Read the Lectionary Texts

I, for one, have long puzzled over why so many important historical events seem to have taken place right next door to a gift shop! Coincidence? I think not! Our ancestors were clearly forward-thinking entrepreneurs who knew that a well-placed souvenir stand was just as crucial as the battle itself. After all, what’s a revolution without a commemorative T-shirt?

And nowhere is this symbiotic relationship between history and commerce more apparent than in the Holy Land—though with a unique twist. Many pivotal events in our Christian faith have been marked not only by nearby gift stores but by the construction of churches right on the exact spot where the event is believed to have happened. Talk about prime real estate! This is why, when you visit Bethlehem, you don’t just wander into a random field looking for a manger—you go into the Church of the Nativity. Down in the depths of this church, there’s a star-shaped hole where you can poke your arm through and touch the very ground of the cave traditionally associated with the stable where Jesus was born. And, of course, it will cost you an American dollar or so for the privilege. Divine inspiration meets divine pricing!

The same is true in Jerusalem at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. This grand church is built atop and around the hill we call Calvary. Inside, you’ll find the rocky walls of Golgotha, along with a flat rock believed to be the very place where Jesus’ body was laid, and several cave-like grottos—all competing for the title of “Official Tomb of Jesus.” You can spend quite a few American dollars investigating each one.

But before we get too cynical, let’s give credit where it’s due. It is, I think, human nature to want to mark intangible experiences with tangible monuments. This is why two children, overwhelmed by their first crush, will carve “Billy Loves Susie” into an ancient oak tree (that’s going to impress future historians). It’s why graduating seniors sneak around with cans of spray paint, leaving their names on bridges, rocks, and bathroom stalls (because nothing says “I studied hard” like tagging a highway overpass). And it’s why we wear sweatshirts from our alma mater even though we now live 800 miles away and haven’t been back in years. We just can’t help it.

This need to capture the fleeting moments of life is probably why Peter, James, and John wanted to build shrines on the mountain where Jesus was transfigured. And, frankly, who can blame them? One moment they’re hiking up a hill with Jesus, and the next—boom!—he’s glowing like a divine lightbulb, chatting it up with Moses and Elijah. That’s not the kind of thing you see every day! Overwhelmed, Peter blurts out, “Hey, let’s put up some shrines! One for Jesus, one for Moses, and one for Elijah! Maybe we can get a gift shop going too!” But before he can even finish his proposal, a thick cloud rolls in, and a divine voice interrupts with, “This is my beloved son. Listen to him.” Translation: “Peter, sit down.”

And so, no shrine was built. No ticket booth. No “Transfiguration Mountain” postcards. Peter, James, and John simply carried the experience in their hearts, telling the story of what they had seen. Later, the gospel writer John summed it up beautifully: “We beheld his glory!” And for them, that was enough.

But it does raise an interesting question—how do you enshrine something like that? Where do you put four walls around an experience that defies explanation? How do you package it, price it, and sell it with a “limited-time offer” sticker? Some truths, you see, can’t be boxed up or put on a T-shirt. They can only be experienced.

And yet, in our modern world, there are still some who insist that unless you can touch it, measure it, or plug it into a spreadsheet, it can’t be real. To them, faith is a kind of fuzzy, outdated notion, something for people who don’t understand science.

Enter Wendell Berry, poet, philosopher, and unofficial champion of “let’s not overthink everything.” He warns that in our quest to make everything quantifiable, we risk missing the point entirely. He writes, “Life is far more complex than we know, and than we CAN know.”

Science, for all its wonders, has yet to explain the really big stuff—like why looking at a sunrise over the ocean fills us with awe, or why holding a newborn baby makes us whisper, “This is a miracle.” You can’t put joy under a microscope. There’s no algorithm for love. No scientific formula explains why we cry at weddings (or why we always end up sitting next to the loudest person on an airplane). Some things are simply beyond explanation.

And so, we turn to faith. Faith is what carries us when science falls short. Faith helps us grieve, helps us heal, and helps us forgive people who steal our parking spots. Faith makes us believe that every human life is precious, and that justice is worth fighting for. Faith nudges us to help the hungry, the poor, and the forgotten. Faith takes us beyond mere knowledge and into something far greater—the miraculous.

Tom Long tells a story about a small Presbyterian church that hired an old janitor—a man who needed the job much more than the church needed him. He wasn’t particularly polished, didn’t fit in well, and didn’t reflect the church’s pristine image. But he did his work, quietly and diligently.

One day, the beloved office manager, Marge, fell seriously ill. The doctors had bad news—she didn’t have long to live. The church staff gathered for prayer, offering the kind of refined, theologically-sound requests you’d expect from educated clergy. “Grant Marge courage,” one prayed. “Give her peace,” said another. “Comfort her family,” someone else added.

Then it was the janitor’s turn.

He lifted his face and, in a voice much too loud for a prayer meeting, declared, “Lord, we need Marge! She keeps this place running! God, you just gotta reach down into that hospital room and fix her up! And I claim it in Jesus’ name!” The others stared at him, mortified. This was not the sort of dignified Presbyterian prayer they were used to.

A few days later, Marge came home. Completely healed.

Now, we may not be able to explain how prayer works. But who’s to say that this janitor’s loud, awkward, unpolished prayer wasn’t exactly the instrument by which God introduced a miracle into the world? We can’t explain it. All we know is that Marge—who was dying—is now just fine.

And doesn’t that bring you joy?

Faith, my friends, is the key to seeing the world for what it truly is—overflowing with miraculous love, far beyond what we can enshrine, explain, or quantify. The best we can do is open our eyes, step forward, and follow Jesus into the wonder of it all.