The Context of the Meal

 Matthew 14:13-21

Besides the Resurrection, the Feeding of the Five Thousand is the only miracle that appears in all four gospels; it’s a super important story for the early church and clearly meant to give us a glimpse of who Jesus is and what God is up to. And as bible stories go, it’s fairly tame and unassuming, so we love to tell it to children. It’s not scandalous or disturbing, and it has a happy ending too! What's not to like?

 

But like most things in life there is more going on than we see on the surface. The context matters. When we tell this story on its own, we don’t realize that in Matthew’s telling in a single 24-hour day, a bunch of big things happen that maybe have something to do with each other. And maybe it’s not as meek and mild as we think. 

 

Our story begins early in the morning with the words, “Now when Jesus heard this...”  Heard what?  When Jesus heard that John the Baptist, who had been in prison, had just been beheaded, and his head delivered to Herod on a platter in the middle of an extravagant and vulgar dinner party. John’s disciples had picked up his body from the palace and buried it, and gone immediately to tell Jesus what had happened. 

 

When Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place. 

 

 And who wouldn’t?  What else in the world is there to do?  

John is gone, his cousin, his friend, the one who knew who Jesus was better than anyone -  from before he was born, even – leaping in recognition in his mother Elizabeth’s womb at the sound of pregnant Mary’s voice, the one who proclaimed in the wilderness that the Messiah is coming, and plunged God incarnate under the waters of baptism, the one whose whole life was telling that God’s kingdom is coming and announcing that Jesus had arrived, this John has just died a pointless, disgusting, inexplicable death, as a pawn in a gluttonous game of revenge and power. 

 

When Jesus hears this he withdraws in a boat to a deserted place.  

But the crowds seek him out. 

 

On foot they go around, ahead, and I have always imagined them like clingy toddlers flooding his alone place and his apart time with their need and their clamoring, their sheer mass, the overwhelming sound, smell, the hungry obligation of them.  And I’ve felt defensive of him, as perhaps, his disciples were too. He has every right to absolutely lose it. To tell them all to go away. To tell the disciples to make them leave him alone.  To practice self-care and turn the boat around and float alone in the waves for hours until he regains his composure, until he finds some peace and quiet.

 

But when Jesus sees the crowd, it says, he has compassion on them, and cures their sick.  He brings the boat ashore and goes to them and stays there with them. 

Vulnerable, grieving, reckoning with the horror and consequences of evil, mourning the death of his beloved friend, Jesus embraces the vulnerable, the grieving, the sick and despairing.  

 

And I don’t think it was a “nevertheless” kind of thing, being with them. I don’t think it was “even though” he was sad he embraced them “anyway” sort of deal. I think it was an “alongside,” “with and for” kind of thing. I think it was sorrow meeting sorrow, a pretense stripped away, no games being played, hearts connecting scenario. 

 

I guess until now I have always seen the crowds as almost predatory, like relentless zombies following him around, grabby and demanding and needy. Why can’t they just leave him alone?   

 

But this time I saw something different. I had to read it three times: “Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns.” When confronted with the news of his friend’s death Jesus went to hide in his sorrow. But when the crowds heard the news that they knew would devastate Jesus, they went to find him.  And not to give every person there a noble and altruistic motive, but perhaps, without overthinking it, the drive to be together in suffering is a way human beings return to our humanity, which is also to say, a way we seek and share in the presence of God. Perhaps that’s the way God designed us.  When someone we care about suffers a great loss, the reflex is to be with them, to share the pain.  

 

A few weeks ago a friend texted me from a meeting of exhausted teachers, education assistants and therapists in a program for children with extreme trauma, to tell me that a therapist had just said, (and I paraphrase to remove the swear word), “Self-care is hogwash. When something happens we don’t take care of ourselves, we take care of each other.” This is not to say we should not have good boundaries, or cultivate healthy habits, or that we should give and give when we are tapped out. This is to say: in crisis we do not take care of ourselves; we take care of each other. We belong to each other.

 

So perhaps, as much as all those people needed Jesus, Jesus needed them too.  Maybe he needed to feel his belonging to each other and God, and that was not something he could have done on his own in the moment. 

Being with them connected him to the bigger context, the deeper story, the wider belonging. In his own need and dependence on God, Jesus was moved with compassion for the people, and he welcomed them, listened, touched, and healed their sick. In his own vulnerability Jesus reached out to theirs.  And I wonder how God-with-us being with us with them on that day–the Great I Am coming in weakness alongside weakness with healing and hope—how this may have fed Jesus himself in that moment. 

 

As the day stretches toward evening the disciples, who, let’s face it, must have been freaking out all day at this impromptu gigantic event they were apparently hosting in the wilderness without a port-o-potty or vendor stand for miles around tell Jesus that maybe he should send the crowds away so they can find food for themselves in the villages.  But Jesus answers, They need not go away - you feed them. An impossible and ridiculous instruction.

 

But impossibility is God’s favorite canvas. And now a meal is about to take place that will upend the meal that preceded it. 

The first meal happened among sycophants in the seat of power. Full of insecurity and hungry for esteem, a cruel leader fed his own ego in a vicious power play of political manipulation and demonstrable control, killing a person in a mighty flex of fear and dominance. 

The second meal is happening here among ordinary people in the middle of nowhere. Full of sorrow and hungry for gentleness, a brokenhearted healer is feeding thousands with a single child’s handful of bread and fish, in a compassionate outpouring of inconceivable abundance and demonstrable unity, nourishing all these people in a colossal expression of love and solidarity.  

 

And the people, out there in the deserted place, far from the center of commerce and empire, are sitting down on the ground like one enormous picnicking family, dining on manna, until all, every single one of them, to the last man, woman, and child is full, and there are leftovers galore. And the power that brought the world into being, is here, among them, healing the sick, providing their daily bread and receiving their love and gratitude, and together, all of them are connected and held in a power greater than death, a force greater than evil, that is moving the world toward love. This power is not encountered by the strong but the vulnerable, and it comes not through coercion or control but through compassion and companionship.  

 

In a few minutes we will share a meal that seems almost silly, really. Without the context it could feel tame and unassuming, a nice tradition, a lesson to remember. But real violence rages in our world, rampant corruption and evil, power is wielded to selfish ends and lives are lost for pointless reasons, and own lives from time to time threaten to brim over with despair. 

In this context we will eat bread and drink grape juice and claim that God is with us right here and now and it means something important and powerful.  Because God is, and does; Jesus himself was broken for us, taking into God’s own heart the heartbrokenness of us all. 

 

We are gathered today in our shared need and vulnerability, with whatever we bring and however we’re struggling, and Jesus meets us here, joining us with all those gone before, including those that one evening in that deserted place who ended that sad day side by side with a sister who was just healed, and a neighbor who just found hope, and thousands of siblings in this world God is creating anew. 

In receiving the bread, taking it and pass it to one another as they did, we are connected held in a power greater than death, a force greater than evil, that is moving the world toward love.

 

And, just to wrap up the day, because, believe it or not, there are still a few hours remaining: after the feast Jesus releases the disciples and disperses the crowd and finally gets away to a quiet place. He rests. And stops. And makes space for his grief to breathe.  But he does so now not as one thrown into isolation by his pain, but as one who has been held in solidarity in the love and care of others, as having experienced the power of God moving through him to them and through them to him and the love of God holding them all as they all shared that day together, that meal together. Now, grounded in his belonging to God and each other, Jesus finds the solitude, solace, and silence he needs. 

 

But just in case we don’t yet get how big it all is, just before dawn breaks on this long, full day, we meet back up with the disciples, who left that epic experience to find themselves all night long battling raging winds and torrential rains in their precariously rocking boat. And just as he did for the crowds, Jesus meets them right where they are, which means that as the vulnerable and terrified disciples squint through the storm, they see Jesus calmly walking to them on the water.  

 

Amen.

Every Part of Life, and the God We Don't Control

 

2 Samuel 6:1-19

There is something in us that wants to edit life. We would take out the hard parts and make it seem easy, only sunny and happy. Case in point:  King David was moving to unify the kingdom, he had consolidated the center of power and government and now he was bringing the Ark into Jerusalem, the new capital.  The first run at it was ecstatic, thousands of troops, musicians with every imaginable instrument, dancing and revelry.  But in the middle of the journey, this guy Uzzah, who is helping drive the oxcart, sees that suddenly the oxen’s misstep has made the Ark wobble, so reaches out his hand to steady it, and when he touches it he is struck dead.

The lectionary cuts this part of the story out. It wants us to hear about the great parade of moving the Ark, the leaping and dancing for joy, and more joy and more dancing and then the settling of the Ark in the center of the Israelites’ life.  Hooray and amen!  But this is part of the story too. And it is confusing, and enraging, and makes no sense and we wonder what God is up to in the midst of it.
 
Early in the week my cousin died. He was 54 years old, and a quiet musical genius.  Working as a sound engineer in Nashville he mixed albums for many great musicians, including Alan Jackson and his friend Dolly Parton. I flew to Nashville Thursday night to attend his funeral on Friday.

My cousin struggled with his inner demons and fought against them most of his adult life, keeping them at bay with alcohol, itself a demon that held him captive and inflicted so much pain and damage in his life. In the end his liver was destroyed, and the span of time between his diagnosis of liver cancer and his death was a head-spinning four weeks.  
 
At his funeral, musicians shared about how his ear was unsurpassed, his skill and calm presence guided them to the best music, how he brought out the best in others, and not just musically.  He saw people and valued people. Everyone was his favorite. So many tributes on his facebook page call him “my best friend.” He genuinely cared about people and he showed it.  His dad shared how his kindergarten teacher told them he could hear things others couldn’t. She was the first to pronounce this refrain that would follow him through life. It was clear this went beyond music.  He could hear things others couldn’t, see things others missed.  He was a deep and sensitive soul.  His sister shared how maddening it was to love him. He wouldn’t ask for help; he was always the one helping others.  He was a cousin that made me long for an older brother, that tall, protective, teasing force that seemed to hover tantalizing in the lives of others.  His name was David, and his soul sang before the Lord his whole life long.
 
But it’s never all light and joy, is it? The darkness in this life, the darkness in my cousin’s life could have been covered up and avoided at the funeral. Those verses could have been cut out of the story. We could have just shared the music and the joy and the love and the celebration, and ignored the parts that were horrible or confusing, or the parts that made us angry at God.  It’s easy to do that; funerals often do. 
 
But we didn’t. His family and friends honored Dave with their honesty, holding up the light and the darkness, the joy and the pain, the brilliance and the struggle. Only then do we really know someone. Only there do we really see God. It’s in the struggle where God most often is seen. The parts that are confusing, and enraging, and make no sense and make us wonder what God is up to in the midst of it.
 
The Ark of the Covenant was the box that held the stone tablets that God gave Moses on the mountain top – the Ten Commandments, the Ten Words that led the people out of slavery into freedom in the care of God by explaining what it means to belong to God and be the people of God.  Some say the Ark also held Aaron’s staff and some manna – symbols of God’s deliverance and leading.  God gave Moses instructions to build the box and it became the tangible presence of God among them, the location of God’s self-revelation.  
 
Moses would hear the voice of God speaking from between the two angels on the lid when he consulted God as he led the people (with his glory-stained face hidden behind a veil).  For the next 400 years the Ark of the Covenant was both the symbol and location of God with them. It was carried in front of them as they moved around from place to place; it led them into battle. When it was paraded around Jericho the walls crumbled. When it was captured by the Philistines, it brought such trouble, frogs and tumors and torment, that they returned it, with a gift of statues of solid gold frogs and tumors. The Ark of the Covenant was holy, in some way a glimpse of the very glory of God, so it was never to be touched or looked into. Remember Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark? When they finally found the lost Ark and opened it they said, “It’s beautiful!” and then their faces melted off.  Same box.
 
So when poor Uzzah reaches out to steady the jostled Ark and is struck dead for touching it, the whole happy parade comes to a standstill. David is furious with God. He aborts the plan on the spot and drops off the Ark in the nearest house and the whole army trudges back to Jerusalem without it, and David’s angry naming of that location, “The Outburst Against Uzzah,” sticks, as in, take a hard left at the Outburst Against Uzzah, and over the next hill you’ll find Obed-Edom’s house, where the Ark is currently stored.” 
 
After a time David hears that the Obed-Edom family is being blessed abundantly by having the Ark there, and he decides to resume the plan.  Here’s where the lectionary picks back up, as though the happy parade had never paused for several months in anger, fear and confusion.
 
But if we told it that way then the Ark is just a special box that reminds people of God, and the actors are David, and the dancing, joyful people, and his unhappy wife from his troubling first marriage watching him in disgust. And God is merely an idea, represented in a box of memories and beliefs, carried by the people, upheld by the strength of their faith.  The journey to reunifying the kingdom is unbroken happiness, no bumps in the road, no instability or overcorrection, no anger, no fear, no confusion or time outs or sulking, just triumph.
 
And perhaps this is the risk of it all when we talk about God.  We domesticate God, our pet deity, our pocket talisman or cozy pillow, there to keep us safe and comfortable, but not really demanding anything of us, or asserting any preferences or personhood. 
 
There is a scene in the Narnia books when the Beaver family is preparing to introduce the children to Aslan, the true ruler of Narnia, who is kind, and just and noble.  
Mrs. Beaver says, “Aslan is a lion- the Lion, the great Lion." 
"Ooh" said Susan. " Is he-quite safe? …I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion"...
"Safe?" said Mr Beaver ..."Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”

God is not safe. God is beyond our bounds, the force that moves all of life, not to be captured by human hands, trifled with by human manipulation. And life near God is risky and filled with questions. But it’s also real. I love that as terrifying a reminder as this is of God’s power and otherness, David still gets pissed at God and petulantly names that spot the The Explosion against Uzzah and goes home to mope for a while.  
 
And then he’s shaken awake the word that the presence of God that blesses our lives is just sitting there ridiculously, extravagantly blessing the Obed-Edom family.  And his kingly task of putting back God in the center of their shared life is not yet complete; the journey must continue.  And so the parade resumes – this time interestingly with only trumpets as though announcing the arrival of a King, perhaps a bit more aware of the seriousness of the task, the sacredness of the quest, and most importantly, the true presence and real power of the God who will continue to lead them forward.  
 
This time David strips off his royal robes and comes in a simple garment resembling what the priests wore. This time he comes humble before the true King.  God is with us. Right here. Even as we pass the place of God’s Outburst against Uzzah, God who cannot be contained is here in our midst. So David dances with all his might. With all-out, no holds barred, fullness of joy and life, living wide-awake and dancing, they bring the Ark to its new place of honor. 
 
The comfort and the confusion. The extravagant blessings and the fearsome power of God.  The pointless and terrible loss, and the hope and celebration. It all belongs.  And we don't understand all of it, but we are humbled by it.  If we open our hearts to the risky, dangerous, and deep thing that it is to acknowledge the living God, we will be drawn deeper into life, made more fully alive, more in tune, more attentive, to hear things that others can’t, and see things others miss. To value one another deeply.   To wonder what God is up to in the midst of it all.  To face the parts that are horrible and confusing, and make us angry at God, and also to sing with joy and dance with all our might. 
 
At the end of the funeral, after the tears and laughter and Nashville mix of music and memories, my uncle Bo, David’s dad and a retired minister, stood behind the pulpit and reminded us that death is not the end. He shared his own bewilderment and loss, cried out too soon at the death of his boy, and at the same time reminded us that Jesus comes into the darkest places in life alongside us; we have this hope that is even stronger than death.  
 
And then he came around the podium and planted his hand firmly on the wooden box holding the ashes of his beloved son, that sad and holy vessel, and in a voice deep, loud, and full of authority, he pronounced, “David Bowen Matthews, Requiesce in Pace.”  Rest in peace, and entrusted Dave into the presence of God.
Then lifted his hands toward us and spoke peace over the living, entrusting us into the presence of God.
 
And we didn’t leave there with answers, but we left held in God’s love. The questions and confusion and sorrow remain.  But the story was told in full, the hard parts weren’t cut out. It all belongs. 
God is in every part. God who cannot be contained is here in our midst. We are in the presence of God.
 
Amen. 

What Makes God Angry

John 2:13-22


It was difficult for me to write a sermon this week.

My heart was in Pennsylvania, with Theresa (our former Parish Associate and beloved friend), who is facing down a lot of pain and anger that arose when hurtful parts of her past were dug up and spread around. 
I flew there Monday night to be with her Tuesday, as she faced the seminary community where she is president, and did the most courageous and vulnerable thing I have ever seen a leader do. She shared her very self with them by telling them her story – the parts that felt personal and fragile, the parts that have been misunderstood and misused, the parts that she regrets that have caused pain to others, and the parts that have made her a little bit more who she most longs to be.  
And I saw briefly, a glimpse of what it looks like to belong so fully to God and to yourself that you can belong completely to others and invite others into their own belonging.  I felt a bubble of hope rise within me for that community, that they could get through the pain this has dredged up together to the other side, where trust and joy dwell when we are with and for each other.

But pain is powerful, and we use it as protection.  And not everyone is ready to set it down. And outside that room, on social media, I’ve watched a nightmare unfold, as, in the wake of people’s pain and anger and amidst partial truths, she is being labeled, attacked and demonized.

When I go online and see something about my friend that dehumanizes her, or makes her out to be so radically other than she is, I feel a ball start to form in my gut, a molten rage that pushes up into my chest and heats my face. My hands actually get tingly, my head starts to spin a little, and I want to lash out and defend her.

In fact, on Friday I did. On an unsuspecting friend who shared something she’d read, I unleashed a series of firehose-esque messages intending to set the record straight.

Then I sheepishly apologized for my enormous, emotional word dump.

So, when I came to this text this week, I connected with it at the gut, visceral level first.

I imagined Jesus walking into the temple that day, the temple, which was the special place where humans and God meet one another.

I imagined this man, this God-with-us, divine embodied human walking in there and taking in the chaos.  Letting it hit his senses: the moneychangers and the sacrifice sellers, the smells and the clamor, the animals bleeting, and the vendors shouting, and the crowds navigating this noisy bazaar atmosphere in the temple’s outer court.

I imagined Jesus taking it all in, and the hot, churning ball forming in his gut, the tingling hands and the anger rising up his chest and heating his face.  I picture him grabbing some rope and finding a wall to squat against, and with sharp clarity of purpose, pouring all his concentration into the task, braiding a whip out of cords.

Then, rising from his corner, intent on setting the record straight, he takes a deep breath and plunges into the center of the chaos, swinging his whip at the cattle, shouting, and chasing the bewildered animals out of the temple. 
Turning back he lunges at tables, flipping them over, scattering money everywhere as though it is useless. He points at the doves and roars to the sellers, “Get these things out of here! Stop making my father’s house a marketplace!”

And something inside of me wants to get to my feet and cheer.

Let me back up and give some context to the scene. 

This act Jesus did took place in the Court of the Gentiles, where thousands of Pilgrims came from all over and converged. This area was as far as non-Jews were allowed to enter the temple, as close as they could get to worship the God of Israel. It was their place to pray.  
The next section inward was for Jews only, called the Court of the Women, where all Jewish people could go, but the farthest in that women were allowed. 
Then came The Court of the Israelites, for only Jewish men, and inside that, the Court of the Priests for Levites, and inside that, the Holy of Holies, where God most resides, and where almost no human is allowed to go. 

I imagine each section quieter and calmer than the last, each one closer to the Divine, each one with fewer people in it.

The marketplace situation was business as usual in the temple, because people had to change their money for temple currency, and to buy sacrifices to offer to God in this place where human beings and the Divine meet each other.

Because way back, when God was giving instructions for how to live as God’s people, when God was directing them about how God and humans interact, God’s directions said,

Set apart a tithe of all the yield of your seed that is brought in yearly from the field. In the presence of the Lord your God, in the place that he will choose as a dwelling for his name, you shall eat the tithe of your grain, your wine, and your oil, as well as the firstlings of your herd and flock, so that you may learn to fear the Lord your God always. 
But if, when the Lord your God has blessed you, the distance is so great that you are unable to transport it, because the place where the Lord your God will choose to set his name is too far away from you, then you may turn it into money. With the money secure in hand, go to the place that the Lord your God will choose; spend the money for whatever you wish—oxen, sheep, wine, strong drink, or whatever you desire. And you shall eat there in the presence of the Lord your God, you and your household rejoicing together. As for the Levites resident in your towns, do not neglect them, because they have no allotment or inheritance with you.
 Every third year you shall bring out the full tithe of your produce for that year, and store it within your towns; the Levites, because they have no allotment or inheritance with you, as well as the resident aliens, the orphans, and the widows in your towns, may come and eat their fill so that the Lord your God may bless you in all the work that you undertake.
(Deuteronomy 14) 

Point being, all this -  saving up 10% of all your land and herds and vineyards produce and bringing it to God and feasting on it with God -  is meant to remind you every year that you belong to God.  And don’t forget, (in fact, every three years, you’d better use your saved up 10^th to really practice and remember this, by throwing a feast in your own town with it for all those in need): you also belong to each other.

But over time, the helpful accommodation God built in for those far away - that lets them sell their 10^th of produce and harvest for money, and then buy lovely things when they arrive on the other end to feast with God - this tool that was meant to create easier access between God and humanity, had become a gatekeeping instrument, a barrier, hurdles to jump through. Whether you lived near or far, it was expected of you to trade your money for temple money, and likely you'd need to trade your subpar sacrifices for approved temple sacrifices. And a whole business had built up around it; commerce and corruption, the outside world brought in to the place where God and human meet. 

And just as all things do when we trade the way of God for the way of fear, it had become a system of restrictions and labels, defining who was more worthy, and deciding who had more access. In the name of approaching God, they had succeeded in creating a maze of requirements and expectations to get close to God, that limited that access to a very narrow chosen few.

Now, the real reality is that God loves the world God made so much, and so longs to be in joy-filled relationship and deep connection with us all, that God became one of us, came here to share life with us, and take on death and all that separates us from God so that no barrier could ever again exist that would keep us apart.  Because we belong to God.  And in this person of Jesus Christ, God and human meet, completely, fully, absolutely. 

And so, walking into the temple that day and taking it all in, fresh off his water into wine miracle revealing a God of abundance, relationship and joy, Jesus was exceedingly angry.

The truth of who God is and who we are had been warped, amended, covered over – buried under layer after layer of caveats: some belong, in part, but not all, and not quite. 

You belong if… you don’t belong unless… you only belong when…

The who we talked about a few weeks ago, had become a how. 

Instead of the very being of God meeting real human beings in this place, it had become a game of how to please God, how to be a good Jew, (or a good Christian, or a good American, or a good parent, or a good ally, or a good fill in the particular measurement you’re working on at the moment...)

Instead of our very humanity coming into the presence of the One who claims us in love, it becomes how to prove yourself to God or others, how to meet expectations, how earn your worth or justify your existence or solidify your place. 

These are the messages swirling in the dust and the dung amidst the noise and the vendors and the people trying to pray to God the best they know how in the middle of it all.

And they all had accepted this as fact.  All of them.  Complicit in the system. They had accepted the how as the way it is.  They had let go of their who, and God’s who too, and accepted their roles, their proper place, their particular requirements to reach as close as they could to God, believing, perhaps, that they were lucky to get even that far, and not expecting anything more, because in the way of fear and scarcity there is only so much to go around, so if some get accepted others can’t be, (but at least we can take comfort that we’re farther in than they are).

It is no surprise whatsoever, then, that when Jesus cries out his last breath and dies on the cross, the huge, heavy temple curtain that divides off the Holy of Holies where God most resides and where almost no human was allowed to go, is torn in two from top to bottom.  His little temple demonstration with the whip this day was a mere taste of what was to come.

Because Jesus will tear down apart every barrier we erect that divides us from God and each other. He will drive out every distraction, and requirement, and label, and demand we place on ourselves and others that presumes to dictate who is worthy or unworthy to approach our maker, that dares to set terms for how to be included or excluded as God’s beloved people.

"What sign can you give us for doing this?," they ask Jesus, when he’s all finished making a huge mess of things.

What a great question. I love that question, because it means they’re willing to accept wild incidents, willing to let God surprise them; they’re open to being redirected.  

Jesus answers, Tear down this temple and I will rebuild it in three days. Only he uses the other word for “temple” not as in "sanctuary space," but as in “the place where God dwells.”  They scoff and think he is talking about the building they are standing in, ‘How are you going to do that?!” but he is talking about his very body.

I am, Jesus will go on to say a million times in John, I am the way and the truth, I am the good shepherd, I am the light of the world, I am the resurrection and the life. In me is all belonging, in me is love, in me is your wholeness and your joy and your identity and your purpose.  I am the temple, the place where God and humans meet.

God with us is with us. Nothing can separate us from that love. 
But we will make it a chaotic marketplace of goods and hurdles to reach what is already and always ours – belonging to God and belonging to each other.

We will put up barriers, and wield belonging like a weapon, a prize, a ticket that requires purchase. 
We will define ourselves and each other by our mistakes and our regrets, our associations and our labels, our beliefs and our track records and our ratings.  
We will decide who gets to come into belonging, and how far.  
We will act like we can bestow belonging or deprive people of it.

This happens between us, like it is happening right now for Theresa.

But it also happens within us. In the very center of our deepest selves, where God longs to dwell with us, we’ve barred our full selves out, deemed ourselves unworthy to go there.  We’ve decided what parts of us God welcomes in and how far, and what parts have to stay out in the outer place of exchanging and earning, chaos and noise.

But listen up, you guys, we don’t get to decide how to include or exclude or earn or prove who belongs.  And if we try, this scene assures us that God will mess it up for us, because that stuff make God really angry.

Jesus is always opening cages and letting our qualifications fly off, Jesus is always storming in with a handwoven whip and chasing away our good deeds, past performance, and personal sacrifices.  Jesus is always throwing over our carefully counted measurements of worth, and tearing open the barriers that keep people out.  
Jesus is intent on setting the record straight. 

And that is comforting to me.

We meet Jesus who is with and for us when we are when we are with and for each other. That is it. That’s the temple. That’s the place were God and humans meet. 
That’s the calling.  
We are the Body of Christ. 
May we belong so fully to God and to ourselves that we can belong fully to others and invite others into belonging.  
May we be willing to let God surprise us, 
open to being redirected, 
and brave and vulnerable to live as our true who, 
seen, and known, and loved, and claimed by the great I AM.

Amen.