When you step into the Lord’s house, he gives you a liturgical imagination to see with eyes of faith all of his goodness and grace.
If you found yourself traveling in the time of the patriarchs and had to find an Airbnb somewhere between Beersheba and Haran, Jacob is the last guy you would want to book your lodging for the night. No one’s scheduling a day spa or massage appointment. No one is ordering room service. No cozy bed draped in high-thread count sheets, memory foam mattress, or fluffy pillows covered in Egyptian cotton. Instead, in Genesis 28, Jacob bunks in the brush and dreams in the dust, all while resting his weary head on an extra-firm stone pillow.
And yet, what this certain place (later called Bethel) lacks in amenities, God makes up for with awe and amazing grace. This lowly, humble, and ordinary wilderness camp quickly becomes a sanctuary. Jacob sees a stairway with angels ascending and descending. Then, the host of Jacob’s Bedouin Bed and Breakfast appears. Suddenly, the Redeemer fills this rustic campground with his awesome presence and an awesome promise:
I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your descendants. Your descendants will also be like the dust of the earth, and you will spread out to the west and to the east, and to the north and to the south; and in you and in your descendants shall all the families of the earth be blessed. Behold, I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you (Gen. 28:13-15).
Despite Jacob’s primitive sleeping arrangements, he realizes something wonderful and wild has happened. The untamed God of unconditional love has visited him.
Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, “The Lord is certainly in this place, and I did not know it!” And he was afraid and said, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven!” (Gen. 28:16-17)
Jacob's dream is similar to what you and I receive whenever we enter the Lord’s house: the Lord of heaven invades earth with his promises. The Creator of all comes to his creatures bearing gifts like Father Christmas in Narnia: mirth and merriment and joy abound. God gives Jacob, and all who enter his holy places we call churches a liturgical imagination. Eyes of faith to see the holy in the humble, the sacred in the simple, the extraordinary grace of God in ordinary words, plain water, bread, and wine.
When you walk into the front doors of your church, you could very well paint Jacob’s words over the doorposts and entryway. “How awesome is this place!” You pick up your bulletin, shake a few hands, make your way to your seat, and say, “This is none other than the house of God.” Later on, you walk down the aisle to a rail and kneel before the altar. “This is the gate of heaven!” Then the pastor places a quarter-sized piece of bread in your mouth and pours a cup of wine onto your lips. “The Lord is certainly in this place.” And once again, heaven invades earth. The holy comes to the unholy. The untamed God hides himself in the ordinary to feed and forgive you in his extraordinary grace.
The Glory of the Lord is Jesus. And the glory of Jesus is to forgive sinners.
“Lord, I love the habitation of your house and the place where your glory dwells” (Ps. 26:8). The Glory of the Lord is Jesus. And the glory of Jesus is to forgive sinners. No wonder Jacob called that place Bethel, the house of God. Your church might look a little more comfortable than the dirt and rocks of Jacob’s hallowed nighttime chapel, or it might be an old clapboard building, but it is no less holy. For the same God who was with Jacob is with you whenever you come into his house and receive his gifts.
This is what the liturgy does, from the beginning Invocation in the Triune name of God to his Trinity of blessings in the closing Benediction, Jesus is giving his gifts, proclaiming his promises, and forgiving sinners. In the liturgy, our Lord is doing what he did for Jacob at Bethel, he is delivering his promises to you. Jesus is present with you and for you the same way he was for Jacob, in his word.
When you step into the Lord’s house, he gives you a liturgical imagination to see with eyes of faith all of his goodness and grace. What you see is a stained glass window donated by the patriarch of the congregation, and yet it’s a preacher who, with a kaleidoscope of colors and pictures, proclaims Christ for you. What you see is a pew or a chair, and yet it’s a place of rest for the weary, a place where you stand and sit and kneel while the Lord of all continues to be the servant of all. What you see is another fellow sinner standing before you, and yet what you hear is a promise and proclamation of good news; the absolutely awesome God declares his absolution to you: you are forgiven all your sins.
The same thing happens as you stand, sit, kneel, pray, praise, sing, listen, and meditate on God’s word. Someone lights the candles, and suddenly you see the Son of Man standing in the midst of the golden lampstands, clothed in priestly robes of righteousness and a crown of victory and a banner bearing the cross. A psalm is sung, and you are standing next to the pilgrims entering the temple for the holy feast at Mt. Zion, with Christ the Cornerstone leading the procession. You sing “Glory to God in the highest,” and you’re in the fields with the shepherds watching their flocks by night.
You’re standing on wood or concrete or tile yet worshipping with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven. You hear the words of Jesus from Genesis to Revelation, from the prophets to the apostles and evangelists, and all the while, the words you hear are a mighty rushing wind, a roaring cataract of water, flowing forth from the mouth of Him whose tongue is a sharp-two edged sword, a sword that both kills and makes alive. You hear a sermon and all the while the living and active word of God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, is speaking his promises to you.
Before long, Bethel becomes Bethlehem, the house of God becomes a house of bread and wine, body and blood. You cry out, like the centurion, “Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof.” And yet the Lord says the word, and you are healed. You sing with Isaiah and the Seraphim, “Holy, holy, holy,” while the throne of God comes down to earth and Christ, the friend of sinners, eats and drinks with sinners once again. Unclean lips are cleansed.
You sing the words Simeon sang: “Lord, let your servant depart in peace” (Luke 2:29). You have received Christ. The infant priest in his infinite mercy inhabits the finite things of his creation to save you: the bread is his body. The wine is his blood. It’s all gift and promise for you, just as it was for Jacob.
The liturgy is a sacred and safe harbor, a holy haven, rest for the weary, blessing for the broken and burdened, joy for the downtrodden, hope for the despairing.
Finally, you hear the benediction. You return home. But you are not alone. You are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. And more. You are Christ’s and Christ is yours. The God who promised to be with and bless Jacob, also promises you, “I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”
As we stand, kneel, sit, pray, sing, listen, and receive God’s gifts, the liturgy imprints and impresses the stamp of Christ crucified on our hearts, minds, ears, eyes, and imaginations. The liturgy is a sacred and safe harbor, a holy haven, rest for the weary, blessing for the broken and burdened, joy for the downtrodden, hope for the despairing. It is a divine drama soaked in the promises of Jesus, your Savior. It is a tapestry of God’s gifts of goodness, truth, and beauty. From beginning to end, and every word in between, the liturgy is a preacher, proclaiming Christ crucified for you. It is like a potter, shaping and forming all who enter the Spirit’s workshop of word and sacrament. It is a land full of mystery, wonder, and wildness where everything is covered in the blood of the Lamb. It is strange, yet sacred. Humble, yet holy. Living in the liturgy is like the Pevensie children walking through the wardrobe into Narnia: through it, you are brought into a new country, one where Jesus, the Lion of Judah, rules by his grace, and where everything is bigger on the inside.
Like Jacob, the Lord is in the humble, ordinary church you call home. Like undeserving Jacob, the Lord is the God who never tires of giving you his steadfast love. Like Jacob, once you enter the house of the Lord, you are changed forever by his promises. And, like Jacob, you need not fear. For the same Lord who spoke to Jacob and John also declares to you, “Do not be afraid; I am the first and the last, and the living One; and I was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of death and of Hades” (Rev. 1:17-18).
