Sermon – A God Who Won’t Stay in a Box

(I Preached this sermon on Sunday, October 26, 2025 at Christ Lutheran Church. The audio version and the manuscript have some differences. You can find the audio at this link – https://christlutheranharrisburg.podbean.com/e/godinabox/)

When Pastor Drew, my predecessor, would say that everyone who comes to Christ Lutheran Church is in need of healing, he included the pastor. And over time, I’ve come to realize that he was certainly right.  But it goes beyond that: the statement also applies to the building itself.

When I first arrived here, it was the plumbing that needed care. Now it’s the bell tower. You’ve probably noticed the scaffolding outside. It’s an expensive project — the kind that makes you wince when you see the bill — but it’s necessary to keep everyone safe. The bell tower, like the people who walk through these doors, carries the marks of time. It needs repair and restoration, and it is a visible reminder that healing, in this place, is ongoing.

This sanctuary is more than stone and mortar. It is a living place where people encounter God, community, grace, welcome, and belonging. It is a place where people can simply be who they are. It is a sanctuary in a world that too often tramples on people, thrives on cruelty, and seeks to divide and conquer.

Solomon’s story in 1 Kings gives us a lens to see this more clearly. Solomon has completed the temple that his father David longed to build. It is a magnificent structure, crafted with cedar, gold, and stone — an earthly sign of a divine reality. And yet, when the Ark is brought into the temple, the people gather as one, and the priests stand ready to minister, the glory of God descends — not as a spotlight, not as a trophy on a wall, but in a cloud so thick that the priests cannot stand to minister. God’s presence overwhelms them.

Even in its splendor, the temple is not big enough to contain God. Solomon built a house for God, but the God who fills it refuses to be confined. There is a paradox at the heart of the story: the temple embodies human aspiration, human creativity, human desire to honor God. And yet God’s glory cannot be boxed in. God’s presence is more than our craftsmanship, more than our control, more than our best intentions.

And notice this: the dedication of the temple was communal. The whole community gathered. It was not Solomon alone, and it was not the priests alone. Everyone came together to recognize that God dwells among the people, not only in the building or in the hierarchy. God’s presence has always been about us, not just me. The covenant of God is made with a people.

This communal nature of God’s presence is exactly what makes this building holy, not simply as stone and timber, but as a living vessel for God’s work. When we gather here for worship, when we share a fellowship meal afterward, when community groups use this space as a base of operations, when Fit on the Hill offers a class, when people come for medical care through the nurse-run clinic or dental clinic, when Healthy on the Hill provides checkups and education, when Power to the Hill and Changing the Conversation meet to organize for justice — this building is alive with God’s presence. It’s full of God because it is full of people who bear God’s image.

And yet, the story of the temple also warns us about the human impulse to put God in a box. We like to contain God. We build spaces, we craft rituals, we design theologies, we carve hierarchies — all in the hope of keeping God orderly, predictable, convenient, contained. And individualistic faith is one of the most common ways we try to do this. When faith becomes a private possession — “my personal relationship with Jesus” — we subtly limit what God is allowed to touch. We restrict God from having a larger impact.  We compartmentalize God. We tuck God away safely. We make God sanitary and tidy. God is welcome inside the sanctuary on Sunday morning, but on Monday? Maybe less so.

In this way, we conveniently avoid hearing what God really has to say about money and greed, about welcoming immigrants and foreigners, about policies that exploit and harm, about care for the poor and marginalized, about the ongoing work of healing from injustice. And when a pastor dares to preach these things — when a sermon points out where the world, our country, or our community is out of alignment with God’s way — it often provokes the response: “Pastor, you’re being too partisan.”

And you know what that usually means? It’s a shorthand for: “Stop. You’re making me uncomfortable. You’re forcing me to examine what I believe and what I’ve attached my identity to.” Too many people have allowed their partisan alignment to become the lens through which they interpret God, rather than letting faith form them as whole and compassionate human beings. God is political in the truest sense — God calls for justice, equity, mercy, and love — but rarely in ways that align with American individualism or partisan comfort.

Solomon’s temple shows us that God cannot be contained — not by walls, not by human aspiration, not by our ideologies or belief systems. God breaks out of our boxes – busts right through them. God defies our attempts to make faith tidy. The glory of God arrives in dark, mysterious clouds that overwhelm our expectations and insist that God’s presence matters in every corner of life, not just in the spaces we’ve sanctioned.

This is why this building, this worshipping community, this church matters. It is a vessel for healing. Healing happens in worship, yes, but also in the medical outreach clinic, in the dental clinic, in Healthy on the Hill, in Fit on the Hill, in community meetings, in conversations that nurture justice and hope. This building gives glory to God not because of its architecture alone, not because of its age or its history, but because it contains people whose lives reflect God’s presence. The bell tower, the roof, the plumbing — they are important because they allow us to continue this work safely, but they are never the source of the glory. The glory is in the people, the living temple of God.

And just like in Solomon’s temple, the glory of God cannot be fully contained. It overflows into the streets, into our neighborhoods, into homes, and into lives. We see it when a neighbor receives a smile after a dental visit, when someone finds strength in a Fit on the Hill class, when advocacy changes policy or hearts, when the hungry are fed, when the isolated find community. God will not be confined to our expectations or our boxes. God shows up where healing is needed, where justice is denied, where hope is fragile.

We also see this same lesson in contrast when we look at the world’s monuments and gilded halls. We build impressive spaces: palaces, ballrooms, grand churches. While government workers go unpaid, while SNAP benefits are cut, while families line up at food pantries, people in positions of power host feasts and banquets in luxury halls, and build grand ballrooms. This is a human temptation — to mistake majestic appearance for presence. But the glory of God does not dwell in gilded halls. God fills the spaces where healing happens, where needs are met, where community gathers in courage and love. In the world’s distortions, God’s presence still insists on overflow.

And today, on Reformation Sunday, this story reminds us why the church is always reforming. The Reformation, at its heart, was a rediscovery that the church is never complete and never fully containing God. It is always called to be reformed — reshaped — by the living Word, by the Spirit, by the demands of justice and mercy in the world. Just as Solomon could build a house for God, but God’s glory could not be contained, so the church must always let God break out of what we think we control and lead us into new life. This is the work of the Spirit, and it is alive here at Christ Lutheran.

Yes, the bell tower needs repair. The roof will need care again at some point in the future. Who knows what else will need to be addressed. We will face new challenges. But as long as God continues to fill this place — in worship, in the meals, with healing, with community, with justice, with love — this will remain a temple of God’s glory. And it won’t stop here. The good news is that God’s glory cannot be contained. Not by walls, not by theology, not by partisanship, not even by us.

It fills this building. It overflows into the streets. It pours into our lives. It challenges us, heals us, and calls us into action. Every act of care, every gathering, every word of love and advocacy is a manifestation of that uncontainable glory.

So when we gather for worship today, when we repair the bell tower, when we share fellowship meals, when we run clinics, when we exercise, when we speak truth, when we welcome strangers — remember this: God cannot be boxed in. God refuses to be limited. God’s glory fills this place, and then some. It overflows. And as we live into that overflow, we are not just maintaining a building. We are participating in the ongoing, ever-reforming work of God.

Thanks be to God. Amen.