The House We Build: From Anxious Toil to Authentic Worship

The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. In the temple he found people selling cattle, sheep, and doves and the money changers seated at their tables. Making a whip of cords, he drove all of them out of the temple, with the sheep and the cattle. He also poured out the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. He told those who were selling the doves, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” His disciples remembered that it was written, “Zeal for your house will consume me.” The Jews then said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” Jesus answered them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” The Jews then said, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?” But he was speaking of the temple of his body. After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken.

When he was in Jerusalem during the Passover festival, many believed in his name because they saw the signs that he was doing. But Jesus on his part would not entrust himself to them, because he knew all people and needed no one to testify about anyone, for he himself knew what was in everyone. --John 2:13-25 (NRSVue)

It doesn't take much, does it? A few minutes scrolling through the news, and we can feel the deep chaos of our world pressing in. And beneath that public noise, there is often a quieter, more personal anxiety. A worry about the future of our country, or about our finances, or about making ends meet at home, and yes, even here, in the life of our church. We feel the pressure to keep things going. And this pressure carries with it a subtle, soul-crushing temptation: the temptation to let our financial needs dictate the very shape and purpose of our ministry; the temptation to start designing our worship to bring in more business.

Into this world of anxious noise, our Gospel reading today from John lands with a startling crash. We often picture a gentle Jesus, a good shepherd. But there’s a popular internet meme that reminds us that when someone asks, "What would Jesus do?" the answer, "flipping over tables and chasing people with a whip is within the realm of possibilities." And that’s the Jesus we meet today. Not a gentle teacher, but a man with a whip of cords, driving out cattle and sheep, pouring out coins, and overturning tables. And he thunders a command that echoes through the centuries:

"Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!" (John 2:16)

It is a jarring and uncomfortable scene. But it forces us to ask a crucial question: What happens when the necessary business of church starts to feel more like a marketplace than a Father's house?

To understand Jesus’s actions, we have to understand the scene. This wasn’t some rogue flea market that had set up shop in the temple. This was a complex and, in many ways, necessary system. It was Passover, one of the three great pilgrimage festivals, and Jerusalem was flooded with the faithful. The air would have been thick with the sounds and smells of cattle, sheep, and doves. The courtyard would have buzzed with the clatter of coins. 

The merchants were there for a reason. Pilgrims who had traveled for weeks couldn't bring their own animals, and the Law required that a sacrifice be “flawless.” Doves, we're told, were the sacrifice of the poor. The money changers were also essential. The annual temple tax could not be paid with Roman coins, which bore the profane images of emperors. So, you had to exchange your worldly currency for acceptable Tyrian coins.

On the surface, this commerce allowed worship to happen. Yet, this necessary system had also become a place of potential injustice. Some historians suggest that the temple inspectors would often find fault with any animal not purchased from the sellers connected to the high priest's own family. Jesus arrives and sees something deeply, fundamentally wrong. He doesn't just critique the system; he upends it.

Jesus's action was not a momentary loss of temper. The gospel tells us he made the whip "on the spot," likely weaving it from the rushes used as animal bedding. This was a deliberate, prophetic act—an "upending" of a system that had lost its heart. The problem wasn't just that business was happening, but what that business had become. In the original Greek, Jesus sets up a powerful wordplay. He contrasts the oikon emporiou—a "house of market"—with the oikon tou patros mou, the "house of my Father."

The house of the Father had become a house of commerce, and in doing so, it had become unjust. And the injustice was not just economic; it was spatial. This whole enterprise was taking place in the Court of the Gentiles—the one area of the temple where non-Jews were invited to come and pray. The noise, the smell, the business—it all formed a physical and spiritual barrier, preventing the nations from approaching the God of Israel.

Now, we must be careful here. As a fellow Jew, Jesus’s critique was an internal one—a prophet’s call for reform against a corrupt system within his own faith. This is not a story of Christianity rejecting Judaism, but of Jesus defending the true purpose of his Father’s house for all people.

This story forces us to look at our own house. We can get so focused on maintaining the institution that we begin to feel a deep weariness. And this is where the psalmist speaks directly to our anxious hearts:

"Unless the LORD builds the house, those who build it labor in vain." (Psalm 127:1)

When we are more consumed with the business of worship than the soul of worship, we labor in vain, eating the bread of anxious toil. Jesus’s prophetic act is a "no" to this anxiety, a "no" to any system that turns the Father's house into a place of commerce and exclusion.

But Jesus doesn’t just tear down; he points to a new reality. When the authorities demand a sign, he gives them a cryptic and profound answer:

"Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up." (John 2:19)

They think he’s talking about the magnificent physical temple that had been under construction for forty-six years. For them, this building was everything. In Judaism, the temple was the one place on earth where you were certain to find God. But John, the gospel writer, lets us in on the secret: "he was speaking of the temple of his body."

This is the heart of the Gospel. This is the revolutionary good news. Jesus is declaring that the location of God's presence on earth is shifting. It is no longer confined to a building that requires constant economic upkeep, a place with walls that create insiders and outsiders. The new temple, the new place where humanity meets God, is Jesus himself—his life, his death, and his resurrection. Worship is no longer a transaction you make in a specific place; it is a relationship mediated through the person of Christ. God's presence is not in a building, but in a body.

---

So what does this mean for us, gathered here today? We cannot ignore that we exist within a world of bottom lines, where people are often valued only for what they can produce or consume. This story is not a rejection of our need for a budget, but it is a solemn warning. It warns us that if our church begins to mirror the transactional logic of the marketplace, we cease to reflect the face of God.

We are called to pause and examine the "architecture" of our community:

Is our common life a sanctuary from exploitation? In a world that demands "anxious toil" and constant competition, does our church offer a rhythm of grace that restores human dignity?

Do we create barriers to the Divine? Are there subtle "fees for entry"—social, financial, or cultural—that prevent the marginalized from finding a home here?

Are we building a monument or a community? Does our budget exist to serve the mission of healing a broken world, or has the mission become a servant to the budget?

The good news, dear friends, is that the true temple is not a product of our labor. The temple of Christ’s body was broken on the cross to shatter the power of every system that treats human beings as commodities. When he rose on the third day, he built a house where the only currency is love.

This truth frees us from the anxiety of institutional survival. Our primary vocation is not to keep a building standing, but to be a liberated people. We are called to be a community where the "market value" of a person is irrelevant because their "God-given value" is everything.

We are called to be a house built on the unshakeable foundation of grace—a place where the world can finally see a God who does not exploit, but who provides; a God who does not exclude, but who gathers us all in.

May it be so. Amen.

Preached January 18, 2026 at Rejoice Lutheran Church, Clearwater, MN.

Second Sunday after Epiphany

John 2:13-25

Filling the Empty Jars: Finding Abundance in a Wounded World

 I want to begin this morning not with some grand theological statement, but with a simple story about a story. We’re going to look at a familiar passage today - a wedding feast, a worried mother, and a miracle of abundance. I pray that we might hear it in a new way, because I believe that this ancient story of a party that almost failed speaks directly into the heart of the wounds and divisions we have felt so sharply in our broader community this past week. 

For nearly two decades, this pottery jar has been sitting on the bookshelf in my home. It has traveled with me from place to place and has served one purpose. It holds used wine corks. Every time a bottle has been opened to celebrate a birth, an anniversary, a new job, or just the simple gift of a family dinner, the cork has gone into this jar. Over twenty years, it has - as you can imagine - become wonderfully, ridiculously full. It’s a reminder for me of laughter, and community, and moments when life felt generous and the wine overflowed. It is, for me, a jar of abundance.

It feels this week, though, like the jars of our city, our state, our nation are empty. That we, as a community, have run out. That the peace is gone. That the sense of safety in neighborhoods is gone. Our hope - God’s hope - for a shared, common life feels like it’s run dry. 

This was a hard week in Minneapolis. We learned of the shooting of Renee Nicole Good, a 37-year-old mother and poet in our city. We are feeling the anxiety of federal ICE agents present, not just in Minneapolis, but in Buffalo and St. Cloud, and in my hometown of Monticello, disrupting the delicate stability of families and communities. We are exhausted by a political climate that seems to demand that we choose a side, when all we want - I believe - is to mend the tearing fabric of our communities. Our jars of patience, of trust, of civic grace feel empty. 

How do we move toward healing? We are reminded that the only path to a blessing is through the wound itself. Our call this week is not to look away, but to find the courage to touch the wound of our community’s grief. This is where the Word meets us, where Christ meets us. Not in a place of strength, but in a moment of scarcity.  

So, the question this story from Cana forces us to ask is this: In a world where things are constantly running dry, where do we find a hope that is truly abundant?

To understand where we are in John’s Gospel, we must remember where we have just been. We are just past the Prologue, that great cosmic poem that declares that the same Word, the same Voice that spoke light into darkness in Genesis, has now “become flesh and moved into the neighborhood,” as Eugene Peterson puts it in The Message. The God who created the world has not abandoned it, but has come back to begin the work of re-creating it, of mending what was broken. This wedding at Cana is not just a miracle; it is the first sign of that new creation breaking into our scratchy, wounded world. 

A reading from John, chapter 2.

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what concern is that to me and to you? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.” Now standing there were six stone water jars for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons. Jesus said to them, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim. He said to them, “Now draw some out, and take it to the person in charge of the banquet.” So they took it. When the person in charge tasted the water that had become wine and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), that person called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee and revealed his glory, and his disciples believed in him. --John 2:1-11 (NRSVue)

Did you hear it? That moment of tension, of human friction in the story? “Woman, what concern is that to me and to you? My hour has not yet come.” This isn’t the response of a callous son, but of the Word-made-Flesh counting the cost. 

Jesus understands that the moment he steps out of the quiet life of a carpenter’s son and into the public work of mending the world, the clock starts ticking. The path to revealing his glory is the path to the cross. His “hour” is the hour of his death, resurrection, and ascension. 

In this slight moment of hesitation, Jesus gives us a hint of the immense personal cost of re-creation. He knows that to fill the world’s empty jars, he will need to be emptied himself.

His reluctance is a gift to us, because it validates our own. In a week like this one, faced with the pain of our city, don’t we all feel that same hesitation? Don’t we want to say, “What concern is that to me? I am tired. This is too complicated.” Jesus understands that feeling. He knows deeply the weariness that comes with confronting the world’s brokenness.

But then there is Mary. 

In John’s Gospel, she is the first to touch the wound - the advocate who sees the coming social shame, the scarcity of wine that threatens the community’s joy. She refuses to look away. 

She doesn’t offer a solution or a 5-point plan. She simply stands in the gap and speaks the honest and authentic truth to the One with the power to act: “They have no wine.” She compels a response, not with a command to her son, but with a simple statement of need. 

It is in this moment that Mary models for us our primary assignment: to stand in proximity to the pain, to see the emptiness others might ignore, and to raise the needs of the marginalized. It is her courage, her persistent faith, that will be met, not with some heavenly spectacle, but with the most ordinary of objects.

The power of this first sign in John lies not just in its amazing outcome, but in its humble materials. The miracle happens in six stone water jars - jars intended for the Jewish rites of purification. These jars represent for us the systems, the laws, the religious and civic structures of our world. They are the very containers we build to hold our society together. They are the containers meant to serve the rituals that keep a community ordered and clean.

Notice what Jesus doesn’t do. He doesn’t smash them. He doesn’t discard the law or the tradition they represent. He respects them as vessels. But he shows us a profound truth - that any law, any system, any structure is ultimately empty if it does not produce the “wine” of human flourishing, of mercy, of justice, of abundant life for everyone. Everyone. 

Let’s bring this home to our present circumstance. We can see our community as a great wedding feast, a place where families are trying to build lives of joy and stability. This week, that feast has been disrupted. 

Our deepest traditions - shared across every political divide - hold the integrity of the family and the stability of the household as sacred, as gifts from God. When any force - federal or otherwise - tears at that fabric and creates chaos where there should be order, we must ask if it is truly serving its God-given purpose. Martin Luther taught that civil authorities are meant to be a “mask of God,” a means through which God protects and provides for the world. But when the actions of any authority result in a mother being torn from her children, that authority ceases to wear the mask of God’s protection. And instead wears a mask of chaos.

Our call today, then, is not to pick a political side, but to ask a theological question. To look at our societal “jars” - our systems of justice, our structures for community safety, our governmental policies - and to ask whether these systems are functioning as vessels of life-giving water. Or whether they are merely cold empty stones that testify to a failing celebration.

After she points out the problem, Mary turns to the servants and gives them what becomes the central command for us this morning. It is a wonderfully Christ-centered, non-partisan call to action: “Do whatever he tells you.”

I know that many of us feel helpless in the face of such large, systemic problems. We feel exhausted and wonder what we could possibly do. But, notice that Mary’s command isn’t to solve the whole world’s wine shortage. And Jesus’ command isn’t to invent a new beverage out of thin air. It’s a call to a simple, next step. “Fill the jars with water.” It’s a call to radical obedience in the small, next right thing. The servants weren’t asked to understand the miracle, only to carry the water.

So what might “doing whatever he tells you” look like for us this week, whether it is in Minneapolis or here in Clearwater? It might not be a grand gesture. It might be taking the time to listen with compassion to a neighbor who is grieving, without feeling the need to offer a solution. Or it might mean stepping out of our silos to seek truth beyond the headlines and political talking points, and committing to understanding our society’s pain, which is so much more complex than 60-second TikTok videos or Facebook posts. Or perhaps it means becoming the “legal observers” of our own hearts, confessing the moments where we have valued our own comfort over our neighbor’s pain. “Doing whatever he tells you” for us means mending the small tears in our own corner of society’s fabric, one relationship at a time.

It is in these small acts of obedience that we, like the servants, position ourselves to witness the miracle. We don’t make the wine. But we are called to fill the jars. 

The core message of this first sign and the foundational promise of the Gospel is this: that even when our personal wine runs out, even when our community’s jars are empty, even when we are exhausted and hesitant, our God is a God of surprising, overwhelming abundance. 

The chief steward, tasting the water that had become wine, says to the bridegroom, “But you have kept the good wine until now.” This is the promise of re-creation. It says to us that even in a week of grief, even in a nation of deep division, God is not finished. God is still in the business of transformation. And God is saving the best for last. 

So, go, now, as the people of the Word. Remember that the Voice that knit the stars together is the same Voice that was cradled in the manger. He is the Word who stepped into the scratchy mess of our world, who moved toward the jars even when He was hesitant, and who mends the torn fabric of our communities with the wine of his grace. 

May you have the courage to hear your neighbor’s cry, the strength to touch the wounds of our communities, and the hope to know that the New Creation has already begun. Amen.

Preached Sunday, January 11, 2026, at Rejoice Lutheran Church, Clearwater, MN.

First Sunday after Epiphany

A Pastoral Message on Recent Events in Minneapolis

 The past few days have brought a lot of movement and sobering news to our region. From the tragic shooting in Minneapolis to the reports of increased ICE activity in our area, plus the arrival yesterday of approximately 200 agents in St. Cloud with helicopter support, our communities are feeling the weight of these events. Whether we feel anxiety, concern, or simply a heavy heart for those involved, there is a palpable sense of tension in our neighborhoods.

In seasons of uncertainty, we are grounded by the words of 1 John 4: "Dear friends, let us love one  another, for love comes from God... Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love."

This scripture reminds us that our primary identity is found in how we love. To know God is to reflect God's heart—a heart that moves toward those who are hurting. Regardless of our individual perspectives on policy, we are united in the call to see the "neighbor" in every person we encounter. When our community is on edge, we are called to be the ones who bring a sense of calm, dignity, and grace to the conversation.

Prayer is our first and most vital response. We pray for peace, for the safety of all involved, and for wisdom for those in positions of authority. But we also remember the call to "pray with our feet." This means allowing our faith to take active form in our daily lives. It means being a neighbor who listens, a friend who supports, and a presence that reflects the "perfect love" of Christ that casts out fear.

As we move through these coming days, let us each ask: How can I embody the peace of God in my specific circle today?

A Closing Prayer: Gracious God, we lift up our community to You. In the midst of transition and tension, grant us the clarity to see one another through Your eyes. We pray for protection for the vulnerable, wisdom for those who lead, and a spirit of peace for our neighborhoods. Help us to be the hands and feet of Your love, moving toward those in need with kindness and courage. Soften our hearts where they have hardened, and lead us in the way of Your peace. Amen.

Yours, in Christ,

Pastor Karleen

More Than Three Kings: The Radical, Political Truth Behind the Christmas Story

Beyond the Familiar Scene

The Christmas nativity scene is one of the most enduring images in our culture: three royal kings, dressed in velvet and jewels, bringing the baby Jesus finely-wrapped birthday gifts. It's a peaceful, almost cozy picture of adoration.

But the original biblical account in the Gospel of Matthew is far from this sweet tale. When we look closely at the text, we find a raw political and theological narrative, one that is defined by state-sanctioned fear, brutal violence, and a radical, world-altering hope. By removing centuries of tradition from this story, we can uncover surprising takeaways from the story of the magi that seem more relevant today than ever. Here are four possibilities:

1. It’s a Political Thriller, Not a Fairytale

The story of the magi unfolds within a specific context of political oppression. Matthew’s Gospel sets the scene “In the time of King Herod,” who is a puppet ruler of the Roman Empire, particularly known for his violent paranoia.

When Herod, the installed king, hears news from foreign astrologers about the birth of a new “King of the Jews,” his reaction is not joy, but terror. It drives him to coercion and control, culminating in what Matthew’s account describes as the horrific slaughter of Bethlehem’s children (Matthew 2:16-18). His fear escalates into genocide, echoing Pharaoh’s slaughter of Hebrew infants in the first chapter of Exodus.

In this volatile landscape, the magi’s journey and their homage to Jesus are not merely devotional acts—they are deeply political. By kneeling before a vulnerable child in an occupied territory, they make a bold and embodied declaration that their ultimate loyalty lies with this new king, not with the violent empire represented by Herod. 

Matthew presents Jesus’ birth not in opposition to politics, but within it. The empire’s reaction to Jesus reveals the threat he poses to systems of oppression. (Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee, from her feminist commentary on Matthew 2.) 

This framing matters because it mirrors the reality of oppression in our world today. Palestinian theologian Mitri Raheb, preaching from Bethlehem, calls the Christmas story a “Palestinian story par excellence,” rooted in the painful realities of occupation and state-sanctioned violence. The good news, he explains, is found in God's deliberate choice:

When the fullness of time came... God did not choose Rome or Athens for Christ to be born at; He chose occupied Bethlehem.

2. The “Three Kings” Are a Myth

The popular image of three kings named Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar is a product of later Christian tradition, not the biblical text itself. 

King Tingz (by Nicolette Faison)

The original Gospel account is much more mysterious. Matthew calls the visitors magoi apo anatolōn—magi from the East—without specifying number, gender, or religion. The idea of three visitors was most likely drawn from the three gifts they offered: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

The term magoi comes from Old Persian and refers to a “priestly class in Zoroastrianism.” This detail directly challenges the myth of royal kings. They were foreign, Gentile astrologers—figures who would have been considered outsiders by the religious establishment. Their inclusion is significant because it places God's activity firmly on the margins, subverting imperial logic where a new king is hailed not by the religious elite in the center of power, but by Gentile astrologers on the fringes.

3. The Magi Might Have Been Women

In her fresh, feminist interpretation, theologian Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee proposes that the magi could have been women.

The basis for this theory lies in the original term. In Zoroastrian tradition, the title magoi could refer to both men and women. Reimagining the magi this way radically shifts the story’s meaning. Instead of “strange men” arriving at the door, we can picture “wise women crossing boundaries of religion, ethnicity, and culture to stand in solidarity with a marginalized mother and child.”

In this interpretation, their journey is not just reverence and worship but an act of “radical accompaniment.” Their visit becomes a “feminine embodiment of God’s epiphany.” This reading is particularly powerful when considering the scene from Mary’s perspective. During her postpartum recovery, a time when cultural law might have kept her isolated, she may have welcomed the solidarity of other women into her room far more readily than that of foreign men. 

4. It’s a Story About Responding to Fear

At its core, the Epiphany story is a clash between two starkly different responses to fear.

First, there is Herod’s response. Terrified of losing his grip on power, his fear mutates into “deception, surveillance, and mass violence.” He deploys “state-sanctioned terror to preserve power,” revealing how untransformed fear can lead to the most destructive outcomes.

The magi provide a powerful “counterpoint.” They, too, face fear and uncertainty, traveling through foreign lands and confronting a paranoid tyrant. But they “don’t let Herod’s fear-driven demands stop them.” They model what it looks like “to be led by hope, moving through fear without letting it paralyze us.”

Their final act—being warned in a dream and returning home “by another road”—is deeply symbolic. It signifies not just a different geographical route, but a “transformed life.” They leave changed by their encounter with Christ, choosing a new path forward. In her commentary on the passage, Rev. Dr. Boyung Lee frames this choice by asking a question that echoes the poet Rumi:

Will we move the way fear makes us move? Or will we move the way love calls us to?

A Different Road Home

When we look past the sanitized and saccharin nativity narratives we're so accustomed to, we find that the story of the magi is far more political, complex, and challenging than the domesticated version we often see. It’s a narrative about political resistance, radical inclusion, and the courageous choice to pursue hope in a world defined by fear.

The journey of the magi is an invitation to us all. It asks us to consider which path we will choose—the one dictated by fear, control, and violence, or the other road of courageous hope. In a world that still brims with violence and uncertainty, the magi's journey insists that fear doesn't have to stop us - that love is the antidote to fear and that, ultimately, it is Love that leads us forward.