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.