How Lovely Is Your Dwelling Place

>>The Big Hunger

If you’ve ever watched the old film The Gods Must Be Crazy, you’ll remember the little Bushmen of the Kalahari Desert. Anthropologists call them the San people, but their neighbors simply say, “the Sun People.” Out there—where the sand burns your feet and the stars blanket the night—they live with two kinds of dances.

One is called the dance of the little hunger. It happens after a hunt. When a young man kills an antelope, he thanks the animal for giving its life. He dances around the carcass, clicking and clucking in that musical language, honoring the food that will feed his family. That’s the little hunger—the hunger of the body.

But there’s another dance—the dance of the big hunger. This isn’t about the meat on the fire. It’s about the ache in the soul. The big hunger is the yearning for the divine—the longing for the rain, the lightning, the mysterious God who gives life to the desert.

When the dry season ends and thunderheads roll in, the Sun People begin to dance. Men stamp their feet; women clap and cry out in rhythm. All through the night they dance until exhaustion. And finally, when the first drops fall and the parched earth drinks again, their great hunger is satisfied.

There’s something holy about that picture.

It’s as though their bodies preach a sermon: “We were made for something bigger.”

That’s where Psalm 84 begins.

> “My soul longs—yes, even faints—for the courts of the Lord.

My heart and my flesh cry out for the living God.”

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>>The Cry of the Soul

Every human being has a big hunger. It’s the yearning for beauty, meaning, and connection with the Creator. Sometimes it’s awakened by tragedy, sometimes by joy, and often by beauty—the kind of beauty that stops you mid-breath.

You’ve felt it before, haven’t you? A sunset that feels like a cathedral. A piece of music that makes your eyes sting. A moment of silence in worship when it seems heaven is leaning near. That’s the big hunger rising inside you—the deep calling unto Deep.

The sons of Korah felt it too. They were the temple musicians of Israel, professional worship leaders whose hands were used to stringing harps and whose voices carried in marble halls. But one day, as they entered the temple, something different happened. They weren’t just fulfilling a job; they were overwhelmed by beauty.

They looked up at the vaulted ceiling, smelled the incense, and watched sunlight spill through the great doors—and their hearts cracked open. Suddenly worship was no longer a duty but a desire.

> “How lovely is Your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts!

My soul longs, yes, even faints for the courts of the Lord.”

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>>Finding Life at the Altar

And then something small and ordinary caught their attention—a flutter of wings.

High in the beams above the temple court, they saw sparrows darting in and out. A swallow skimmed the air. And they realized: these little birds have built their nests right here—right on the altar of God!

Imagine that—the altar, the very spot of sacrifice and mercy, where heaven and earth meet, where a sinner clings to forgiveness—and there, tucked under its ledge, a mother swallow is raising her chicks.

The psalmist’s eyes widen:

> “Even the sparrow has found a home,

and the swallow a nest for herself,

where she may lay her young—

even at Your altars, O Lord of hosts,

my King and my God.”

And suddenly the theology of the temple becomes personal. God is not only majestic—He is merciful. His altar isn’t just a place of death; it’s a refuge for life. Even fragile, fluttering life.

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>>The Church as the Dwelling Place

Fast-forward to our time. We no longer bring lambs to the altar; the Lamb of God has already been slain. But the longing remains.

The big hunger is still there.

We still yearn for a place where the heart can rest, where grace is tangible, where people feel seen, forgiven, and safe.

That’s what the church is meant to be.

Not just a building of brick and beam—but a dwelling place for God among people.

When believers gather in His name, Jesus said, “There am I in the midst of them.”

That means every Sabbath morning, as we sing and pray, a miracle happens. The Lord of heaven actually draws near. He sets up His throne, not in stained glass, but in surrendered hearts.

Do you believe that?

Do you believe God still shows up in ordinary churches filled with ordinary people—people who forget lyrics, spill coffee, argue over budgets, and yet still long for the living God?

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>>When Beauty Breaks Through

Sometimes that awareness sneaks up on us. I’ve had nights when, after a long board meeting, I turned off the office lights and wandered back into the dark sanctuary. The pews are empty, the air still smells faintly of wood polish and candle wax, and the only light is from the EXIT sign glowing red.