Let’s be honest, if we’re talking about the hardest part of hospitality, most people think of cleaning bathrooms before guests show up or cooking for 40 when you only have enough meatloaf for 10, granted if it is my wife’s meatloaf that will be plenty. But real, soul-cutting hospitality? It’s not about food or folding napkins. It’s about mercy. And let me tell you, mercy might just be the most powerful, painful, and healing form of hospitality we’re ever asked to give.

I’ve been on both sides of it. I’ve been the one needing mercy and the one too stubborn to give it. I’ve stood at the altar of pride when I should’ve been laying myself on it instead. Mercy is beautiful, but let’s not lie to ourselves, it costs something. In fact, if it doesn’t cost something, it probably ain’t mercy.

Let me start with a story….. my story.

When I was first married, I was not the husband I should’ve been. I won’t sugarcoat it. I let flesh lead me more than faith. I let frustration speak louder than gentleness. I failed in ways that hurt deeply. But even in the mess I made, my wife showed me mercy. Not because I earned it. Not because she had to. But because she chose to offer what I didn’t deserve.

Now hear me, mercy doesn’t mean the sting of sin disappears. It doesn’t mean the consequences vanish into thin air. I still had to face the man in the mirror. But she didn’t weaponize my wrongs to the extent she could have. She didn’t give me what I had coming. And after I turned back to God that wrecked me in the best way possible, and it still does at times.

That’s what mercy does, it humbles. It makes you see how bankrupt you were and how rich grace really is.

Now let me take you further back. I wasn’t always the sweet, southern food-slinging gentleman you see today (insert sarcasm). When I was younger, I was a knucklehead. Plain and simple. I tested boundaries, pushed buttons, and made more than a few bad choices.

And I got disciplined. I got the “come to Jesus” talks, the grounding, the “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out” moments. At the time, I didn’t see it as mercy, I saw it as cruelty. But now? Now I see the love in it.

My Mom and Dad……. and many other adults in my home church weren’t trying to break me. They were trying to build me into a man who wouldn’t crash and burn later. They were protecting me from becoming the worst version of myself. That was mercy too, just wearing steel-toed boots.

Hebrews 12:6 says it best: “The Lord disciplines the one He loves.” Sometimes mercy comes with a hug. Sometimes it comes with a correction. But either way, it’s mercy.

Now let me step on some toes… including my own.

The Church, we love to talk about mercy. We sing about it. Preach about it. Print it on bumper stickers and Instagram it with sunrise backgrounds. But when it comes time to show it? When it’s time to live it out? We fumble, or out right refuse.

We say we welcome broken people, but then we spotlight their shame. We act like we’re giving mercy, but all we’re doing is reminding people how much they’ve messed up. That’s not mercy. That’s spiritual condescension. That’s handing someone a bandaid while yelling about the size of their wound.

And then, when someone does need mercy, when someone’s crawling in the door after a public failure, an addiction relapse, a broken relationship, we can’t get out of our own way. Our own pride. Our own hurt. We forget that mercy means putting their healing above our offense.

If we’re going to talk about hospitality, we’ve got to talk about this: mercy is making room for someone’s pain without putting your ego in the center of it. It’s opening the door even when your heart says, “No thanks, I’d rather slam it.”

If you want to see mercy in action, look no further than 1 Samuel 24.

Here’s David, anointed king, on the run, hunted like a wild dog by Saul. David and his men are hiding in a cave, probably just trying to rest or figure out their next move. And in walks Saul, alone, vulnerable, completely unaware that the man he’s been trying to kill is sitting in the shadows.

David’s boys are like, “This is it, boss! God delivered him right into your hands! Let’s do this!” But David doesn’t take the bait. Instead of revenge, he chooses restraint. Instead of a sword, he takes a slice of Saul’s robe.

That’s mercy. That’s biblical hospitality. That’s putting down what you could do for what God has called you to do.

David had every right. Every reason. Every justification. But he chose not to destroy a man who had tried to destroy him. He chose mercy.

And when he steps out of that cave and calls out to Saul, what does he say?

“My father.”

Not “You snake.” Not “You murderer.” Not “You sorry excuse for a king.”

He calls him father.

That’s deep. That’s painful. That’s costly.

That’s mercy.

Here’s the ugly truth: you can’t show mercy until you die to yourself. You can’t offer real hospitality if your ego is still in the kitchen stirring the pot.

Mercy says, “I’ll take the hit so you can heal.”

Mercy says, “I’ll keep the door open even when you deserve to be locked out.”

Mercy says, “I’ll treat you with dignity, not because you earned it, but because Jesus gave it to me first.”

And that only happens when you pick up your cross, daily. That only happens when you remember how much mercy you were shown.

Luke 9:23 isn’t a sweet motivational quote. It’s a death sentence to your pride. “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.”

You want to follow Jesus? You better learn how to bleed mercy.

In Matthew 18, Jesus tells the story of the unmerciful servant. You know the one. A guy is forgiven an impossible debt by the king—millions worth. Then he turns around, grabs someone who owes him a few hundred bucks, and chokes him out demanding payment.

When the king hears about it, he’s furious. And he should be. Because that’s what we do all the time. We want grace for us and judgment for them.

We forget that every sin against us is a drop in the bucket compared to the ocean of mercy Jesus poured over our heads on the cross.

If you’ve been forgiven much, you better learn how to forgive much.

If you’ve received mercy, you better not be stingy with it.

That parable isn’t just a warning, it’s a mirror. And if we’re honest, we’ve all been that unmerciful servant more times than we want to admit.

Mercy might look like not blasting someone on social media when they hurt you.

Mercy might look like forgiving someone who never apologized.

Mercy might look like welcoming back the family member who left a trail of hurt behind them.

Mercy might look like sitting beside someone in silence when they don’t need a sermon, they need a friend.

Mercy might look like correcting someone privately instead of humiliating them publicly.

Mercy might look like discipline. Mercy might look like grace. Mercy might look like silence. Mercy might look like showing up when it hurts.

And sometimes, mercy just looks like not giving up on someone, even when the world says you should.

Let’s not forget this: the mercy we’re called to give is only possible because of the mercy we’ve received.

Jesus didn’t just feel bad for us. He bled for us. He didn’t just forgive our debt, He paid it. He didn’t just make a space for us at the table, He became the bread and wine served on it.

The cross is the ultimate act of hospitality. It’s the moment mercy wrapped itself in flesh, took the beating we deserved, and said, “Father, forgive them.”

If Jesus could show mercy to the ones who crucified Him, you and I can learn to show mercy to those who annoyed us in the church lobby last Sunday.

If Jesus could welcome a thief into paradise, we can welcome someone back to the dinner table.

If Jesus could restore Peter after his denial, maybe we can stop holding people hostage for mistakes they already regret.

Look…I get it. Mercy’s not easy. It hurts. It feels unfair. And sometimes, it feels like you’re letting someone off the hook who should’ve stayed on it.

But that’s exactly what Jesus did for us.

So let’s stop pretending mercy is optional. It’s not a spiritual accessory. It’s the heart of the gospel.

The next time you’re tempted to shut the door on someone’s sin, remember the cave. Remember David. More importantly, remember the cross.

And let mercy do what it does best: heal, humble, and make room for grace.

If this hit you, good. Let it. Let it challenge you to live like someone who knows what it means to be forgiven. Mercy isn’t weakness, it’s the loudest echo of the Gospel we can give this broken world.

You were shown mercy. Now go show it.

Stay Salty