a kingdom built of seeds

And he was teaching them and saying to them, “Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers…” And the blind and the lame came to him in the temple, and he healed them.

We are told to love everyone. But when we move to the fringes, to the outside, to do just that—love and stand with everyone, no matter their differences or lifestyles or beliefs, their mistakes or errors or sins—we are suddenly viewed with suspicion. Suddenly we ourselves are one of them—the others, the outsiders.

Can grace go too far? Can love be too big? Can inclusion be too universal? You tell me. “For God so loved the world…”

We are told to love, but with caveats. We say it’s unconditional, but is it? “Yes, but… Be careful. Don’t forget holiness. Don’t be deceived. Don’t compromise. Watch out. There’s still right and wrong.” Perhaps all valid warnings. But if God isn’t—and Christians and the church aren’t—for everyone, especially those who are different, the other and outsider, then who is God—and who are we—for? We say so much—I hear so much—but it means so little, changes so little.

I come back to the story of an angry Jesus in the temple, overturning tables and rebuking the racketeers. Was it about money, the buying and selling? Somewhat. But he was most aggrieved by the “insiders” hindering the “outsiders” (gentiles most of all) from worship by the suspect temple commerce taking place in the outer court. 

It was about greed, yes, but more so about worship. Anything—any obstacle, boundary, border, fence, wall, expectation, judgment, preventative measure—that hinders one who is spiritually curious or who wants to approach and worship, or decreases the possibility of one even having the desire to worship at all, is what angers God.

The implications are glaring. We keep some out—or prefer some over others—when everyone is invited. We reserve seats for the insiders (the holy and righteous, the spiritual elite) when the first shall be last and the last shall be first.

There are no closed doors with God. Why do we close ours? “There are limits” we say. Whose? God’s, or ours?

Do I feel something of this anger that Jesus so vividly displayed? Knowing my own weaknesses and shortcomings, I don’t give myself that much credit. It’s not as much about coffee or t-shirts or books being sold in a church lobby. It’s about who does and does not feel welcomed into that space; who does and does not feel safe, free, seen, accepted, a sense of belonging. Who can worship—who would even want to—if they don’t? Who would ever walk through those doors in the first place? 

I’m realistic enough to know that no matter the openness, many still choose to reject God entirely. This, however, is not the point. It’s this. Christians, the church, must never be the reason for rejection.

I fear they (we) often are.

“But woe to you, scribes and pharisees, hypocrites! For you shut the kingdom of heaven in peoples’ faces. For you neither enter yourselves nor allow those would enter to go in.”

Christ is adamant that anyone may approach, that no one be hindered from worship or distanced from the table. Everyone is invited.

“Truth” becomes a lie if placed above the person, if used to build a barrier, if it is a closed door rather than an open one.