God's House

Isaiah 49:8-16a
Psalm 131
Matthew 6:24-34
Picture, if you will, a home—not just a place where people live, but where the members of a family feel like they belong. There is warmth in this place—there are times that people disagree—but never a time where people are abandoned or excluded from one another. In the heart of the house is a parent, a mother, a father—it doesn’t matter—it is one who is responsible for the love and the care that all receive. Some of it is directly from the parent’s hand, or from the other members of the family—all the children of God. I can hear God speaking with wonder and love at the sight of those children, working, resting and living their lives.

When I woke from resting, my little one was sitting against me awake but relaxed and secure because I was there. I know she wondered why I slept while she was awake—I was tired, creation takes a lot of energy and time. I needed the rest to be ready for my continuing work—and I needed to rest to show her how important it was to rest after hard work had been done. She was concerned, I know, and wanted to be near me even as I slept. But I know, even if she didn’t know yet, that she’d have been in my arms immediately, cradled against me, comforted and safe before any real hurt came to her.

Though no longer a nursing infant, she was still comforted by the warmth of my body reminding her of the hours we’d spent in that most intimate of connections between mother and child. We had both needed it—that memory—and we would continue to need it as she grew more and more independent of me and as I grew freer of the constant need of an infant. In that close contact was the reminder that we would always be connected—even if we weren’t in physical contact with one another.

She didn’t need my touch constantly anymore—she could work and play for hours on her own or with her brothers and sisters. As she grew that time would grow longer and longer. Yet no matter how she grew—or how much her siblings grew—she would still need to know me, to know I was with her to support, to listen, to advise—even to discipline, correct and curtail her behavior.

And when that is necessary, even now, my child grows angry at me and at herself, and at all who are around her for awhile. But after reaching my limits and her own, I always gather her up in my arms and remind her that I love her. Even now, when she is too young to understand, I explain what her actions meant—why she wasn’t to do it any more—how her actions could hurt her or other. She doesn’t understand yet—but she will and these words will be a reminder, written within her—at least that is my hope and will for her life.

I speak to her brothers and sisters, too, as they grow and as they learn more about themselves and about the lives that they will lead as they become adults. I can look at their little sister and at them and see how they change from moment to moment—what they need from age to age. And they know the stories of my love for all of them—how I have cared for them from century to century and from nation to nation.

I have watched them journey from age to age; Abraham’s journey to the land of my promise took years because he and I had to learn all about one another. And Sarah had to trust me, too, as her journey toward motherhood took longer than she’d planned. I never abandoned any of Abraham’s children, though some promises are better remembered than others.

Jacob, his sons and daughter, his wives and all of his family lived in my promise, yet they journeyed beyond the land of Abraham for a time. The journey back there took awhile because, again, those children and I had to relearn and renew the covenant that I’d had with their ancestors so many centuries before. I learned that they needed strong boundaries and clear expectations so that they and all who met them would understand that they were my children—and that they still are my children.

As my children, no one has ever made me angrier than they have made me. I have cried at their indifference and raged at their callous disregard for me by their disregard of one another. Some of them are wealthy and generous; some are wealthy and miserly to the point of evil; some are poor and hard-working; some are poor and lazy; some are completely helpless and must be cared for by the others; some are so good at caring for others that they forget about their own needs.

When they make me angry, I show them why. When the wealthy and powerful took advantage so many centuries ago, I sent them away from the land of my promises. I never left them alone, but revealed to them that blessing and riches didn’t go with them and with my presence among them. I sent them messages through those who continued to listen to my voice. While they were still in exile, I said,
I have kept you and given you as a covenant to the people,to establish the land, to apportion the desolate heritages; 9saying to the prisoners, ‘Come out’, to those who are in darkness, ‘Show yourselves.’They shall feed along the ways, on all the bare heights shall be their pasture; 10they shall not hunger or thirst, neither scorching wind nor sun shall strike them down,[1]
My servant spoke these words to them—wrote them to last for generations, so that all of my children would know that my love outlasts my anger and my disappointment. And they wondered still if I loved them. My daughter said, ‘God has forsaken me, God has forgotten me.’ I argued,
15Can a woman forget her nursing-child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb?Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. 16See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands;[2]
Then, as now, some believed in my love and some did not—most did. And I continued to walk with them as they began to rebuild the city that had been destroyed. They built me a home there—not that I was limited to that space—but my children seem to need a place to visit me, just to know I’m there. I created them that way, it seems.

And some took note of my presence with great affinity. They realized that my presence didn’t always announce itself with trumpet blasts and thundering drumbeats. Often they felt me in the peace of which I am made.
. . . my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high;I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me. 2But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.[3]

These children of mine—the ones who listen and the ones who write and speak of me—they are the joy of my heart. I want to be their joy, too. So I continue to touch and to care, even though it hurts more than anyone can imagine. My children, some more than others, have listened and carried my words as if they were my own. My son Jesus taught them by recognizing my presence in the care I extended to the simples of my creations—the ones who do my will without words.

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, 29yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. 30But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? 31Therefore do not worry, saying, “What will we eat?” or “What will we drink?” or “What will we wear?” 32For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. 33But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.
34 ‘So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.[4]
I spoke through my son, Jesus, and I spoke through Isaiah, my child and my servant and through Jeremiah, one of my youngest at the time. My household continues to be built in spurts and starts—sometimes well and sometimes badly so that walls have to be torn down and rebuilt on strong foundations. But my message has continued throughout the movement of time and in whatever place my children live. I care for you with my own hand—and I charge you to care for one another because that’s also how I care for you. I and building a house—built of the lives and love of my children founded on my love and my life. It is founded on the love of Jesus, my son, too, who created a family of his followers to build after he left them. My spirit through him continued to inspire and to move my children to do the work that he left, that I have commissioned in the world. My house—the kingdom of Jesus’ preaching—is being built by my hand and by the hand of all who do my will and love with the love that I give them.

My house is not built all at once and each child’s contribution may not seem significant to that one or any other. But it is being built, even as I and all of you live within it. Another of my children, Robert Kennedy, saw this truth, this incremental homebuilding 40 years ago. “Let no one be discouraged by the belief there is nothing one man or one woman can do against the enormous array of the world’s ills, against misery and ignorance injustice and violence. . . . few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of our generations.”[5]

This is the home that I see God building; these words are the words that I imagine God speaking to us through the stories of God’s work in history—through God’s work in us and in all of God’s children.

Ponder these words, imagine God’s home being built—in microscopic increments—in the lives, hopes and dreams of all who seek God’s love in their lives, whether they know it or not.

To the glory of God. Amen.
[1] Isaiah 49.8-10
[2] Isaiah 49:15-16
[3] Psalm 131.1-2
[4] Matthew 6.28b-34
[5] Behold, Pentecost 2 3008 (Year A), May 18-August 31, 2008, 2008, p. 23.