Matthew 16.13–20 | Romans 12.1–8
Didn’t we have a fabulous time on Tuesday night? It was such a beautiful start to this next chapter. There was a moment where I managed to get lost in church. I aimed for the vestry and ended up facing a wall… which is quite impressive, given the size of the building and the fact that I am now apparently in charge of it. But perhaps it’s appropriate because we’re all finding our way. We’re learning names and stories and rhythms and where things are kept. And I love that. Because so much is possible. And into all that possibility Jesus gives us this extraordinary promise: “I will build my church.”
There are all sorts of questions we could ask this morning. What kind of church are we going to be? What might change or grow? Who might come? Where will we be a year from now? I am ridiculously excited about those questions.
But Jesus begins somewhere else: “Who do you say I am?”
Peter answers: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”
And then Jesus says: “I will build my church.”
There is something important about the order. Before there are plans and possibilities and new ideas, there is Jesus. This is Christ’s church. And Christ is building it.
Then Paul says to the Romans: you are one body, but you don’t all have the same function. Different gifts. Different people. All needed. Apparently this is how God builds. So notice what Jesus says.
Not: Gemma will build my church.
Not: Parish Council will build my church.
Not even: the Diocese will build my church.
I will build my church. And I find that enormously liberating.
On Tuesday I said the Diocese has given us an extraordinary gift: three years of time and resources to discover what God is doing here — and how we might join in.
Discover, and join in. Because God is already here and we are co-creating with God.
And then Bishop Hans gave us an image I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. He said that when the Church is true to Christ, “our doors will be wide open and our tables will be long.” I love that. Wide open doors. Long tables.
When we think the door is wide enough — widen it again.
When we think the table is full — grab more chairs. Make it longer.
There are people in North Beach this morning we haven’t met yet.
Some may have been part of churches before. Some may have been hurt by churches. Some may never have imagined church could possibly be for them. Some are drinking coffee, walking the dog, heading for the beach, unaware that by this time next year they will be sitting with us. And here’s the thing: We need them.
Not because we need to fill the pews, or need their money, or need better numbers.
We need them because Paul tells us we are the Body of Christ.
And there are gifts missing from this body that somebody out there embodies.
There are voices we haven’t heard, stories we don’t know, ways of seeing God that might change us. There are things Christ intends this church to become that we cannot become until others arrive. The people who aren’t here yet are not the objects of our mission. They are part of the future God is building.
We’re not inviting people to join something we’ve already finished. We’re saying:
Come and help us discover what Christ is building. Bring your gifts, questions, doubts and story. Bring your past, present and future. Bring all of who you are, because together we are the Body of Christ. Make the door wider. Make the table longer.
And it is no accident that at the centre of our life together there is a table. This table.
Not my table. Not yours. It doesn’t even belong to the Church universal.
It is Christ’s table. And Christ decides how long it is.
There is an old invitation to Communion that I love. I used it here on Wednesday:
“Come to this table, not because you must, but because you may.”
And it ends: “Come and meet the Christ because together we are his body.”
What glorious theology. Not because you have earned your place or got everything sorted. Not because your faith is strong and your life tidy. Come because you may.
Come because Christ invites you. Come because grace has made a place for you and we need you to complete this body.
And if there isn’t enough room? Make the table longer.
Jesus was forever eating with the wrong people — those deemed too sinful, too difficult, too different. And Jesus kept sitting down with them. Another chair. Another place. Another person discovering: There is room for me too.
And that takes us back to Jesus’ question: “Who do you say I am?”
Friends, we don’t need the perfect answer before we approach this table.
Sometimes our answer is simply in approaching this table: open hands, open heart, ready to receive, prepared to be changed. And there we discover again who Christ is in bread broken, wine poured, grace given.
Our answer to that essential question is found in the church we will become.
If we say Jesus is the Christ, that becomes visible in who is welcomed, heard and valued; in who gets a chair; in how readily we move over when somebody arrives.
Bishop Hans laid down a challenge on Tuesday that I wasn’t expecting, and Jesus confirmed it in this morning’s gospel. It will be our benchmark for how we are going and growing as a community: If we say Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God…
How wide open are our doors? How long is our table?
May we be known as a place where there is always room.
Room for grace. Room for difference. Room for people we haven’t met yet. Room for God to surprise us. We don’t know what Christ will build here. Isn’t that exciting?
Because Jesus never said: Build me a church. Jesus said: “I will build my church.”
So may this be our prayer for our little church between the waves and the wild:
Show us what you are building, Lord. Show us where you are at work. Make the door wider and the table longer. And when we think there is no more room — give us the grace to pull up another chair. Amen.
Holy Adventures 