Church this week was about gifts. Even though Christmas is a few months away, there was an assortment of items under the chairs. A lambskin was next to me. Cinnamon and a flask of oil were under Ben. Blocks of wood, white cloth, gold jewelry, gems, and skeins of purple thread were scattered around the room. At first it was easy to overlook them when you sat down. Then if you were observant, you saw treasures tucked beneath the rungs. 

The story was about when the Children of Israel were commanded to bring their offerings together as materials for constructing the tabernacle. Probably each person felt as if their contribution was modest, even meager. What difference would a bracelet make? How could a swath of fabric help? Yet in combination, these elements were just right, or rather God transformed them to a kind of rightness.

We were invited to bring these things forward, materials we had but passing possession of. Yet for me it accurately reflected the reality of what I see as my talents. They showed up and I reached for them. Writing music? Can't actually take credit for that. Birthing babies? I didn't even understand the process. Leading small groups? They evolve from a place deeper than my thin veneer of comprehension. Writing stories? I am merely the scribe. 

Two of the details that I cling to in the passage in Exodus are also easily missed. It specifies both women and men. In a culture that historically eclipsed women, I find that to be profound. Also the distinction of who was welcomed came from an inner calling, not an outer one. A willing heart was the password. A spirit that moved with desire was the magic opening. These are qualities that cannot be given. Neither can they be taken away.