>>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.
I sit down for a moment—and it’s as though the room breathes. You can almost feel the residue of prayer. Somewhere between the rafters and the floorboards, there’s Presence.
It’s a little spooky, yes—but mostly wonderful. Because the promise still stands: “Where two or three gather in My name, I am there.”
That awareness—that we meet a living God in the midst of His people—is what transforms a church from a club into a dwelling place.
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>>The Theatre of Grace
The psalmist’s awe before the temple leads to one great discovery: the loveliness of God’s dwelling place is not just in the walls—it’s in the life within them.
When he says, “Blessed are those who dwell in Your house; they are ever praising You,” he’s not complimenting architecture. He’s describing a community.
It’s the fellowship of those who know what mercy feels like and can’t help but sing about it.
That’s what makes the church beautiful—not polished marble or perfect sermons—but the sound of grace echoing between imperfect lives.
You see, God’s church is not a museum of saints; it’s a theatre of redemption.
A stage on which grace takes flesh and performs before a watching world.
Paul said it this way in Ephesians 3:10:
> “Through the church the manifold wisdom of God might now be made known…”
So when the world peers in through our windows, they are meant to see grace in motion—people forgiven, reconciling, serving, laughing, failing, trying again.
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>>Funny Things Happen in Church
Now, church isn’t always solemn. In fact, the Spirit of joy often sneaks in through the side door.
I once heard a pastor tell how, during a service, he was describing the giant Goliath:
“The Bible says,” he thundered, “that Goliath had a spear the size of a weaver’s beam!”
But his tongue tripped, and out came, “a beaver’s weam!”
The congregation dissolved. Nobody remembered the next three points, but everyone remembered that God’s joy lives in laughter.
Another time, at the opening hymn, two men on the platform—a camp director and a physician—were each expecting important phone calls. As the last verse ended, the usher pointed toward the ringing phone at the back. Both men assumed the call was for them and marched down the center aisle together, mid-service. The pastor, thinking perhaps church was suddenly over, followed them halfway before his wife reached out an arm and hissed, “Get back up there and pray!”
We laugh because these moments are real—and that’s the miracle.
God chooses to dwell in the real.
He doesn’t wait for perfection; He moves into our mess, our mix-ups, our human clumsiness.
He makes His dwelling among people.
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>>People: the Living Stones
Peter called believers “living stones built into a spiritual house.”
That means every cranky saint, every shy visitor, every noisy child is part of the structure.
Each of us carries a story—a scar, a testimony—that God fits together into His cathedral of grace.
Look around any congregation and you’ll find diversity that would make heaven smile.
There are those who clap on the beat, and those who have never once landed on it.
There are conservatives who love old hymns and liberals who wish for drums.
There are engineers who overanalyze the announcements and dreamers who never read them at all.
And yet here we are—singing the same songs, praying the same prayers, hoping for the same kingdom.
If God can make that sound lovely, then He truly is the Master Composer.
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>>Love Your Church
So the question comes: What can you do for your church?
Start here—love it.
Not sentimentally, but actively. Love it enough to show up. Love it enough to forgive.
Love it enough to be patient when meetings drag and tempers flare.
Love the people who drive you crazy.
Because the church isn’t an idea—it’s them.
And loving them is how you love Him.
We have options in how we respond to one another.
We can reject people.
We can tolerate them.
We can accept them.
Or we can affirm them—seeing who they really are and speaking life into that.
Affirmation is grace with skin on. It says, “I see you, and you still belong.”
That’s what God does for us every Sabbath morning.
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>>Grace in the Ordinary
Have you ever noticed how ordinary Sundays—or Sabbaths—carry extraordinary grace?
Someone forgets a verse. Someone else forgets to unmute the mic. A baby cries through the prayer. And yet, somehow, God shows up right there in the interruptions.
It’s like the sparrow on the altar all over again—fragile life nestled in the middle of holiness.
I’ve seen grace in the tear of a choir member who can’t finish the hymn because the words hit too close to home.
I’ve seen it in the child waving from the front row at his grandmother during the benediction.
I’ve seen it in the hand that slips quietly over to hold another’s during a difficult announcement.
That’s the theatre of grace—the unscripted moments when the divine sneaks through the cracks.
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>>When the Curtain Rises
Think of worship as a play in progress. God is the playwright; Christ is the lead actor; the Holy Spirit is the director whispering lines in our hearts.
And we—the supporting cast—step on stage with our small lines of faith and our trembling cues of love.
Sometimes we forget our words. Sometimes we miss our mark.
But the beauty of this play is that the Author never leaves the stage.
He’s there in the wings, prompting us: “Forgive her. Listen. Sing louder. Stay faithful.”
And every time we respond, another scene of redemption unfolds before heaven’s watching eyes.
Paul said, “We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses.”
Heaven is watching the show—not to critique, but to cheer us on.
When we love one another, when we worship with sincerity, when we serve in humility,
the curtain lifts and the universe sees what grace can do.
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>>The Music of Grace
One of the ways grace performs is through music.
The psalmist said, “Blessed are those whose strength is in You; they go from strength to strength.”
There’s something about singing that strengthens the soul.
Think about it: words alone tell truth; music lets it breathe.
I’ve stood at the organ bench and felt what Smuts van Rooyen described—the moment when those pipes open up and the room fills with something bigger than sound.
It’s as if heaven inhales.
Every congregation has its own music—the notes of friendship and forgiveness, the harmonies of hope.
Even disagreements, when handled in love, become part of the score—minor chords resolving into grace.
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>>When Church Becomes Home
Psalm 84 continues:
> “Blessed are those who dwell in Your house; they will still be praising You.”
Notice that word—dwell. It’s the language of home.
You don’t just visit God’s dwelling; you live there.
Church is meant to be a home—a place where the young feel safe, the weary find rest, and the forgiven learn to forgive.
It’s not a hotel for weekly guests; it’s a family house where we grow up together.
That’s why we laugh when something funny happens in church.
That’s why we mourn together when a member dies.
That’s why we eat too many potluck casseroles.
Because this is home.
And home is lovely, not because it’s flawless, but because it’s ours.
Because He lives here.
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>>The Heart of a Doorkeeper
Psalm 84 ends with one of Scripture’s most beautiful confessions:
> “For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere;
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
than dwell in the tents of wickedness.”
That’s not the language of duty—it’s the language of delight.
The psalmist says, “If I could just stand at the door, holding it open for someone else to meet God—that would be enough.”
He’s describing the posture of servant-joy.
It’s what every church needs more than programs, policies, or clever slogans—people who would rather serve in the presence of God than shine anywhere else.
Some people serve because they have to.
Some because they hope to be noticed.
But the doorkeeper serves because he loves the Householder.
When you love your church, you don’t measure tasks by glamour. You measure them by grace.
The smile at the door, the whispered prayer in the pew, the song half-sung through tears—these are the true ministries of a living church.
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>>Grace in the Ordinary Doorways
Think of all the unseen doorkeepers who make God’s house lovely:
The one who turns on the lights before dawn.
The deacon who checks the baptistry heater and wipes down the steps.
The mother who walks the hallway with a crying baby so others can hear the sermon.
The greeter who remembers every name and every story.
They are Psalm 84 embodied.
Each one is saying with their life, “Better is one day in Your courts than a thousand elsewhere.”
Do you see what happens when a church catches that spirit?
The building becomes radiant. Not because the carpet is new, but because the people glow.
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>>Grace That Guards and Gives
Verse 11 says,
> “For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory;
no good thing will He withhold from those who walk uprightly.”
Notice that order—grace first, glory later.
Grace is what makes the journey bearable; glory is what makes it worthwhile.
The church is the place where we live between those two promises—grace now, glory soon.
Here we rehearse for heaven. Every act of kindness, every reconciliation, every song of worship is a preview of the kingdom.
When you forgive someone in this fellowship, heaven takes notes.
When you encourage a young believer, angels smile.
When you keep showing up even when you’re tired, you are lighting the lamps of Zion.
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>>Why the Dwelling Place Is Lovely
So why is the dwelling place of God lovely?
Because He is lovely—and He lives here.
He lives in the laughter echoing down the hallway after potluck.
He lives in the hospital visit no one else knew about.
He lives in the faithful givers who never make a show of it.
He lives in the teacher who keeps showing up for four restless kids.
He lives in the quiet saint who prays from her chair at home when she can no longer come.
The loveliness of God’s house is not in the paint but in the presence.
When grace lives here, even the dust motes dance in the sunlight.
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>>The Living God Among Imperfect People
I sometimes imagine God walking through His church on Sabbath morning.
He passes through the foyer, where someone spills coffee on the welcome table.
He steps into Sabbath School, where someone is arguing too passionately about prophecy charts.
He smiles, because He knows they’re all His children.
And when the congregation stands to sing, He’s already there—singing louder than any of us.
That’s the miracle of church: God still shows up.
Not because we are flawless, but because He is faithful.
He has always desired to dwell with His people.
In Eden He walked with Adam and Eve.
In the wilderness He pitched His tent among them.
In Bethlehem He took on flesh and moved into our neighborhood.
And in Pentecost He moved into our hearts.
He still longs for a dwelling—and He’s chosen us.
“You are the temple of the living God.”
So when we gather, we are fulfilling God’s oldest dream—to be with us.
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>>The Invitation of Belonging
Every visitor who walks through the church doors is another swallow looking for a nest.
They may not say it out loud, but their souls whisper: “Is there a place for me here?”
And our job—the Church’s job—is to answer, “Yes. Even at the altar, yes.”
We don’t swat away the nests. We make room.
We say, “Come in. There’s life here. There’s grace here. There’s hope here.”
That’s why evangelism isn’t a program; it’s hospitality of the heart.
It’s simply living so beautifully that others catch the scent of heaven.
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>>Better Than a Thousand Elsewhere
Think about where “elsewhere” might be.
Elsewhere could be the success you chased, the wealth you gained, the comfort you built.
But none of it compares to one moment of real communion with God’s people in God’s presence.
Elsewhere, the lights are bright but the hearts are cold.
Elsewhere, the music is loud but the meaning is lost.
Elsewhere, you can have entertainment—but not encounter.
In the house of God, even silence sings.
So yes—better is one day here.
Better one honest prayer than a thousand empty pleasures.
Better one handshake of forgiveness than a thousand trophies.
Better one act of mercy than a thousand likes online.
Because here, life is real, grace is thick, and God is near.
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>>The Promise for Pilgrims
The psalmist closes with a blessing:
> “O Lord of hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in You.”
He began with longing—he ends with trust.
That’s the journey of faith: hunger ? home ? hope.
We start out restless, we find refuge in His presence, and we learn to rest in His promise.
The dance of the big hunger becomes the song of the satisfied soul.
And that’s what church is meant to be every Sabbath—a rehearsal for the rain.
We come in thirsty. We dance, we pray, we sing.
And then the Spirit pours down, and our big hunger is met in the presence of the Living God.
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>>Appeal
So let me ask you today—have you found your dwelling place?
Not just a seat in the pew, but a home for your soul?
If you’ve drifted, come back.
If you’ve been hurt, let grace heal you.
If you’ve been watching from the doorway, step inside.
God still makes His home with people.
He still fills sanctuaries, living rooms, and hearts.
And He is still lovely.
So, love your church.
Love her laughter and her tears.
Love her music and her silence.
Love her people—all shapes, all stories.
Because in loving them, you’re loving Him.
Let this be our prayer today:
> “Lord of Hosts,
make this place lovely—not by design, but by Your dwelling.
Let Your grace shine through our flaws, Your joy through our service, and Your presence through our love.
And when You come again, may we recognize heaven because it feels just like home.”
Amen.
