smells it.

Every food safety inspector in a 30-mile radius probably feels a disturbance in the force.

And yet?

The chef says nothing.

Why?

Because deep down, the chef has done the same thing.

He’s cut corners.

He’s skipped steps.

He’s played fast and loose with the rules on a night when he was tired, or mad, or hungover, or just didn’t care enough.

So he looks at Chad doing it… and instead of confronting it, he lets it slide.

He tells himself, “He’ll figure it out.”

He tells himself, “It’s not worth the drama.”

He tells himself, “I’ve done worse.”

And before long , boom.

Someone gets sick.

Someone gets hurt.

Someone quits.

Or somebody finally blows up at Chad in the walk-in and suddenly we’re having a WWE cage match between the demi-glace and the dehydrated mushrooms.

Every time, the chef acts surprised.

But the truth is, the explosion was baked into the silence.

Because cowardice is still a recipe, and it always cooks up disaster.

And here’s the kicker:

The kitchen is not unique.

The church does the same thing.

Families do the same thing.

Christians do the same thing.

You and I do the same thing.

We see a problem, a sin, a wound, a habit, a danger, and instead of confronting it, we run. We distract ourselves. We hide behind politeness. We pretend it’s “none of our business.”

We call it peace, but it’s really fear.

We call it grace, but it’s really avoidance.

We call it kindness, but it’s really self-preservation.

And 2 Samuel 13 gives us one of the darkest pictures of what happens when silence replaces courage… when hospitality is abandoned… when the table becomes a place to hide instead of a place to heal.

Let’s walk through it, because this chapter has teeth.

In 2 Samuel 13, we meet a broken family, David’s family. And before anyone says, “Well, it was the ancient world, things were different,” let me just remind you: humans have always found creative ways to screw up the good things God gives.

And this story hurts.

Amnon, David’s firstborn son, becomes obsessed with his half-sister Tamar. And when lust gets confused with love, people lose their minds.

So he hatches a plan. A plan that uses the language of hospitality, food, care, compassion, as the bait.

He fakes sickness.

He asks David for Tamar to come cook for him.

He uses the sacred act of shared food to set a trap.

David, who should’ve had the discernment of a king and the instincts of a father, sees nothing. Or worse, he sees something familiar and doesn’t want to look too closely. Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: sometimes we avoid confronting sin in others because it looks too much like the sin in our own past.

David knew what it meant to take what didn’t belong to him.

He knew what it meant to let desire twist into sin.

He knew the shame of failing Bathsheba, failing Uriah, failing God.

And now, in his son, he sees shadows of himself.

And instead of stepping in, he steps back.

David enables Amnon’s request.

He sends Tamar straight into danger.

He says nothing before.

He does nothing after.

And that right there is the death of hospitality in David’s house.

Because biblical hospitality isn’t soft.

It’s not tea and cookies.

It’s not “just be nice.”

Hospitality is the courage to protect, the willingness to confront, the heart to stand between the wolf and the wounded.

David, the giant slayer, is silent in his own home.

David, who confronted Goliath without blinking, can’t confront his son.

David, who once said “The battle is the Lord’s,” now refuses to fight one. And his silence creates a vacuum, a dangerous one.

Now enter Absalom, Tamar’s full brother. He sees his sister shattered. He sees injustice. He sees David doing absolutely nothing about it. And something in him snaps.

But instead of guiding his anger toward healing, he shoves it inward. He tells Tamar, “Be quiet now.” Almost like, “Don’t make this worse.”

But silence never heals.

It only hardens.

For two years, two whole years, Absalom holds this inside him. Two years of replaying the moment David looked away. Two years of watching Tamar live desolate in his house. Two years of resentment growing into rage.

And finally, Absalom decides he’s had enough.

He does what David wouldn’t do:

He confronts the sin.

But because it was delayed, denied, and stuffed down for too long…

…he confronts it the wrong way.

…at the wrong time.

…with the wrong heart.

…and the only language left is blood.

Absalom invites Amnon to a feast, another table.

And this table becomes the complete opposite of what hospitality was meant to be.

The first table was a trap of lust.

This table is a trap of vengeance.

And before dessert hits the table, Amnon is dead.

One brother destroys hospitality through selfishness.

Another destroys it through bitterness.

And all of it traces back…

to the silence of a king who didn’t want to confront the sin he recognized in himself.

Here’s where it gets real for us.

Most of us will never sit on a throne in Jerusalem.

But all of us sit in rooms where hard things need to be said.

We see the gossip poisoning a small group.

We see the addiction no one wants to name.

We see the bitterness sinking into a marriage.

We see the arrogance rising in a leader.

We see the unforgiveness that’s calcified into someone’s bones.

We see the passive-aggressive posts online that are about “no one in particular” (but everyone knows they’re about Cheryl).

We see the cracks.

We see the rot.

We see the danger.

And like a nervous chef watching Chad avoid the health code, we keep hoping someone else will deal with it. We keep convincing ourselves that silence is easier.

We fear the confrontation because it might wake something up in us.

Something we didn’t heal.

Something we don’t want to revisit.

Something we’d rather stay buried.

So we smile. We shrug. We ignore it.

And then we’re surprised when everything falls apart.

Biblical hospitality says:

“Come as you are, but I love you too much to let you stay that way.”

It creates safety, not by avoiding the hard things, but by stewarding them.

Hospitality is the willingness to:

protect the vulnerable

confront sin with mercy and truth

tell the uncomfortable truth with a gentle voice

step into awkwardness with love instead of fear

choose conflict for the sake of healing

open your hands instead of shutting your eyes

Because hospitality without courage…

…isn’t hospitality.

It’s theater.

An Instagrammable table isn’t the mark of hospitality.

A brave heart is.

Sometimes being hospitable means setting the table.

Sometimes it means flipping it like Jesus.

Sometimes it means sitting someone down and saying, “Listen, I love you, but we need to talk.”

And sometimes it means admitting your own failures so someone else doesn’t repeat them.

But make no mistake, hospitality calls us to do the hard things.

David refused.

Absalom reacted.

Tamar suffered.

And destruction walked right into the house of a king.

This isn’t a “leaders only” lesson.

This isn’t for pastors, chefs, or church boards.

This is for every person who wakes up breathing.

Every day, God puts opportunities in front of us to be courageous.

To speak life.

To protect someone.

To confess something.

To confront something.

To shine light in a dark corner.

To put salt on a wound in a way that stings but heals.

And every day, we get to choose:

Will we be David, who avoided it?

Will we be Absalom, who waited too long and exploded?

Or will we be someone new, someone calling on the Spirit to give us the strength to show true hospitality?

The kind of hospitality that heals.

The kind that restores.

The kind that safeguards.

The kind that serves.

The kind that stands tall even when your knees shake.

Because cowardice leaves a legacy.

But so does courage.

Here’s the good news, God doesn’t waste anything, not even our avoidance.

He can redeem the conversations we never had.

He can heal the wounds we ignored.

He can clean the kitchen after we let it burn.

And He can teach us, day by day, how to choose courage instead of comfort.

If you’re reading this and you know there’s a conversation you’ve been avoiding…

If there’s a sin hiding in the corner…

If there’s someone you need to protect…

If there’s something you need to confess…

If there’s a wound you’ve been pretending isn’t there…

Don’t let it wait until only bad options remain.

Ask the Lord for courage.

Ask Him for strength.

Ask Him for hospitality that looks like truth wrapped in grace.

David’s story warns us.

Absalom’s story cautions us.

Tamar’s story breaks us.

But Jesus’ story restores us.

He is the Host who confronts sin and heals the sinner.

He is the Shepherd who prepares a table and protects the flock.

He is the Savior who looks us in the eyes, tells the truth about our brokenness, and still says,

“Come. Sit. Eat. You’re safe here.”

So let’s follow Him.

Let’s be brave.

Let’s do the hard things, even when they hurt, even when they’re messy, even when we’d rather run.

Because hospitality that refuses to hide…

…is hospitality that can finally set people free.

Stay Salty…

I’ve always said real hospitality isn’t about how good your table looks; it’s about who’s willing to sit at it when things get uncomfortable. Anyone can serve biscuits and sweet tea. But when you start serving truth….. well, that’s when folks start losing their appetite.

Take 2 Samuel 12. If you ever thought the Bible was boring, this chapter will slap that idea right out of you. God sends Nathan to confront King David, the same David who took down Goliath, led armies, and wrote psalms that could make a grown man cry. But now, this same David has done the unthinkable, stolen another man’s wife, gotten her pregnant, and had her husband killed to cover it up.

It’s one of those moments where if it were happening in church today, half the congregation would quietly “take a break from attending,” and the other half would form a committee to make sure nobody talks about it. But God doesn’t form committees, He sends prophets.

And Nathan? Nathan walks into that palace like a man carrying both dynamite and bandages.

He doesn’t come swinging accusations like a gossip on a mission. He comes with a story. “There were two men,” he says. “One rich, one poor. The poor man had nothing but one little lamb that he loved like a daughter. The rich man had flocks and herds. But when a traveler came, the rich man took the poor man’s lamb and served it for dinner.”

David loses it. “That man deserves to die!” he shouts.

And Nathan looks him dead in the eye and says, “You are that man.”

Silence.

That’s not a mic drop moment… that’s a soul drop moment. The floor falls out, and David finally sees what God sees.

And right there, in the tension between confrontation and confession, something holy happens. That’s spiritual hospitality at its highest level. Nathan doesn’t shame him; he creates a space where truth and grace can meet face to face.

We love to talk about hospitality in the church, coffee bars, greeters, potlucks. But the truth is, the hardest kind of hospitality isn’t about making people comfortable; it’s about loving them enough to make them uncomfortable when it counts.

I’ve seen too many times where people mistake silence for kindness. “I don’t want to hurt them,” they say. “I don’t want to cause conflict.” Or my personal favorite: “I’m just going to pray for them.”

Listen, prayer’s good, but sometimes God’s trying to use your mouth, not just your folded hands.

We let people we care about walk straight into destruction because we don’t want to upset the vibe. We call it grace, but it’s really just fear in a Sunday suit.

I’ve watched churches crumble because no one wanted to say the hard thing. I’ve watched leaders let sin rot under the floorboards because they didn’t want to “lose the unity.” I’ve seen congregations whisper about the problems in leadership instead of confronting them biblically, because “we can’t question authority.”

That’s not biblical hospitality. That’s cowardice with a halo.

Nathan didn’t walk into David’s palace because he enjoyed confrontation. He did it because he loved David enough to risk everything to save him from himself. Proverbs 27:6 says, “Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but deceitful are the kisses of an enemy.” Nathan’s words wounded, yes, but they were wounds meant to heal.

And if we’re honest, the church could use a few more wounds like that.

Speaking truth in love always costs something. Nathan risked his life that day. He was confronting a king who had already killed one man to keep a secret. But Nathan knew the cost of silence would be far greater than the cost of truth.

David’s sin wasn’t private, it was spreading like rot through the soul of Israel’s leadership. That’s what sin does; it always leaks. You can’t keep a secret like that in a palace. Servants knew. Soldiers whispered. And the longer it sat, the more it poisoned everything it touched.

So God sends Nathan, not to destroy David, but to redeem him. That’s the difference between condemnation and confrontation. Condemnation says, “You’re done.” Confrontation says, “There’s still hope if you’ll face this.”

Paul put it this way in Galatians 6:1: “If someone is caught in sin, you who live by the Spirit should restore that person gently.” That’s the key word, gently. Not with pride, not with superiority, not with a megaphone and a Facebook post. Gently.

Nathan could’ve called David out in front of everyone, but he didn’t. He did it privately. That’s not weakness, that’s wisdom. Matthew 18 gives us that same pattern: go to the person first, not the crowd. Hospitality starts in private, not public humiliation.

And when David breaks, when he says, “I have sinned against the Lord”, you can almost feel the air change. That’s the moment repentance walks in the room.

It’s easy to see Nathan’s hospitality in this story, but don’t miss David’s. When Nathan calls him out, David could’ve done what most kings, and most church folks, do when confronted: deny, deflect, destroy. But instead, he opens his heart to correction. That’s its own kind of hospitality, repentance is welcoming God’s truth back into the house you locked Him out of.

David doesn’t justify, doesn’t argue, doesn’t blame. He just says, “I have sinned.”

Psalm 51 comes right out of this moment. You can hear it in every line: “Create in me a clean heart, O God.” “Restore to me the joy of your salvation.” That’s the sound of a man who’s been confronted and didn’t run from the fire, he ran through it.

When was the last time we made that kind of room in our hearts?

Repentance is one of the purest forms of hospitality because it opens the door to grace. It’s messy, humiliating, and freeing all at once. It’s like tearing out moldy drywall so the house can breathe again.

And here’s the thing about repentance, it’s contagious. Once David repented, the mercy of God could flow again, not just in his life but through his lineage. Out of that same broken union with Bathsheba comes Solomon, the wisest king in Israel’s history.

That’s what redemption looks like. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it builds something holy from the wreckage.

The modern church loves a comeback story, but we hate the confrontation that makes it possible. We’ve become experts at damage control instead of discipleship.

We post “come as you are” on the marquee, but the minute someone’s mess shows up in the pew, we don’t know what to do with it. We either ignore it or exile it.

If Nathan showed up today, half the church would call him judgmental, and the other half would block him on social media.

We’ve forgotten how to correct in love because we’ve forgotten how to love enough to correct.

Jesus was the master of this. He called out hypocrisy in the Pharisees without hating them. He confronted Peter with “Get behind me, Satan!” but didn’t cancel him, He restored him. He flipped tables in the temple, not because He hated worship, but because He loved the house too much to watch it be misused.

Jesus’ hospitality wasn’t all casseroles and sandals by the fire. Sometimes it was a whip of cords and a firm “You’re out of line.”

And yet, even in His correction, there was always an invitation: repent, be healed, come home.

That’s what true hospitality sounds like.

Let’s not pretend this is easy. Confronting someone you care about never is. You risk misunderstanding, rejection, even the relationship itself. But silence isn’t neutral, it’s complicity.

Ezekiel 33 talks about the “watchman on the wall.” If the watchman sees danger coming and doesn’t warn the people, their blood is on his hands. But if he warns them and they ignore him, he’s done his duty.

I think Nathan understood that. Better to risk David’s wrath than carry the weight of silence.

And maybe that’s what we need to recover, a bit of that prophetic backbone that says, “I love you too much to let you destroy yourself.”

It’s not about being right; it’s about being redemptive.

And for those of us who’ve been the ones corrected, who’ve had a Nathan show up in our lives with truth we didn’t want to hear, it’s on us to receive it like David did. Because pride builds walls, but humility opens doors.

We all like to think we’d be Nathan in this story. Bold. Brave. Truth-teller. But let’s be honest, we’ve all been David too.

We’ve all had moments where we needed someone to look us in the eye and say, “Hey, you’re that man.”

I’ve been on both sides of that conversation. I’ve had to speak up in rooms where silence felt safer. And I’ve also had friends pull me aside and tell me things I didn’t want to hear. Neither moment feels good, but both are holy.

Hospitality isn’t about sparing feelings. It’s about saving lives.

You can’t build a house of healing on a foundation of avoidance. You can’t claim to offer rest to others if you won’t let God strip away your own pretenses first.

Nathan shows us that love sometimes wears a serious face. And David shows us that humility sometimes looks like falling flat on it.

Here’s the beauty of it all: the story doesn’t end in shame, it ends in grace.

After the confrontation, after the loss, after the wreckage, David worships. He doesn’t quit, doesn’t wallow. He worships. That’s a man who’s met both truth and mercy and learned they’re two sides of the same God.

And out of that worship, God gives him Solomon, a new beginning. The very same God who watched David fall is the one who raised him back up.

That’s what makes spiritual hospitality so powerful. When we dare to speak truth in love and receive correction in humility, grace has room to move. It cleanses, rebuilds, restores.

And that’s the kind of hospitality the world is starving for. Not fake smiles or surface-level community, but people willing to love each other enough to tell the truth, even when it costs something.

So here’s my takeaway: if you’re going to follow Jesus, you’ve got to be willing to both speak and hear hard truths.

If God puts you in a place to be someone’s Nathan, don’t shrink back. Tell the story. Speak the truth. Do it in love, not pride. Because you might just be the one thing standing between them and destruction.

And if you’re on the receiving end, if someone has the guts to look you in the eye and say, “You’re that man” don’t harden your heart. Open the door. Repentance isn’t humiliation; it’s invitation.

Hospitality isn’t about comfort, it’s about courage. It’s about making space for truth, even when it stings, and grace, even when it’s undeserved.

The table of God’s grace has room for confrontation, correction, and redemption. And if we do this right, we’ll stop being a church full of silent spectators and start being a family that fights for each other’s souls.

Because the strongest hospitality isn’t keeping the peace. It’s speaking the truth in love, and then making sure there’s still a seat at the table when it’s done.

Stay Salty

 If there’s one thing I’ve learned, both in the kitchen and in ministry, it’s that nobody heals by being rushed. You can’t fix a burnt roux by turning up the heat, and you can’t restore a broken person by throwing them back into the fire before they’ve cooled. But in the world we live in, especially the church world, we’ve got this bad habit of doing exactly that.

We call it “walking in grace,” but really, it’s just spiritual caffeine. We tell people to smile, serve, and keep pushing, even when their souls are limping. We hand them a Bible verse like a Band-Aid and act surprised when they bleed through it by Sunday morning.

But 2 Samuel 10 gives us a much better picture of what real hospitality, the hospitality of restoration, looks like.

Picture this: David hears that Nahash, king of the Ammonites, has died. Now, Nahash wasn’t exactly a buddy of Israel, but he’d shown David a little kindness back in the fugitive days. So, David decides to return the favor, sends some of his men to express condolences to Nahash’s son, Hanun. A diplomatic, human gesture. Respectful.

But Hanun’s advisors? They’re the kind of people who see poison in every cup. They convince him David’s just running a spy operation disguised as sympathy. So Hanun takes David’s well-meaning men, shaves off half their beards, and cuts their robes at the hips, leaving their dignity flapping in the breeze for everyone to see.

Now, that might sound like a weird prank to modern ears, but in their culture, it was total humiliation. A man’s beard represented his honor, his identity, his maturity. And those robes? That was their badge of respect. So, imagine someone taking your uniform, reputation, and manhood, and throwing them all in the dirt.

That’s not just an insult. That’s trauma.

Now, here’s where David shows us something powerful. He doesn’t call for war immediately. He doesn’t parade his wounded men around for sympathy points. Instead, he tells them:

“Stay at Jericho until your beards have grown, and then return.” (2 Samuel 10:5)

In other words… rest, recover, and heal.

He gives them a space, a Jericho, where they can regain what was taken before they step back into the spotlight.

That, my friends, is hospitality. Not the “come over for dinner” kind, but the “you’re safe to breathe here” kind. It’s the kind that doesn’t demand performance or proof, just presence and peace.

The strongest form of hospitality in this passage isn’t David’s original gesture of kindness toward Hanun. It’s his response to his own wounded men.

David could’ve used their humiliation as a rally cry for revenge. He could’ve made them the poster boys for patriotism, “Look what they did to us! Grab your swords!” But instead, he chose restorative honor over reactionary rage.

He didn’t force them to move on; he gave them permission to be undone for a season.

That’s the hospitality of restoration, giving someone the grace to not be okay, without losing their place in the family.

He doesn’t replace them. He doesn’t shame them. He simply says, “Stay in Jericho until your beard grows back.”

See, that’s not weakness, that’s wisdom. And it mirrors something God modeled from the very beginning.

When God created the world, He didn’t rest on the seventh day because He was tired. The Almighty doesn’t need a nap. He rested because rest itself is holy. It’s a rhythm, a gift. He built Sabbath into creation not as a timeout for the weak, but as a reminder for the strong that we’re not gods.

Sabbath was God saying, “Stop striving. Stop performing. Stop pretending that the world will fall apart if you’re not hustling.”

That’s the same spirit behind David’s command. He created a Sabbath-space, a Jericho, where broken men could breathe again.

If we’d be honest, most of us could use a Jericho or two in our lives. We talk about revival, but half the folks praying for it are running on fumes. We cry out for renewal while ignoring the exhaustion written all over our faces.

You can’t pour out what you haven’t been filled with. And you can’t be filled when you refuse to rest.

Jericho wasn’t punishment. It was protection.

David didn’t exile his men; he sheltered them. That’s the difference between condemnation and restoration.

Condemnation says, “You can’t sit with us anymore.”

Restoration says, “Sit here until you’re ready to stand again.”

In ministry, I’ve watched both sides. I’ve seen pastors break under the weight of expectations, only to be told to “walk in victory” before the ink was dry on their burnout. I’ve seen church leaders crushed by betrayal, yet pushed back into leadership because “the people need you.”

And I’ve seen what happens when folks don’t get a Jericho, when they’re rushed back onto the line before the soul’s scar tissue has even formed.

I’ve lived it too.

I’ve seen it in the kitchen, a chef who burns a dish so bad it could’ve doubled as charcoal, then gets thrown right back on the line, heart still beating out of his chest. Or after a brutal service, when a bad review hits the paper like a knife to the gut. There’s that silence in the walk-in cooler… where cooks go to cool down, curse under their breath, and…..cry,  that’s its own version of Jericho.

I’ve seen it in my father too, years of ministry taking its toll. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from carrying too many people’s pain for too long. Sometimes he’d just need to disappear into the woods, breathe, and let the Lord restore what the congregation had wrung out of him.

And I’ve seen it in church folks, faithful servants who get wounded by gossip, betrayal, or just plain burnout. Instead of being given space to heal, they’re told to “just pray it away.” So they fake the smile, show up for duty, and slowly die inside.

But healing doesn’t happen through pretending. It happens through presence. Through stillness. Through rest.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: the modern church often confuses busyness with holiness.

We treat rest like it’s optional, like it’s for weak Christians or lazy leaders. We’ve replaced Sabbath with service, healing with hustle.

But hospitality, real, biblical hospitality, is about making space for brokenness to breathe.

When someone falls, we either shove them back into the spotlight too soon (“Get up there and share your testimony!”), or we exile them completely (“They messed up, can’t trust them anymore”).

David did neither. He created space for rest and recovery, without disowning his men.

He didn’t label them as liabilities. He covered them in dignity.

That’s what the church is supposed to do. To say, “Stay in Jericho until your beard grows back. You still belong.”

Because when you rush someone’s restoration, you can actually rip the healing right out from under them. You can turn a temporary wound into a lifelong scar. And at that point, it’s no longer a ministry problem, it’s going to take divine intervention to fix the damage.

Rest is one of the most radical acts of faith.

In a world that worships productivity, choosing rest is rebellion. It’s declaring, “God’s got this, even when I’m sitting still.”

That’s why the Sabbath is called a gift, not a suggestion. The Lord knew we’d burn ourselves alive trying to prove our worth, so He wrapped rest in holiness and handed it to us.

Rest is not just recovery, it’s resistance. It’s how we remind our souls that we are not defined by output, performance, or applause.

In the kitchen, we used to say: “A good meal needs time to rest before it’s served.” You pull a steak off the grill too early, and all the juices run out. Same with people. Rush them back too soon, and you drain the very thing that makes them flavorful, their spirit.

The church today doesn’t need more Hanuns, suspicious leaders who humiliate the well-meaning. We need more Davids, leaders who see pain and respond with protection.

Restorative hospitality looks like this: Giving someone a safe space instead of a stage. Offering silence instead of shallow advice. Allowing healing to take the time it needs.

It looks like Jesus, the One who didn’t rush Peter back into ministry after he denied Him. Instead, He cooked the man breakfast on the beach and said, “Let’s talk about love.”

That’s Jericho hospitality. That’s grace in motion.

Hospitality isn’t just about serving others a meal; it’s about serving them mercy.

Sometimes the best way to show hospitality isn’t to invite someone over, it’s to let them rest. To tell them, “You don’t have to perform here. You can just be.”

If we want to mirror Christ, we’ve got to learn that restoration and rest go hand in hand. Because even in our redemption story, even in the cross, rest was part of the plan.

Jesus didn’t rise on Friday. He rested in the tomb on the Sabbath. Even resurrection waited for rest.

If David could give his men space to heal their dignity, then surely we can give people time to heal their hearts.

When you see someone broken, someone humiliated, misunderstood, or just worn down, don’t rush to fix them or force them to “move on.” Sometimes the most Christlike thing you can do is to create a Jericho for them.

A place where they can rest.

A place where they can remember who they are.

A place where they can grow their beard back, even if it takes longer than you think it should.

Because restoration isn’t just about getting people back to work. It’s about getting people back to wholeness.

So if you’re weary today, if ministry, life, or even your own mistakes have left you half-shaved and half-dressed, humiliated and hiding, hear this:

Stay in Jericho until your beard grows back. You still belong.

The Lord’s rest isn’t just a pause; it’s a promise. It’s the gift He gave us in the Sabbath and the reward He offers us in eternity.

And when we learn to extend that rest to others, when we create Jerichos of restoration instead of assembly lines of burnout, that’s when we start to look like the kingdom again.

That’s when hospitality becomes holy.

That’s when rest becomes revival.

That’s when grace grows beards.

Stay Salty

 I remember once standing in a kitchen so hot the walls were sweating. You know that kind of heat… the kind where even the devil himself would’ve asked for a fan. Orders were flying, pans crashing, voices barking. Somewhere between the smoke and the chaos, I noticed a cook who had been on the verge of quitting a dozen times that week. But when the fire was hottest, when the night was most brutal, he planted his feet, tightened his apron, and went to war for the team.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t polished. But it was hospitality.

Not the kind you wrap in Pinterest boards and scented candles. Not the kind that comes with a glass of sweet tea on the porch. This was the kind that fought so others could survive the night. Protection. Stability. A safe space in the middle of chaos.

And that’s the same flavor of hospitality we see in 2 Samuel 8.

David isn’t baking biscuits. He’s wielding swords. He isn’t inviting folks over for a warm stew. He’s clearing the battlefield so that when the dust settles, his people can eat, drink, worship, and raise their families in peace.

And as I sit here in the shadow of a nation spiraling out of control, in the wake of Charlie Kirk’s public murder, I can’t help but think: this is the kind of leadership, the kind of hospitality, that we’ve abandoned.

We usually picture hospitality as something soft: blankets, casseroles, handshakes at the church door. And don’t get me wrong, I love a casserole as much as the next big guy. But in 2 Samuel 8, hospitality is dressed in armor.

David defeats the Philistines, the Moabites, the Arameans, the Edomites, name a bad guy, and David probably had their sword hanging in his trophy room.

But here’s the twist: David doesn’t fight for the thrill of it. He fights so that the people of God can live in safety. Every strike of his sword, every conquest, is an act of hospitality. He’s building safe spaces not with bricks and doilies but with blood and borders. He’s making room for his people to heal, grow, and worship.

That’s hospitality. Protection as hospitality.

And let’s be honest, when we look at our government today, can we honestly say it’s doing the same? Is it shielding the people? Creating peace? Giving the family a place to breathe and grow? Or is it too busy bickering, dividing, and posturing while the people they’re called to serve suffer?

The role of government, at its core, is hospitality. To make space. To protect. To create stable ground where life can thrive. David understood this. We’ve forgotten it.

David didn’t just swing swords. Scripture says:

“David reigned over all Israel, doing what was just and right for all his people.”

— 2 Samuel 8:15

That means the widow, the orphan, the poor farmer, all had a shot at fairness under his rule. He didn’t just protect with might; he shepherded with equity.

Justice is hospitality.

Righteousness is hospitality.

It’s the quiet kind, the kind that doesn’t make headlines but makes homes. When the vulnerable aren’t overlooked. When people know they’ll be treated with dignity. That’s what makes a nation livable. That’s what makes families trust each other. That’s what makes churches thrive.

But look around today. Justice has been twisted into vengeance. Righteousness has been watered down into whatever “feels good.” The church, instead of standing as a beacon of God’s justice and righteousness, too often just parrots the world’s slogans or retreats into silence.

And let’s be real: I’m not shocked when the world does it. It’s sin nature, we don’t want to be ruled, we don’t want accountability, we don’t want anyone telling us what to do.

But when the church joins the chorus of rebellion? That’s when my jaw tightens. Because the church knows better, or at least it’s supposed to.

David didn’t hoard the gold and silver he won. Scripture says he dedicated it to the Lord (2 Samuel 8:11). Every victory was God’s, and David knew it.

That, too, is hospitality. Because hospitality isn’t just about keeping stuff for yourself; it’s about sharing the spoils. Dedicating wins back to the One who gave them. Spreading provision so others benefit.

But today? We’re a people who clutch what we’ve got with white knuckles, convinced it’s all ours. And it’s not just about money, it’s our time, our energy, our very lives. We’ve forgotten how to dedicate the spoils to God, and in turn, we’ve forgotten how to share them with each other.

Now here’s the ugly truth, the part that gets me in trouble at the potluck line: the moment we decided to kick God out of our government was the moment we began to rot from the inside.

It worked for Israel because their government was the Church. God’s word guided their policies. His justice was their law. His protection was their military might.

But America? We made it loud and clear, we didn’t want God’s fingerprints on our Constitution. Sure, we started on Christian principles, but eventually we shoved Him to the side and said, “Thanks for the blessings, Lord, but we’ll take it from here.”

And now look at us. A nation failing. Families collapsing. Churches fractured. We’ve traded God’s hospitality for our own cheap knockoff version.

But here’s the kicker: it’s not just Washington’s fault. It’s ours.

Because while we complain about government corruption, many of us have left God out of our family government. Fathers and mothers not leading with prayer or righteousness. Homes ruled by screens instead of Scripture. And worse still, many churches have left God out of their church government. Pastors tickling ears, leaders more concerned with branding than shepherding, congregations more entertained than sanctified.

If we’ve abandoned God in our families and churches, why are we surprised our nation is crumbling?

Here’s the truth that slices through all the noise:

We cannot function without the hospitality that comes from protection.

We cannot thrive without the hospitality of justice and righteousness.

We cannot grow without the hospitality of sharing in the spoils of God’s victories.

And all of that happens only when God is at the center of our government, our national government, our family government, and our church government.

Without Him, we’re just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. With Him, we have safety, justice, provision, and peace.

David swung swords. We don’t. At least not the kind forged in fire and sharpened on steel. His battlefield was filled with clashing armor and the sound of steel on bone.

Ours is different, it’s the conversations at the dinner table, the words we dare (or don’t dare) to speak in the workplace, the truths we proclaim (or swallow) in a culture that loves comfort more than conviction.

David fought with swords for protection, but our weapons today are words and hearts.

And let’s be honest, sometimes wielding words in a world like this feels more dangerous than carrying a blade. Say the wrong thing and you’ll be canceled; as we saw on 9/10/2025 its gone to a new level.

 Stand on Scripture and you’ll be called hateful. Speak truth and you’ll find yourself exiled by both the world and, sadly, sometimes even the church.

But if David had dropped his sword, Israel would have been overrun. If we drop our words, our silence will do the same. Evil doesn’t need our agreement, it only needs our silence.

We see this clearly in the Scriptures:

Hebrews 4:12 – “For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword.”

Ephesians 6:17 – “Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”

Jeremiah 23:29 – “Is not my word like fire, declares the Lord, and like a hammer that breaks the rock in pieces?”

The Word of God is a sword sharper than any blade David carried. It cuts, yes, but it also heals. It divides, yes, but it also saves. And if we’re too timid to unsheathe it, then what good are we as soldiers in His Kingdom?

David’s sword cleared battlefields. Our words can clear hearts. His victories made a nation safe. Our courage can make space for souls to find salvation. But only if we stop being afraid.

So let’s speak His truth. Unafraid. Unashamed. With hearts burning and words anchored in Scripture. Because if we don’t, the world will gladly fill the silence.

And when it does, don’t be surprised if you wake up one day and realize the enemy’s already inside the gates.

So here’s the rally cry: put God back in the government and our lives.

Not just in Washington, but in your living room. Not just in your Constitution, but in your church constitution. Not just in your politics, but in your prayers.

David shows us in 2 Samuel 8 that hospitality isn’t just casseroles and hugs. It’s armor. It’s justice. It’s spoils dedicated to the Lord.

David had his sword, and he wasn’t afraid to use it for the protection of God’s people. We may not carry steel, but we’ve been given something sharper, the sword of truth.

And if we’re too afraid to lift our voices and wield the Word of God, then we’re already handing ground over to the enemy without a fight.

So I ask you:

Do you want the Lords hospitality?

Do you want to be able to share that hospitality?

Are you willing to submit?

Are you ready to let His government rule your nation, your family, your church, and your very life?

Are you ready to speak His truth with courage, to stand unashamed with Scripture in your mouth and conviction in your heart?

Or will we keep pretending we can run the show, hiding our words, softening His commands, even as the whole thing burns down around us?

Because the truth is this: hospitality without God isn’t hospitality at all. It’s just survival dressed up with a smile.

But when we submit to His rule and speak His truth, hospitality becomes the safe space our souls were made for, the peace, the justice, the provision, the shelter that only the King of Kings can provide.

And I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to pick up the sword of truth, open my mouth without fear, and live in that Kingdom.

Stay Salty.

I’ve spent over twenty plus years in kitchens, and let me tell you, if you want to see human nature on full display, just spend a few weeks behind the line when the heat is up and the tickets are flying. The kitchen is its own kingdom, a pressure cooker of egos, sweat, and survival. And one thing I learned early: the moment somebody fails, there’s always someone else waiting to exploit it.

I’ve seen line cooks take bets on how long the new sous chef will last. I’ve seen prep guys, who can barely julienne a carrot, declare they’d run the kitchen better than the chef. And I’ve watched dishwashers strut around like culinary prodigies because they finally learned how to dice an onion without chopping off their thumb. The formula is always the same: someone falls, and another pounces.

And here’s the ugly truth, it’s not just kitchens. It’s the church too.

I’ve watched brothers fall in ministry, and instead of seeing tears and prayers, I’ve heard whispers in the hallway: “Well, he never should’ve been a pastor anyway.” I’ve seen leaders stumble, and instead of humble mourning, some self-appointed prophet climbs into the pulpit to declare, “The Lord has told me I’m the one to take his place.” Churches sometimes act more like cutthroat reality shows than the body of Christ. We fight for position like contestants on Survivor… outwit, outplay, outlast… even if it means climbing over a wounded brother to do it.

But here’s the thing: exploiting someone else’s downfall for our gain isn’t kingdom, it’s worldly. It’s not hospitality. It’s not love. And it’s not Christlike.

Which is why 2 Samuel 4 is one of my favorite “dark humor” passages in the Bible. It’s messy, it’s brutal, and it’s dripping with irony, but tucked inside is a cutting lesson for the church about hospitality, justice, and how God’s kingdom works.

Picture this: After Saul’s death, his son Ish-bosheth tries to hold onto his father’s throne. But let’s be honest, he’s no leader. He’s the guy trying to fly a kite in a hurricane, and it shows. He’s a puppet king, propped up by generals, powerless and insecure.

Enter Baanah and Rechab, two captains who decide they’ve found a shortcut to power. They sneak into Ish-bosheth’s house, murder him in his bed, and chop off his head. They carry it to David like it’s a prize turkey at the county fair, expecting applause and reward.

In their minds, they’ve secured their future. They’re the spiritual opportunists of the day… ready to step on another man’s grave to climb the ladder.

Now here’s where it gets good. Imagine David, sitting in his camp, probably thinking about how to unite Israel without a bloodbath, when these two clowns walk in and hand Daivd a box like it is the end of the movie Seven. And they beam with pride, expecting a handshake and a job offer.

But David doesn’t smile. He doesn’t clap. He doesn’t throw a party. Instead, yells like Brad Pitt at the end of the movie holding the box, “WHATS IN THE BOX?!?! He then looks in the box and than thunders:

“When someone told me, ‘Saul is dead,’ thinking he was bringing good news, I seized him and put him to death in Ziklag, that was the reward I gave him for his news! How much more, when wicked men have killed an innocent man in his own house and on his own bed, should I not now demand his blood from your hand and rid the earth of you!” (2 Samuel 4:10–11)

In other words: “You think you’ve done me a favor? You think I’m going to reward treachery and bloodshed? Not in my kingdom.”

David executes Baanah and Rechab, and here’s the kicker, he gives Ish-bosheth a proper burial. The weak, defeated, irrelevant puppet king gets dignity in death because David refuses to exploit even his enemy’s downfall.

That, my friends, is hospitality.

When we hear “hospitality,” most of us think about food, tables, and warm welcomes, and that’s part of it. But in the Bible, hospitality is far deeper. It’s about how we treat the vulnerable, the stranger, and yes, even the fallen.

David shows us that hospitality isn’t just about feasting with friends. It’s about refusing to use someone else’s weakness or failure for our own gain. It’s about upholding justice, even when it would be more convenient to look the other way.

That cuts right into the heart of church culture today. Because let’s be honest, too many of us practice “Baanah and Rechab hospitality.” We wait for someone to stumble so we can drag their head into the spotlight and say, “Look at me! Look how faithful I am compared to them!”

But the kingdom of God doesn’t work like that. Jesus said in Matthew 20:16, “So the last will be first, and the first last.” True greatness doesn’t come from climbing over bodies, it comes from kneeling to wash feet.

Let’s talk plain.

When a pastor burns out or fails morally, some churches treat it like a lottery ticket. “Well, I guess it’s my turn now.” Instead of tears, there are auditions. Instead of restoration, there’s gossip.

When a brother or sister confesses sin, instead of walking with them toward healing, too many people grab the bullhorn and blast it across the congregation, or worse, across Facebook. But Proverbs 17:9 says, “Whoever covers an offense seeks love, but he who repeats a matter separates close friends.”

When an elder or leader steps aside, instead of honoring their years of service, someone’s ready to drag skeletons out of the closet and declare, “They were never fit for ministry anyway.” That’s not discernment… it’s arrogance dressed in religious clothes.

This is exactly the opposite of Paul’s instructions in Galatians 6:1–2:

“Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness. Keep watch on yourself, lest you too be tempted. Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”

But instead of restoring, we exploit. Instead of bearing burdens, we broadcast failures. And all for what? Spiritual clout. To make ourselves look more righteous, more discerning, more qualified.

That’s not kingdom hospitality, it’s self-promotion in disguise.

David could have taken the easy road. He could have rewarded Baanah and Rechab, secured the throne, and moved on. But he didn’t.

Instead, he shows us four things:

Reject False Hospitality – David refuses to accept a “gift” rooted in bloodshed. Likewise, we must refuse to applaud gossip, manipulation, or opportunism in the name of ministry. (Romans 12:9 – “Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good.”)

Honor the Fallen – By burying Ish-bosheth, David declares that dignity is not negotiable. Whether friend, foe, or failure, every person is made in the image of God. (Genesis 1:27)

Mourn, Don’t Celebrate – Proverbs 24:17 warns: “Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles.” If David can mourn Saul, Jonathan, and even Ish-bosheth, then surely we can mourn our brothers when they fall instead of throwing a party on their grave.

Choose Justice Over Convenience – Hospitality isn’t always about comfort. Sometimes it’s about doing what’s right when it would be easier to do what benefits us. (Micah 6:8 – “What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”)

When I think back on the kitchens I grew up in, I remember the petty rivalries, the mudslinging, the opportunism… sadly I didn’t only witness it I took part in it on my climb to the top. But what haunts me is how often I’ve seen the same thing in the church.

The line cook who mocks the fallen chef is no different from the Christian who mocks the fallen pastor. The prep cook who boasts he could do it better is no different from the church member who uses another’s stumble as their platform.

But God’s kingdom flips the script. In the world, weakness is exploited. In Christ’s kingdom, weakness is protected. In the world, failure is opportunity. In Christ’s kingdom, failure is a chance for grace.

Jesus didn’t climb to the throne by stepping over corpses. He descended to the cross, taking our failures on Himself. That’s why Philippians 2:8–9 says, “And being found in human form, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore, God has highly exalted Him…”

Exaltation came through humility, not exploitation. That is the kingdom way.

Here’s the good news: we don’t have to live like Baanah and Rechab. We don’t have to climb ladders built on other people’s bones. We can choose David’s path; the path of justice, dignity, and hospitality that refuses to exploit.

Imagine a church where:

Failures are met with mourning, not gossip.

Broken leaders are prayed for, not slandered.

Brothers and sisters caught in sin are restored gently, not paraded as trophies of our own holiness.

Promotion comes through humility, not ambition.

That’s a church that reflects the heart of Christ. That’s a church the world can’t ignore.

So, here’s my challenge: the next time you see a brother stumble, resist the urge to grab a megaphone. Don’t be a Baanah. Don’t be a Rechab. Be like David. Mourn. Honor. Show dignity. Uphold justice.

Because in the end, hospitality isn’t just casseroles and coffee. It’s how we treat the vulnerable when we could use them for gain.

And the greatest act of hospitality was when Jesus looked at us, weak, fallen, enemies of God; and instead of exploiting our failure, He died for us. “But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)

That’s the kingdom way. That’s the cross-shaped way.

And it’s the way we’re called to walk.

Stay Salty

Let’s be real, we’re not exactly good at reconciliation these days. If someone even looks at us wrong, we’re ready to write them off. And if they actually hurt us, or worse, used to walk with us but then turned against us, we put their name on the “do not invite” list faster than a toddler says “no.” It’s wild, because half the time it’s not even over something big. Politics? Boom, friendship over. A spat in the family? Forget about Thanksgiving, we’re eating alone. I’ve even seen churches split over the dumbest arguments, like mid-rapture versus post-rapture. (I wish I was kidding. Imagine breaking fellowship because someone’s timeline didn’t match yours!)

But the truth is, reconciliation isn’t optional for us as believers. It’s not a nice extra. It’s not for the “super spiritual” Christians who love the idea of peacemaking. No, reconciliation is at the very heart of the gospel. God sent His Son not just so we could have our sins forgiven but so that we could be reconciled back to Him. That’s the good news. And if He could reconcile with those who hated Him, cursed Him, spat on Him, and nailed Him to a cross, then we can’t justify holding grudges.

And I’ll be honest with you….. I’ve had to live this out.

We have two friends who, to put it simply, went through more hardship than most people face in a lifetime. They carried a weight so heavy it would crush most, and in the middle of that pain, they said and did things that deeply hurt my family. And listen, I get it, hurt people hurt people. But that didn’t make the sting any less real. The damage was done, and not long after, ties were cut.

For years, nothing. No contact. Not a word spoken. On the rare occasions we crossed paths, it was icy silence, nasty looks, and whispered comments. The relationship was dead, and honestly, I thought it would stay that way, and was kind of ok with it.

But a couple of months ago, one of them approached us. Now, at that moment, we had a choice. Based on their past actions, no one would’ve blamed us if we brushed them off and left the relationship severed. But we didn’t. Instead, we made room. We gave time. We spoke life. We didn’t demand repayment for old wounds.

And something surprising started to happen, the relationship began to heal. Slowly, yes. Messily, absolutely. But it’s better than it was. They even came out of their way recently to support me while I was preaching. That meant more than they’ll probably ever know.

Is the relationship back to where it once was? Nope. But it’s moving in the right direction. And I believe with all my heart that through hospitality, through creating space, extending grace, and choosing to reconcile, we’ll eventually get back to a place of supporting one another and pointing each other back to Christ.

You might ask, Why start here, my story isn’t that unique. We’ve all got people like that. People who were once close but now feel like enemies. People who used to be at our table but now sit at a distance, arms crossed, glaring across the room. And the temptation is always the same: to leave it that way. To justify the brokenness. To say, “They don’t deserve another chance.”

But if we’re going to live out biblical hospitality, reconciliation has to be on the table. Always.

And one of the best pictures we get of this is in 2 Samuel 3.

This chapter is better than reality TV. You’ve got betrayal, shifting alliances, egos bigger than the Empire State Building, and a good old-fashioned revenge plot. If Netflix picked this up, you’d binge it in a weekend.

Picture this: Saul is dead. David’s ruling over Judah in the south. Meanwhile, Saul’s son Ish-bosheth (who gets the award for second worst name to pronounce in the Bible) is trying to hang on to the throne up north. The kingdom’s split like a tug-of-war rope that’s about to snap.

Enter Abner. He’s Saul’s former military commander, loyal to the old regime, a man with blood on his hands, and not exactly David’s BFF. But Abner is tired of Ish-bosheth’s nonsense and decides, “You know what, David’s the guy. Let’s join forces.”

Now pause for a second. If you’re David, this is the man who’s been hunting you, who fought on Saul’s side against you, who once stood for everything that opposed you. And now he’s knocking on your door asking for a seat at the table. What do you do?

Most of us would say, “Forget it. Go pound sand.” Or at the very least, “Prove yourself first, then we’ll talk.” But David doesn’t. He sees an opportunity for reconciliation.

David welcomes Abner. Not grudgingly, not with a side-eye, not with a suspicious “I’ll let you in but I’m watching you.” He welcomes him openly. They sit down, they talk, and then David does something radical, he throws a feast.

Think about that. Food is powerful, y’all. Sharing a meal in that culture wasn’t casual. It was covenantal. It was saying, “I’m not against you anymore. We’re bound together now.” David is offering reconciliation not just with words but with hospitality. He doesn’t shame Abner. He doesn’t bring up his past failures. He doesn’t say, “Remember that time you tried to kill me?” No, he gives him a seat, fills his plate, and starts fresh.

Hospitality becomes the bridge where enemies can meet without swords drawn.

Cue Joab, David’s hot-headed general. Joab doesn’t care about peace. He doesn’t care about reconciliation. He wants revenge because Abner killed his brother in battle. And instead of celebrating the peace table David set, Joab flips the table, pulls Abner aside, and kills him.

It’s ugly. It’s dishonorable. And it shows us something about reconciliation: not everyone will cheer when you make peace. Some people thrive on division. Some people want blood. And they’ll whisper in your ear, “Don’t reconcile. Don’t forgive. Don’t open that door. They don’t deserve it.”

But David won’t let Joab’s spirit win. He makes it clear: “This isn’t on me. This isn’t what I stand for.” David mourns Abner’s death publicly. He proves that reconciliation and hospitality aren’t just convenient moves, they are part of his character, his commitment to God’s way.

Let’s get honest again. We’re not that different from Joab. We’d rather see someone get what’s coming to them than sit at the table with them. We’d rather protect our pride than risk being betrayed again. But if we want to live out biblical hospitality, we have to embrace reconciliation, even when it feels impossible.

It’s easy to invite your friends over. It’s easy to show kindness to people who agree with you. But biblical hospitality goes further. It’s about making room for people who once opposed you. That neighbor you haven’t spoken to in years? That sibling who betrayed you? That church member who voted against you in the business meeting? Hospitality says: pull up a chair.

David didn’t just say, “We’re good now.” He backed it up with a meal. He built a bridge of trust. We can’t reconcile with lip service alone. We have to embody it, through invitations, through generosity, through actually sharing life again. You MUST silence the voices that resist reconciliation.

David had Joab. You and I have our own “Joabs”, people who fuel bitterness, who remind us of the wounds, who whisper, “Don’t let them back in.” True hospitality means shutting down those voices. You can’t host reconciliation at your table if bitterness is running the kitchen.

At the end of the day, reconciliation isn’t our idea. It’s God’s. He gave His Son so we could be reconciled. He hosted the most expensive banquet in history, the marriage supper of the Lamb, and sent out invitations to people who didn’t deserve it. If He can do that, then surely, with His Spirit, we can set one extra place at the table for someone who hurt us.

I’ve seen too many relationships end over things that don’t matter. I’ve seen churches split over theology debates that won’t make a bit of difference when we’re all standing before Jesus. I’ve seen families go years without speaking because of a misunderstanding that could have been solved in five minutes around a dinner table.

But what if we changed that? What if we lived like David, choosing hospitality as the road to reconciliation? What if instead of sharpening our swords, we sharpened our carving knives and said, “Come eat with me”?

Hospitality through reconciliation doesn’t just heal relationships, it shows the world what the gospel looks like. It tells our neighbors, our kids, our communities: “This is how God loves. This is how God welcomes. This is how God forgives.”

So maybe the challenge today is simple: who have you written off? Who’s on your “do not invite” list? Who’s the Abner in your life, the person who used to stand against you but might just be waiting for a chance to be reconciled?

The Lord is all about reconciliation. Always has been. Always will be. He didn’t reconcile with us when we deserved it, He reconciled with us when we were His enemies. That’s the gospel. And if we’re going to carry that gospel, then our tables have to be places where enemies can sit down, feast, and walk away as brothers and sisters.

So maybe it’s time to set the table. Maybe it’s time to pull up a chair. And maybe, just maybe, that act of hospitality will change history, just like it did in David’s day.

Stay Salty

Back when I was training in Krav Maga, we trained like our lives depended on it, because one day, it just might. It wasn’t just about fancy moves or breaking boards; it was grit, sweat, and knowing you could rely on the person next to you. We trained in pairs. We pushed each other. And when our partner was running on fumes, we carried them.

Now, I’ve never been the fastest guy in the room. I’m not built for speed, I’m built like a walk-in freezer with legs. But that didn’t stop me from showing up and giving it everything I had. I still remember this one day that really opened my eyes. My training partner was a buddy of mine, someone I respected. He’s always been in better shape than me. Lean, fast, always in motion, the kind of guy who looked like he jogged for fun, which I still think is a form of mental illness.

Anyway, we were doing mitt drills, punch combinations, nonstop movement, and switching roles. He’d hold, I’d hit. I’d hold, he’d hit. But as the round wore on, I noticed something strange: I was pushing him. Hard. His arms were sagging, his breathing was heavy, and I was still swinging like I had something to prove. It didn’t make sense. By all accounts, he should’ve been wiping the floor with me.

Then it hit me, we weren’t built the same.

I had been working different muscles for different jobs. My strength didn’t come from speed or agility, it came from deep, heavy impact. Years of cooking, carrying crates, standing on my feet, lifting cast iron and chaos. His body was trained for long runs and mountain climbs. Mine was trained to hit and hold the line. If it had been a sprint, he would’ve left me in the dust. But this was different. This was my lane.

And that’s when I realized something deeper: how often do we do this in the Church?

How often do we look at someone and judge them for what they can’t do, instead of honoring what they can? We see someone who doesn’t pray like we do, sing like we do, serve like we do, and we quietly decide they’re not “there yet.” But maybe we’re just measuring the wrong things. Maybe they’re not a mountain climber, but they’re built to carry heavy people through rough seasons. Maybe they’re not the one preaching, but they’re the one holding someone else’s arms up through the battle.

The Kingdom isn’t built on copy-paste Christians, it’s built on heart. Not hustle. Not hype. Just heart. God sees it. Even when we don’t.

So next time someone doesn’t run like you do, don’t assume they’re not moving. They may be built to move mountains you weren’t called to carry.

We’re not called to compete, we’re called to carry.

And in the Church, we rise together.

Let’s be honest, this part of 1 Samuel 30 hits completely different.

Not because there’s a wild battle scene, or a miracle falling from the sky, but because David chooses to do something that defies every instinct in a man’s flesh, he honors the exhausted.

You know the story. Or you should from my last post. (if you haven’t read part one please do)

 David’s men are in full pursuit mode. Their homes are still smoking, their wives and children are in enemy hands, and their adrenaline is the only thing keeping their legs moving. But halfway through the chase, 200 of his warriors, men who bled beside him, who had just come from war, collapse. Not from fear. Not from laziness. From pure, bone-deep exhaustion.

And what do they do? They stop. They don’t fake strength. They don’t try to be heroes. They look at their commander and say, “We can’t keep going.”

Now pause. Let that hit you.

They didn’t quit because they were weak.

They stopped because they were wise.

See, these men didn’t want to be a burden in battle. They knew the mission was too critical to drag their half-broken bodies into it and slow down the charge. They made the hard call: sit this one out.

And in that moment, David had a choice:

Treat them like dead weight… or honor their dedication.

And we know how this usually plays out in the Church, don’t we? We’ve built this performance culture in ministry, let’s call it what it is, where worth is measured by how much you do.

“How many services are you at?”

“How fast do you respond in the group chat?”

“How much can we stack on your shoulders before you break?”

We honor the grinders. The burnt-out warriors. The ones limping on stage with smiles on their faces. And listen, that kind of service is powerful, but it becomes a problem when we start ranking people based on it.

Because if someone pulls back to rest, to heal, to breathe?

We start whispering.

We side-eye.

We assume they’re lazy. Unfaithful. Not as committed.

But the truth is, not everyone is built to run at the same pace. Not everyone has the same stamina, the same skillset, the same capacity. That doesn’t mean they’re not dedicated. It means they’re human. It means they know their limit.

Some of the most faithful people I’ve ever met are the ones sitting on the sidelines because they had to, not because they wanted to. They’re nursing wounds, carrying grief, rebuilding from burnout. And the last thing they need is a spiritual guilt trip from the people they used to serve beside.

The 200 men didn’t leave the army. They didn’t defect. They stayed with the baggage. They guarded what was left. And that matters. They didn’t chase the enemy, but they stayed faithful to what they could carry.

And when David comes back victorious, dragging the spoils of war and the families they fought to rescue, the others, the ones who did fight, say, “They didn’t go with us. They don’t deserve the reward.” You can almost hear the arrogance. “We fought. We deserve. They didn’t. They’re out.” And here’s where David gives a masterclass in kingdom leadership. He shuts it down.

“As his share is who goes down into the battle, so shall his share be who stays by the baggage. They shall share alike.” (1 Samuel 30:24, ESV)

That’s not just mercy. That’s hospitality. And not the soft kind that serves tea and cookies. The kind that stands in the tension and says: “We are one body. One army. And we don’t leave people behind just because they’re tired.”

David didn’t just recover what was lost. He restored dignity to those who felt like they had nothing left to give.

Let me ask you this: How often do we, as the Church, extend that kind of mercy?

We want revival, but only if it comes through the hands of the ones doing the most work.

We want community, but only if everyone pulls their weight. We want hospitality, but only for the shiny and the strong. And yet… God models something totally different.

He welcomes the worn out.

He feeds the failures.

He gives the same grace to the one who fought and the one who fell.

If your idea of hospitality doesn’t include those who had to sit down halfway through the mission, then it’s not biblical hospitality. Jesus didn’t rebuke the woman who wept at His feet instead of standing and serving. He didn’t shame the thief on the cross who came to Him at the final hour. And He doesn’t count your value by your pace, but by your posture.

One Body. One Army. Many Paces.

David understood something we forget:

Victory isn’t won by the fastest.

It’s won by the faithful.

And faithfulness looks different for everybody.

Some are built to storm the gates.

Others are called to stand guard.

Some are in the field with swords.

Others are in the back interceding in prayer, cleaning up after events, or just trying to show up for service with their last ounce of energy.

But we’re one army. And when one part suffers, the whole body suffers. When one part wins, we all win. Hospitality means carrying the tired, not criticizing them. It means creating space for rest, not punishing those who need it. David didn’t just say, “Let’s be nice and give them something.”

He said, “They share equally.” Let that hit.

EQUALLY.

The ones who ran.

The ones who stayed.

The ones who couldn’t move another inch.

They all got the blessing.

And Church, that should correct some things in us.

Because some of us have been holding onto resentment like, “I did more, so I deserve more.” Some of us have become stingy with mercy. Some of us have started using our serving as a measuring stick for spiritual value. But grace doesn’t grade on effort.

God doesn’t tally up your hours like a manager.

And David, pointing forward to the heart of God, shows us what it looks like to reward the heart, not just the hustle. If you’re the one who’s tired today, this part’s for you:

God is not disappointed in you for needing rest.

He’s not keeping score against your exhaustion.

You may feel like you’ve had to sit out of the battle.

But your faithfulness still matters.

You’re not disqualified.

You’re not less than.

The same reward is coming to you.

The same restoration.

You don’t need to run faster to be seen by God.

You just need to stay close.

The Heart of Real Hospitality

Hospitality isn’t just setting a table.

It’s how we speak about the ones who had to sit out.

It’s how we carry those who can’t walk right now.

It’s how we refuse to divide the spoils by performance and choose to love like Jesus.

David shows us a better way.

A kingdom way. A way that says: You didn’t make it to the fight, but you’re still part of the family. You still get the blessing. And if we’re going to be people of mercy, people who walk in the Spirit of Christ, then we better start opening our eyes to the ones who are camped by the baggage.

They’re still in the fight.

They just need a minute to breathe.

And our job is to make room for them, not make assumptions about them.

Church, this isn’t a competition.

This is a kingdom.

And we’re all in this together.

Don’t hoard the reward.

Don’t judge the weary.

Don’t resent the ones who had to pause.

Because if we’re honest, we’ve all had seasons where we couldn’t keep going.

We’ve all had moments where we needed someone to cover us, protect us, and believe that our heart still mattered even if our hands weren’t working.

So let’s build a Church that reflects David’s leadership and Christ’s mercy. Let’s stop counting hours and start counting hearts. Let’s show hospitality to the tired, the broken, the ones sitting by the baggage… and remind them:

The blessing is still yours.

The grace is still yours.

The King sees you… and so do we.

Stay salty.

I talk about her often, but I’m going to brag for a second on my sister Robyn. She’s a Bible teacher, a podcaster (catch her on Blooming in a Cage, available wherever you listen), a mom, a wife, and an OK-ish sister (she’d say the same about me being a brother). But beyond all that, she’s a powerhouse of gospel-centered hospitality.

She lives with a rare and painful condition called EDS, which basically means her body hates her. And yet, she runs the mercy ministry at our home church, a role passed down from our spiritual grandparents, Juanita and Ken Lane.

She doesn’t travel far physically. But spiritually, emotionally, and relationally? She goes miles.

As a dyed-in-the-wool New Englander, she’s got a huge heart for people… she just doesn’t necessarily like being around them. She’s not the hug-first, cry-on-my-shoulder type. She’d rather serve quietly, from behind the scenes. But every week, she shows up at church, face-to-face with hurting people. People who haven’t bathed. People who are angry. People who are broken. Not to mention probably drunk or using…

She listens to them. Learns their needs. Loads food in her car from different donation sites, delivers it to the church , sets it up, prays over it. And when needed? She hugs the stinky ones.

That’s hospitality. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s holy. Because she gets biblical hospitality.

Most weeks she’s in so much pain afterward that her body feels done. But by God’s grace (and a little…… lot bit of Tylenol), she’s back the next day building relationships, teaching others, helping them bloom in places that feel like cages.

Far too often, when it comes to showing biblical hospitality, its like the worship team is harmonizing with Meatloaf: “I would do anything for love… but I won’t do that.” And that’s sad. For the church world, that “that” might look like: talking to someone outside our comfort zone, serving in a rough part of town, or hugging someone who smells like a 3-day-old tuna sandwich left in the sun.

We want to serve… until it’s inconvenient.

We want to love… as long as it’s not messy.

We want to help… if it fits our schedule and doesn’t challenge our boundaries.

But here’s the truth: Biblical hospitality doesn’t stop at the door of comfort. It marches straight through it.

She’s not singing “I won’t do that.” She’s singing “I’ll do anything for love, and I’ll do that too, if it means someone meets Jesus.” That’s Jonathan-level hospitality.

Her actions remind me of Paul’s words in Galatians 6:2, “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” What Robyn does week in and week out isn’t glamorous, but it is powerful. It’s love made visible. Her willingness to step out of her comfort zone, to move past preference and into obedience, shows the kind of hospitality that brings heaven to earth.

She embodies Isaiah 58:10 “If you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday.” That’s the kind of light she brings to our church family. Even in her own pain, she chooses to pour out her strength for others. And that’s a holy kind of hospitality.

But beyond the food and hugs and planning, there’s something even deeper happening, discipleship. Robyn doesn’t just feed bodies, she plants seeds. She believes that the same way she blooms through her own pain, others can bloom in their bondage. She sits with people in the trenches of addiction, mental health, trauma, and poverty, not as a fixer, but as a faithful presence. She isn’t trying to be a hero. She’s just showing up with her broken body and saying, “I’m still here. God is still good. Let’s find healing together.”

That kind of presence echoes Jesus Himself, who was often found reclining at tables with the outcasts, the lepers, the overlooked. Robyn’s life whispers to the forgotten, “You’re still seen. You’re still worth showing up for.”

Let’s zoom in on 1 Samuel 23 a chapter where David is literally running for his life. And in the middle of betrayal, ambushes, and divine plot twists, we see hospitality show up in powerful, unexpected ways.

Picture this: David has just saved the town of Keilah from the Philistines. You’d think the people would be grateful and offer him safety. But when Saul shows up with a death warrant, the same people David rescued are ready to hand him over. Hospitality, for them, had a limit.

Contrast that with Jonathan. Saul’s son. Next in line for the throne that David’s destined to take. And yet, he shows up in the wilderness to strengthen David’s heart. He speaks hope. He reminds David of God’s promise. He goes the distance, not for power, but for friendship. For covenant. For God’s plan.

That’s hospitality. It’s not about the table, it’s about the risk.

And that risk often calls us to reach beyond our preferences. It demands presence over performance. Jonathan didn’t just send a message. He showed up. There’s something sacred in showing up. Jesus showed up in our world, not in palaces or popularity, but in stables and suffering. He didn’t wave salvation from a distance; He entered the mess to bring the message.

Hospitality isn’t always a casserole and a warm welcome sign. Sometimes it’s:

Showing up in someone’s wilderness.

Taking a late-night phone call from a friend on the edge.

Driving across town to help someone who can’t pay you back.

Giving your energy, your money, your time, and getting no recognition.

Sitting in silence with someone whose grief has no words.

Hospitality is often inconvenient. But it’s never insignificant.

Think about the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37). Jesus makes the radical outsider the hero of the story, not the priest, not the Levite. The Samaritan goes to the injured man, bandages him up, puts him on his own donkey, pays for his care. That’s not a drive-by kindness. That’s full-throttle, all-in, sacrificial love.

How far did the Samaritan go? Far enough to make a difference.

Or how about Ruth? You remember her right? She followed Naomi to a foreign land, left her people, her comfort, her everything, and said, “Your people will be my people, and your God my God.” (Ruth 1:16) That wasn’t hospitality from the comfort of her kitchen. That was hospitality on the road, fueled by loyalty, wrapped in faith.

Or consider Elisha and the Shunammite woman in 2 Kings 4. She didn’t just provide a meal or a place to rest, she built him a room. She prepared a permanent space for the prophet of God to find shelter. That’s the kind of forward-thinking, intentional hospitality that invites the presence of God. And guess what? Her generosity didn’t go unnoticed. Her barren womb was opened and her life changed.

When we go the extra mile in love, the ripple effect is eternal.

In the same chapter (1 Samuel 23), you’ve got the Ziphites. These guys offer David what looks like help, only to turn around and betray him to Saul. It’s fake hospitality, inviting someone in just to get something out of it.

Let’s not pretend we don’t do the same thing.

Sometimes we serve just to be seen.

Sometimes we give just to feel good.

Sometimes we welcome just to say we did it.

But true hospitality isn’t performative. It’s transformative. And not just for the guest, for the host too.

Don’t miss this: the final act of hospitality in 1 Samuel 23 doesn’t come from a person, it comes from God. Saul is closing in, David’s trapped, and then suddenly… bam! A message arrives: the Philistines are attacking, Saul has to pull back.

God Himself throws David a lifeline. Not because David earned it. Not because he begged for it. But because God is the ultimate host, protector, and provider.

Psalm 23 says, “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” That’s divine hospitality. God doesn’t wait for your life to be perfect, He sets the table right in the middle of the chaos.

And isn’t that what Jesus does for us? Romans 5:8 says, “But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” He didn’t wait for us to get cleaned up or religious or respectable. He went the distance, all the way to the cross. That’s what divine hospitality looks like: sacrificial, unstoppable love.

So… How Far Are You Willing to Go?

Because hospitality isn’t about how far you drive, it’s about how far you’re willing to go out of your way for someone else’s good.

Would you:

Invite someone into your space who makes you uncomfortable?

Serve someone who can’t say thank you?

Show up for a friend when it costs you rest, money, or your pride?

If the answer is “yes, but only if…” then it’s time to let God stretch your hospitality radius.

Because when we open our homes, hearts, and hands—even in our weakness, even in our pain, we echo the heart of Christ Himself.

Jesus didn’t just go out of His way. He left heaven. Walked through rejection. Endured betrayal. Washed the feet of the man who would sell Him out.

And then He fed him.

That’s hospitality. That’s the Kingdom. That’s our calling.

If you want to measure the health of your faith community, don’t look at how many events you host, look at how far people are willing to go for each other.

How far are you willing to go?

Are you singing “I would do anything… but not that,” or are you willing to walk into someone’s wilderness and bring the presence of God with you?

Because when we do that, when we go far enough to love people where they are, no matter how broken, they just might start to believe that God loves them too.

And friend, that’s when the Church starts to look like Jesus.

Stay Salty

I’ve given up a lot for hospitality. Time with my kids. Countless meals with my wife. Holidays, birthdays, moments that were once-in-a-lifetime and now live only in the background noise of a busy kitchen. I’ve stood over flat tops so hot they could blister your soul, burned myself on oven doors, cut the tips of my fingers with mandolins that bite harder than a junkyard dog, and soaked my feet in ice after a 16-hour shift that felt like war. And I’ve watched others do the same, bleeding, limping, limping back to the line because the tickets don’t stop. And why do we do it? Because we believe the person coming to the table deserves our best. Our sacrifice is their comfort.

But here’s where it stings, really stings: I gave my all in the kitchen, but for years I struggled to sacrifice anywhere else. I knew how to serve a plate with excellence, but I didn’t know how to serve my neighbor with presence. I could suffer in silence for a stranger’s meal but refused to sit in silence with someone grieving. I could drain every ounce of energy to get a dish out on time, but I struggled to give my energy to the person sitting across from me at home. I knew how to plate a beautiful meal, but I didn’t know how to bear someone’s burdens, and to be 100% its still a struggle at times.

See, I had built a theology around my trade, but not around my faith. I believed in excellence at work, but I hadn’t yet surrendered to excellence in love. And love, real, biblical, Christ-like love, is always sacrificial. It isn’t polished. It doesn’t clock out. It shows up when it’s inconvenient, sticks around when it’s messy, and gives when there’s nothing left in the tank. That’s what I had to learn the hard way.

Hospitality isn’t confined to the kitchen. It’s not limited to food or good service. It’s not a mood. It’s not an Instagram aesthetic. It’s a posture, a life laid down in service to God and others. It happens at the table, yes, but also at the bedside, in the hallway, on your front porch, in the bleachers, in a text message, in the midnight phone call when someone says, “I just need to talk.” Hospitality is presence. Hospitality is sacrifice.

And if that sounds intense, good. It should. Because the Gospel is intense.

Jesus didn’t say, “Take up your brunch and follow Me.”

He said, “Take up your cross” (Luke 9:23). Daily. Die to self. Lay your life down. And for what? So that someone else could live. So that someone else could be seen, known, fed, heard, held, and loved. That’s hospitality.

It took me years to learn that the kitchen was never the endgame. It was just the training ground.

And listen, if you’re reading this and you’re tired, bone-tired from pouring yourself out for others… I get it. God gets it. Jesus lived it. And you’re not wasting your sacrifice. You’re not just burning out oil, you’re lighting candles in dark places.

Colossians 3:23 says, “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters.” That includes the unseen hospitality. The awkward conversations. The long drives to check on someone. The groceries dropped off with no thank-you. The forgiveness offered without apology. That is the work of the Kingdom. That is worship.

And for those who are just now realizing, like I did, that you’ve compartmentalized your sacrifice to one area of life, hear this in love: It’s time to open the doors. Let hospitality invade the other rooms. Let it go beyond your strengths. Let it reach your pride. Let it stretch your comfort zone. Let it cost you more than what you’re used to giving.

The call of Christ isn’t about finding the easiest way to be good. It’s about laying down your life so the goodness of God can shine through you.

In 1 Samuel 21, we’re given a picture of what that kind of sacrificial hospitality looks like. This isn’t “come over for dinner” hospitality. This is raw, life-on-the-line hospitality. David shows up in Nob, starving, exhausted, and on the run from Saul. He’s desperate. And who meets him? Ahimelech the priest, a man of God who’s caught off guard but not closed off.

David asks for food, and Ahimelech doesn’t hesitate. He gives him the holy bread, the consecrated bread reserved for the priests alone (1 Samuel 21:6). Now, let’s be clear: this wasn’t just him reaching for the extra loaf in the pantry. This was sacred, set-apart bread. Giving it away could’ve cost Ahimelech everything, and eventually, it does. But he chooses mercy over ritual, sacrifice over safety. This is hospitality that bleeds.

Jesus Himself later points back to this moment in Matthew 12:3-4 when the Pharisees get worked up about His disciples picking grain on the Sabbath. He reminds them that David was fed with the bread of the Presence because human need took precedence over religious technicalities. That’s not just Jesus making a point about Sabbath; that’s Jesus underlining the kind of hospitality that reflects the heart of God: a hospitality that sacrifices.

But Ahimelech doesn’t stop there. David also needs a weapon. The only one available? Goliath’s sword. That’s not just any weapon, it’s the very blade David used to take down the Philistine giant. A symbol of God’s power and provision. Ahimelech gives it freely (1 Samuel 21:9). Think about that: in one visit, David gets holy bread and a holy sword. Body and soul, fed and armed. That’s the kind of hospitality that restores dignity and equips for the journey ahead.

Hospitality, at its core, is provision that costs you something. It’s the kind of love that risks. It’s showing up when it’s inconvenient. It’s meeting needs that may never be repaid. That kind of sacrifice isn’t new, it’s been part of God’s story from the beginning.

Back in the Garden, when Adam and Eve sinned, God didn’t leave them in their shame. He clothed them with garments of skin (Genesis 3:21). An animal had to die so they could be covered. That’s sacrifice. That’s hospitality. And it’s not just physical, it’s emotional and spiritual. God didn’t just give them clothing. He gave them grace.

Fast-forward to the Gospels, and we see it again, God giving a Lamb, His own Son, to cover us. John the Baptist called Jesus “the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29). Jesus, in the ultimate act of hospitality, lays down His life to make room for us at the table of grace. He welcomes us into God’s family, not because we earned it, but because He gave it.

Jesus even said it plainly: “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). Real love. Real hospitality. Real sacrifice.

But let’s be honest, we struggle with that. We’re willing to sacrifice when it benefits us, when it’s convenient, when it gets us likes or applause. But hospitality? It asks more. It’s not glamorous. It’s giving someone else your seat when you’re tired. It’s spending your grocery money to feed a neighbor. It’s choosing the phone call over the Netflix binge. It’s doing the dishes when no one thanks you. It’s inviting the messy person in when you’d rather lock the door and keep your peace.

And let’s talk straight for a second: we expect this level of sacrifice in restaurants, right? We don’t blink when chefs give up their holidays, or when servers spend 12 hours on their feet. “That’s their job,” we say. “That’s what they signed up for,  It comes with the gig.”

Well, listen Linda… You’re a Christian.

You signed up for this…. IT COMES WITH THE GIG

Romans 12:1 tells us to “present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God, this is your true and proper worship.” Did you catch that? Sacrifice is worship. Hospitality is worship. It’s not a bonus round of Christianity. It’s the core of it.

And yet, how often is God the first thing we throw on the altar when life gets full?

Sunday night service during the Super Bowl? Nope, we’ve got the game.

Sunday morning church? Sorry, little Jimmy’s got baseball practice.

Bible study on Tuesday? Can’t, I’ve got fantasy football.

Evening devotions? I was gonna watch the news.

Prayer before bed? Too tired.

Prayer before the day starts? I overslept.

We say we want to be more like Jesus, but Jesus sacrificed everything. Everything. And we can’t even sacrifice caffeine or comfort or calendar space. But the call of Christ isn’t partial surrender. It’s a cross. It’s daily death to self so that others can experience the life and love of God through us.

And listen, I’m not here to beat you up. If you’re trying, if you’re choosing to love others when it’s hard, if you’re giving what little you have, if you’re praying when no one sees it, feeding the hungry, visiting the broken, welcoming the stranger, you’re doing it. Don’t let the enemy tell you otherwise.

Hebrews 13:2 reminds us, “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” Sometimes our little sacrifices are touching heaven in ways we’ll never see.

So yeah, hospitality hurts. It costs. But it’s worth it. Because every time you choose someone else over yourself, you reflect the heart of a Savior who chose a cross over comfort. And that’s the kind of hospitality that changes lives.

Start small. Invite someone over. Drop off a meal. Give up your place in line. Sit with someone lonely. Speak the truth in love, even when it’s unpopular. Be willing to lose something so that someone else gains hope.

Ahimelech gave bread and a sword and lost his life (1 Samuel 22:18). Jesus gave His life and gained a kingdom. What will you give?

Hospitality is sacrifice. It’s worship. And it’s not optional.

So next time you’re tempted to hold back, to play it safe, to keep your comfort… remember the Lamb who gave it all. And ask yourself this:

What am I willing to lay down so someone else can rise up?

Because at the end of the day, if it doesn’t cost you something, it might not be love. And if it does? Then maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to understand the Gospel.

Stay Salty

There was a season in my life where I did everything in my power to not end up in ministry. You ever white-knuckle your way through disobedience? That was me. I was Jonah with a GPS and a gas card, running hard in the opposite direction of Nineveh. Every time someone said, “You should be in ministry,” I’d smile, nod, and mentally yeet the idea straight into the sea like unwanted cargo… NOPE!  I didn’t want the weight. I didn’t want the responsibility. And, let’s be honest, I didn’t want the church drama.

But what I didn’t realize was that by rejecting God’s calling on my life, I wasn’t just saying no to a job title, I was saying no to healing. No to purpose. No to peace. No to my identity. And things stayed hard. My relationship with God felt distant. My marriage was strained. My kids got the leftovers of a man battling himself. All because I was trying to live a life that looked good on paper, instead of living the one God actually designed me for.

Then one day, someone saw through all of it. They didn’t flatter me. They didn’t coddle me. They didn’t hand me a mic and say, “You’re amazing.” No, they stood in biblical authority, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “You are called. Stop running. God is telling you it’s time crap or get off the pot. If you wont do what God has called you to do he will find someone else and its never good when God lifts his calling from your life. ”

And that… that was hospitality.

Not the kind that hands you sweet tea and a welcome packet. The kind that hands you a sword and says, “It’s time to fight for who you are.” The kind that says, “I’m not affirming who you think you are, I’m calling out who God says you are.”

This is the kind of hospitality we see explode to life in 1 Samuel 16. This chapter isn’t just about leadership transition or prophetic obedience, it’s about empowering someone to walk in their God-given identity. It’s about making room, not just at the table, but in the story. Real, biblical hospitality says: You belong here because God made a place for you.

God opens the chapter by asking Samuel a question that slices deep: “How long will you mourn for Saul, since I have rejected him as king over Israel?” (v. 1). Translation: Stop crying over what I’ve already moved on from.

God’s next instruction is hospitality in action: “Fill your horn with oil and be on your way; I am sending you to Jesse of Bethlehem. I have chosen one of his sons to be king.”

This isn’t just a leadership pivot. It’s God actively preparing a space for healing and redirection. Samuel is being invited to participate in the restoration of Israel by identifying and empowering the right man, David. Hospitality, in its truest form, always begins with God’s invitation and our willingness to respond.

Picture this: Samuel doesn’t exactly hop in an Uber chariot and rush to Bethlehem. He’s afraid. Saul is still king, still dangerous, and still unpredictable. Samuel says, “How can I go? If Saul hears about it, he will kill me.”

Ever notice how hospitality often asks us to risk something? Our comfort, our safety, our reputation? Samuel obeys, but it’s an obedience soaked in risk. That’s real hospitality, it doesn’t always feel safe, but it is holy.

Samuel shows up in Bethlehem, and the elders are shaking in their sandals: “Do you come in peace?” That’s code for, “Is the judgment of God about to drop here?”

Samuel reassures them. He creates space, consecrates Jesse and his sons, and invites them to sacrifice and worship. In doing so, he transforms a fearful environment into one that is ready to receive the move of God. Again: Hospitality is not about keeping people comfortable. It’s about preparing hearts for transformation.

Jesse brings in his older sons first. Tall, impressive, strong. Surely these are king material, right?

But God tells Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height… The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”

And here it is… the mic-drop moment. Every person Samuel sees gets passed over. Until they run out of sons. Or so it seems.

Samuel asks, “Are these all the sons you have?” And Jesse’s like, “Well… there’s the youngest. He’s out with the sheep.

That sentence wrecks me every time.

David wasn’t even considered worthy enough to be invited to the ceremony. His own father didn’t see his potential. That should tell you something:

Just because someone doesn’t see your worth doesn’t mean God doesn’t.

Samuel says, “We will not sit down until he arrives.” Boom. Biblical hospitality. Making space for the one the world left behind.

David walks in smelling like sheep, with dirt under his fingernails and divine destiny on his shoulders. God says, “Rise and anoint him; this is the one.”

And right there, in front of everyone who underestimated him, David is empowered.

That oil wasn’t just tradition. It was identity. It was purpose. It was God saying, “I’m calling you into something bigger than you ever imagined.”

This is hospitality at its deepest: Calling someone into their God-given purpose, even when they don’t look the part, feel ready, or meet anyone’s expectations.

Here’s the hard truth, you can’t grow into who God made you to be while fighting the identity He gave you.

You can chase dreams the world handed you, you can try to become someone that gets applause, but if it’s not rooted in His design, it will not produce life. It will drain you. It’ll hurt your relationships. It’ll leave you bitter.

That was my story. Every step I took away from my calling was a step toward chaos. But the moment I surrendered, when someone had the boldness to speak truth and not just “nice words”, everything changed. I stopped striving and started walking. I stopped pretending and started living. Now did that mean everything became perfect and easy? Far from it. a lesson that David will learn too but those are stories for later.

That is the heartbeat of biblical hospitality: Creating an environment where people can stop fighting and start healing. But that healing can only happen when we’re aligned with the identity God has placed on us.

After David’s anointing, the Spirit of the Lord came powerfully upon him. And while the text doesn’t detail the party afterward, we know biblical culture well enough to assume, there was a celebration.

Because when someone steps into their God-given identity, the community gets stronger.

When a father rises up into his calling, the family gets healthier.

When a mother walks in her purpose, the home becomes peaceful.

When a young man or woman stops running and starts serving, the church comes alive.

Hospitality is not just about inclusion. It’s about igniting the calling in someone else so that everyone can benefit from what God placed inside them.

Too often, modern hospitality gets confused with affirmation. “You’re valid. You’re amazing. Be your truest self.

But that’s not the hospitality of the Bible. God didn’t tell Samuel to affirm Eliab’s muscles. He didn’t say, “David, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

No, God looked at the heart and called out destiny. Biblical hospitality isn’t about affirming every identity, it’s about inviting people into the right one. The one God knit into them before they were born.

It’s not about making people feel comfortable in their dysfunction; it’s about calling them into alignment with God’s purpose so they can heal and flourish.

That’s what happened to me. That’s what happened to David. And that’s what can happen in our homes, churches, and communities when we stop playing nice and start walking in truth.

So maybe the next time we think about hospitality, we don’t picture throw pillows and casseroles. Maybe we stop imagining it as potlucks and polite smiles at the door. Maybe instead, we picture a trembling prophet with a flask of oil in his hand, standing in obedience. Maybe we see a forgotten shepherd boy smelling like sheep and rejection, being pulled from the sidelines and crowned with purpose. And maybe, just maybe, we see a God who refuses to let His children stay stuck in someone else’s shadow, shackled by expectations that never came from Him.

Hospitality isn’t soft.

It’s not fragile.

It’s not about appearances or making people “comfortable.”

Real hospitality is strong. It stands in the tension between who someone is and who God says they are, and it calls them forward.

It’s honest. It doesn’t flatter. It tells the truth, even when it costs. It says, “I see who God made you to be, and I’m going to walk with you until you believe it, too.”

It’s holy. Set apart. Sacrificial. It looks like making room at your table and in your heart. It looks like obedience when it’s awkward. It looks like anointing someone no one else even invited to the lineup.

Hospitality, done right, doesn’t just make people feel welcome.

It makes them feel known.

Chosen.

Sent.

And if we really understand that, if we get this right, it’ll change how we raise our kids.

It’ll change how we lead our churches.

It’ll change how we love the hurting, how we disciple the struggling, and how we steward the people God has trusted us with.

Hospitality isn’t about giving people what they want.

It’s about making room for who God created them to be.

And when we start offering that kind of hospitality?

We’re not just hosting people.

We’re hosting revival.

Stay Salty

Growing up, I wasn’t exactly the poster child for “peaceful and cooperative.” I didn’t come with a “handle with care” label, more like “approach with caution” and maybe wear flame-retardant gloves. I was loud, stubborn, and always convinced I knew better. And when I didn’t get my way? Let’s just say… it wasn’t subtle.

The truth is, I carried a lot of anger as a kid. I didn’t always know where to put it, so it showed up in all the wrong places. Add to that the fact that I wasn’t exactly a small fry, I hit 6’4″ and over 300 pounds faster than most folks hit a growth spurt. Imagine an oversized teenager with enough bottled-up frustration to light a small village on fire. Not exactly someone people lined up to correct.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

When you get big early, physically, emotionally, vocally, people stop trying to hold you accountable. Some are scared. Some just don’t want to deal with the fallout. Others try, but without any kind of real relationship, it feels more like an attack than a correction. And let’s be honest, if someone’s only ever showing up to “fix” you but never sit with you? That dog don’t hunt. Accountability without relationship just feels like rejection in a fancy robe.

I had folks over the years who tried to check me. Some with good intentions. Some who just didn’t like me much and were hoping I’d fall in line. But when I saw them dodge accountability, blow up, or act like they were above correction? I tuned them out. Because why would I listen to someone who couldn’t take their own medicine?

So I lived a good chunk of my life doing my own thing. And I’ve got the scars to prove it, some mine, some I caused in others. I hurt people. I burned bridges. Not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t know another way. I’d never seen accountability modeled in a way that looked like love.

Then, as God would have it, I started meeting men who were different. Men who weren’t scared of me. Men who didn’t puff up when I got loud or bail when I got ugly. They didn’t back down, but they also didn’t come swinging. They showed up with me, not against me. And they held the line, not out of pride, but out of love.

These men became some of my closest friends. Not because we always agreed, but because they loved me enough to tell me the truth and stay put after they did. That’s real hospitality, y’all. When someone makes space for your mess, doesn’t flinch when you blow it, and still expects you to rise to who God made you to be.

Have you ever been that person, too big, too loud, too intimidating for folks to even think about correcting you? Or maybe like me, you were too broken to admit you even needed it. Maybe people just let you run wild because, honestly, it was easier than dealing with the explosion that might come if they didn’t.

Or maybe you’ve been on the other end… the one who should have said something but didn’t. You saw the trainwreck coming. You knew they needed accountability, but instead you sat back, folded your arms, and said, “Nope. Not today. I’m not tryin’ to be collateral damage.”

And let’s be real: sometimes holding someone accountable feels like signing up to wrestle a bear, blindfolded, with a toothpick. You ask yourself, “Why even bother? What’s the point? I don’t want the drama, the blow-up, the awkward Sunday morning afterward.” Maybe the person that needs to be held accountable you view as someone that is in a position of authority over you.

But that, right there, is where hospitality shows up in its truest form. Not in the comfort. In the cost.

This is the kind of hospitality Samuel showed in 1 Samuel 12, the kind that invites truth, correction, and community into the same room and makes them sit down for dinner together.

Because hospitality isn’t just about food and smiles. Sometimes, it looks like a friend who loves you enough to say, “You’re wrong, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Let’s talk about something we often leave off the table when we talk about hospitality: accountability.

Now, I know that doesn’t exactly scream warm biscuits and sweet tea. You’re probably thinking, “Isn’t hospitality supposed to be about casseroles, comfort, and smiling at people we don’t really like during the potluck?” And sure, those things can be part of it (except maybe the fake smiling). But true, biblical hospitality? It runs way deeper than casseroles and place settings. It’s about creating space for truth, growth, repentance, and yes—even the kind of confrontation that makes you squirm a little.

And nowhere is this clearer than in 1 Samuel 12.

This chapter is like one of those family dinners where Grandpa Samuel pushes back his chair, clears his throat, and says, “Let’s talk.” No one moves. The room goes quiet. The kids stop chewing. And then, instead of yelling or lecturing, he just calmly asks, “Have I ever cheated you? Stolen from you? Abused my power?” You could hear a pin drop in ancient Israel.

Picture this: Samuel wasn’t looking for applause. He was making a point. He was saying, “If I’m going to call you out today, I need you to know I’m not doing it from a place of hypocrisy. I’ve walked the walk.”

That’s hospitality.

Not the kind where you offer someone a seat at your table just to impress them—but the kind where you live your life in such a way that people can trust your invitation to truth. Samuel built that kind of credibility. And because of that, he could tell the hard truths without losing the room.

Here’s the kicker: before Samuel ever holds the people accountable, he invites them to hold him accountable. That right there is the game-changer. He doesn’t start with, “Y’all messed up.” He starts with, “Have I messed up?”

Can we just sit in that for a minute?

Because if we’re going to talk about accountability as hospitality, it has to start in our own backyard. If you can’t handle being corrected, you’ve got no business trying to correct others. That’s not leadership. That’s just spiritual micromanaging in a Jesus costume.

But Samuel gets it. He models a kind of humble leadership that invites feedback, real feedback, not the “tell me what I want to hear” kind. That’s how you build a culture of hospitality. You don’t demand people open up; you show them it’s safe to do so. You make your life the open table first.

And if we’re honest, a lot of us are better at dishing out criticism than taking it. We want to “speak the truth in love,” but we start twitching if someone speaks it back to us.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Accountability doesn’t mean walking around with a spiritual yardstick, measuring everybody’s holiness. No one’s got time for a Church Hall Monitor. Accountability flows from relationship, and relationship takes time, trust, and the occasional awkward conversation over coffee where someone says, “Hey man, I love you, but…”

That’s the kind of hospitality we see Samuel practicing. He’s not just prophet-ing from a distance. He’s lived life with these people. He’s grieved their losses, celebrated their wins, and now, he’s got to call them out for the big one: asking for a king.

This is Israel’s “oops, we did it again” moment. They’ve basically ghosted God. After all He did, parting seas, dropping manna, kicking out giants, they decide they want a human king because, and I quote, “everyone else has one.” (Cue divine facepalm.)

Samuel doesn’t sugarcoat it. He says, “You rejected God. That’s what you did.” But he says it after he’s reminded them of all God’s faithfulness. He tells the truth, but he sandwiches it between stories of grace. That’s the recipe: one slice of accountability, two slices of love, toasted with history.

True Hospitality makes room for repentance. Samuel’s not trying to roast them for the sake of a dramatic mic drop. He’s trying to restore them. And that’s where the real hospitality kicks in.

He reminds them of the covenant, the relationship with God they’ve walked away from. He doesn’t cancel them. He invites them back. That’s what biblical hospitality does. It doesn’t just point out the wrong door you walked through, it holds it open for your return.

Repentance isn’t a shame-fest. It’s a grace-party with an RSVP that says, “Come as you are, but don’t plan to leave the same.”

And this is where some of us need a refresher. We love the idea of holding others accountable, but do we also make space for their repentance? Or are we just trying to win arguments and feel morally superior?

Samuel calls them out, but then he also commits to them. He says, “I’ll keep praying for you. I’ll keep teaching you. I’m not done with you.” That’s hospitality. That’s community. That’s what the Church is supposed to be, a bunch of people who speak the truth, fall flat sometimes, and still link arms afterward.

Now, because God’s got a flair for the dramatic (and the Israelites needed more than a talking-to), Samuel calls down a thunderstorm during the wheat harvest. That’s basically like turning off the Super Bowl mid-play to get everyone’s attention.

The people freak out. Rightfully so. And that moment becomes a holy wake-up call. It’s not about weather, it’s about wonder. God shows His power not to scare them off, but to stir them up. Sometimes, a little holy fear is part of good hospitality. A reminder that God isn’t just your friend—He’s also King of the Universe.

Hospitality means we live with that tension: welcoming people close while also keeping reverence high. God isn’t a vending machine. He’s a consuming fire. And yes, He loves you, but He’s also going to deal with your pride, rebellion, and self-worship. That’s real love. That’s real hospitality.

So where does that leave us?

Be the kind of person who leads with integrity, invites correction, speaks hard truths in love, and stays committed to the people you correct. Be the kind of friend who doesn’t just pat someone on the back and send them on their way, but walks them through repentance, grace, and growth.

And if someone holds you accountable? Don’t get defensive. Say thank you. Lean in. Hospitality isn’t just about what you give, it’s also about what you’re willing to receive.

The table of God isn’t full of perfect people with perfect manners. It’s full of people who are willing to confess, forgive, be challenged, and grow. Accountability isn’t the opposite of love, it’s love with backbone. Hospitality with a seatbelt.

So let’s set that kind of table, y’all. A table where we can eat together, laugh together, cry a little when needed, and call each other higher. Because that’s what family does.

Stay Salty

Let’s clear something up first: Hospitality isn’t about matching pillows or charming dinnerware. It’s not about a spotless home or perfect cooking. Hospitality, at its core, is about making room in your life, and in your community. For people who are messy, hurting, flawed, and sometimes shame-covered. It’s about extending the grace you received from God to someone else.

Alright, pull up a seat, grab a strong cup of coffee (you’re going to need it), and let’s cut straight through the fluff.

I’ve been sitting on this for a while, praying over it, thinking about it, wrestling with it — and honestly, I’m sick and tired of seeing the people of God grab their pitchforks faster than a riot mob in a monster movie. Guys, we’re acting more like villagers in a midnight march than the body of Christ.

So here we are: Michael Tait, lead singer for Newsboys, former DC Talk, Christian superstar drops a confession that made everyone’s jaw collectively drop. He admits to years of drug abuse, alcohol abuse, and touching people in sexually inappropriate ways.

He owns it.

He calls it what it is….. sin….. without making excuses.

He asks for forgiveness.

He steps away from the band and into treatment.

He finds peace in God’s mercy and starts a path toward healing.

And we, the people who were supposed to be the first to show him grace, love, hospitality, and understanding, we abandon him. We cut him off. We scrub his songs from radio. We pretend we never supported him. Everyone runs faster than a sprinter spotting a snake.

Instead of seeing a soul in crisis and a man in need of help, we chose cowardice over compassion.

So let me say it plainly: this is a shame on us, not on him.

When we withdraw from people in their greatest need, we’re not just cutting them off, we’re closing the door on the very opportunity God put in our path to show His love. We’re ignoring the biblical call to “welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you” (Romans 15:7).

How did He welcome us?

He opened His home to us while we were His enemies (Romans 5:10).

He prepared a table for us in the presence of our enemies (Psalm 23:5).

He made a place for us at His marriage supper (Revelation 19:9).

It’s wild, honestly, how much Michael Tait’s song “What If I Stumble?” resonates now. years after it first challenged us to consider this very moment.

He sang:

“What if I stumble, what if I fall?

What if I lose my step and I make fools of us all?

Will the love continue when my walk becomes a crawl?”

He wasn’t just a Christian celebrity writing a clever chorus, he was a flawed human wrestling with the knowledge that we all are a step away from falling. Today, we have the answer. How will we respond when a brother falls? Will we withdraw love and cut him off? Or will we pursue him, restore him, and reflect the grace we ourselves have received?

Picture it: A woman is thrown at the feet of Jesus, condemned by a crowd ready to execute her. He simply says, “He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone” (John 8:7). Every last person drops their stone and walks away. We love this story when we are the woman, when we need mercy, but we become pharisees the moment we find someone else’s sin.

Suddenly we grab the nearest stone, ignoring the huge beam in our own eye.

Think about this for a moment, Judas and Peter both fell.

Judas betrayed; Peter denied.

Judas chose shame and death; Peter chose confession, renewal, and eventual service.

The difference wasn’t the sin….. it was their response.

Judas walked away; Peter fell forward into the grace of God.

This is a powerful picture for us. How we respond to a fallen brother matters just as much as the fall itself.  Are we extending hospitality, a place to heal and be restored, or slamming the door?

How Did Michael Tait Handle It? He Fell Forward Into Grace

Michael Tait made a messy confession.

He fell.

He fell hard.

He crossed lines.

He lived a double life.

He admits it all….. without excuses, what to be frank is better than most of do every day.

He chose to come forward, own it, and pursue healing.

He stepped away from the Newsboys to get help.

He went into treatment.

He addressed his sin honestly.

This isn’t a man doubling down in deception, this is a man choosing the hard path of confession and renewal. This is a man falling forward into the grace of God.

So How Did We Handle It? (Spoiler: We Failed Miserably) Instead of extending biblical hospitality, instead of making room for Michael in the community, we closed the doors in his face. Radio stations scrubbed his songs. His band made a dramatic post, not about reconciliation, but about their shock and their break-up with him. The Christian community treated Michael Tait less like a fallen brother and more like a contagious disease. Instead of addressing this messy reality with compassion, we chose cowardice. Instead of extending a hand, we turned our back.

Don’t get me wrong,  there are consequences to sin. Some people say, “Grace means ignoring sin.” Not true. Hospitality through grace does not pretend sin isn’t real; They confront it honestly, discipline appropriately, and then pursue restoration. Michael Tait made the hard but necessary move to step away from ministry. He went into treatment, got help, and addressed his sin at its root. This was discipline, loving discipline, not rejection.

This is the biblical way: Acknowledge the sin honestly (confession). Provide loving discipline, a temporary removal from certain responsibilities, for the purpose of healing. Provide a path back into community, not permanent banishment. This reflects God’s own character. He disciplines us because He loves us (Hebrews 12:6). He always provides a way back, through confession, renewal, and reconciliation.

Some of you at this point are probably twisted up and yelling at your screen “BUT WHAT ABOUT THE PEOPLE HE ABUSED!” “HOW CAN YOU DEFEND HIM YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!” and the rest already know this, but I was sexually assaulted as a child. So when I first heard the accusations and then Michael Tait’s confession, the touching without consent… it struck me in a raw place. Your first thought now might be: “How can you show compassion toward someone who crossed a boundary like that?”

Here’s how: Because I know sin destroys everyone it touches, the victim, the perpetrator, and the community. Because without the grace of God, none of us are different. Your struggles might not be the same, you might not have crossed physical boundaries, but your soul is just as flawed without the intervention of a loving Savior.

Instead of a culture of shame and rejection, we need a culture of gracious hospitality.

Picture this: Your children, 20 years from now, find themselves in a messy spot, having crossed a boundary, made a huge mistake. How will you want the people of God to treat them? Your answer should shape how you treat Michael Tait and everyone else who falls.

Your response will shape your future too. How we respond when a brother falls says a lot more about us than it does about him. Are we a people who remember we were “dead in our trespasses and made alive by God’s rich mercy”? (Ephesians 2:1-5) Or are we a people who will cut him off and pretend we are pure? Your future, your ability to reflect the character of God, hangs on this.

Because the measure you use will be measured back to you (Luke 6:38).

Picture this now: Your children, your congregation, your community, years from now, will remember how you responded when someone fell. Did you pursue, restore, and love?

Or did you withdraw, destroy, and shame? Not only does your legacy hangs in the balance, but someone’s eternity may as well.

The gospel is messy. It’s unfair in the best way, we get what we do not deserve. The grace of God covers us when we are the most unworthy. So we shouldn’t be surprised when extending this kind of grace looks messy, unconventional, and scandalous, to the world and even to much of the church. But that’s the gospel. That’s hospitality. That’s the God we serve.

Conclusion: Let’s Be The Church We Say We Are

Instead of casting Michael Tait into the wilderness, let’s pursue him.

Instead of ignoring his confession, let’s celebrate it.

Instead of tearing him down, let’s lift him up.

Because that’s what the gospel calls us to do.

So to Michael, if you somehow read this, I want you to know: Your confession was brave. Your path toward healing is messy but worth it. Your future is not defined by your worst choices; it’s defined by God’s ability to redeem. Your greatest testimony might come from this, from falling and getting back up by His grace.

To the church, let’s be who we say we are. Let’s be a hospital for sinners, not a hospice for saints. Let’s pursue, restore, and love, just as we have been pursued, restored, and loved by the Lord.

Stay Salty

We were hanging out with some friends the other week, and the grown-ups had sunk into one of those conversations, the deep-in-the-weeds, slightly-too-serious kind about church politics. You know the type: furrowed brows, long sighs, and someone eventually drops the classic, “I just don’t know anymore.”

Right in the middle of that emotional crescendo, my son, who’d been orbiting the edge of the group with busy hands and an even busier imagination, jumped in like he was born for the moment.

He blurted out, “You know, I don’t know why they just don’t build the church one of the big TV walls so we could play Minecraft on it for Youth Group!”

…Silence.

I was halfway into the classic dad reflex, you know, the tight smile, the “not now, buddy,” and the gentle redirection toward anywhere but here, when Hannah gave me the look.

Not the “handle your child” look, but the “this is how he learns” look.

And just like that, she preached a better sermon than I had all month.

He didn’t know he had just swan-dived into a conversation about leadership burnout and budget cuts. He just wanted in. To be part of the world he saw us taking so seriously. To try on the grown-up voice for size, even if the fit was awkward.

It hit me later, adult conversations are like riding a bike with no training wheels. And kids? They need space to wobble. To interrupt. To completely miss the point sometimes. Because that’s how they figure it out.

So now, when he jumps in with something completely unrelated or wildly off-base, I try to take a beat. To listen. To affirm. Because I don’t just want to raise someone who knows when to speak, I want to raise someone who knows he’s worth hearing when he does.

And hey, who knows? Some game time at church might just solve more problems than we think.

Picture this: We were driving to church this morning, my wife, kids, and me, coffee in hand and shoes barely tied. My son took over the car stereo, and the vibe started to settle in. You know that moment when the pre-church fog starts to lift, and you’re trying to shift from “where’s your other shoe?” to “let’s get our hearts right before Jesus”?

Then it happened.

Jelly Roll’s new song with Alex Warren, “Bloodline,” came on. The beat dropped, the lyrics spilled out raw and honest, and then the Spirit did what the Spirit does, hit me like a freight train wrapped in grace. Right in the middle of this gravel-voiced, tattoo-covered, country-rap anthem, God whispered something that got louder and louder until it echoed in my bones:

“He’s just a baby.”

Now hold on, before your theology sirens start going off, hear me out.

We live in a fast-food faith culture. Everything is instant: sermons, study guides, even salvation plans. We want souls saved, sanctified, and streaming sermons within a week. But when a new believer shows up, still reeking of the world they came from, we squint and start looking for the ‘off’ switch. Too raw. Too rough. Too real.

But here’s the thing: babies don’t come out of the womb quoting Romans. They cry. They stumble. They make messes. And we don’t scream at actual babies when they mess up, we laugh, we clap when they try, and we clean them up without shame. Why don’t we do that for spiritual babies?

When Jelly Roll talks about Jesus or sings about  generational curses or with the desperation of someone clawing for freedom, and Christians start dissecting his theology like it’s their senior thesis, I can’t help but hear that cry again:

“He’s just a baby!”

Look at Jelly Roll. The man’s story is full of addiction, pain, prison, and searching. He wears his scars like ink on his skin. When he talks about grace, it’s not theory, it’s oxygen. The Church should be rallying around him, helping him walk this thing out, not watching with arms folded, waiting for him to say the wrong thing so they can tweet a takedown.

Same with Kat Von D. She spent years immersed in witchcraft, fame, and self-reinvention. She’s newly baptized, posting pictures of her Bible, stepping away from her old life. And instead of rejoicing, many Christians sit back like fruit inspectors judging her authenticity.

And Joe Rogan? No, he hasn’t had a public altar call moment. But the man is searching, going to church on a weekly basis. He asks better questions than many lifelong believers do. He wrestles out loud, which is more honest than most.

We’ve confused arrival with conversion. And that’s not how this works.

When Jesus called the Twelve, they weren’t rabbis. They weren’t spiritual elites. They were fishermen, tax collectors, political radicals. The only thing they had in common was that they said yes.

They didn’t understand parables. They argued over who was the greatest. One betrayed Him, one denied Him, most abandoned Him. But Jesus never said, “You’re too immature. Come back when you’ve read Isaiah cover to cover.”

Instead, He invited them to follow Him. To eat with Him. To learn from Him.

Look at Mark 4:33-34 (NIV): With many similar parables Jesus spoke the word to them, as much as they could understand. He did not say anything to them without using a parable. But when he was alone with his own disciples, he explained everything.

Jesus knew their capacity. He didn’t overwhelm them. He walked with them. Explained things. Gave them room to grow.

In Matthew 5:13, Jesus calls us the salt of the earth. Salt is a preservative. It’s healing. It’s flavor. But it only works when applied with intention.

Hospitality is the ministry of making room, room for healing, for GROWTH, for questions, for failure. It says, “Come in. You don’t have to have it all figured out. There’s a seat at the table anyway.”

And yet, so often, our churches are more like country clubs than emergency rooms. We want clean people, not broken ones. We want testimonies without the mess. We want polished packages, not process.

But process is where discipleship happens.

Paul’s tone in 1 Corinthians 3:1-2 (NIV) is one of both frustration and grace:

Brothers and sisters, I could not address you as people who live by the Spirit but as people who are still worldly, mere infants in Christ. I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not yet ready for it.

Milk isn’t shameful. It’s necessary. It means you’re alive. It means you’re growing.

We expect people to digest deep doctrine when they’re still figuring out that Genesis isn’t just a band.

God doesn’t judge the eloquence of our words, He weighs the intent of our hearts. Think of the criminal on the cross beside Jesus. No seminary degree. No baptism. Just this: “Remember me.”

And Jesus responded with, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

Our faith begins with the heart. Romans 10:9-10 lays it out plainly:

If you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.

There’s no footnote that says “after six months of behavior modification and a small group study.”

I’ve got three kids. And kids say the most ridiculous things.

One time my son tried to explain the resurrection with the game Fortnight, and I swear I saw a heresy form in real time. But did I yell? Did I correct him harshly? No. I laughed. I was proud he was thinking about God.

That’s what God does with us.

When we say dumb things in prayer, when we stumble in our walk, when we sin and come crawling back for the hundredth time, He doesn’t turn away.

He leans in. He says, “You’re still mine. Keep walking.”

What the Church Should Do?

Celebrate the spark. When someone starts to believe, even awkwardly, we rejoice.

Correct with compassion. Discipleship means lovingly pointing people toward truth, not shaming them.

Share your own baby stories. Be vulnerable. Talk about when you didn’t know any better.

Stop being fruit inspectors. Only God gets to judge the harvest. We’re called to water and wait.

Jelly Roll might not say it right. Kat might still have tattoos and a past. Joe might cuss his way into a question about Christ. But God is at work.

Let them GROW.

Stop expecting full-grown trees when the seed just got planted. Don’t dig it up to see if it’s growing. Water it. Love it. Stay close.

If we could see the way Heaven rejoices over one soul getting curious about Jesus, we’d spend less time criticizing and more time celebrating.

**So the next time you hear a new believer say something theologically off, maybe don’t pounce. Maybe pause. Smile. And remember:

He’s just a baby.**

Stay Salty

There was a church just off the highway, tucked in a decent-sized strip mall between a gym and a Dollar Tree. Big enough to have a decent budget, clean signage, and a coffee bar that proudly served “locally roasted, mission-minded beans.” From the outside, it looked alive, modern, welcoming, “relevant.”

But something was missing.

It didn’t start that way. When they first opened their doors, it was raw and beautiful. Folding chairs, rough sound, awkward altar calls, but God was in it. People were getting saved. Chains were breaking. You could feel the weight of the Spirit when you walked in, like the whole room had been soaked in prayer and praise.

Then came the rebrand.

It started with a well-meaning vision meeting where the leadership decided they needed to “be more accessible” and “better connect with their community.” Out went the name that referenced Jesus or anything remotely churchy. In came a sleek new name that sounded more like a tech startup or a juice bar than a house of prayer. Something short and trendy, maybe one word, maybe a misspelled one.

The website got a facelift. The sanctuary got a makeover. The sermons got shorter, the music louder, and the vibe cooler.

And it worked, on paper. The parking lot stayed full. The kids’ ministry boomed. Instagram engagement was through the roof. They added more services to accommodate the crowds. But what they gained in polish, they lost in power.

Because while the numbers stayed up, the Spirit quietly walked out.

Worship shifted first. The songs started sounding more like therapy than theology, more me than He. “I am strong. I am chosen. I am enough.” And while there’s truth in those words, it started to feel like God was just a backdrop in our self-love soundtrack. No awe. No glory. Just good vibes and catchy bridges.

The sermons followed. The pastor… once fiery, humble, and soaked in the Word, started sounding more like a motivational speaker with a Bible verse tacked on the end. Turns out, he’d started buying sermon series online. Full sets. Scripts, graphics, discussion questions. All prepackaged and polished.

He stopped studying. Stopped praying through messages. Stopped wrestling with the Word.

And the church felt the effects.

People still clapped. Still took notes. Still posted quotes on social media. But lives weren’t being transformed. Deliverance stopped happening. The altar stayed empty. Baptisms slowed to a trickle.

They kept putting on the show. But it had become just that… a show.

Prayer nights disappeared. Fasting became a footnote. The staff got too busy producing content to actually seek God. Meetings replaced ministry. Marketing replaced intercession. And somewhere in the middle of the fog machines and sermon series branding kits, the presence of God, the thing that once made that little strip mall holy ground, was gone.

But nobody said anything. Because the crowd was still there.

The danger with a full room is thinking it means God is impressed.

Week after week, they filled the seats, filled the schedule, filled the inbox with event reminders. But they weren’t filling heaven. They weren’t making hell nervous. They were just… busy.

Effective? Not at all. Entertaining? Maybe.

Eventually, folks stopped coming to Jesus and just came for the vibe. It became more about feeling good than being made new. They talked about self-improvement, not self-denial. The sermons didn’t confront sin, they comforted it. They didn’t equip people to fight spiritual battles, they handed out participation trophies and playlists.

And when the Spirit left, no one sounded the alarm they didn’t even realize it happened. Because they’d built a system that could run without Him. The lights still came on. The band still played. The pastor still preached. And nobody noticed the glory was gone because they’d trained themselves to function just fine without it.

I wish I could say this story was unique. I wish this was some isolated, cautionary tale from a single church that lost its way.

But honestly? This is the story of the Church in America.

We’ve become experts at hosting services but not the Spirit. We can produce experiences, but can’t provoke transformation. We can sell out conferences, but can’t call down revival.

We’ve rebranded ourselves out of reverence. We’ve exchanged the altar for the algorithm. And we’ve confused emotional moments with holy ones.

We know how to grow a crowd. But we’ve forgotten how to build a dwelling place for God.

And until we stop chasing relevance and start returning to reverence. Until we make it purposeful instead of program, until we fall on our faces and invite the Spirit back in, we’ll keep running churches that look alive…

…but aren’t.

Now, let’s talk about hospitality—not the Pinterest version with fancy charcuterie boards and color-coordinated napkins. I’m talking about real hospitality. The kind that starts in the gut and moves through the heart. The kind that doesn’t care if the baseboards are dusty or the biscuits are burned, because it’s too focused on who’s being welcomed. And I’m not just talking about guests in your home. I’m talking about how we welcome God Himself, into our lives, our churches, our routines.

Here’s the problem: we’ve gotten way too good at faking it.

We’ve learned how to look hospitable. We know how to do the handshake at the door, pour the coffee, smile at the visitors. We know how to play the role. But sometimes, maybe more often than we’d like to admit, it’s just motion without meaning. It’s the dance without the music. We serve, but our hearts aren’t in it. We “host” God on Sundays like He’s a distant relative we feel obligated to invite over. We forget He’s the King, not a guest we can tuck in a corner.

Let’s rewind and take a good look at 1 Samuel 7. This chapter smacks us with what real hospitality toward God looks like. Not ritual. Not routine. Repentance. Reverence. Relationship.

Picture this; The Ark of the Covenant had been captured, then returned by the Philistines; after they realized hosting God’s presence without honor is a good way to end up with plagues and panic. So Israel gets the Ark back and sticks it in the house of a guy named Abinadab in Kiriath Jearim. And there it stays… for twenty years.

Now here’s the thing: the Ark didn’t just sit on a shelf like a dusty trophy. Abinadab’s son Eleazar was consecrated, set apart, for the job of caring for it. That family didn’t just say, “Cool, toss the Ark in the garage.” They prepared. They made space. They appointed someone to be responsible. Why? Because they understood that hosting the presence of God isn’t casual. It’s not a job you wing. It’s sacred.

And I wonder… how many of us have thrown God in the garage?

How many of us have shoved Him into a Sunday morning box and called it good? How often do we show up, sing a few songs, listen to a message, and then go home like we just checked a spiritual box on our to-do list? We act like it’s enough to just “include” Him. But hospitality, real hospitality, requires intention. Preparation. A whole shift in posture.

Samuel, the prophet, sees what’s going on with Israel. They’ve got the Ark back, sure. But they’re still tangled up with idols, Baal, Ashtoreth, all the other distractions of the culture around them. Samuel doesn’t play games. He tells them straight: “If you are returning to the Lord with all your hearts, then get rid of the foreign gods.”

In other words: if you’re gonna invite God in, clean the house first.

Hospitality isn’t just about what you do; it’s about what you remove. You can’t make room for the holy while clinging to what’s unholy. That clutter, the bitterness, the apathy, the idols we polish in secret, that stuff’s got to go if we want God to take center stage. Samuel calls the people to gather at Mizpah for a full-on, no-holds-barred act of repentance.

And this is where things get real.

They fast. They confess. They cry out. This is not some polished church program. This is raw. Messy. Holy. They’re pouring their hearts out before God… and right in the middle of that sacred moment, the Philistines decide it’s the perfect time to attack.

Ain’t that just like the enemy?

You start getting serious about God, start cleaning house, laying it all down, and suddenly everything comes at you. But instead of panicking, Samuel does something wild: he sacrifices a lamb and prays.

He doesn’t fight. He doesn’t flee. He hosts.

And in that moment, God answers with thunder. Literal thunder. So loud and terrifying that the Philistines scatter like cockroaches. God fights for His people, not because they were perfect, but because they were present. Because they’d made room. Because they’d invited Him in for real.

Now catch this: after the victory, Samuel doesn’t just say, “Cool, that was awesome,” and move on. He sets up a stone. A big one. Calls it Ebenezer, which means “stone of help.” He plants that thing right in the middle of the path as a permanent reminder: God showed up here.

We need more Ebenezers in our lives.

Not literal rocks necessarily (though hey, if you want to keep a boulder in your front yard with “God Helped Me” carved into it, I’m all for it). But we need markers, reminders of where and how God has met us. Answered prayers. Healed relationships. Provided when we didn’t have enough. We forget too easily. We treat miracles like memories instead of milestones. Hospitality remembers. It reflects. It stays grateful.

So, what does this mean for us today?

It means stop going through the motions.

It means we need to look at our lives, our homes, our churches, and ask: Are we really hosting God, or just nodding politely as He passes by?

Every act of hospitality, whether it’s welcoming a neighbor or showing up to serve, needs to be fueled by love, not obligation. Every time we set the table, whether it’s for family dinner or communion at church, it should be done with intentionality and awe. Not because we’re trying to earn anything, but because we recognize who we’re inviting in.

Let’s be people who don’t just go to church, let’s be the church.

Let’s be a house where God is welcomed with joy and reverence. Let’s create spaces where He’s not squeezed into the margins but given the whole room. Let’s clear out the clutter and make room for the sacred. Not just on Sundays. Not just when it’s convenient. Every day.

So the next time you feel yourself slipping into routine, whether in life, ministry, or your walk with God……. pause. Remember Mizpah. Remember Ebenezer. And ask yourself:

Am I just setting the table… or am I inviting Him in?

Stay Salty

There was a couple from a local church, God-loving folks, full of heart, big family, the whole nine yards. They had a house already bursting at the seams with kids, noise, and barely enough peace to finish a sentence before someone spilled something or started crying over a stolen toaster waffle.

One day, a teenage girl from the youth group needed a place to stay. She was sweet, but life had roughed her up. She didn’t just need a bed, she needed healing, guidance, support, and probably a counselor or three. The couple, doing what they thought was right, welcomed her into their home. They believed love would be enough.

At first, things seemed fine. She helped around the house, went to church, seemed grateful. But over time, cracks started to form. She began spending more and more time talking with the husband, one-on-one, and not including the wife. Not necessarily scandalous, but enough to start whispers, enough to cause distance in the marriage. The wife noticed, tension grew, and eventually the peace in that home unraveled. The girl moved out, but the damage was done. The marriage continued to wear down over time until it finally broke. And though there were many reasons for the collapse, the wife always pointed to that season, the decision to take that girl in, as the beginning of the end.

Another family from a different church saw a struggling family in their community and decided to help. They jumped in with food, money, rides, the whole package. Their hearts were in the right place, but their preparation wasn’t. They didn’t pray first. Didn’t ask God if they were the right ones to step in. And before long, the family they tried to help ended up draining their finances, sowing tension in their marriage, and pushing them to the edge. They weren’t ready for the spiritual, emotional, and financial weight of what they were trying to carry.

These remind me of a story; there’s this old story about a farmer. The town had been in a drought for months, everything dry as dust. While most folks sat around waiting for rain, this old guy was out in his field, plowing like the harvest was coming tomorrow. People thought he was nuts, why waste the energy? But he said, “If I wait for the rain to start getting ready, I won’t be able to do it in time. Better to work the land now so I’m ready when the rain comes.”

He wasn’t crazy. He was wise.

You see, all those families had good intentions. They genuinely wanted to help. But they weren’t equipped they weren’t ready to help. They stepped into a deep calling without armor, without backup, and without checking in with the One who sends the rain in the first place. And when things got heavy, they didn’t ask for help, they just tried to muscle through. And that never ends well.

That’s why it matters that we prepare. That we study, train, pray, and do it with purpose. Because hospitality isn’t just about making someone feel welcome. It’s about carrying them when they’re tired, guiding them when they’re lost, and protecting your house while you do it.

If you try to serve a full-course meal with an empty pantry and no recipe, don’t be surprised when things fall apart.

So plow your fields now. In the dry season. When no one’s looking. Get ready before the need shows up at your door, because when it does, you won’t have time to scramble. You’ll need to be ready to serve, love, and lead well.

Hospitality is holy ground. Treat it like it.

Let’s be honest, most of us have hosted like the overzealous Pinterest mom on espresso shots. We see a need, feel a tug in our spirit, and next thing you know we’re biting off more than we can spiritually, emotionally, or financially chew. All in the name of “being hospitable.”

But hospitality, real hospitality, ain’t about jumping in headfirst without checking if the pool’s got water. That’s not brave, that’s a concussion waiting to happen. And when it comes to the things of God, jumping in without Him? That’s how you end up in a mess, with your spiritual casserole burning and the guests wondering what they just walked into.

Picture this; The Ark of the Covenant had been crashing on the Philistines’ couch for a little too long, and let’s just say… it wasn’t exactly the kind of houseguest you gently nudge out with hints and passive-aggressive coasters. This was God’s presence, and it came with power, and plagues. Lots of them.

The Philistines, after breaking out in tumors and divine regret, decide, “You know what? Maybe we weren’t ready to host the living God.” Ya think?

So, in an oddly charming act of divine Doordash, they load up the Ark on a cart, pair it with a guilt offering of golden tumors and rats (because nothing says “our bad” like gold-plated vermin), and send it back to Israel with two untrained cows as chauffeurs.

Even these idol-worshipping Philistines had the sense to say, “We’re out of our league here.” That’s not weakness, it’s wisdom. They showed more reverence by admitting their limits than some churches do trying to fake strength.

Now picture this: two mama cows, freshly separated from their calves (mooing their little hearts out), are set loose with the Ark. Everyone’s watching, thinking, “There’s no way they make it to Israel.”

But lo and behold, they trot straight down the road to Beth Shemesh like Uber drivers on a holy mission. No GPS. No map. Just divine guidance,  

“We’re on a mission from God” – Elwood Blues.

Here’s the point: even cows had enough sense to obey God without needing a committee meeting or a twelve-week discernment class. Maybe, just maybe, if we let go of our instincts and lean into the Spirit, we could follow the path too.

The folks in Beth Shemesh? Elated. God’s presence is back! Time to celebrate! They throw the first BBQ sacrifice party using the cart and cows, 10/10 on enthusiasm.

But then someone says, “Hey, let’s take a little peek inside the Ark. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Spoiler alert: mass casualties.

It’s like throwing a welcome home party for your boss and then lighting his desk on fire for laughs. Hospitality without reverence isn’t just tacky, it’s dangerous. God’s holiness isn’t something to be trifled with, and treating sacred things like party favors never ends well.

Knowing When to Say, “This Is Above My Pay Grade”

The people of Beth Shemesh, having just learned that lesson the hard way, basically wave the white flag and call up the guys in Kiriath Jearim to come take the Ark off their hands. Was it embarrassing? Sure. But it was also the smartest thing they could’ve done.

They weren’t equipped. And rather than fake it and keep causing damage, they humbled themselves and asked for help. That’s hospitality with wisdom. That’s ministry with maturity. That’s faith with discernment.

See, all of this wildness teaches us a key truth: we don’t just wake up ready to host the presence of God or care for His people.

That’s why we train.

That’s why we study.

That’s why we practice.

That’s why we pray with purpose.

Because hospitality, whether it’s toward man or God, requires preparation. Not perfection, but preparation. So that when the moment comes, when the Ark is heading your way, when someone in need knocks on your door, when God whispers “now”, you’re not scrambling to fake it, you’re standing ready to offer real rest, healing, and honor.

It’s not just for Sunday morning greeters or potluck coordinators. This applies to every part of life. Parenting. Leading. Pastoring. Serving. Living. True hospitality isn’t performance… it’s practiced obedience wrapped in humility.

So What’s the Takeaway, Chef?

Here’s the spiritual mise en place:

Don’t invite guests, especially the Holy One, into a space you haven’t prepared.

Don’t say yes to things God never asked you to do just because you want to help.

Don’t go solo. Hospitality is a team sport, and the Holy Spirit is the MVP.

Train. Study. Practice. Pray. On purpose. With purpose.

Know when to cook the meal and know when to pass the apron.

We are called to be people of welcome, healing, rest, and growth. But you can’t offer those things if your spiritual kitchens on fire, your soul’s running on fumes, and you’re trying to serve filet mignon when all you’ve got is instant noodles and pride.

True hospitality requires God’s guidance, Spirit-led limits, and the humility to say, “I need help.”

And that’s not a sign you’ve failed.

That’s the moment you’ve finally started to get it right.

Stay Salty

I’ll never forget the Sunday morning that felt less like worship and more like WrestleMania.

Now before I start swinging the storytelling chair over my shoulder like some rogue character out of a tag-team match, let me set the scene. The sanctuary was full, the coffee in the foyer was flowing, the band had just wrapped up the final note of the latest anthem, and we were primed and ready for a good word. You could feel it in the air…….. something was coming.

And then… the lights dimmed.

A fog machine hissed to life.

And cue the John Cena theme music. “YOU CANT SEE ME….!”

Out from the back, flanked by deacons-turned-bodyguards, walked the lead pastor. A booming announcer voice came through the speakers, rattling off stats like it was fight night in Vegas. “And now, the man whose church gave more to missions than any other in the state… the heavyweight champion of the giving world… Pastorrrrrrr So-And-Sooooo!”

People stood up clapping like revival had broken out, but revival wasn’t what had just entered the ring. It was a man. A man with a WWE-style championship belt slung over his shoulder, as if he’d suplexed Satan and pinned poverty in a cage match.

And the room went wild.

There I sat, stunned. I wasn’t mad…I was heartbroken, ok maybe a little mad. Because I realized something right there in that sanctuary: we meant well, but we built a stage for the wrong person. We gave the belt to Dagon. We crowned the man instead of magnifying the God who made the giving possible in the first place.

Now don’t hear what I’m not saying. I’m not anti-honor. I believe in giving credit where credit’s due. Scripture says to honor those who labor among us, but not to worship them. Not to throw fog and lights and fanfare around a man while Jesus waits for someone to remember He’s in the room.

It was meant to be a moment of celebration. But to me, it looked more like idolatry with a sound system.

What made it worse was the unspoken message that got passed along with the belt: that the leader was the one who made it all happen. That the generosity of the people and the faithfulness of God somehow became his victory. That’s a dangerous slope, especially in churches where personality-driven platforms already teeter on the edge of self-glorification.

In our attempt to honor a man, we failed to honor the God who stirred hearts to give. We made a show for the crowd instead of making a space for reverence. And we told the next generation watching from the pews that greatness in the Kingdom looks like applause and accessories, not humility and obedience.

That day stuck with me. Not because I was offended, but because I was reminded how easy it is to let something good get twisted. How easy it is to take something that started in generosity and turn it into a moment that glorifies the wrong name.

It’s not that God minds celebration, He created joy. But He doesn’t share His throne. And He certainly doesn’t take kindly to being placed beside our idols, even the well-dressed ones with ministry résumés and Instagram bios.

So here’s my question: who are we building the stage for? Who are we handing the belt to?

Because at the end of the day, if the fog is thicker than our reverence, and the applause louder than our worship, we might need to ask ourselves if we’re still hosting the King, or just entertaining the crowd.

Let’s talk about hospitality, real, biblical hospitality. The kind that makes room at the table not just for the ones wearing nice shoes and quoting C.S. Lewis, but for the broken, the awkward, the loud, the different. The kind of hospitality that doesn’t just feed bellies, but sees souls. But here’s the kicker: while we’re out here trying to be good hosts, making casseroles for the new neighbor or giving our best smile to the Sunday morning greeter, how often are we showing actual respectful hospitality to the One who made the table in the first place?

And maybe more uncomfortable to ask: Are we giving VIP treatment to people or programs that don’t belong in God’s seat?

In 1 Samuel 5, there’s this wild story that doesn’t feel like your usual hospitality message. No foot washing, no lamb stew, no tent flaps being thrown open. Instead, it’s God, specifically the Ark of the Covenant, being taken into enemy territory by the Philistines. And boy, did they mess this one up.

They didn’t recognize what, or rather, Who, they had in their midst.

Instead of treating the Ark with reverence, they plopped it down in the temple of their fish-god Dagon like a souvenir from war. I can just hear them saying, “Look at this! We beat Israel and took their magic box!” But God doesn’t do “mascot duty.” The next morning, ol’ Dagon is facedown, worshiping the Ark involuntarily. They set him back up, because apparently a god that needs help standing is still worth their trust, but the next day, Dagon’s head and hands are snapped clean off. You can almost hear God saying, “You really gonna put Me next to this thing?”

That’s when the plagues start. Tumors. Panic. Chaos. The Philistines start passing the Ark around like a hot potato. Ashdod, Gath, Ekron, each city suffering worse than the last. Why? Because they tried to host God like He was a houseguest, not the Holy One.

They had the presence of the living God in their possession, but no humility. No honor. No understanding. And let’s be honest: don’t we sometimes do the same?

The Philistines didn’t show God the hospitality He deserved because they didn’t recognize Him. And that’s where the rubber meets the road for us. We like to think we’d never treat God like that. We say, “Well, if I had the Ark in my living room, I’d throw a party and worship for days!”

But let’s talk real-life Arks for a second:

Do we rush through worship to get to the announcements?

Do we place our trust in church programs, celebrity pastors, or how many views our livestream got, while leaving God in the side room?

Do we exalt the powerful, the wealthy, the influencers, while stepping over the person sitting alone in the pew?

James 2:1-4 calls us out on this: “My brothers, show no partiality as you hold the faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory…” It goes on to rebuke giving the best seat to the rich while dishonoring the poor.

Matthew 25:40 echoes it when Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”

And of course, Matthew 19:30 drops the mic with: “But many who are first will be last, and the last will be first.”

God sees our hospitality, or lack thereof, not just in how we treat Him, but in how we treat His people.

No, we don’t have statues of Dagon in our sanctuaries (at least I hope not), but let’s be honest—we’ve still got idols. Jobs, status, social media clout, even church buildings and service structures. I’ve seen some churches treat their order of service like the Ark of the Covenant better get in line or else.

We invite God into our services, sure. But do we give Him control? Or is He just sitting quietly next to our other priorities?

Let’s be clear: God will not compete for space. He’s not sharing a pedestal with anything. And when we try to force it, just like the Philistines, we might find our own Dagon toppling, and fast.

So, What Does Real Hospitality Look Like?

Real hospitality isn’t about fine china or clean floors. It’s about recognition, honor, and humility.

It’s about:

Giving God the throne, not the guest chair.

Welcoming the least of these with the same energy we reserve for the “important” people.

Tearing down our idols so that God doesn’t have to do it for us.

Because when we give proper hospitality to God, acknowledging His sovereignty and living like He really is Lord, everything else starts to fall into place. But when we start putting our stuff, our comfort, or our traditions on equal footing with God, we’re setting ourselves up for the same painful lesson the Philistines had to learn.

Let’s not treat the Creator of the universe like a last-minute dinner guest who gets the folding chair at the end of the table. Let’s give Him the head seat, every time. And in doing so, let’s remember how we treat others, especially the ones the world overlooks, is a direct reflection of how we’re treating Him.

Because if the first will be last, and the last will be first, then maybe the most God-honoring thing we can do this week is slide someone unexpected into our schedule, our table, or even our pew, and recognize Who we’re really welcoming when we do.

Now ask yourself: Have I been treating God like a honored guest in our house, or like the mom’s weird brother that we invite because we must?

Stay Salty.

Two years.

It’s been two whole years since I’ve had good Chinese food. Not “passable,” not “well it’ll do,” but real, sit-down, don’t-talk-to-me-I’m-eating Chinese food.

Now, as many of you know, my family and I packed up our lives in the mountains of Vermont about three years ago and traded snow shovels for sand between our toes. We moved down to the coast of Savannah; beautiful, warm, and full of Southern charm. But let me be clear:

There are two major differences between Vermont and Georgia:

Georgia has beaches.

Vermont has good Chinese food. Georgia… does not.

Let the record show.

This week, I found myself driving up the East Coast to give a training on biblical hospitality (which you can check out in our site menu… shameless plug over). In the days leading up to and on the trip, I hadn’t really eaten much. Not on purpose, I was just too focused on the prep and the travel and the “gotta get there” of it all.

Now I know some of you are sitting there thinking, “Andrew, you? Forget to eat?”

Yes. I know. Shocking.

But ask my wife. It happens more than you’d think.

(Although, once the hunger hits, it does feel like a semi-truck rear-ended my stomach.)

So here I am, rolling up the I-91 corridor, the cold mountain air coming in through the window, and all of a sudden it hits me like divine revelation: I’m near Brattleboro. I’m near The Panda North. Now, if you’re not from the area, let me educate you.

The Panda North isn’t just a restaurant. It’s a legend. It’s my hometown spot. The place that has white tablecloths, polished chine, garnishes that look like they came out of a Food Network competition, and staff who actually make eye contact and care that you’re breathing. Black vests. Big smiles. It’s the kind of hospitality that says,

“We’ve been expecting you.”

And no joke, I walk in, and before I even hit the hostess stand, I hear a voice:

“My friend! We haven’t seen you in a long time.”

It was the same sweet woman who’s been working that front desk for years. Still there. Still warm. Still making people feel like family. That, my friends, is hospitality.

I sat down. The waitress hands me a menu I didn’t need (because when you know, you know). I look up, smile, and say:

“Kung Pao Chicken. Extra. Extra. Spicy.”

But not just the menu is spicy.

I look at her dead in the eyes and say,

“Don’t let my skin color fool you. I don’t want it to be “White Spicy’, I want it how the kitchen crew eats it.”

She squints at me.

“Are… you sure?”

I grin.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

She walks off, and a few minutes later the food hits the table, steaming hot, smelling like heaven, and laced with extra dried peppers. But then… she did something that stopped me in my tracks.

She gently sets down a small bowl beside my plate.

“This,” she says, “is what the kitchen crew puts on theirs. But be careful, it’s very spicy. Like, painful spicy. If you want the full experience, go for it. But it might hurt. Use it at your own risk.”

Now let me tell you something, that was real hospitality. She didn’t just throw it in my food without warning. She didn’t talk me out of it like I couldn’t handle it. She gave me the full experience, but she gave it with a warning and a choice.

So of course I dumped it on. And oh yeah… it hurt. Halfway through the dish, I bit into a dried pepper soaked in that hot oil and, friend, I saw every sin I’ve ever committed. It was that kind of hot. My face turned red, my ears were ringing, and I’m pretty sure I saw into the spirit realm. But I also couldn’t stop eating. Because it was that good. It was painful, but it was worth it.

And while I’m sitting there, sweating through my shirt and thanking God diet coke, it hit me: That’s the same kind of hospitality Jesus offered James and John. Let’s be real: if church ads were honest, they’d probably say something like,

“Following Jesus: It’ll cost you everything you thought you wanted… but give you everything you actually need.” Instead, way too often, we hand new believers a spiritual brochure that sounds more like a vacation resort pitch:

“Come to Jesus! Endless peace! Eternal happiness! No suffering! Great views!”

Then, when the first storm hits, BAM!, they’re shipwrecked wondering if they got sold a bad deal. But Jesus? Jesus never did that. He gave out the real invitation: hospitality with a warning label. James and John: The Sons of Thunder Walk Into a Bar…

Let’s talk about Mark 10:35–45.

Picture this: James and John, these two fiery brothers (nicknamed “Sons of Thunder,”  you know they were a handful), roll up to Jesus and ask Him for something huge: “Hey, when you’re King, can we sit right next to You in glory? One on Your right, one on Your left?” In today’s terms, that’s like applying for CEO and Vice President before the company even launches.

Now, if it were me, I might’ve laughed, rolled my eyes, or sent them to HR.

But Jesus?

He shows hospitality. He welcomes their question. He doesn’t shame them. He doesn’t yell, “Who do you think you are?” Instead, He does what real hospitality always does: He invites them into truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. The Cup and the Baptism: Not Exactly Room Service

Jesus answers:

“You don’t know what you’re asking. Are you able to drink the cup I drink or be baptized with the baptism I’m baptized with?” (Mark 10:38, my paraphrase.) And they, bless ‘em, say, “Sure, Jesus! We got this!” Spoiler alert: they had no idea what “the cup” or “baptism” meant.

Here’s the breakdown: Cup (Greek potērion, Strong’s G4221) wasn’t a fancy goblet filled with sweet wine. It was the cup of suffering, the destiny of hardship and sacrifice, straight from Isaiah and Jeremiah. Baptism (baptisma, Strong’s G908) wasn’t sprinkling a little water and calling it a day. It was full-body immersion into overwhelming trials. Jesus wasn’t handing out perks.

He was handing out reality: Following Him meant dying to themselves. It meant suffering. It meant laying down dreams of status and glory. Hospitality, real hospitality, doesn’t sell you an easy ride. It says: “Come on in. You’re welcome. But bring your cross, it’s going to get heavy.” Context Clues: Read the Room Leading up to this moment, Jesus had just told the rich young ruler, “Sell everything and follow Me.” And guess what? The rich guy walked away sad. (Mark 10:22) Right after James and John’s little request? A blind man named Bartimaeus cries out, not for glory, but for mercy. (Mark 10:46–52) James and John wanted thrones. Bartimaeus wanted sight. Guess who walked away healed?

The point?

Jesus never promised perks. He promised a Person. Himself. He didn’t sugarcoat the cost of following Him, He spelled it out in neon lights. The Church Today: Selling Jesus Like a Timeshare Somewhere along the way, modern church culture decided to play PR manager for Jesus: “Come to Jesus and your business will double!” “Find your breakthrough!” “Your best life now!”

Listen.

Following Jesus is absolutely the best life, but it’s not the easiest one. If you follow Him thinking it’s all blessing and no blood, you’re going to get knocked flat when life punches you in the mouth. The problem isn’t Jesus. The problem is false hospitality, pretending the cross is made of marshmallows. True Christ-like hospitality is: Telling the truth in love. Welcoming people into the family and into the fight. Preparing them to carry their cross, not just their blessings.

Real Hospitality: Welcome to the Party… Bring Your Cross, When James and John asked for crowns, Jesus offered them crosses. And He didn’t say it with bitterness. He said it with love. He showed them, and shows us, that the greatest in His Kingdom aren’t the ones who sit on thrones. They’re the ones who kneel, serve, suffer, and sacrifice. Because spoiler alert again, Jesus Himself served. He suffered. He gave His life as a ransom for many. (Mark 10:45) If we want to follow Him, we’re signing up for the same. And the most hospitable thing we can do is invite others into the whole truth, not just the good feels and pretty Instagram quotes.

Final Thoughts: Be a Good Host, if you’re leading someone to a stronger relationship with Christ, if you’re discipling, mentoring, welcoming someone new into the fold, tell them the truth. Tell them: “You’re loved.” “You’re welcome.” “It’s going to hurt at points.” “It’s going to be worth it.” Because hospitality isn’t just about offering a seat at the table. It’s about telling them what dinner really costs. And the Host of Heaven is still saying: “Come. Bring your cross. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Stay Salty

I wish I could tell you church leadership stood tall when it mattered most.
But truth is? A lot of them folded like cheap lawn chairs,  just like Eli letting his punk sons wreck the temple, and the Body of Christ has been bleeding ever since.

I’ll be real with you… at first, I got it. “Two weeks to flatten the curve,” they said. Two weeks.
Alright, I thought. I can roll with that. People were scared. Hospitals were slammed. Made sense to hit pause, catch our breath, figure it out.

But then two weeks turned into two months. And two months into two years. And somewhere along the way, what started as wisdom curdled into fear. What started as protecting people turned into locking them away. What started as temporary started getting treated like gospel.

And even back then, man, something in my gut wasn’t sitting right.
I had some loud disagreements, not because I didn’t care about people’s health — but because I could see it plain as day: it wasn’t just the virus that was gonna kill us. It was the slow rot of isolation. We are only now seeing the spiritual atrophy that happens when you rip the body apart and expect it to stay alive.

Look… the government’s gonna do what the government does. That’s their lane. But it was never their job to tell the Church how to be the Church. And way too many leaders handed over the keys without a fight. We folded easy. We got comfortable real fast. We traded gathering for streaming. We swapped the community for convenience. We turned worship into a broadcast you could mute when it got too uncomfortable, Instead of a messy, living family you had to actually show up for.

And now? I sit in church some Sundays and it feels like looking at the skeleton of what used to be alive. The numbers didn’t just drop, the hunger dropped. The fire in people’s eyes? Dimmed. The worship? Feels thin. The prayers? Feel rushed.The community? Feels quieter… lonelier.

We accidentally taught a whole generation that Church is optional.
That fellowship is replaceable. That you can follow Jesus solo from your couch and call it good. We didn’t just lose bodies, we lost heart. We turned the living, breathing Body of Christ into just another TV show people scroll past. And the damage? It’s real. It’s deep. It’s gonna take more than slicker productions or fancier coffee bars to fix it.

It’s gonna take grit.
It’s gonna take honesty.
It’s gonna take getting our hands dirty again, eating together, praying together, singing off-key together, fighting for each other like family instead of hiding behind screens when life gets messy.

Jesus didn’t die to build an online community. He died to build a flesh-and-blood family. And if we don’t wake up, if we don’t start rebuilding the altars we let crumble, we’re not gonna be a Church anymore. We’ll just be another show people tune in to when they’re bored and forget the second it’s over.

We’ve been caught up in thinking that church is about filling seats, but here’s the truth: God threw a party, He sent out the invite, and we’re the ones who keep ghosting the RSVP. When we sit at home and watch it online. We’ve been sitting at His table, half-hearted, thinking we can show up when it’s convenient. But if we’re gonna rebuild what we’ve lost, it’s not about showing up to a building or a service, it’s about showing up to Him.

We’ve forgotten that when we walk into His house, it’s not just about our needs being met. It’s about His presence, His glory, His invitation to be with Him. And when we get to His house, it’s not just about us showing up, it’s about us inviting Him in, welcoming Him to take His rightful place as King, not a guest who can be dismissed when it gets uncomfortable.

We can’t expect God to show up if we’re too busy building our own little empires in His place. If we want His presence back, we’ve got to stop treating His house like a pit stop and start treating it like the sacred ground it is. The altars we let crumble won’t rebuild themselves, and the glory that left won’t return until we’re ready to RSVP to His invitation and give Him the seat He deserves. This is about more than a program or a service, it’s about a life that says, ‘God, I’m here for You, and I’m ready to be all in.

Let’s be honest, 1 Samuel 4 reads more like the aftermath of a house fire than a peaceful potluck. There’s no laughter echoing from shared tables, no aroma of fresh bread or warm stew. It’s the sound of silence, grief, and regret. A nation is spiraling because they forgot one of the most important parts of life and faith: hospitality.

Not the Southern sweet-tea-and-biscuits kind (though I’m always here for that kind of hospitality), but the soul-level, God-honoring, people-embracing kind. The kind that makes space for presence. God’s presence. People’s hearts. Real connection. And when that gets neglected? Whew. The wreckage is real.

1 Samuel 4 is the caution tape wrapped around the ruins, showing us what happens after hospitality dies on the vine. And if we pay attention, we might just learn how to spot the warning signs in our own lives, our homes, and yes… even in our churches.

Let’s start with the Israelites’ biggest fumble, they dragged the Ark of the Covenant into battle like it was a lucky rabbit’s foot. Now, the Ark wasn’t just some antique furniture. It was sacred. A symbol of God’s covenant and presence. But they didn’t invite God into the fight, they tried to use Him. They treated the Ark like a weapon of mass salvation instead of honoring the One it represented.

That’s what happens when hospitality toward God is lost, we stop welcoming His presence and start wielding His name. We say the right things. We post the right verses. We show up to church… but deep down? It’s superstition, not surrender. Convenience, not reverence. And before we know it, we’re dragging God’s name into our messes, expecting Him to fix what we wouldn’t give Him access to in the first place.

The Ark is captured. Eli’s sons are dead. And when word reaches Shiloh, it’s like the soul of the place shatters. Eli hears the news, falls backward, and dies. Phinehas’ wife goes into labor and names her son Ichabod, “The glory has departed.” This ain’t just personal loss. It’s a national gut punch. They didn’t just lose a battle. They lost the presence.

Why?

Because somewhere along the line, they stopped hosting God. They pushed Him to the edge, then acted shocked when He wasn’t in the center anymore. Sound familiar? We do it too, personally and as a Church: We crowd our lives with schedules, systems, and spiritual fluff. We expect people to come in and feel Jesus… but forget to be Jesus to them. We build platforms and programs but forget to build altars and communities of real care. And then when people leave? When ministries fall apart? When Sunday mornings feel more empty than holy? We grieve, but deep down we know, we left hospitality off the invitation list.

Now let’s talk about Eli. He wasn’t evil. He wasn’t malicious. But he was passive, and in leadership, that’s a slow killer. His sons were corrupt, straight up abusing their roles in the temple, and Eli knew. He warned them, sure, but didn’t correct them with real action. Didn’t protect the sacred. Didn’t fight for what was holy. Hospitality, real hospitality, isn’t just welcoming people, it’s guarding the space where God meets man. It’s making sure what’s sacred stays sacred. That the people who walk through the doors of your church, your home, or your life are safe, seen, and shepherded. But when leaders fall asleep at the wheel? The spiritually hungry get fed garbage. The hurting get overlooked. And the glory quietly departs.

Can We Salvage It? Absolutely. But not without some holy honesty. If we’ve left people out in the cold… If we’ve let God’s presence become an afterthought… If we’ve led without love, or lived without making room… Then it’s time to clean house, open the doors, and set the table again.

Here’s how we begin:

Repent – Not just “I’m sorry,” but “Come back in, Lord. I’ve missed You.”

Rebuild – Reach out to the people who felt the sting of your absence. Make room. Offer real connection, not just lip service.

Refocus – If you lead, lead with humility. Create a culture of reverence, welcome, and heart. Make your life and ministry a place where the glory can dwell, not just visit.

1 Samuel 4 isn’t a fun read. But it’s a necessary one. Because when we neglect hospitality, toward God and each other, we don’t just lose warmth. We lose presence. We lose glory. We lose connection. But the good news? We can always rebuild the altar. We can always open the door again. We can always say, “God, I don’t want You to be a guest… I want You to be home.”

So… Let’s stop using people like a place holder and God like a vending machine. Let’s stop ignoring the hurting at our gates. Let’s stop tolerating half-hearted leadership in sacred spaces. Let’s be people who make room. Because when we practice true hospitality, the glory doesn’t have to depart, it dwells.

Stay Salty