Many of us started January with ambitious plans. We were going to organize that garage, finally tackle the closet stuffed with clothes we haven’t worn in years, or create a filing system for all those papers scattered across the kitchen counter. Maybe we even bought storage containers and labels, feeling virtuous about our commitment to order.
And then January happened. The garage stayed cluttered, the closet remained packed, and those papers are now joined by the Christmas decorations we haven’t quite gotten around to putting away. We had good intentions about clearing space, but somehow the accumulation always seems to win.
Here’s the thing about clutter—it rarely announces itself. We don’t wake up one morning to discover chaos. Instead, it builds gradually. We add one more thing to the corner because we’ll deal with it later. We keep an item just in case we need it someday. We let a helpful system drift into a barrier without noticing when the shift occurred.
This is exactly what Jesus encountered when he entered the temple during Passover. What he found there wasn’t malicious—it was gradual accumulation that had transformed sacred space into something else entirely. And his response challenges us to ask uncomfortable questions about our own lives and communities: What have we allowed to accumulate that now blocks access to what truly matters?
Two weeks ago, we heard Jesus extend that compelling invitation to those first disciples: “Come and see.” We’ve been accepting that invitation together, discovering what it means to follow Jesus into new beginnings. Last week at the wedding in Cana, we witnessed how Jesus transforms ordinary moments into encounters with divine abundance—turning water into wine, filling empty vessels with celebration and joy.
Today’s scripture confronts us with a harder truth: sometimes transformation requires clearing away what’s accumulated. Jesus moves from filling vessels to overturning tables, from abundance to elimination, from adding to subtracting. Following Jesus means making room for what truly matters.
But here’s what makes this so difficult: barriers rarely announce themselves as barriers. They accumulate gradually, often solving one problem while creating another. We see this pattern everywhere—including in our own history.
After World War II, federal housing maps outlined Wichita neighborhoods in different colors. Red lines circled areas where banks could deny mortgages, marked as “risky investments.” Those red lines consistently surrounded Black neighborhoods. White veterans used FHA loans to buy homes and build wealth. Black veterans with identical finances faced denials. The maps didn’t say “whites only”—they just drew lines that determined who could access opportunity.
Formal redlining ended decades ago, but affordable housing remains difficult to access for working families across Kansas. Zoning regulations, building codes, and development requirements—each emerging from legitimate concerns about safety, quality, and community character—accumulate to make housing construction expensive. Developers can’t make the numbers work for affordable units. Families earning honest wages find themselves priced out of stable housing.
The specific barriers have changed, but the pattern persists: policies that seem neutral on paper create obstacles that block people from building secure lives. Like the temple court, the space technically exists. The accumulated requirements simply make it inaccessible to those who need it most.
This pattern of well-intentioned barriers is exactly what Jesus encountered in the Court of the Gentiles. Let me paint the picture of what he saw.
The temple complex was massive, with distinct courts moving inward toward the Holy of Holies where God’s presence dwelled. The outermost area, the Court of the Gentiles, was specifically designated as the place where non-Jews could come to pray at Israel’s God’s temple. The prophet Isaiah had declared that the temple would be “a house of prayer for all nations”—this court was that promise made concrete.
But when Jesus arrived during Passover, he found the court packed with merchants selling cattle, sheep, and doves for sacrifice. Money changers sat at tables exchanging Roman coins for temple currency. The noise must have been overwhelming—animals bleating, merchants haggling, coins clinking, people shouting.
These services seemed necessary. Pilgrims traveling from across the Roman Empire couldn’t bring their own animals. Foreign currency with Caesar’s image couldn’t be used for temple offerings. The religious leaders had identified genuine problems and created solutions.
But solving one access problem created another: the only space where Gentile seekers could pray had become inaccessible for prayer. Technically, Gentiles were still allowed in the court. Practically, there was no room for them to encounter God.
Jesus made a whip from ropes—a deliberate prophetic action, not a spontaneous outburst. He drove out the animals, scattered the coins, overturned the tables. His declaration cut to the heart of the matter: “Don’t make my Father’s house a place of business.” He was restoring the temple to its intended purpose—accessible sacred space for all nations.
This passage embodies what John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, called “social holiness.” Wesley insisted that personal piety and social concern couldn’t be separated—they were two dimensions of faithful Christian living. He famously wrote that “the gospel of Christ knows no religion but social; no holiness but social holiness.”
Wesley demonstrated this conviction practically. He advocated for prison reform, opposed slavery, established medical clinics for the poor, and created educational opportunities for working-class people. He recognized that barriers preventing people from experiencing God’s grace existed not just in individual hearts but in systems and structures that blocked access.
The Methodist movement itself emerged partly because Wesley saw how some Church of England practices—requiring pew rentals, holding services when working people couldn’t attend, using language that excluded the uneducated—created barriers for ordinary people seeking God. Like Jesus clearing the temple, Wesley worked to remove obstacles blocking access to transforming grace.
It’s easy to celebrate Wesley’s barrier-clearing work two hundred fifty years later. It’s much harder to examine barriers in our own moment—especially when faithful Christians disagree about what counts as a barrier and what counts as necessary order.
As I’ve been preparing this sermon, events in Minnesota have demanded attention. A federal immigration operation has brought thousands of agents to Minneapolis. A woman was killed. Protests have followed. Tensions continue to escalate. And people of faith—people who love Jesus and take scripture seriously—find themselves on different sides of what’s happening.
I’m not going to tell you what immigration policy should look like. That’s not my job this morning. But I want to model something for you—I want to show you what it looks like to bring this morning’s scripture to an issue where faithful Christians disagree. Because if we can only apply Jesus’s teaching to safe topics, we haven’t really learned anything.
So here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to ask the same questions of both perspectives.
If you support stronger immigration enforcement, Jesus invites you to ask: Who is affected by how this is carried out? Are there barriers being created that block people from sacred spaces—homes, hospitals, churches, schools? Are you listening to experiences different from your own, or only to voices that confirm what you already believe?
If you oppose these enforcement actions, Jesus invites you to ask the same questions: Who are you not hearing? What assumptions are you making about people who see this differently? Are you willing to examine barriers you might be creating—barriers of dismissal, of moral superiority, of refusing to engage?
The temple merchants weren’t evil. The money changers were solving real problems. And yet their accumulated presence blocked access for those seeking God. The uncomfortable truth is that our systems—even systems we believe in, even policies we support—can create barriers we don’t see because they don’t affect us.
This is why the posture matters as much as the position. Examine. Listen. Ask who might find it difficult to participate fully. Pray for eyes to see what you’ve been missing. That’s faithful discipleship whether you vote red or blue, whether you think the federal government is finally doing its job or grievously overstepping.
The good news is that God is relentlessly committed to clearing away barriers that block people from experiencing divine welcome. Throughout scripture, we see God confronting systems that exclude, overturning practices that marginalize, and making space for those pushed aside.
Jesus didn’t clear the temple to destroy worship but to restore it to its intended purpose. His passion wasn’t angry demolition but loving restoration—creating space where all nations could pray, where seekers could encounter God, where the margins could become the center.
This same Jesus ultimately becomes the accessible temple himself. When he tells the religious leaders, “Destroy this temple and in three days I’ll raise it up,” he’s pointing toward resurrection—the ultimate clearing away of barriers. Death itself, the final obstacle separating humanity from God, gets overturned in three days.
The risen Christ embodies fully accessible sacred space. No court system determines who can approach. No commercial transactions are required. No ethnic boundaries apply. No economic barriers block entry. The temple of Christ’s body welcomes everyone.
And Christ invites us into this work of clearing barriers, restoring access, and making room for what truly matters. We don’t do this alone—the same Spirit that empowered Jesus to overturn tables empowers us to examine our systems and remove obstacles blocking God’s welcome.
So what does that look like in practice? As United Methodists, we make five promises when we join the church: to support the church with our prayers, presence, gifts, service, and witness. This week, we focus on service—helping others in our community and standing up for justice. Jesus’s clearing of the temple reminds us that loving our neighbor sometimes means removing barriers, not just providing aid.
Start by examining one system where you have influence—your workplace, a committee you serve on, an organization you support. Ask: who might find it difficult to participate fully? Then listen to someone whose experience differs from yours about barriers they encounter. Don’t debate or defend—just listen and learn.
Research one local organization working to remove barriers—whether affordable housing advocacy, accessibility improvements, economic opportunity programs, or educational equity efforts. Learn what they’re doing.
Pray daily this week: “God, help me see the barriers I don’t notice because they don’t affect me.”
And consider joining a Grace Group in a few months during Lent for accountability, growth, and encouragement as you pursue justice alongside others.
We began this morning thinking about clutter—how accumulation blocks what matters. But this isn’t just about organizing closets. Jesus challenges us to examine the barriers we’ve built, however unintentionally, that prevent others from experiencing God’s welcome. The Court of the Gentiles teaches us that sacred space requires sacred purpose: making room for all people to encounter transforming grace.
Will you pray with me?
God, open our eyes to barriers we don’t see. Give us courage to clear what blocks your welcome. Make us builders of accessible sacred space. Amen.
Rev. Andrew Conard 