The Night God Slept in Ashdod
The night air in Ashdod still smelled of sweat and smoke.
Victory drums thudded through the narrow streets; torches painted the walls with leaping fire. Philistine soldiers marched home shouting the name of their god — Dagon! — and dragging behind them the prize of prizes: the Ark of the Covenant.
It looked ordinary enough, a chest of acacia wood overlaid with gold. Its poles clattered against the stone when they set it down, and the crowd pressed close to see the “god” of Israel. Children threw handfuls of grain in mock tribute. Somewhere a priest laughed and said, “See, even Jehovah bows to Dagon!”
They did not understand what they were carrying.
They thought they’d captured a symbol. They had, in fact, invited Presence into their city.
That night the doors of Dagon’s temple closed with a boom.
Inside, the giant image stood tall — half man, half fish — arms outstretched as if to welcome its new companion. The priests left incense burning. The air smelled of salt, oil, and arrogance.
And heaven watched.
When dawn broke, the guards gasped. Dagon lay face-down before the Ark — as if worshiping the very God he was supposed to defeat. They rushed in, lifted him upright, and said nothing to the crowd.
“Accidents happen,” they muttered.
But accidents do not repeat themselves.
The next morning the idol was down again — head and hands snapped off, lying in the doorway like trophies at God’s feet. The priests stared, terrified. The superstition they had mocked yesterday suddenly turned holy.
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The Heavy Hand of God
Then the pain began.
Scripture says, “The hand of the Lord was heavy upon the men of Ashdod.”
A strange affliction spread through the city — a private pain, humiliating, impossible to ignore.
The cheers of victory turned to groans. No one could sit in comfort.
Every chair became a pulpit; every household learned the same sermon:
“You cannot keep what belongs to God.”
When they realized what was happening, they tried a political solution.
“Send it to Gath,” someone said. “Maybe the problem is local.”
They loaded the Ark on a cart, wiped their hands, and waited for the relief that never came.
Gath suffered the same fate.
Ekron cried out, “They have brought the Ark of the God of Israel to slay us!”
From city to city, pride limped in pain.
It wasn’t wrath for wrath’s sake. It was mercy in disguise.
God could have destroyed them; instead He disciplined them until they let go.
Pain became prevention.
Sometimes God still works that way.
He disturbs us so we will stop destroying ourselves.
He turns comfort into conviction until we finally say, “Enough — send it back!”
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The Cows That Knew the Way
After seven miserable months the Philistines called their priests.
“What offering will appease the God of Israel?”
“Five golden figures for the affliction, five golden mice for the plague,” they answered, “one for each of your cities. Place them beside the Ark on a new cart. Take two milk cows that have never been yoked. If they walk toward Israel, you will know this was His hand.”
The people watched as the cows were hitched and the calves penned away.
With no driver to guide them, the animals lowed softly and began walking straight toward the border — toward Beth-shemesh.
No one cracked a whip. No one steered. Even creation knew where holiness belonged.
The Ark went home on a sermon of obedience preached by two cows.
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Reverence or Ruin
When the men of Beth-shemesh saw the Ark coming, they rejoiced. They offered sacrifices and sang with joy — until curiosity overcame caution. Someone lifted the lid, just to look inside, and judgment fell again.
The lesson hadn’t changed: holiness mishandled burns.
The same presence that blessed becomes a blaze when treated as common.
God is not fragile; He is holy.
The question is never whether He will survive our irreverence, but whether we will.
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Modern Mishandling
We don’t bow before Dagon, but we’ve built our own idols — success, politics, celebrity, self.
We drag God beside them and assume He’ll be pleased to share the platform.
We quote His name to bless our battles and decorate our ambitions.
We forget that the Ark was not a mascot; it was a throne.
Every generation builds its own temple in Ashdod, and every generation learns again that God refuses to sit second chair.
He will overturn what competes with Him.
He will topple Dagon again and again until we remember who is God.
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Saved by the Emerods
It’s almost humorous — if it weren’t so holy.
A proud nation, brought low by discomfort it could not explain, shipping its prize away on a cart just to find relief.
But mercy often hides inside the ridiculous.
Those seven months of misery saved them from a far worse fate.
They were, quite literally, saved by the emerods.
Better to be humbled than hardened.
Better to ache for a season than perish in arrogance.
Sometimes the only way God can reach a proud heart is through the seat of its pride.
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Communion Mishandled
Now bring the lesson closer to home.
The Ark was Israel’s holiest symbol — the sign of God’s presence among His people.
For us, one of the holiest moments we touch is the Lord’s Supper.
I’ve worshiped in churches that served Wonder Bread and Manischewitz, and others that offered saltines and Kool-Aid in tiny cups.
The ingredients vary, but the meaning must not.
Reverence isn’t about the recipe. It’s about remembering the Redeemer.
The danger is not in the grocery list but in the heart.
When holy things become habitual, awe evaporates.
Then came the age of the gluten-free wafer. Debates broke out over whether it “counted.”
Somewhere someone declared that for the miracle to occur, there had to be a guaranteed percentage of wheat.
Can you picture Jesus at the upper-room table saying,
“This is My body — provided it meets FDA grain standards”?
We’ve drifted from meaning to molecules.
Holiness doesn’t depend on what’s baked in; it depends on what’s broken open.
God isn’t checking our gluten; He’s checking our gratitude.
Sometimes I imagine Jesus adding a footnote:
“Take, eat, this is My body — see appendix A for the official wafer recipe.”
Of course He didn’t. The power wasn’t in the formula; it was in the fellowship.
What made that meal holy was the Presence sitting at the table.
We keep trying to standardize what Jesus meant to personalize.
We polish the chalice and forget the cross.
We debate the bread and neglect the brokenness.
The Ark in Dagon’s temple was power without reverence.
Communion without awe is grace without gratitude.
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Little Tommy and the Leaven
Words can fool the ear.
One Sunday, little Tommy sat in church while the pastor read Paul’s warning, “A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump.”
Tommy tugged at his mother’s sleeve. “What’s wrong with leather?” he whispered.
The congregation chuckled when she told the story later—but the truth behind it runs deep: adults still mix up the word, not with our lips but with our lives.
We forget what leaven means.
It isn’t about yeast and dough—it’s about influence.
Leaven represents what spreads quietly until it fills everything: pride, gossip, compromise, self-importance.
That’s why God told Israel to bake unleavened bread at Passover. The flat bread was a picture of purity, of haste, of humility.
When Jesus broke bread in the upper room, it was unleavened.
Not puffed up. Not proud.
Pure. Simple. Whole.
And that’s what holiness still looks like—flattened pride.
The most dangerous leaven in the church isn’t in the bread; it’s in the spirit that says, “I know better. I’m good enough.”
Holiness isn’t a swelling of self; it’s the deflation of it.
To live an unleavened life is to let God press out every bubble of ego until only grace remains.
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The Sabbath Mishandled
Then there’s the Sabbath—another holy thing too often mishandled.
God didn’t design it as a leash to restrict us, but as a lifeline to restore us.
It was never meant to be a list; it was meant to be a gift.
Yet through the ages, people have taken that gift to opposite extremes.
Some turned it into a day of rules and rigidity—counting steps, timing sunsets, measuring obedience instead of enjoying presence.
Others blurred it into just another day off—catching up on chores, scrolling through screens, promising to rest “later.”
Both lose the point.
Jesus said, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.”
In other words, God didn’t build a cage; He carved out a cathedral in time.
He blessed it, sanctified it, and rested in it so that we could breathe again.
When we make it heavy with regulation or hollow with neglect, we handle it like the Philistines handled the Ark—trying to control the holy instead of entering it.
The Sabbath is safe only when it’s received, not managed.
It’s the one day we stop pretending to be gods and remember Who actually is.
If leaven warns us to watch what spreads, the Sabbath warns us to watch what crowds God out.
It isn’t measured in minutes kept but in hearts kept close.
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Holy Things at Risk
From the Ark to the altar, from the table to the temple of time—
everything God calls holy is at risk when handled lightly.
Holiness is not fragility; it is fire.
Touch it with pride and you’ll feel the heat.
Approach it with humility and you’ll feel the warmth.
That’s why Scripture repeats, “Be ye holy, for I am holy.”
God isn’t commanding perfection; He’s inviting participation.
Holiness is His life shared with ours—the moment broken humanity and perfect divinity meet and become whole again.
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The Appeal: Bring the Ark Home
So what does it mean for us today?
Maybe it means carrying the Ark back where it belongs—
out of our trophies, out of our politics, out of our pride,
and placing it again at the center of the heart.
It means remembering that God’s presence can’t be captured, packaged, or performed.
It must be welcomed.
Perhaps there’s a Dagon in your life that keeps toppling every time you set it next to the Lord.
Stop gluing it back together. Let it fall.
Because when the idol stays broken, the soul can finally stand.
Maybe you’ve been living with a holy ache—an inner unrest that no comfort can cure.
Don’t rush to silence it. That ache may be the mercy of God reminding you, “You were made for more than this.”
Holiness mishandled hurts, yes—but holiness honored heals.
When you treat God’s presence as common, peace departs.
When you lift Him high again, peace returns.
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Wholly Thine
The holiest thing in life isn’t a relic, a rule, or a ritual—it’s a relationship.
To be holy is to be whole, and to be whole is to belong entirely to God.
Holiness isn’t distance; it’s restoration.
It’s not God pulling away from us but God pulling us back together.
When we finally surrender the half-lived life and pray, “Lord, make me wholly Thine,”
that’s when holiness stops hurting and starts healing.
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Final Appeal
So tonight, if something sacred has become casual in your life, take it back off the shelf.
Dust off the reverence.
Return the Ark to its rightful place.
Let the presence of God move from the edge of your schedule to the center of your soul.
Because the same presence that toppled Dagon, that humbled the Philistines,
that sanctified the bread and blessed the Sabbath,
still longs to dwell in human hearts.
And where He is honored—truly honored—there is joy, peace, and power.
Holiness mishandled brings hurt.
Holiness honored brings healing.
Choose healing.
