Teaching Monday

How is Jesus Truth?

I Am He, by Ashley Hoth

Poetry

Be Still (a psalm)

by Melody Newey Johnson

Come to the temple of silence, 
away from sounds of weary want, 
from the grinding, tearing of time.

Come away from shouting daylight, 
find me in the stillness of afternoon, 
your ordinary afternoon.

Put down your swords, 
your plowshares; take up 
my burden, quiet, easy.
Carry it beneath your arm 
with flute and mandolin.
Carry it in your heart, beside 
memories of your mother and 
apple red trees in summer.

Whisper my name, then listen.
Listen, perhaps for a very long time 
or only for a heartbeat.

And I will tell you who I am, 
who you are, and show you where 
we meet: in you, the holy place.

Music

Activity Idea

Memorize a poem or scripture; create a clean, sacred place in your home.

Scripture

“Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers.” —Mark 11:17

Are churches today houses of prayer for all people, or are they just for people who look like us, walk like us, and talk like us? . . . Jesus continues, “But you are making it a den of robbers” (Matthew 21:13.) Here he is quoting Jeremiah 7:11 . . . A “den of robbers” is not where robbers rob. “Den” really means “cave,” and a cave of robbers is where robbers go after they have taken what does not belong to them... The context of Jeremiah’s quotation tells us this . . . “Will you steal, murder, commit adultery, swear falsely, make offerings to Baal, and go after other gods that you have not known and then come and stand before me in this house, which is called by my name, and say, “We are safe!”—only to go on doing all these abominations?” . . .

John tells us that Jesus’ body is the New Temple. . . . To take seriously the idea that the community gathered in Jesus’ name is his body requires that this body be a welcome place for all people. Is it? Or is it a cave where robbers feel safe and outsiders feel unwelcome or threatened?

—Amy-Jill Levine

Additional Reading