There is a curious law of the universe that I have observed over many years of ministry. Every house possesses one.
Not one denomination has ever voted on it. No municipality has legislated it. Yet somehow it exists with astonishing consistency.
Every home has a junk drawer.
Some are tidy enough to deserve the gentler title of “miscellaneous drawer.” Others are archaeological digs where rubber bands from the Mulroney era coexist peacefully with expired coupons, mystery keys, batteries of questionable character, three tape measures (none of which can be found when actually needed), and enough pens that refuse to write to open a small stationery museum.
I confess that our house has one too.
Whenever I open it, I begin with the finest of intentions. “Today,” I declare with prophetic confidence, “I shall bring order out of chaos.”
Twenty minutes later I have rediscovered a flashlight I thought had been lost since Epiphany, found two pairs of reading glasses that apparently belonged to someone with better eyesight than I now possess, and become strangely sentimental over an instruction manual for an appliance we no longer own.
Very little organization has actually occurred.
It strikes me that the human heart is rather like that drawer.
We imagine ourselves to be carefully arranged, spiritually colour-coded, and emotionally indexed. Then life gives the drawer a good shake.
A difficult diagnosis.
A family disagreement.
A disappointment at work.
A forgotten dream that suddenly resurfaces.
Before long, everything we thought had been neatly filed away comes tumbling into view again. Old fears. Ancient regrets. Memories we assumed had long ago been dealt with. Gratitude sitting beside grief. Hope tangled up with uncertainty.
If we are honest, our souls are rarely as organized as we would like them to be.
The wonderful news of the Gospel is that Jesus has never been intimidated by untidy interiors.
Throughout the Gospels he consistently entered lives that looked remarkably disorganized. Peter had enough impulsiveness to keep twelve disciples perpetually entertained. Martha was trying to hold everything together with admirable efficiency. Thomas carried doubts that would have exhausted most parish councils. Mary Magdalene bore wounds deeper than most people could imagine.
Christ never stood at the doorway saying, “I’ll come back once you’ve sorted yourselves out.”
He simply came in.
Perhaps that is why the Apostle Paul could write with such confidence that “God is not a God of confusion but of peace” (1 Corinthians 14:33). Notice what Paul does not say. He does not claim that our lives are never confusing. Rather, he reminds us that confusion is not where God begins or ends. God enters confusion in order to create peace.
Creation itself began with chaos.
Genesis tells us that the earth was formless and empty before God began speaking light into darkness. Divine creativity has always shown an astonishing preference for messy starting points.
Which, when you think about it, should be encouraging for the rest of us.
Perhaps the greatest miracle is not that God can create beauty from perfection.
Any competent artist could probably manage that.
The miracle is that God delights in creating beauty from ordinary people carrying around spiritual junk drawers.
Some of us keep old guilt tucked beside fresh blessings.
Some keep treasured memories beside unresolved disappointments.
Some have dreams folded away beneath practical responsibilities because adulthood seemed to require such sacrifices.
And God patiently sifts through it all with remarkable tenderness.
Not everything needs to be thrown away.
Some things simply need to be remembered differently.
Some need forgiving.
Some need thanking.
Some merely need to be placed back where they belong.
That work takes time.
Grace has never been in a terrible hurry.
As September settles into its familiar rhythm, many of us are trying to bring order to our calendars, routines, cupboards, and schedules. Those are worthwhile tasks. But perhaps the deeper invitation this week is to let Christ quietly reorder the hidden drawer of the heart.
He has a remarkable eye for what should be kept, what should be healed, and what may finally be released.
And unlike the rest of us, he always knows exactly where everything belongs.
Which is fortunate.
Because I still have absolutely no idea what that tiny brass key in our junk drawer actually opens.
It is entirely possible that it unlocks something tremendously important.
Or perhaps it belongs to a lawn mower we sold fifteen years ago.
Only God knows.
And somehow, that seems entirely fitting.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
You know every hidden corner of our hearts, every memory we treasure, every burden we still carry, and every hope we have almost forgotten. Thank you for loving us just as we are, not as we imagine we should be.
Patiently bring your peace into the places that feel cluttered, your light into every shadow, and your grace into all that needs healing. Teach us to trust that nothing in our lives is beyond your redeeming love.
May we walk into this day with grateful hearts, confident that you are always making something beautiful out of ordinary lives.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.