[INTRO]
There’s a door at the old Hansen barn—the one out on County Road 2—that nobody walks through standing up anymore. The frame sagged decades ago, or maybe people were just shorter when they built it. Either way, you duck. You bend. Or you crack your head.
Some doors are built that way on purpose. Medieval monastery doors were sometimes intentionally low, forcing monks to bow every time they entered the chapel. Humility wasn’t optional. It was architectural.
The Bible talks about a door like that. To enter God’s presence—to receive His kingdom—you can’t walk through standing tall. You can’t come in proud, impressive, or self-sufficient. The frame is too low. Pride doesn’t fit.
This Sunday’s readings all converge on the same point: humility is the door. Micah says walk humbly with your God. The Psalm asks who may enter the holy place. Paul demolishes human wisdom. And Jesus blesses the bent-down ones—the anawim—and says the kingdom is theirs.
The door is open. But you have to bend to get through.
The trouble is, we don’t want to bend.
[THE PROBLEM]
Listen to what Israel tried to bring:
“With what shall I come before the LORD, and bow myself before God on high? Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old? Will the LORD be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousands of rivers of oil? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?” (Micah 6:6-7)
Do you see the escalation? One calf. Then thousands of rams. Then rivers of oil. Still not impressive enough? Maybe my firstborn child.
This is what we do. We bring bigger. More. Costlier. The human instinct is to stand before God with something impressive in our hands—to earn entry, to deserve it. We want a God we can negotiate with, a debt we can settle if we just give enough.
But the escalation exposes the bankruptcy. How many rams would be enough? How many rivers? The question answers itself: there is no sacrifice impressive enough to buy your way in.
And here’s the harder truth—the one that lands closer to home. We don’t just try to impress God with sacrifices. We try to stand over His Word.
This is the ELCA’s story. A denomination that once confessed the same faith we do now openly places itself above Scripture—deciding that certain teachings are outdated, that the church’s wisdom trumps the Bible’s clarity. On question after question, the pattern is the same: “We know better than God’s Word.”
That’s not hatsnea—the humble walking Micah describes. That’s the opposite. Standing tall. Deciding what God should have said.
But before we get smug, notice: this is the human condition. We all want to edit God. Maybe not on the big public issues, but in quiet ways. When Scripture convicts us, we negotiate. “Surely God doesn’t mean that.” When the Law stings, we explain it away. When the Gospel sounds too free, we add conditions.
We want a God we can approve of. A Bible we can manage. A faith that fits our categories.
The door to God’s presence is low. And we keep trying to stand up through it.