Dwelling in the House of God: Beauty

Sermon for The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 16

Saint Peter's | Arlington, VA

1 Kings 8:22-30,41-43

“Will God indeed dwell on the earth?”

In the reading from 1 Kings, the long-anticipated completion of the Temple has finally arrived. So, King Solomon steps back and wonders to himself, rather publicly: What’s the point? What will come from this work of human hands? Is God really any closer to us than before? And, if not, what was really the purpose behind all of this?

Solomon’s question is worth some reflection.

These last handful of weeks of our sermons series we’ve pondered together “Dwelling in the Household of God”—just where exactly God chooses to make home and how we might abide in that place. This morning the Psalmist professes a longing for a kind of unbridled divine presence, declaring that “one day in [the Lord’s] courts is better than a thousand” anywhere else. “Happy are they,” the Psalmist sings, “who dwell in [God’s] house.”

Perhaps this kind of talk causes us to imagine a physical structure. For myself at least, I’m immediately drawn to picture an imposing building: something like the Washington National Cathedral just up the road a ways or to any one of the many great cathedrals in Europe. Even for as impressive as those places are, I have to admit it a second thought quickly surfaces, almost without fail, which sounds much Solomon’s: What’s the point? Wouldn’t God be just as satisfied to dwell among beautiful trees? A cluster of towering redwoods is called a cathedral, after all.    

I was raised in a nondenominational church. So, perhaps needless to say: appreciating beautiful architecture’s place in worship doesn’t necessarily come naturally for me. In the tradition I inherited, the altar was left completely bare but for the exception of a highly durable, low-pile polyester carpet and a simple, wooden cross of 4x4s. The most glitz I can recall was a stage gilded in a haze of fog from the praise band’s smoke machine. It’s a bit comical to me now... But mostly just for the contrast because I assure you without a doubt that God’s presence indeed dwelled in those snake-belly low liturgical settings, too.

When I first discovered a spiritual home in the Episcopal Church, though: beauty was actually quite critical to what moved my spirit. In that season of my faith, I yearned for wonder and mysticism: for something expansive, for something that resisted distilling God into predictable and neatly packaged platitudes. And what I discovered in the appreciation of aesthetic beauty that is woven into our liturgy and physical spaces was much like the Psalmist describes: “a places of springs” for a soul trudging through a “desolate valley.” That God might be encountered in icons of all sorts was refreshing—whether they be those hanging on walls or sitting in pews.

So, when I eventually visited Canterbury Cathedral, I marveled at the what was revealed in that great building. The tour I join included ascending ten-stories up an an exterior elevator to examine the smallest of details in centuries-old stone masonry and stained glass—places where surely no medieval pilgrim ever laid eyes. Nor were they intended to, or anyone else for that matter. It was simply an artist offering up the work of their hands in remote places as an act of worship. It didn’t matter if anyone else would witness it: because the devotion in its construction brought glory to God. And within this creative process the presence of God was surely known, too.

This is precisely the point.

I think one of the greatest purposes these churches serve, or “households” if you will, is to offer us a reminder that life is more than a series of tasks to be completed. It is a gift to be enjoyed, to be delighted in. And in much the same way, faith is more than a mere utilitarian endeavor. But that comes hand-in-hand with much uncertainty, so all-too-often we attempt to capture the grandeur of God like a firefly in a mason jar—whether it be in the elegance of our music or the beauty of our grounds or the quantifiable reach of our mission.

All of those things are good but they are not themselves the point. They matter because they facilitate an encounter with a living God. Experiencing beauty, just as much as ritual or service, offers a tangible revelation. It is an invitation. But rather than drawing us into something mysteriously unknowable, we are rather invited into relationship with a God who—in the words of Fr. Richard Rohr—is “infinitely knowable.”  

It is this humbling revelation that strikes Solomon at the moment of his great accomplishment. The purpose all-along was to build something that might make the love of God known to all humanity.

King Solomon got a bit sidetracked, though. Building the Temple came at great social cost. Because in order to construct such an impressive place, Solomon relied on the exploitation and forced labor of a once enslaved people. At some point in reigning over a kingdom intended to welcome the “huddled masses yearning to be breathe free,” Solomon got distracted by amassing chariots and constructing monuments. The irony is profound, though a focus for another sermon.

Nevertheless, when Solomon gazes at the final product he seems to realize what it was really about all along. The purpose of building this divine dwelling place was to create a house of prayer for all people. That along with the people of Israel, its formation would also welcome the foreigner who “comes from a distant land” that they too might encounter the life-giving and liberating love of God.

God never needed a Temple to dwell in; people needed a Temple that they might come to dwell within God.

Any buildings we might construct are quite secondary to this outcome. Because the God who is the Ground of All Being will not be contained to the places we’ve pre-approved. And even if we neglect to build physical houses of worship, the heavens and the earth would continue to reveal the glory of God—just as surely as rocks would cry out in praise should we fail to ourselves.

So, will God indeed dwell on the earth? In short, yes. Without any doubt.

But, even so, I think there’s something particular to what we reveal together... The work of our hands, so to speak, is far from inconsequential. Something special happens when we gather together week after week. In returning to this place and people, we embody our prayer that “All things come of thee, O Lord, and of thine own have we given thee.” Because everything in this life is a gift we’re merely entrusted with: it is right that we offer the whole of ourselves in worship, together—bringing our various skillsets and passions, our diverse opinions and identities, and our faithful presence (however fledgling it may be at any given time).

And through our devotion these four walls are made holy, not because of our piety but in what is required to be a haven for weary souls in need of the rest that real belonging makes possible. Our shared life together—with all of its messy tensions—is a thing we create together. And because we cannot become create community alone, each of us has a critical contribution to make. We need one another. And we are better together.

In gathering together as the unified body of Christ, we reveal the place God calls home. It is right here: dwelling among and within us.

For evidence, I invite you merely to gaze into the face of any one of your neighbors: and behold there the home of God.

Amen