He told those who were selling the doves, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”
“Now let us exchange signs of Christ’s peace,” the pastor bellowed from the pulpit. In quick and succinct fashion people rotated 360 degrees and shook hands with those closest and muttered, “peace of Christ.” Though it was something we did one a month, the passing of the peace was finished within 20 seconds, and people were ready to get on with the rest of the communion liturgy. For months I attended worship in that church, sitting in the same pew, but I never learned anyone’s name nor did I know anything about what was going on in their lives. I felt invisible even while I was surrounded by people.
That summer I was appointed to help a small church in the shadow of the Great Smokey mountains in western North Carolina. Passing the peace was something they did every week and it took forever. The pastor would casually invite us to greet one another with the love of Christ and before I knew it I was getting hugs from people I had never seen before and others wanted to know my life story. I overheard men making plans to go golfing in the afternoon, women sharing the latest bits of gossip from the community, and kids making fart jokes.
To go from one extreme to the other while passing the peace was difficult. Each week, when we hit the 10 minute mark during the peace, all I could think about was Jesus turning over the tables and rebuking the money-lenders and dove-sellers. Had we turned God’s house into a space no better than a marketplace? Where was the solemn respect for the divine, where was the recognition of God’s holiness?
The weeks passed throughout the summer and I continued to walk throughout the entire sanctuary during the passing of the peace and I began to learn about the people who called that church “home.” I got invited to dinner parties, people prayed for me and my calling while others moved around us, I even had a woman begin to confess her most recent sinful behaviors. I felt confused about what we were doing and how it fit into the worship of God in a church until an older gentlemen spied my discomfort and whispered in my ear: “this is how we build community; we don’t get many chances to check in on one another and this time, for us, is sacred.”
Jesus threw out the money-lenders because they were making a mockery of the temple. In that tiny rural church we shared our lives with each other during the passing of the peace, and it felt like what the church was really all about. Instead of just sitting down and facing the front without interacting with our brothers and sisters, that church made a point to pass the peace by building their community.
What is church like for you? Do you gather each week with the expectation of hearing a few prayers, listening to a sermon, singing a couple hymns, and going back to your regular life? Or do you see church as an opportunity to build your community by getting to love on, and communicate with, your brothers and sisters in Christ?