For the past seven months I've been mulling over the idea of "sacred space" and what value holy sites have for us as Christians, as well as their place in our discipleship. I haven't come up with any clear answer, or even fully summarized my thoughts for my own benefit. Perhaps when I get back home I can give you a better wrapped idea. Until then, I'll keep collecting ingredients to add to the stew.
Enter: the following poem. I stumbled upon this poem written by Jonathan Martin, a Pentecostal preacher from North Carolina. He wrote it in response to visiting some cathedrals in Europe and it looks at the idea of the t/Temples. Not that Pastor Jonathan brings up this idea, but do we sometimes believe (in action, if not in theory) that God inhabits our "holy places" more than our bodies? In my present context, should we care as much about the Divine inhabiting our buildings as we do about our God existing in our bodies?
(Yes, this is particularly relevant for me, living in the "Holy Land", but it is equally important for those of us in the States with our concerns, often legitimate, for our church buildings. How should we care about our bodily temples? Our brick-and-mortar ones? Are they equal? Do we treat some better than others? This hits close to home, I know. But these are things we must talk about, whether or not we come to an agreement on what it all means.)
Enjoy the poem; I hope it gives you as much to think about as it has for me.
It is only good and proper that a deity so great
would demand a temple as great as we can build you.
We are well suited for this,
as our species is quite partial to building buildings.
We build cathedrals of stone and gold,
able to survive the centuries,
even a good sacking from the Vikings now and again.
We build sports arenas with state of the art sound and lightning,
able to change the ambiance at a moment’s notice.
We can do gymnasiums and multi-purpose rooms.
We can do kneeling benches or stadium seating.
Both if you like.
Yet in our buildings you are restless, unsettled, agitated,
Even buildings intended for your rest chafe you like the coarsest of ropes.
Indeed for all splendor, your taste in real estate remain most peculiar.
For where we are partial to buildings, you are partial to bodies.
Where we are partial to houses, you are partial to housing within us.
This is curious, even disturbing.
For while our buildings are hardly indestructible,
compared to our bodies they seem almost impervious.
Bodies of such eclectic sounds and smells and colours,
bodies that are shocking in their simplicity and their sophistication.
Bodies that are fearfully and wonderfully made perhaps,
Yet bodies so fragile and finite.
Bodies that we are so at home in,
Bodies we can’t begin to understand.
These bodies that house and enable
All of this heartbreak
All of this tenderness
All of this temptation
All of this affection
All of this DNA
All of this chemistry
All of this duplicity
All of this blood
All of this bone
All of this marrow
All of this joy
All of this brokenness
All of this wanting, aching, hurting, dying;
All of this hoping, rejoicing, receiving, living.
How could it be that you are so infinitely interested
in all of this breathing and digesting and touching?
That you could be so enamored with these bodies you made,
not merely to call us art, but to make us a shrine?
To take these fragile tents
and make a temple of the Holy Ghost?
 |
| A cathedral I visited in Belgium, near Ipres. |
(Yes, this is particularly relevant for me, living in the "Holy Land", but it is equally important for those of us in the States with our concerns, often legitimate, for our church buildings. How should we care about our bodily temples? Our brick-and-mortar ones? Are they equal? Do we treat some better than others? This hits close to home, I know. But these are things we must talk about, whether or not we come to an agreement on what it all means.)
Enjoy the poem; I hope it gives you as much to think about as it has for me.
It is only good and proper that a deity so great
would demand a temple as great as we can build you.
We are well suited for this,
as our species is quite partial to building buildings.
We build cathedrals of stone and gold,
able to survive the centuries,
even a good sacking from the Vikings now and again.
We build sports arenas with state of the art sound and lightning,
able to change the ambiance at a moment’s notice.
We can do gymnasiums and multi-purpose rooms.
We can do kneeling benches or stadium seating.
Both if you like.
Yet in our buildings you are restless, unsettled, agitated,
Even buildings intended for your rest chafe you like the coarsest of ropes.
Indeed for all splendor, your taste in real estate remain most peculiar.
For where we are partial to buildings, you are partial to bodies.
Where we are partial to houses, you are partial to housing within us.
This is curious, even disturbing.
For while our buildings are hardly indestructible,
compared to our bodies they seem almost impervious.
Bodies of such eclectic sounds and smells and colours,
bodies that are shocking in their simplicity and their sophistication.
Bodies that are fearfully and wonderfully made perhaps,
Yet bodies so fragile and finite.
Bodies that we are so at home in,
Bodies we can’t begin to understand.
These bodies that house and enable
All of this heartbreak
All of this tenderness
All of this temptation
All of this affection
All of this DNA
All of this chemistry
All of this duplicity
All of this blood
All of this bone
All of this marrow
All of this joy
All of this brokenness
All of this wanting, aching, hurting, dying;
All of this hoping, rejoicing, receiving, living.
How could it be that you are so infinitely interested
in all of this breathing and digesting and touching?
That you could be so enamored with these bodies you made,
not merely to call us art, but to make us a shrine?
To take these fragile tents
and make a temple of the Holy Ghost?
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