In all my years of preaching, I’ve never attempted to preach on this passage. It always seemed kind of niche. I mean, eating meat sacrificed to idols doesn’t exactly scream “urgent spiritual crisis.” But when I reread this letter, I realized it’s about so much more than one’s diet.
 
Remember, this church was deeply divided—by politics, class, and status. Folks with a more educated and mature faith looked down on those who were newer to the church. Those who were less “in the know.” Think about how some people roll their eyes at those who have “less informed” political views. This is what’s happening in Corinth. And Paul isn’t having it.
 
He reminds them—and us—that being right is not the same thing as being loving. “Knowledge puffs up,” he writes. “But love builds up.”

This is important for us to pay attention to because it was the way they loved that set this young church apart from the other religions. Christianity, believe it or not, was founded on radical, extreme inclusion. Everyone was welcomed, because everyone was loved.
 
It’s worth noting Corinth was destroyed and the do rebuilt by Rome. It became an important multinational pluralistic city. Worshipping idols was part of the cultural DNA. Temples to Aphrodite, Apollo, Isis, and even the emperor himself lined the streets.
 
In those temples, animal sacrifice was common. And the meat from those sacrifices was sold in marketplaces. And that meat that was being sold in the marketplace was being served at the dinner parties hosted by the wealthy. Some who just so happen to be the Christians Paul is writing to.
 
To some in the church it was only meat. Like Paul, they knew there was only one real God so buying meat offered to an illegitimate deity was like buying steak at Whole Foods. But to those newer to faith, that meat was seen as tainted, even dangerous. To eat it felt like a betrayal to their newfound faith; a slippery slope to the life they left behind.
 
Whichever side you’re on in this debate, Paul essentially says, “You’re right. But what good is your knowledge if it isn’t building each other up in love?” Being “right” means very little if it causes someone to stumble in their faith.
 
Now, just before America invaded Iraq, my knowledge had me convinced there were no weapons of mass destruction there. But my dad, not so much. He towed the party line.

​The harder I pushed back, the deeper he would dig in. Our arguments started to drive us apart.
I had to ask myself—was being right worth losing my dad? Guess what? It wasn’t.

Knowledge puffs up. But love builds up. And I chose to take the difficult path of love because that’s what Jesus taught me to do.
 
Surrounded by the smartest religious minds of his day, Jesus often challenged their interpretation of the scriptures they were quoting but not necessarily abiding by.

He says, “Whoa to you,” for being like whitewashed tombs looking good on the outside but full of darkness and death on the inside.
 
When they question his follower’s cleanliness, Jesus says it’s not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person but what comes out of it.
 
Jesus wasn’t looking to win arguments. His goal was to reveal the heart of scripture: love, mercy, and justice.

Jesus calls out “those in the know” for treating Scripture as a textbook instead of living out the words as a testimony to God's love. 
 
Being right isn’t the goal. The goal is being the presence of God’s love in the space between heaven and earth. Paul said he wouldn’t eat meat again if it meant hurting someone in the body of Christ.

This begs the hard question: What am I willing to give up so others can experience God’s love through me?
 
We know what Jesus was willing to give. He always prioritizes people over principles and traditions. When a bleeding woman pushes through a crowd of men to be healed, Jesus doesn’t rebuke her for breaking purity laws, he calls her “daughter” and heals her immediately.

​The same with the blind, the weak, the poor, the ones pushed aside and forgotten. Jesus doesn’t just make room for them, he re-centers the entire community around them so everyone is welcomed and loved.
 
St. Teresa of Ávila taught “It is love alone that gives worth to all things.” And this begs another question: What good is our faith if we’re not showing up: loving, healing, forgiving?

What good is knowing, or following, or worshiping the one who gave his life to make room for us if we won’t give up our seat or make room for someone else at God’s table?
 
This is what Paul calls freedom. Let’s not confuse this with the lack of oversight or laws, but to letting go of oneself and embracing cruciform love. Jesus didn’t use the power of his freedom to protect himself. He used it to serve. To lift up those around him. But are we willing to do the same?
 
Today, the church is divided over issues like same sex marriage, or using inclusive language for God. Whatever side of the arguments you’re on, I’m sure you’re convinced that your team is right. Again, the goal isn’t to win. It’s about loving God, loving others, and serving both.
 
This doesn’t mean truth doesn’t matter.  It does. But people matter more. The nosey neighbors, the offensive co-worker, the drag queens who read books to children, the angry protestors and the politically ignorant, all matter more to God than our theological correctness or denominational divisions.
 
What good is our faith, our worship, our Scripture, if we don’t embody the very love and grace of the God these things reveal? Paul calls us the body of Christ to remind us that like Christ, we must lay down our lives – our pride and ego – so others can rise.

​This is how we build a community of love together in the space that separates us.
 
I’d like to close with a story about our old neighbor Tom Wolfe, who was a carpenter and built his own house, doing most of the work himself. But someone poured the foundation. Another ran the pipes. And a few of his friends helped frame the roof.
 
Did they voted the same way or rooted for the same team? It didn’t matter. They worked together to create something bigger than themselves. A literal house of love.
 
That’s what Paul’s getting at. We’re all builders raising each other up on the foundation of God’s love in Christ. This is what it’s all about. Love is what holds this body up. Not opinions. Not arguments. Not knowledge. Just Love.
 
“Without love,” writes Paul, “I am nothing.”  And Jesus tells us, “They will know you belong to me by the way you love one another.”
 
You can know how to frame a wall or shingle a roof. But if you don’t show up to build—what good is that knowledge? So, let’s rise up for each other in love. If you are strong, be the first to kneel. If you are wise, be the first to listen. If you are free, let that freedom be someone else’s healing.
 
“For whatever you do to the least of these, your brothers and sisters,” says Jesus, “You do also to me.” Now that you know, go and live that. For love is the greatest form of worship done in his name. 

 Before we get into this, I want to share a true story about a guy named Carl who thought he was clever and wise. Thought he could pull a fast one, dating two women at the same time. 
 
He even created a foolproof system, so they’d never find out. Go to the same restaurant and order the same thing. See the same movie. Buy same concessions. He even bought the same cards and scribble the same sappy words into them so he wouldn’t slip up.
 
Clever, right? Until it wasn’t.
 
Because one of the women was actually wise. She eventually caught on. When she found the other woman, she didn’t get mad. She got clever. Together, the two hatched a  plan to catch Carl red handed.

They meet him at the airport as he returned home from a business trip. Each one holding up a sign that said, I love you, Carl. 
 
Right there, in terminal B, Gate 4, all of his wisdom was exposed for what it really was. Foolishness.
 
Turns out, sometimes what looks wise can collapse under its own weight. But sometimes what feels foolish, can end up saving lives.

Take vaccines as an example. Who would have thought it wise to inject themselves with a little bit of the very disease they’re trying to prevent catching? It sounds crazy but it works. It saves lives.
 
Paul reminds us that it’s the same with the Cross of Christ. Who would have thought an instrument of death would be the very thing that saves you. But that’s the wisdom of God, whose “foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and whose weakness is stronger than human strength.”
 
Only God could strip the cross of all its power. Only God could take Rome’s most brutal symbol of death and transform into the world’s greatest sign of hope. It sounds foolish to some, but to us being saved by it, it’s the power of God at work in our lives.
 
We might be scratching our heads wondering where Paul came from with such logic. He got it from Jesus who turns the world upside down in the most right-side-up way possible.
 
He said things like, “Whoever wants to save their life must lose it.”
 
“The first will be last, and the last will be first.”
 
“The greatest among you must be a servant.”
 
Jesus never said, “Win at all costs.” Or “Get revenge.” He flips that script and says, “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.”
 
That was pure foolishness to those in power. But to everyone suffering under poverty and oppression… the things Jesus said brought them hope.
 
In fact, Jesus’ own life was, and still is, a holy paradox. A king born into poverty. A savior who doesn’t slay enemies but forgives them. A God who doesn’t demand sacrifice but becomes the sacrifice. This doesn’t make sense to the Romans, or to the religious leaders, or to the crowd shouting “crucify him.”
 
It doesn’t always make sense to us, either. The cross still looks like weakness in a world obsessed with power. But to us who are being saved by it? It’s the very wisdom of God.

And the way I see it…this wise foolishness is our proof of just how far God is willing to go to rescue, redeem, and love us. This love, God’s love, is stronger than death, wiser than empires, deeper than our logic.
 
So, Paul tells us not to boast in our intelligence, brilliance, or strength. Instead, boast in the Lord. Boast in the cross. Boast in this beautiful, upside-down love that chooses mercy over might, forgiveness over revenge, and community over division.
 
Love is the foolishness of God. Love the wisdom of the cross. And with this cruciform Love we can build a community of hope together in a world drowning in despair.
 
Paul calls us to see the world according to God’s logic. Where our weakness is God’s strength. Where our confusion is God’s wisdom. Where in Anamesa, God’s love isn’t a joke…but the very heartbeat of all we are. And what we are called to proclaim.
 
In God’s love, we build this community not with brilliance or bravado, but with foolish things. Kindness when someone is cruel. Forgiveness when it’s easier to stay mad. Showing up when we want to turn away.

​When we live in such foolishness, death actually loses its sting. Fear loses its grip. And God’s love rises up victorious.
 
It shouldn’t surprise any of us then to know that the foolishness of love is the cross Jesus calls us to pick up. It’s how we are to follow him - loving God, loving others, and serving both. This is Christ crucified. The very good news we’re sent to proclaim. But how do we share this news if we don’t quite have the words formed?
 
Let me share another true story that happened back in 2006, in Pennsylvania when an angry young man walked into a one-room Amish schoolhouse and executed five schoolgirls and wounded seven others before turning the gun on himself.
 
Instead of responding to his violence and anger with more of the same, the grieving community chose to show the world the wise foolishness of cruciform love. 

While the blood of their children was still wet on the floor, members of that Amish community walked to the shooter’s home, holding their own grief in one hand and grace in the other.
 
They went there not to retaliate, but to forgive and embrace his family who were also in shock, and suffering loss. And if that wasn’t enough, the entire community showed up at this man’s funeral. They even took up a collection to support his widow and children.
 
Foolish, the world said. But to us being saved, it looked an awful lot like Jesus. Because what seems foolish, God makes wise. What seems weak, God makes strong. Through suffering and pain, God’s hope and glory is revealed and proclaimed.
 
As we leave here today, may we all be wise enough to do such foolishness, in the name of the One who walked out of a tomb and into our lives, still bearing the wounds of love. And may we carry that love into every space we enter, and every soul we encounter.
 
It might sound foolish to some. But to us who are being saved it’s the power of God’s love that comes alive, made manifest in us. With it, we have hope.

As Paul will write later in this letter, “Faith, hope, and love abide; these three. And the greatest of these is love.”

Then, out of the blue, another kid comes up to him. No hesitation, just walks right over with a smile and strikes up a chat. Just like that, the nervous kid’s face lit up, and they’re off—chatting like old pals as they began to toss a ball to each other.

Talk about a sacred and holy Anamesa moment. Leaning into that space between the unknown with open arms and an open heart.

As I walked away I began to think about that famous passage in Hebrews that reminds us why welcoming others is so important. It says, “Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!” (Hebrews 13:2).

Joy always starts with a welcome invitation.

Recently, a man I met in the same park, accepted my invite and join us for church service in my backyard. Michael, as I would learn, is a "walker." Or what some would call a "vagrant" or the latest coloquial version, "unhoused." He and I had spent a bit of time getting to know one another after my dog began sniffing him while he was sitting and praying. 

Of the four gospel accounts, Mark is the only one that comes to a screeching halt. No heavenly choir, no seaside breakfast, no grand entrance shouting “Here I am!” Just an empty tomb, three bewildered women, and a powerful invitation: Go and let the others know.
 
For Mark, that’s enough. Resurrection doesn’t need fanfare. It just needs to be lived. That’s exactly what Mary, Mary, and Salome do. Before the sun rises, they make their way through the dark to prepare Jesus' body for his final burial. Finding an open tomb and no body inside, they react just like any of us might. “They fled, trembling and bewildered, and said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.”
 
That’s Mark’s big finish. His story doesn’t end with clarity or certainty. But with the author pushing his pen our way as if to say, “Go and finish the story.”

 Because here’s the thing: Easter isn’t the end of the story. It’s the birth of something radically new. Resurrection is a birth announcement. A new life, a new way of living, born in the space between our messy, ordinary, sacred lives.
 
I’ve been fortunate enough to have witnessed the birth of each one of our kids. I've also been called to sit by bedsides at the end of life. Neither events are neat and tidy. They’re full of sweat and tears. Grit and groaning. Both deeply human, deeply holy. Painful in their own ways.
 
And that’s Easter – life conceived from death. Profound love born out of deep, raw anguish. It turns everything we know upside down. Leaving us to make sense of it.

This is how John Chrysostom, the great preacher of the early church, describes it: “Hell took a body, and met God face to face. It took earth and encountered heaven. It took what it saw and was overcome by what it did not see.”
 
While disciples locked themselves away in fear and despair, death desperately strained for the last word. But God spoke louder. And love won. Because, you see, in God’s kingdom, love wins every single time. This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
 
How then, do we rejoice in a world that still honors death? And perceives love as a weakness.

St. Augustine gently reminds us, “We are an Easter people, and ‘Alleluia’ is our song.” You see, we don’t just come together to celebrate Easter—we are called to embody it.

We are resurrection people, called out of the tombs and hidden spaces to be the good news, to quote St. Francis, “using words only when necessary.”
 
We are called to walk gently through confusion and fear, bringing the light of Christ into the darkness. That’s the call of the church. That’s Anamesa. To take what God has given to us and do likewise to one another in every space we enter.
 
My favorite 13th Century German mystic, Meister Eckhart teaches us that “We are all meant to be mothers of God… for God is always waiting to be born.”
 
Again, Easter is the birth of something new. Something holy, something beautiful, something brimming and bursting with life.

God is always waiting to be born. And we, the Church, are the midwives. A community brave enough to sit in the messiness, breathing deeply, pushing bravely, delivering love into the world that tries to destroy it.
 
I call this resurrection work. The quiet, unfinished story of God’s endless love that transforms the world around us moving us closer and closer to God’s Kingdom. This is the work we are called to do in the space between us and them, me and you, life and death.
 
You see, with every offer of love given to someone, the Easter story continues. Like Howard Thurman wrote, “There must always remain in every life some place for the singing of angels, some place for that which in itself is breathless and beautiful.”

That place, for me, is Anamesa.
 
I can’t promise you we will ever be polished or perfect, or if we’ll ever sing like angels. But in the last eight years, we’ve become a breathless and beautiful space. A place where love outshines fear. Hope overwhelms in welcome and joy.

We aren't here to fix yesterday, but to simply show up to bear witness to what God is doing now. Because Easter isn’t confined to the past. It’s unfolding right now. In you. In me. In Anamesa.

Each act of quiet kindness, gentle forgiveness, simple compassion, is Christ coming alive.Each time we feed someone who’s hungry, resurrection happens. Each time we comfort someone grieving, or listen to someone who’s hurting, or welcome someone who’s lonely Christ is born again and again. And so are we.
 
Every act of love, whether intentional or not, is a tiny resurrection – a mini-Easter moment. It gives birth to something new, and transformational.
 
Which is why I think Marks ends his gospel so abruptly. There’s no time to linger around an empty tomb. We have to go, picking up where Jesus left off, stepping into the mystery and being the presence of his awe.
 
Jesus doesn’t just call us to the cross he sends us out beyond it, into new life marked by grace and love. His destiny is our destiny. His mission, now ours. We are his body. Easter is our birth.
 
Eight years ago, we asked, “What if we built a community rooted not in doctrine, but delight? A community that isn’t seeking power, but presence? One that’s not about perfection, but people?”
 
Today, we affirm it’s possible. We are building a community of love in the space between. It’s happening here. Right now. Every time we show up in awe…trusting love…becoming midwives of resurrection.
 
So let’s not tame this Easter story. Or rush past the trembling and tears. Instead, let's live joyously, fearlessly, knowing the tomb is empty. Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again. Over and over again, in all that we do.
 
This is the day the Lord has made. Life endures. Hope prevails. Love wins. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

The night begins with an act so stunning, it catches everyone off guard. Jesus gets up from the table, wraps a towel around his waist, pours water into a basin—and starts washing the calloused, cracked, dusty feet of those who he has spent three years walking beside.

This lesson he is teaching is not symbolic. Unlike his parables, it’s not a metaphor for anything. It’s just the way Jesus invites us to follow him as he wipes grime off the ones who still don’t fully get who he is.

Peter, as Peter often does, protests. He states rather boldly, “No, Lord. You’re not washing my feet.” He can’t stand the idea that Jesus—their Teacher, their Lord—would do the work of the lowliest servant. But Jesus insists: “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”

Jesus could have taught them a theology on servanthood. But instead He says, “Let me show you how it’s done.”  This is what love does. It stoops. It serves. It gets close enough to smell the sweat. And see inside the cracks in your heels.

When he is done, Jesus turns to them—and to us— and says, “Just as I have done for you, go and do for one another.” If you want to makes the kingdom of heaven come alive go and live your life, as Paul describes, “in imitation of Christ.”

Right after Jesus does this humble act, something holy happens. They eat. Not just bread and wine, but the fullness of a shared meal. A Passover supper, rich in memory and meaning.

Somewhere between the dipping of bread and the drinking of the cup, Jesus tells them something extraordinary. He says, “I do not call you servants any longer… I have called you friends.” Friends. That word should stop us in our tracks.

The very idea that Jesus, the Son of God, who walked on water and raised the dead, pulls us close and says: “You’re my beloved friend.” To be a friend of Jesus is to be not just seen, but known. Fully and completely. The good and the bad. And still be welcomed at the table

Jesus calls them friends, even though he knows betrayal is coming. Peter will deny him. The rest will scatter. And Judas is already reaching for the bread with treachery in his heart.

Still, Jesus doesn’t hold back his love for them all. He leans in. He gives the bread as a symbol of his body. He offers the wine as a reminder of God’s covenant and the blood he is about to shed. And, most importantly, he loves them to the very end. Nothing will ever be the same again.

That’s the power of love. Real Love. The kind that comes from God. The kind that’s not transactional, but transformational. Not based on our worthiness, but rooted in God’s mercy and grace.

So, in this room, around this table with his friends, Jesus gives them what is called the mandatum novum—a Latin phrase that means “new mandate” or “new commandment.” It’s where we get the word “Maundy”

Jesus says: “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:34-35)

Love as I have loved you. That’s the commandment that still hangs in the air every Maundy Thursday. It’s the one thing death cannot contain. Jesus says, Love is the greatest and second greatest commandment. All the other ones hang on this truth - Love God. Love One Another.

Be the kind of love that shows up with a towel and a basin. That sets a table for both enemies and friends alike. That prays even for those who do you wrong.

St. Augustine once said, “What does love look like? It has the hands to help others, the feet to hasten to the poor and needy, the eyes to see misery and want, and the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of others. That is what love looks like.”

Jesus could have stopped there. And it would have been enough. But he gets up from the table, knowing what is coming and what he has to do. He leaves the room, and his friends follow.
Together they walk to a garden to pray under the moon and stars. Yes, they pray.

Jesus' prayer is a deep, aching, heartfelt prayer too. it's a prayer for his strength. His faithfulness. His courage. He also prays for his friends. For those of us who will come after. For you and me.

He prays, “That they may all be one… that the love with which you have loved me may be in them” (John 17: 21, 26).

On the brink of his own suffering, Jesus stops to pray for us. For our unity. For our love. And Peace. He prays for our capacity to live in the space between as a people who reflect the love of God.

That kind of love isn’t soft or sentimental. It’s fiercely hopeful. It believes that even in a fractured world, even when betrayal is close and the cross is looming, we can still be a people who love each other well.

Which brings us to this space where thousands of years later, we still gather at the table, still trying to live into that new commandment.

But it seems ever more apparent to me that Christ’s body is more fractured and broken than ever. How we have forgotten the point of Maundy Thursday. It’s not to reenact a moment, but to reimagine what it means to love like Jesus in the here and now.

To build a community of love, together, in the space between—between success and failure, between certainty and doubt, between your good days and your worst ones. That’s Anamesa.

The sacred ground where God kneels with a towel, where Jesus calls us, “Friend.”

Yes, this is a holy night. It’s holy because it teaches us how to be church. Not by programs or perfect theology, but by proximity and presence.

By washing the feet of the ones who are hard to love.

By opening the door for those who feel left out. Setting a table for the ones we’ve shut out.

And by daring to call someone “friend” even when they don’t deserve it. Because that’s how Jesus loved. And he says, “Go do likewise.”

As the mystic Julian of Norwich said, “The greatest honor we can give Almighty God is to live gladly because of the knowledge of his love.”


Let us go and rejoice together, washing, eating, sharing, praying, and showing up for each other in all the different ways we love God, love others, and serve both.

It’s been a full week around here. The good kind of full. With so many old friends passing through, we’ve joked about putting up a sign: The Anamesa Inn – Where Love Finds A Home.
 
Sure, the usual rhythm of life gets a little interrupted when we have guests in town. But isn't that the point? To stop and enjoy the things and people you love. When I'm with people who’ve walked with me through the best and the worst, who’ve laughed loud and stayed close through sorrow, I don’t mind the disruption. I just make room.
 
There’s a kind of longing joy that tends to show up when someone I love walks back through the door. The kind that lifts my face into a smile and throws my arms wide  open in a way that says, “Welcome home.”
 
Tomorrow is Palm Sunday — and that, too, is a homecoming. Jesus enters Jerusalem—not like a celebrity on parade, but like a familiar friend returning to the old neighborhood. Everyone is excited to see him. They throw cloaks like welcome mats and wave palms like they’re waving someone out of the rain into their home. It’s here something holy stirs: a hope-filled homecoming in the space between past and promise.
 
That’s the kind of space we’re building here: a community that welcomes and wants everyone to feel at home. Where something warm is on the stove. And someone’s glad you showed up. A space where you hear, “Come on in. You’re just in time.”
 
We know what Jesus will endure. But we also know what he brings: healing, hope, and a love that outlasts even death. No matter where you are, Jesus invitation to bring your joy, your grief, your questions, your need to belong. That’s our invitation as well.  
 
Like those who lined the streets, we’re always ready to welcome you. The porch light is on. There is coffee (or tea) in the pot. And there’s always enough room here to unpack your bags and rest. There’s no need make reservations. You don’t rent or earn your place here. You just simply belong, simply because you are.

It’s hard for some people to read this because it makes us see Jesus as… well, human. The real, messy, unpredictable one who throws fits, and flips tables.

We like our Jesus calm and measured. One who cradles lambs, smiles gently, and says, “Blessed are the peacemakers.” But John gives us this wild, whip-wielding Jesus and it messes with our heads a little.

Because, let’s be honest, even though Jesus is human we don’t love the idea that he acts like us.
 
Jesus is supposed to be the grown up in the room. He's the mature one, the patient one. The Divine one, for crying out loud! We’re supposed to be like him. Not the other way around, right?

All that is true. We are to be like him. But Jesus gets frustrated. He gets righteously angry. And we should be happy about it because it means he cares deeply about what God wants. Which also means he cares deeply about you and me, too.
 
Jesus isn’t indifferent to suffering. He’s not numb to injustice. He is, as Scripture says, "God with us." He sees the world as it is and longs for what it should be. So, if Jesus—God-in-the-flesh—gets angry at a broken system, then don't you think that maybe we should get angry too. Righteously speaking of course.
 
My wife were having a great discussion one day about the state of the church. She asked, “Do you think any of us would recognize Jesus if he was here today?”

It's one of those questions I’m sure we’d all like to answer, “Yes. Of course.” But would that be true?
 
How many times have we walked pass him without saying hello?

How many of his “excuse me” or “can you help me” have fallen on deaf ears?

If Jesus walked into most churches today, would he be welcomed and embraced? Or would he be asked to leave. Would he ever make it through the front door or be shut out completely?

I know a lot of churches that would turn him away because he's homeless, or a foreigner, or worse...a liberal. While it's easy to poke fun of those places that "seem to get it all wrong," we all have to look in a mirror and ask, if Jesus walked into my house, or my church, what would he turn over?

And while you ponder that question, remember this simple truth: Jesus wasn’t crucified for being nice. They killed him for calling out the systems that protected the powerful and crushed the vulnerable.

And I hate to say it but not much has changed in these last 2,000 years. It's as if everything Jesus said just vanished like vapor in the wind.

We still create churches that come with very specific terms and conditions. We still raise up leaders who tell us who's in and who's out. We bury our heads when they make scapegoats of people for who they are, or where they're from. We allow their systems to marginalize people because it makes us look better. In other words we still create structures and laws that clash with what God wants.

And this is exactly why we need Jesus to come inside and do a little house cleaning.
 
As John tells us, Jesus enters the Temple and sees a mess. This isn’t just the physical mess of animals and money changers. It’s something deeper. The system meant to connect people with God had lost its way. It had become exclusive, boxed-in, more about control than communion.

Jesus says, “Tear it down, and I will rebuild it in three days.” He’s not just laying the groundwork for Easter, he’s teaching us something important that must happen first. We have to tear down and clean out all the crap that stopping us from living out God's will for us if we want to see the kingdom of heaven come to life.

Restoration begins with demolition.
 
John's gospel tells us that Jesus starts in the Court of the Gentiles. This was a place outside the Temple that was designed so everyone - no matter who you were or were you came from - could come and meet the one true God. While only Jews were allowed into the Temple, everyone was allowed into the Court of the Gentiles. 

When Jesus goes there, instead of finding an open and inviting space, he sees barriers have been put up. People were being kept out. Worship had been commercialized. The sacred had been sold for profit and personal gain. Jesus sees all this and does what he does best—he disrupts and dismantles our systems of power.
 
With righteous fury, Jesus clears the clutter to make space for God’s holy reign. He begins here because he knows God’s kingdom isn’t about exclusion or gatekeeping. It’s about gathering and embracing.

Restoration begins with tearing down the walls and making room for everyone.
 
Years ago, I worked at a record store when CDs were becoming popular. Joe, the owner, needed to do some remodeling to make space for the extra merchandise. Joe asked this guy named Billy Roppel, to take down the back wall.

Now, Billy was a giant hulk of a human. Muscles from the ears down. One part punk rock. One part wrecking ball. He didn’t bother picking up a sledgehammer. He had no need for it. Instead, Billy just threw his entire body into the wall - smashing holes through the drywall. And ripping out wooden studs like twigs.
 
To those who had no idea what was happening, I’m sure it looked like total chaos and destruction. But to the rest of us, it was nothing less than pure poetry. Joe needed that space so something new could be built. And Billy was more than happy to help.
 
It’s the same with Jesus in the Temple. He’s not being reckless or belligerent. His actions are intentional and restorative. He’s not having a tantrum. He’s making room. Jesus knows that God is building something new. Something for everyone! And he is more than happy to help.
 
That’s why this story is perfect for Lent - that special season where we all do a little spiritual house cleaning and renovation. It’s a time to take an honest look at the clutter in our lives—the stuff that’s keeping us from honoring God’s love and justice—and start flipping some tables.
 
If we’re being honest, we all have hidden wounds, secrets we avoid, unresolved pain we’ve buried. Our pride, our fears, our need to be right can harden us, and keep us from healing.
 
The thing is, Jesus didn’t come just to make a difference. He came to make us different too.

He calls us to repent, to change the way we think. When we remodel our lives to think like him, we begin to see the world with his eyes and heart. We begin to love like he loves; with compassion, mercy, and grace—so that others might see Christ in us. That’s hard to do when you’re locked away in a box, or buried behind a bunch of stuff.
 
Lent invites us to take a hard look within ourselves to name the walls Jesus wants to tear down. And to clear space so that God’s love has more room to work.
 
We are the body the Christ, a part of that holy restoration. But if we’re not careful, we may wake up to find our sacred spaces filled with cattle, coins, and moneychangers—things that do not belong.

Which is why it’s good for us to invite Jesus in to do a little remodeling, so we can have the room within our hearts to welcome him in the other.
 
Jesus didn’t come to build an exclusive club. He came to build something better.

A kingdom where the outcast are honored. A kingdom where the poor are lifted up. A kingdom where God’s love is the only law that matters. This is our work too. To join Jesus in this kingdom building remodel.