Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Randy Greve
The First Sunday in Lent - March 9, 2025
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Randy Greve
The First Sunday in Lent - March 9, 2025
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Randy Greve
The Second Sunday of Advent, December 8, 2024
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Randy Greve
The Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 23 B, October 13, 2024
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Thomas Moore, not the nineteenth century Irish poet Thomas Moore, but the contemporary author and speaker who is best known for his book Care of the Soul, wrote a book in 1994 which I read the following year. It was a memorable gift in those years. Meditations: On the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life, is a series of short thoughts, memories, parables, and experiences mainly focused on Moore’s time as a monk in his twenties. One memorable parable has lingered in my mind for years:
“Three monks knelt in the chapel in the dark morning hours before dawn. The first thought he saw the figure of Jesus come down from the cross and rest before him in midair. Finally, he said to himself, I know what contemplation is. The second felt himself rise out of his place in the chair. He soared over his brother monks and surveyed the timber-vaulted ceiling of the church, and then landed back in his place in the choir. I’ve been blessed, he thought, with a minor miracle, but in humility I must keep it to myself. The third felt his knees growing sore and his legs tired. His mind wandered until it came to a stop on the image of a luscious hamburger laden with onions and pickles. ‘No matter how hard I try’, said the devil’s helper to his master, ‘I can’t seem to tempt this third monk.’”
I remember being baffled by this story when I first read it almost thirty years ago. I wanted contemplation, I wanted the miracle - or at least my image of them. Hamburgers do not belong in prayer - they are for eating, not praying.
It is somewhat ironic, then, that the longer I ponder and live the Rule of Benedict, the more the hamburger appears in prayer. Does Moore have a point about the third monk? Is the third monk onto something?
St. Gregory the Great in his biography of St. Benedict is generally believed to be at least embellishing if not inventing miracle stories and pious legends about St. Benedict’s own miraculous powers and mystical experiences. St. Benedict seemed to have had more than the average number of visions and miracles. At the time, those were signs of spiritual importance and power. The Rule itself, curiously, does not put much energy into knowing secrets and floating around. The Rule is not even that interested in a thorough discourse of what prayer even is other than prayer should be sincere and short. He is interested in a deeper reorientation. The whole Rule is the living of prayer. Our every thought, word, and deed is formative for relationship with God. And the whole Rule is prayer because the Rule describes life and life is prayer. And life is prayer because humans live life and to be human is to be being-in-communion. St. Benedict takes as given that as creatures made in God’s image and crowned with glory and honor this is as obvious and as natural as breathing. Life is the divine office and the world is the oratory. Benedict’s gift and power is in unveiling before our distorted and blurry vision the sacredness of all of life, especially those activities which in their ordinariness reflect no obvious sign of God’s presence. We may receive the gift of more immediate or direct encounters with God if God so chooses, but those experiences are the effect of daily faithfulness, not ends in themselves; they are opportunities for humility, not possessions to be held over the heads of those not so gifted. The ultimate unfaithfulness for St. Benedict is to go about filling a cabinet full of trophies to my deep spirituality and profound maturity. Rather, I can hear St. Benedict saying to the first and second monks in the parable, “You have had insight into some great mystery? Great, now go work in the fields.” “You have received a minor miracle? Be thankful and go wash the dishes.” “So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions."
What makes the third monk different (and I believe for St. Benedict truly holy) is an honest, earthy acceptance of his creatureliness as the ground of humility. Moore’s language is quite precise on this point: the first monk knew something mysterious after a long search; the second monk received a miracle. But the third monk is different in that Moore says his mind wandered and came to stop on the image of the hamburger. The third monk is simply noticing, not grasping at or seeking to possess the hamburger, but noting the presence of the thought in a detached manner. It is not that he is beyond temptation entirely, that would mean he was dead, but that he is conscious that everything belongs, he is not seeking to defend, perform, possess, or compete for or against anyone or anything in his praying. He hears in Jesus’ admonish to give up possessions the wisdom that possession is impossible, so the deepest giving up is the illusion that I can possess in the first place. The home toward which we are hastening is that human life where everything is received as a gift, where we are stewards of blessings not to be grasped or owned, but participated in and enjoyed.
In the Gospel reading the Lord is prodding us to take stock - estimate, consider. If builders are thoughtful about their building supplies and kings about their troop strength, then how much more ought we to bring honest scrutiny to the realities which inform and shape our whole lives? A conscious choice requires that our feet are planted on the ground, our ears are listening for the truth, our hearts are attuned to love.
The greatest obstacle to conversion is my own fantasy land image of conversion. St. Benedict is allergic to any image of self or God which leads to escaping reality, rising above others, or enlisting God in my project of having the final, absolute answer to the mysteries of the divine. As we estimate, consider, and then give up the illusions that get revealed in our honest assessment of ourselves, we find freedom - the freedom to unlearn habits of thought and action which are familiar, but which stifle our true selves. Into our empty hands Christ places the gift of our incarnation to be celebrated and enjoyed in the abundance of the kingdom of heaven. Eugene Peterson is channeling the spirit of St. Benedict in his paraphrase of the beginning of Romans 12 in the Message Bible: “So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life - your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking around life - and place it before God as an offering.” Amen.
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
“God is an intelligible space whose center is everywhere and circumference is nowhere.
God is within all things but not enclosed.
Outside all things but not excluded.
Above all things but not aloof.
Below all things but not debased.
God is supremely one and all-inclusive.
God is therefore ‘All in All’”.
The word “liturgy” means “the work of the people”. Liturgy is the witness to and embodiment of the transcendence of the categories of past, present, and future into a “now”. When were God’s mighty acts? Yes. Liturgy exists within my participation, but is not contained by it; desires my presence but is not dependent on it. The Holy Spirit is the source and inspiration for our aliveness to Christ in our midst. We begin when we decide to look at what is. That is faithfulness. Mere nostalgia for the past is not faithful, nor is our work added to lives which we own and possess. In God’s sight, all of life is liturgy - we remember and live from the source and end of human life itself.
The Easter Vigil is the liturgy of all liturgies - nothing less than the very drama of creation being made alive in its proclamation in and among us. Darkness is its opening act as earth and sky and heavenly bodies join in. The joke among sacristans is that the six most complicated words in the Prayer Book are, “In the darkness, fire is kindled”. For those of us for whom this is an annual event, a part of our identities, we cannot imagine being anywhere else doing anything else this morning. But we can think of family members or friends who would be perplexed by this work.
In our increasingly secular culture, liturgy is odd work - weird, inconvenient, impractical, awkward, certainly uncomfortable at times. We do not claim to produce anything tangible, to be guaranteed to be entertained or even sufficiently distracted - we promise none of the markers of attractive ways to spend time and attention in our culture. We do believe that something unseen and mysterious is happening. We believe that we are touching the very source of God’ covenant faithfulness to us and for us. We began in darkness so that we might put our bodies into the dark night that precedes dawning, set ourselves first and fully in the embrace of the blackness of death and the grave and the womb of the world, unable to see, to move, set groping for a glimmer, a flicker of light. We gather to begin at the time before time when the universe has not yet, but is about to be, big-banged into existence. And as humans, we are most human, most aligned with our image-bearing vocation as creatures, when through our senses and hearts, imaginations and doubts, enter the great drama of our existence.
So the work is to be “remembered” into the story when we forget, when distractions lead us into detachment and isolation, by acting it out from darkness into light, from despondency into terror, and then to greet hope and joy.
The gospels are the first liturgies, written to instruct and train catechumens and form the faithful within their unique perspective and community. We would think that part of that instruction would be a firm grounding in the resurrection of Jesus by preserving appearances and sayings that assure the faithful that Christ is alive and in the midst of them. But Mark, who is already a bit odd and doing his own thing in his Gospel, gives us a different Easter morning than Matthew, Luke, and John.
The earliest and likely first ending of the gospel of Mark is 16:8:So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. The lectionary includes the shorter ending of verse 9: And all that had been commanded them they told briefly to those around Peter. And afterwards Jesus himself sent out through them, from east to west, the sacred and imperishable proclamation of eternal salvation. Likely some later scribe was copying along and got to verse 8, “... for they were afraid”, and thought, “well, that’s not a very Jesus-y way to end the gospel, now is it? I’ll fix that right up.” And thus an extra verse. There is an even longer ending of Mark that I will not get into - read it yourself if you dare and if you decide to follow it literally do it far away from me.
So after Jesus has cast out demons, healed, taught, multiplied loaves and fishes, calmed the storm, been crucified and buried - now, on Easter morning, when it is finally time to pour on the celebration and unleash the fireworks and glory and find some relief from the unrelenting conflict and struggle - Christ has conquered death and the grave! What do we get? So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.
Resist the temptation to say, “yes, but.” Before we get there (and there are six more Sundays yet to come), we enter an awful emptiness, the yawning chasm and chaos of the absence of a dead body that every expectation, every way of seeing reality assured these women would be present in this tomb as surely as the sun will rise. A dead body lying there on that slab just as they had left it on Friday afternoon. It is not there. An angel announces what has happened, what to do now, and they leave. The gospel ends there, ends with the fear hanging in the air. No appearance, no word of peace - just the ultimate cliffhanger.
This is classic Mark. He loves to leave teaching and parables unresolved, leaving questions unanswered/ He writes the gospel as a “fill in the blank” quiz as if to say, “and now what happens?” Write your response here in the margin. We are all part of the story, processing in real time. For this persecuted community, many exiled from home and family, excluded from the synagogues, hunted by Romans, the fireworks of glory and triumph are not where they are. And so for us as well. We may believe in resurrection - believe it to be the greatest news in the greatest story ever told - but that news does not, is not intended to, wipe away our grief and sorrow or make us forget our pain. We can have both. We can know that both are true. Even at the empty tomb there is fear and pain and grief yet to live. Sometimes we can’t get to the joy and celebration just yet. Some years, some periods of our lives, we are stopped cold in the awful dark emptiness, the terror and amazement, caught between the presence of death we expected and the presence of absence which bewilders us further.
Rather than hasten to words of peace and assurance, hasten to touch Jesus’ feet or gaze at his wounds, might there be liturgy in the space between death and glory, the nothingness, the absence, the darkness where dwells our deepest fears and trembling hopes? Those other moments will come. But these women, the disciples, and all of us, must receive them in our own time. If we rush past the dark emotions we may smile and act as if it is the dawning of new creation, but our hearts will still be in the tomb. Liturgy is language and sign and movement. It is also silence, absence, and stillness. We may not live in the tomb, but we must enter it. It is a necessary place, but it is not home. When we enter the tomb, enter the emptiness, we are in that place of coming undone and thus becoming the ones in whom the risen Christ dwells. The risen Christ can and will dwell even in our terror and darkness, he does not wait for our joyful assurance, our personal inner fireworks. Because he has conquered death by death, he can be present to my terror and take me with him through it.
Mark knows that we will want a more comforting ending, which is why he does not include one. He knows we will want him to finish the liturgy; tell us what it means, what to do. He does not. He leaves that up to us. He lets us proceed with what is next when we are ready. The impulse to fix the ending of Mark is understandable, but I’m glad it ends the way it does. Leave it as it is - at the end of verse 8. It may take a while, we may flee far in terror and amazement, too afraid to say anything to anyone. At the other end of our fleeing is home; the far country of fear becomes peace - Christ will not abandon us - we cannot outrun him. The center of life in the risen Christ is everywhere; his circumference is nowhere. This is just the end of the gospel, not the end of the story. The story continues until all things are made new. It has a perfect ending. We are the ending. Amen.
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Click here for an audio of the sermon
The richness of the gospels is how the same story of the same Savior is told in these four distinct ways. If in Matthew the Lord is Teacher, in Luke the bringer
If our Lord - loving and merciful and forgiving as he is - is also at times, perhaps most of the time, surprising, offensive, scandalous, outside the worn paths of any thought we might have of, “Well, if I were in that situation, here is the obvious right thing to do”, that is not because he intends to be inscrutable or
confusing, it is because he is the only fully and perfectly present, aware, free, and perceptive person who has ever lived. Jesus simply had no category of motivation toward being famous or followed for his powers. We imperfect creatures are the ones prone to create and worship a safe, manageable, and laid back image of Jesus who is cool with whatever or, at the opposite extreme, a vindictive, violent, and hell-obsessed Jesus who will slay the wicked who happen to be the people we don’t like. The journey is not caging our image and nailing down all knowable facts about Jesus so we have a clear and predictable definition (although that is a popular aim, it is misguided). It is closer to the capacity to continuously have my illusions shattered, my lack of imagination exposed to his unblinking gaze, to be surprised, shocked even, by the deeper reality of the one who continuously chooses the narrow path, the counterintuitive decision, the way that rejects every mark of success we idealize and worship.
“When they found him, they said to him, ‘Everyone is searching for you.’ He answered, ‘Let us go on…’” Whatever Jesus perceives it is that they are searching for must remain as search. Jesus calls disciples, he does not accumulate admirers. Jesus loves the people in Capernaum in two ways: he heals them and he goes on. Compassion compels both. The kingdom must include both. Our growth in union with Christ must reckon with how we receive both gifts. Jesus comes to us as perfect presence and perfect ache. He hides nothing of himself, gives himself fully, yet at the same time will evade and escape every
attempt to possess him as our pet savior, our mascot, our magic wand. I am thrown back onto the nature of my desiring so that I may encounter the presence of Jesus within me in the very desiring of the one I believe I do not possess. When the ache is a gift that teaches me what it is to a creature who desires, who yearns, who sighs and groans, then the paradox of the kingdom is doing its work in me to make me
human.
When I am healed of the fantasy of the unreal Jesus I can never possess - who brings clarity, who resolves crises, who evacuates mystery - then I can encounter the Christ who has packed up and moved on to the next village. What the folks in Capernaum will come to learn, as we ourselves are on the path of
conversion, is that while it seems as if he is absent, he is not truly absent. His absence is his presence. The searching for him is already the encounter.
“Everyone is searching for you.”
“Good”, Jesus says. Exactly what I wanted.”
Amen.
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24
Ephesians 1:15-23
Matthew 25:31-46
Click here for an audio of the sermon
Recent American history has evoked a reckoning. Movements such as #metoo, the facing of past and present racism, even in the church, and the dismantling of many Confederate statues and symbols are but a few of the shifts in these years. This reckoning is an unveiling of the patterns of denial and privilege that is leading us to a deeper awareness of our collective unfinished business of creating a society with liberty and justice for all. Yet as our heightened commitment to justice comes as grace-filled liberation for many, for others the present moment is a threat to previous ways of organizing power and has inspired an equally intense resistance that seeks to preserve racial, gender, sexual, and other barriers and prejudices. Those empowered by the ways of denial are not happy about this reckoning.
In her book, The Great Emergence, Phyllis Tickle describes this reckoning as a once every five hundred year rummage sale during which the political and religious foundations shift and crack and institutions go from chaos to realignment in ways that are both hopeful and dangerous, exciting and disorienting. She writes that the central question during the transition is, “Who is in charge?” Who has power and how is it being used? The deepening levels of political and religious polarization and partisan strife in our culture points back to Tickle’s question. In his last book, Morality: Restoring the Common Good in Divided Times, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes about this phenomenon; “Something new is happening: the sense that the other side is less than fully human, that its supporters are not part of the same moral community as us, that somehow their sensibilities are alien and threatening, as if they were not the opposition within a political arena, but the enemy, full stop.” We are in the midst of the cracking and do not know the extent or the duration. The desire after the worst of the pandemic to “return to normal” has confronted the undeniable reality that whatever that “normal” was way back in February 2020 is not coming back while what will be is not yet fully known. As old structures of power are questioned and critiqued, but before new ones have coalesced, we are at an impasse that invites careful reflection and mindful discernment as to the faithful response of word and deed.
If we are paying attention, we come around to the seasons of the Church year and her feasts over and over again yet as if meeting them for the first time. The collects and readings are the same, but the moment, the “now” of each feast and season is unrepeatable. The reckoning of Christ’s life and work among us takes on ever more urgent importance and is an ever more vital source of unshakable hope amidst the disorientation. It is good to celebrate Christ the King. Necessary to that celebration is to take seriously the claim of Christ the King for today, among us, within the changes and chances that 2023 have brought us.
Christ the King disorients and reorients, evokes frustration and hope. Perhaps only Trinity Sunday is a rival in the admonition to the preacher - “just don’t say anything heretical!” It is a truth claim and title that by itself evokes a range of reactions about spiritual power and authority. Can the eternal identity of Christ meet our present honest struggles and longings, our unknowing and fear, and still be affirmed? Christian disorientation is creating two main reactions: on one hand when theology is doubted, just double down - vigorously preserve the tribal dogma against its critics and enemies. On the other side are those who have been harmed by abuse in the name of Christ and who struggle to preserve faith when the voices and models have acted contrary to the Christ they proclaim. They see no way to integrate the claims of faith with their emotional experience.
I suggest Christ the King gives us a third way - not a Christ who is tyrannically demanding conformity, yet a Christ whose rule is necessary to fulfill my human dignity and freedom. Let’s start with the obvious. Christ is King. I am not king. You are not king. The judgment scene in St. Matthew gives sole rule and reign to the one who gathers and knows and who pronounces what might be called a verdict on our behavior’s compassion or lack thereof. Note carefully how nowhere does Christ the king ask my opinion, solicit my help, or seek my advice about how to be king - there is no committee. The only thing that humans do in the scene is ask “when did we see…?” Christ, we may affirm from the text, is not a mascot for my side over the other. Christ is not King in such a way that aligns him with those who believe they are right, who hold power, who claim superiority simply by the fact of those beliefs or powers. No persons or groups get a free pass, special status, or exemption from the standard of judgment. Christ is not a means to gaining power for myself. Christ is not available to be weaponized into a sword with which I smite the infidels. What we would need to know if we were going to construct a theology of power based on knowing, exclusion, absolute answers, and fixed boundaries is missing. Such as…
When will the final judgment come? We don’t know because the story does not say when the final judgment will come.
How can we know with certainty who are sheep and goats? We cannot. The story identifies what sheep and goats do, not who they are. Christ knows.
Do we help Christ execute judgment against our enemies? We do not.
Has much energy been spent by Christians seeking to answer these questions and who believe that answers are attainable? Yes. Are the answers any of our business? No.
I find I would much rather be a helper than a subject. I would like to serve on Christ’s staff. Wise understanding is not rightly oriented toward inventing what the text does not provide, but first taking as given that we are not mini-kings who must rule over those in error, but limited and imperfect humans in fellowship with other equally limited and imperfect humans. The story purely distilled is reinforcing the differences between the divine vocation and the human vocation and pointing toward how these separate powers interact. When we aspire to divine acts, Christ is giving us back the gift of our human creatureliness with all its glory and honor, all its passing-breath mortality. Part of the gift and glory of being human is what we do not know, cannot know, what is hidden from us, what is of an altogether different order of reality from our ways of understanding. Our vocation is to let the unknowns be unknown so that we can attend to the human quest of love for our neighbor.
Christ the King asks us to awaken to being human not as a problem to be overcome, but as a gift to be received and shared. What is not said, what is kept in God’s own being, what is missing, is information that also makes the story formative in that our attention is pointed toward seeing and doing what we can, not what we cannot - that is where our power resides. Our deepest search is for Christ, but Christ the King himself declares that our search is not fulfilled in esoteric theories and speculation, not in power over others, but presence with and service to others. The place to find Christ is in the other. There is a theme in scripture of God appearing in the stranger. Christ is always coming to me in the other person. By grace I am Christ going to my brother or sister. To locate Christ as the One encountered in the other puts me in an open, expectant, and generous posture - in other words, makes me human.
Aware of what we do not know, but on the last day will know because we will be fully known, our power is liberated toward human flourishing in this our waiting-time before the setting right of the world. In our care of the least of these, we discover a reality bigger than our unknowing - that Christ the King is present to us through them and that we are present as Christ to them. That is the reckoning to which we are called. In the moments of seeing and responding, we are choosing to be counted among the blessed inheritors of the kingdom. That compassion participates in and adds to what foretells the end of violence and exploitation, the end of greed and idolatry, the end of division and ingratitude. Amen.
Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
1 Kings 8:22-30
1 Peter 2:1-5,9-10
Matthew 21:12-16
The Second Council of Nicaea, the Seventh Ecumenical Council, which met in 787, is most remembered in that it established the theology of icons and their veneration. After centuries of iconoclastic furor and destruction by political and church leaders, the church finally spoke definitively on the question of icons and holy objects. The motivation for the destruction or banning of icons was based in a reading of the second commandment prohibiting “graven images”. The conviction of the iconoclasts was that the image itself evoked the adoration which belongs to the divine alone, therefore any image was by definition a “graven image” and in violation of the commandment. The council approved and protected icons by making an important distinction. The council said that the icon in itself was not a graven image because it was not made to be worshiped nor was the worship of the image supported by the Church. An icon was not a golden-calf level of idol as if it was claiming to depict or contain the divine or to be worshiped as divine. What the council asserted was that an image, properly understood, was a door or window through which the person praying before the image perceives and adores the heavenly personage who is depicted in it.
Any sound theology of icons will be quick to repeat this point - that an icon is an image that is looked through, not looked upon. It points to something beyond itself. The icon presents us with the paradox that in the existence of the icon is the truth that the icon itself is not the object, but is meant to point to its subject. As physical, sensory creatures, we need the image to point beyond the image. We are dependent on some means, some mechanism as an intermediate link between our finitude and the infinite. We need the icon to remind us that the icon is not the point. Further still, the veneration of icons is partly about the person seen, but more fundamentally about the act of seeing itself. When the icon teaches us how to see, we have changed our relationship to it from taking meaning to receiving insight. They are templates that reveal how I am in the world, how I relate to my humanness and God’s self revelation. This distinction between veneration and adoration, between seeing into and through the object and idolatry of the object, is profoundly helpful in our practice of inhabiting this house of prayer. Indeed, we cannot find authentic peace and joy unless we hold this tension.
Each of the readings for today is about the nature of God’s communion with the material world and the means of our perception of that communion. In the first reading recounting the dedication of the temple by Solomon, this ambivalence toward the notion of a holy place, a house for God, is named as a question that sits alongside the building. After all the effort of raising this colossal structure, he says, “but will God indeed dwell on the earth? Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, much less this house that I have built.” Maybe he should have thought about that before construction began! And at the same time we can identify with the need for a material place and focus for worship that is set apart. It will be over the next thousand years while the temple is standing, as prophets arise to interpret it, that the paradox of sacred space as both gift and danger will become the central question in Israel’s life. The biblical epic preserves both the priestly tradition and the prophetic counter-voice. The priestly narrative is concerned with right ritual piety, sacrifices and sabbaths, festivals and fasts, that preserve the memory of the exodus, the giving of the law, and the retelling and reenacting of these events of God’s salvation. The holy of holies where resides the ark of the covenant, in the center of the temple, is regarded as the tangible presence of God on earth. The prophets as counter-voice function as a social conscience toward how the ritual is viewed and lived. They warn about the dangers of temple worship that degenerates into mere outer form and neglects an equal passion for justice and righteousness. The goal is ritual and remembrance that informs and is transformed into faithful living toward the poor, the outcast, the foreigner. The prophets say, essentially, “have the ritual, but the ritual itself is no substitute for faithful living. Authentic liturgical remembrance always expresses itself in justice and compassion.” In fact, they continue, outer piety can blind the heart to what God is most concerned about in human relationships, so watch out that you do not make the practices into idols of self-righteousness.
It is into this prophetic tradition and perspective that Jesus enter and exorcizes the temple of the corrupt practices into which the ritual has slid. The danger was real. Solomon’s caution was ignored. By now the temple does seek to contain God in patterns of power, exclusion, and legalistic judgmentalism. The worst possible path of misinterpretation and misunderstanding of the icon-like nature of the temple has come to pass and robbery has replaced the central purpose and priority of prayer. Taking on the prophetic mantle of the one who fully embodies remembrance and prayer becoming justice and compassion, Jesus sees through the institutional processes designed to keep the temple going and names what is below the surface. Our Lord sees the temple from the perspective of a window through the stones into the divine. It is this violation of the intent and veneration of its very nature that so angers him.
The epistle reading from 1 Peter, reflecting on the Jesus tradition, borrows building imagery but redefines it to declare the human person the temple of divine presence. We ourselves are the living stones, a spiritual house, no longer focused on a building, but in Christ are indwelt in our flesh by the spirit of God as God’s own people. The icon, the object, the building are all reflecting back to us our true nature as image bearers.
I remember reading Brother Lawrence’s The Practice of the Presence of God when I was in my twenties and the confusion I felt when he said that for him there was no difference between the kitchen and the oratory. In my young dualistic way of thinking, the kitchen was common and the church was the set apart sacred place of God’s presence - never the twain shall meet. As I have gotten older, I can at least aspire to Brother Lawrence’s integration of perception of God’s presence everywhere. When I talk to groups about the rule of St Benedict, the archetypal verse I always use is Benedict’s admonition to the cellarer to regard the pots and pans as the sacred vessels of the altar. I don’t know if Brother Lawrence was aware of the ecumenical councils, but St Benedict is certainly foreshadowing and intuiting the reverence and veneration of created things and seeing all the world as infused with this wonder and care because all of it is sacred, every place is a place for worship. Amen.