This seems to be my season for recognizing things I’ve never noticed in scripture before. Sometimes the connection between our readings is readily apparent to me. There are some that I’ll probably never figure out, but the attempt almost always leads me to new awareness, and that’s what happened to me this week.
I was particularly puzzled about the connection between the reading from Exodus and the gospel. I have to admit that I haven’t spent a lot of time reading about the Ten Commandments. I’ve read the stories of Moses’ trips up Mount Sinai, but I tend to think of the commandments in a clump. We all know what they look like—we’ve all seen pictures of Charlton Heston holding up the tablets in the movie. We all know what they are—more or less—and we can look in the prayer book (page 317 or 350) if we lose track of exactly what’s in the list. What surprised me when I looked at this passage in my bible is how little most of it looks like a list. There are long descriptions of the four commandments related to our relationship with God. The remaining six are indeed a list—looking almost like an afterthought in comparison with the first four. God leaves it to us to define honoring our parents and refraining from murder, adultery, theft, bearing false witness and covetousness. On the other hand, it’s very clear that the meaning of the first four commandments is that God is to be the center of our attention.
Keeping those commandments has never been our greatest skill. Moses gave the commandments to the people then returned to the presence of God, where he received the 10 chapters of the law that would govern everything from care for the resident alien to the building of the altar. While Moses was gone, getting the rest of the instructions, the people grew anxious. They had Moses’ brother make the image of a golden calf for them, and they worshiped it. The pattern hasn’t changed much over the centuries. We still tend to create idols that get between us and our focus on God.
And there’s the connection I see between these two pieces of scripture.
There were many reasons for the money-changers and the livestock sellers to be in the temple. Animals were required for the sacrifices that were a principal part of worship, and, because most coins had the image of the law required that the annual temple tax paid by every adult male could only be paid in the silver half-shekel of Tyre. Money-changers were to be found in busy locations throughout the city. So, didn’t it make good sense to have them in the courtyard of the temple? Many animals were slaughtered every day in the temple. So didn’t it make good sense to have them in the courtyard of the temple? It made so much sense that I doubt anyone noticed when things shifted. I doubt there was a day when someone said, “Whoa! We’ve gone a few steps over the line!” I don’t think anyone noticed when the focus on the things of the world—the focus on maintaining the institution—began to take precedence over the focus on the sacred.
Then Jesus walked in. In the busiest season of the money-changers’ year. In the weeks prior to Passover when all adult males were in town to pay their temple tax. He noticed what was happening and had probably been happening for more years than people could remember. He noticed. And he got angry. He got very angry.
Jesus got angry, and good Christians over the centuries and down the generations have used his anger and his violent actions that day to justify violence—to justify killing in the name of Christ.
Through all these years, we’ve tended not to notice that Jesus’ actions were directed at the institution—at the system—not at the people. He drove the sheep and cattle out but asked the seller to take the doves—which were bought by the poorest people as their sacrifice—safely out of the area. Jesus expressed his anger by turning over tables and herding animals, not by hurting people. Through all these years, we’ve tended not to notice that it was the structure of commerce that was damaged, not the people who came to sell and to worship and to live their lives. Through all these years, we’ve tended not to notice that he was overthrowing the idol the people had made of the commerce surrounding the worship in the temple.
The thing is—we’re all very good at making idols. We’re so good at it that it’s difficult for us to notice when it’s happening. It’s sometimes even harder to see the idols that we’ve incorporated into our lives. It’s especially difficult when that idol—like the commerce in the temple—begins with good purpose. All kinds of things become idols—things that we put before God in our lives. Sometimes we call those things addictions. Other times we call them productivity or responsibility or love for a spouse or partner or child. Sometimes we call them our ministries.
All manner of good things can shift our attention and overshadow our connection with God. One way or another, we’ve all had that experience. So, what are we as Christians called to do about that shifting and overshadowing—here and now, in our time?
Jesus gives us a model. First, he notices that the shift has occurred. Then, he does something about it. And that’s what we’re called to do. We are called to notice what gets between us and God and then to do whatever it is we need to do to turn our attention back to God. That change might not be visible to others. Focusing our attention on God—loving God with our whole hearts—doesn’t necessarily require that we give up anything other than a focus on whatever it is that distracts us from God’s presence. Loving God with our whole hearts doesn’t mean that there’s no room for anything else. In fact, loving God with our whole hearts usually makes a lot more room in our hearts. What it does mean is that we look at our lives through the lens of our love for God and in response to God’s love for us.
When we do that—when we even make the attempt to do that—God is there waiting for us—inviting us into closer connection—strengthening and inspiring and encouraging and comforting us—no matter what happens in our lives.
Thanks be to God.