A Dinner Party
Julia had never been to an evening banquet before—or what we might call a dinner party. To get into most banquets, you had to have something valuable. Political influence. A big business. A recognizable name. Or, lacking these things, you had to have the right connections. You had to rub shoulders with important people who were moving up in the world, people who had a reputation in the government or the marketplace. People like Julia, who didn’t even know her father’s name, whose menial work was meant to be in the shadows, out of sight, giving the illusion that her employer’s home was just naturally spotless and well ordered—people like Julia were never invited to a banquet.
And yet here she was, about to enter a modest dwelling where cooked food was being set out in the center of a room and people were milling about with friendly faces and warm embraces. She recognized a seamstress from the city center, the local grocer, even a former city official. In fact, he was the first to greet her, with a smile and a handshake and a “Welcome, sister”—which, if she were honest, unsettled her a little bit, but only with the hope that maybe it could be somehow true and here was a family.
Julia was at this banquet in the first place because a close friend, another menial worker, had told her about it. “You’ll eat better there than you do on your own,” her friend had said. “And it’s different from most banquets. There are no special privileges given to the rich or the powerful. We all share the same seats and eat the same food and have equal opportunity to share in the time of sharing.”
And sure enough, there in a circle, rich and poor alike sat and passed plates and bumped elbows and swapped stories. It was surreal. A few times during the meal, someone would speak up and share a memory about a man in whose name they would bless the meal and give thanks. Clearly this man was the founder of the feast, and so Julia did not hesitate to give thanks herself. Whoever was responsible for this strange gathering had her gratitude.
When the meal was done, a few men and women gathered the leftover food and packaged it up in bags. Julia’s friend leaned over and whispered that the bags would be delivered later to the poor and the imprisoned and the people who could not make it. Then all the banqueters got up reverently to wash their hands in ceremonial fashion. As they retook their seats in the circle, candles were lit. After a moment of silence, one banqueter began to sing a short song of praise, something about the founder of the feast being emptied and made like a slave and even put to death on a cross, and something about him being most highly exalted and his name being most honored. Then another banqueter, the seamstress Julia had recognized from earlier, spoke up and shared a personal story about how a client had swindled her the past week. “Before,” she said, “I would have been consumed with anger and threats of vengeance. I would have sought to have him dragged before the courts. But this time I remembered my Lord and asked myself, ‘What good would vengeance do?’” Then she held up her arms, looking a little bit like a person affixed on one of those wooden crosses that the Romans used for execution. “If I see that client again, I will tell him what he did and how it hurt me. But I will also ask him how I can help. Maybe he has a need that he cannot afford, and I can lend a hand. Didn’t my Lord say, ‘It is better to give than receive’?”
One by one, banqueters shared. Some sang songs like the first banqueter had sung, others told stories like the seamstress had told, and a few simply recited the words of texts that were sacred to them. After each person had shared, Julia felt enriched, as though having received a gift. Although she had nothing to share on this occasion, she knew that she would have been welcomed to speak.
At the closing of the banquet, everyone stood up and a few people prayed. And then everyone said together, “Let grace come, and let this world pass away. Come, Lord Jesus. Amen.”
As Julia went home that night, she felt different. Better. Fuller, not just in her gut, but in her spirit. She felt like there was something within her that was not there before—a feeling perhaps, like hope.
God’s House
When David proposes to build a “house” for God, which is to say a proper Temple instead of the portable cloth tabernacle that Israel has used since the time it left Egypt, his prophet Nathan doesn’t even think it’s worth consulting God. He just assumes God needs a temple. Or perhaps it’s that God deserves a temple. After all, if you look around at Israel’s neighbors, all the other gods have a temple. Of course they’re not “real” gods. Nathan knows that. But all the more reason for God to have a temple, but bigger and better, to show that he’s the real God and worthy of honor and glory and worship.
This is the first time we see Nathan in scripture, and it’s obvious here that he is a royal prophet. It was common for kings in the ancient Near East to have prophets in their pay, holy men who would validate their decisions and rubber stamp them with God’s name. In other words, they were “yes” men, but their “yes” was special because it came in God’s name.
But this night, Nathan gets a visit from the real God, who tells him he was gravely mistaken in his assumption. And then God effectively poses him the question, “Did I ever ask for a house?” (cf. 2 Sam 7:7). “I prefer being on the move,” God says, “going where my people go” (cf. 2 Sam 7:6).
God goes on to concede that, yes, David’s son will build a house for God’s name (2 Sam 7:13)—it seems that God will not forever stand in the way of our ambitions when we set our heart on something—but God concludes by making clear that the “house” that matters is the one that God is building. “The Lord will make you a house. … Your house and your kingdom shall be made sure forever before me” (2 Sam 7:11, 16).
To be sure, God is talking about an entirely different kind of house than David had in mind. As followers of Christ, we might remember New Testament scriptures like Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, where he says, “Your body”—and here the “you” is plural, so he’s referring to the collective body of Christ—“Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit” (1 Cor 6:19). Or we might remember Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, where he writes that in Christ “you”—again, plural—“you…are built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God” (Eph 2:22). In other words, Paul is insisting that neither is God’s “house” a building nor—and I think this second part is crucial—nor is God’s house an individual’s heart, like my heart or your heart. Rather, for Paul, God’s house is the community of Christ-followers, wherever they are gathered, whether in a grand temple like the one that Solomon would eventually build or the small home that Julia visited.
A Pattern of God Letting Us Have What We Want
God’s eventual concession that David’s son, Solomon, will build God a literal house, a temple, actually fits within a pattern that we see throughout scripture. Again and again, God lets us have what we want, even as God commits to and insists on so much more. God consents to relate to us on our terms, even as God insists on something that far transcends those terms.
The first animal sacrifices made in the Bible were not at God’s command, but out of humanity’s free will. Only after this has happened again and again, does God eventually say something like, “Okay, if you insist on these sacrifices, then at least do them this way and understand that their true meaning is not a matter of magic but has to do with matters of the heart.” (That is my interpretation of the book of Leviticus.)
In the same way, the people of Israel clamored for a king, even after Samuel had warned them about all the loss of freedom and life that a monarchy would entail. Finally, God concedes and says something like, “Okay, you may have a king. And even though it’s not part of my plan, I will be faithful to you. Just be sure that you and your king stay faithful to me.” (That is my interpretation of the book of 1 Samuel).
In today’s passage, David introduces the idea that God needs a temple. God responds in no uncertain terms that God does not need a temple. Even so, God does ultimately consent to the idea that David’s son, Solomon, will build him a temple. But God clarifies that what is most important is not the physical house, but the spiritual house that he will be building among people of faith.
“So Much More”
All of this leads me to wonder about the church at large—and the present circumstances in which many churches find themselves. I wonder about things like church buildings. Professional clergy. Programs designed to accommodate or attract a particular audience. I wonder, has God asked for any of this? Or is it another example of God letting us have our way, even as God still harbors plans for so much more?
And a part of me wonders if the “so much more” that God has in store for the church in fact looks like less. Like the modest gathering that Julia walked into. Her story, I’ll confess, is only imagined, but it is all drawn from the earliest accounts we have of the gatherings of Christ-followers. They had much less than we do. No official buildings to their name. No superstar pastors. No blueprints or ambitions for church growth. All they had was their experience of the risen Christ, which they experienced again and again together.
Not today, but in the future, I’d like to explore more with you what lessons we might learn from the early church, because it seems likely that the church at large will soon find itself with much less than it once had—and yet with an opportunity for God’s “so much more.”
Prayer
Faithful God,
Who meets us always where we are—
Grant us the faith of the crucified Christ,
Whose encounter with death
Became an ever-flowing font of life.
…
Teach us what is unnecessary and what we may let go of,
So that we might receive the gift you have for us.
In Christ, our Lord: Amen.
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