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