Too frequently, I think of the arrival of Jesus as a cosmic event that proves my profound rightness. As if all the thoughts and fist-shaking arguments that play out during my articulate diatribes while I marinate in a hot shower will suddenly become embodied in a war-like savior that tells off my boss for making me work overtime, a coworker for never cleaning the hardened cheese out the microwave, or a crazy cousin I see once a year with political ideas that make my blood boil. The coming of Jesus, in this form, is about stewing in this poisonous broth, transforming us into a person of hatred instead of the Body of Christ that ushers in the acceptance and love of God.
But the table is already set for a feast. A feast of rich food and well-aged wines, where God will destroy the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations, wiping away the tears from our faces. With the shroud gone, we can see our boss as Melanie, our coworker as David, our cousin as Stephanie. They are no longer the object of our wrath and frustration, but people who Christ welcomes to His Holy Mountain. But we, like the disciples in Matthew 15, must become the participants in this transformation. The hungry are present, the food is multiplied, and the Christ turns to us to “feed his sheep.”
God, may the radical inclusiveness of your Holy Mountain burn brightly within us as we strive not only to stay awake for your coming but to provoke your arrival in the world around us, offering the loaves and fish of our hearts and bodies.
Come, Lord Jesus.
Isaiah 25:6–10a
Matthew 15:29–37
For the record at this point in life, I have awesome bosses and coworkers, and I don’t have any cousins with wacko political ideas that drive me crazy. No feelings were hurt in the process or publishing of this blog.
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