First Blessings

And what of this creature, this mote of a bee?
For what flower is it and it alone crafted?
To what task of service and praise has it been called?
Why is it at all? Certainly not of necessity, but of — what? — the exuberance of the Creator, His sheer joy in the making from least to greatest?

And what of the hand upon which the bee pauses and rests?
For what purpose is it — and perhaps it alone — crafted?
To what task of service and praise has it been called, to what vocation?
Why is it at all? Neither of necessity nor happenstance but of — what? — the providence of the Creator, His grace in giving, his image-bearing energies expressing his ineffable essence?

That this hand may serve and praise at least in part as this bee does in full!

SAVED BY A HURRICANE, the caption says. “Salvation belongs to the LORD,” the Psalm says (Ps 3:8a, BCP 2019, p. 272). There seems no reason that both cannot be true. About another matter, but equally germane here, N. T. Wright says about St. Paul:

There are two quite different ways of approaching this question, and I think Paul would have wanted to have both in play. He would have known all about different levels of explanation. He undoubtedly knew what 2 Kings had said about the angel of the Lord destroying the Assyrians who were besieging Jerusalem, and he may also have known the version in Herodotus, in which mice nibbled the besiegers’ bowstrings, forcing them to withdraw. He would certainly have known that one could tell quite different stories about the same event, all equally true in their own way (N. T. Wright, Paul: A Biography, HarperOne (2018), p. 414).

Angels or mice? Angels and mice? Is it the binary Fujuwhara interaction between hurricanes Humberto and Imelda that will stall Imelda some 150 miles off the South Carolina coast and then pull it out to sea? Well, yes, quite possibly on a natural level. Is it the angel of the Lord who, at the Lord’s command, will stall Imelda and steer it into the Atlantic? Well, yes, most certainly on a supra-natural level. God deigns to use agents — material and spiritual — to accomplish his will and we praise him for both, remembering Psalm 3:8 — salvation belongs to the LORD.

As an Anglican, I often pray The Great Litany which contains this intercession:

From lightning and tempest; from earthquake, fire, and flood; from plague, pestilence and famine,
Good Lord, deliver us (BCP 2019, p. 92).

And, yes, I have prayed this with Humberto and Imelda in view. I never once concerned myself with specifying the method the Good Lord was to use in delivering us (them) from lightning and tempest and flood. The binary Fujiwhara interaction is fine with me.

Why God at some times stalls and steers hurricanes away from land and delivers those in the path of destruction and at other times seems indifferent to human suffering — seems, but is not — I have no way of knowing. That is far more complex than Fujiwhara. But, it is all somehow bound up in his love and our salvation, which brings us back again to Psalm 3: Salvation belongs to the LORD.

Imelda’s path could change once again, could confound meteorologists once again, could stall off the coast of South Carolina with flooding deluges, could slam ashore with devastating winds. So, let us not grow slack or weary in our prayers. Pray for angels. Pray for mice. Pray for both.

Apostles Anglican Church
Fr. John A. Roop

Sixteenth Sunday After Pentecost, 28 September 2025
(Amos 6:1-7, Ps 146, 1 Tim 6:11-19, Luke 16:19-31)

Politics, Religion, and Money: Dives and Lazarus

Let not the needy, O Lord, be forgotten;
Nor the hope of the poor be taken away (BCP 2019, p. 22).

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

There are, it is commonly said, three things that one simply does not discuss in polite, social gatherings: politics, religion, and money. But, you know, dear ones, that the church is not a polite, social gathering, but rather a convocation of insurrectionists bent on overthrowing the world and introducing a new world order under the rightful king. For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory for ever and ever, we say not to any elected official, appointed governor, or hereditary potentate of this world, but to the one who invaded this world, defeated its ruler, and claimed it as his own, even Jesus Christ our Lord and the Lord of all creation. So, yes, let us talk politics, religion, and money, polite societal norms notwithstanding.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men….

These words from the Declaration of Independence, written almost certainly by Thomas Jefferson, are among the most profound, the most significant political convictions ever penned by men. If the United States has any claim to being or having once been a Christian nation, the evidence lies in these words. Though throughout our history they have often been more honored in the breach than in the observance, they are nonetheless the ideal to which, in our best moments, we aspire.

And, they are wrong; Jefferson was wrong in this regard: That all men are created equal is not self-evident and never has been. Even the greatest of the classical cultures — the Greeks and Romans — did not consider all men equal; they would have considered that notion absurd. The equality of all men is not a self-evident truth; it is a Christian revelation, a spiritual truth proclaimed by Jesus in his summary of the Law, penned by St. Paul in his letter to the Galatians, and only lately incorporated into the political realm by our Founding Fathers as self-evident truth.

But, once accepted, Jefferson was right in the implications of the principle. If all men are created equal, then their rights are endowed by their creator, not granted by fiat or boon by other men, societies, or governments, but God-given. It is the responsibility of government and law, not to bestow these rights, but to secure them: to act in obedience to God and under God’s authority — and under God’s judgment — to ensure that no person is alienated from, deprived of, these rights, the most basic of which is the right to life. And, by life, we do not mean merely birth or basic biological existence, but a certain quality of life that promotes human growth in wisdom and stature, in favor with God and man.

And that quality of life brings us to money. Back-breaking, spirit-crushing poverty is not life, not life as God intended it. Poverty that keeps some people famished while others dine in Michelin Star restaurants is not life, not life as God intended it. And so God gave his people laws, a government to secure the unalienable right to life endowed by the Creator.

1 And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, 2 “Speak to all the congregation of the people of Israel and say to them, You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.”

9 “When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap your field right up to its edge, neither shall you gather the gleanings after your harvest. 10 And you shall not strip your vineyard bare, neither shall you gather the fallen grapes of your vineyard. You shall leave them for the poor and for the sojourner: I am the Lord your God” (Lev 19:1-2, 9-10).

19 “When you reap your harvest in your field and forget a sheaf in the field, you shall not go back to get it. It shall be for the sojourner, the fatherless, and the widow, that the Lord your God may bless you in all the work of your hands. 20 When you beat your olive trees, you shall not go over them again. It shall be for the sojourner, the fatherless, and the widow. 21 When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, you shall not strip it afterward. It shall be for the sojourner, the fatherless, and the widow. 22 You shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore I command you to do this” (Deut 24:19-21).

The gleanings of the fields and the vines and the trees belong not to their owners, but to the poor, the sojourner, the widow, and the orphan — not as a remedy to their poverty, but at least as a relief from it. That is a God-given unalienable right to life for the poor and a God-mandated responsibility for any government or people that calls on the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

It is not just in the Law proper that God demands those with goods to honor the rights of the poor; it is a theme running throughout the prophets.

Isaiah writes:

6 “Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of wickedness,
to undo the straps of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?

7 Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover him,
and not to hide yourself from your own flesh” (Is 58:6-7)?

And, in today’s reading from Amos:

4 “Woe to those who lie on beds of ivory
and stretch themselves out on their couches,
and eat lambs from the flock
and calves from the midst of the stall,

5 who sing idle songs to the sound of the harp
and like David invent for themselves instruments of music,

6 who drink wine in bowls
and anoint themselves with the finest oils,
but are not grieved over the ruin of Joseph” (Amos 6:4-6)!

Joseph — Israel — is blissfully ignorant of its true state as Amos speaks his words of woe. Assyria — that dreaded threat to the north and east — seems exhausted, but is in reality only catching its breath for a final assault that will sweep Israel away forever. The rich are living in pampered luxury garnered at the expense of the poor. This is a people, a society of golden idols and golden toilets, of the one-percenters who strip their fields bare and who leave the poor, the sojourners, the widows and the orphans with nothing to glean. This is a people, a society which no longer acknowledges — if it ever did — the unalienable right to life of the poor, the sojourner, the widow, the orphan.

Some eight centuries later, another prophet, Jesus of Nazareth, is on his way to Jerusalem for the final time, meeting both acclaim and opposition as he goes. As is his wont, he is still speaking in parables, but they are sharp-edged now and pointed. The Sadducees, scribes, and Pharisees feel their sting. Jesus even dares to speak of politics, religion, and money. The Pharisees are especially vexed when he speaks of money.

14 The Pharisees, who were lovers of money, heard all these things, and they ridiculed him. 15 And he said to them…

19 “There was a rich man who was clothed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. 20 And at his gate was laid a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, 21 who desired to be fed with what fell from the rich man’s table. Moreover, even the dogs came and licked his sores. 22 The poor man died and was carried by the angels to Abraham’s side. The rich man also died and was buried, 23 and in Hades, being in torment, he lifted up his eyes and saw Abraham far off and Lazarus at his side. 24 And he called out, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the end of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am in anguish in this flame.’ 25 But Abraham said, ‘Child, remember that you in your lifetime received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner bad things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in anguish” (Luke 16:14-15a, 19-25).

This single parable ties together politics, religion, and money; it links the law, the prophets, and the Gospel. Jesus is speaking woe to the Pharisees just as Amos had prophesied destruction to Israel, present Messiah and past prophet both condemning the sin of luxury at the expense of the poor: the Pharisees, the Rich Man, and Israel are one and the same, under one and the same judgment.

And what of Lazarus? His one desire is to be fed with what fell from the rich man’s table — to glean under the table of the rich man. Lazarus is the incarnation of the poor, the sojourner, the widow, the orphan to whom the Creator — the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob — had given the unalienable right to life, for whom the Creator had established the law of gleaning, ensuring the poor their rights to the excess of the rich. The rich man was breaking the law of God — the spirit of it if not the precise letter — by denying Lazarus even the scraps from his table. This is not the rich man’s denial of optional charity; this is the rich man’s refusal to obey God, to fulfill his God-mandated responsibility. In Jesus’ parable, the rich man’s willful disobedience to the law of charity is the only charge leveled against him, the sole criterion used in judgment, the single factor that determined his eternal destiny. This is only one parable, used to make one particular point, directed toward one specific sin of the Pharisees, so we dare not mistake it for the whole of the Gospel. But, we dare not minimize it either; these are the words and the judgment of Jesus himself. And he is consistent in this indictment:

41 “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. 42 For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, 43 I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ 44 Then they also will answer, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to you?’ 45 Then he will answer them, saying, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ 46 And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life” (Mt 25:41-46).

Was this just hyperbole, or did Jesus perhaps mean what he said?

This parable of the rich man and Lazarus is unique in one respect; it is the only parable in which Jesus names a character — Lazarus, Eleazar in Hebrew. I don’t know with confidence why Jesus chose that particular name — it may simply have been a common name — or even why he chose to name this poor man at all. Of course, he may have chosen the name symbolically and pointedly; it means “God helps,” and God was Lazarus’s only help. Regardless, I know what the name does; I know how it functions in the parable. The name humanizes the poor. It reminds us that the poor, the sojourner, the widow, the orphan are not mere types, not abstractions, but are people with names, people with names known to God. And a name does something else in the parable; it moves Lazarus from the category of stranger into the category of neighbor. Did this rich man know Lazarus’s name? Yes, he calls it out in his own plea for mercy. Lazarus lies daily at the rich man’s gate; his proximity makes him a neighbor. Lazarus has a name; his identity makes him a neighbor. Lazarus has an obvious need; his hunger makes him a neighbor. And Jesus had something to say about neighbors, not just in parables like The Good Samaritan, but in direct commandment: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. When we hear those words each week, we rightly say: Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

The rich man has no name, though the story is sometimes called the parable of Dives and Lazarus. Dives is not a name; it is simply derived from the Latin for “rich man.” In his neglect of Lazarus, Dives has lost his identity, his humanity. He has become an abstraction, a type, a caricature — just another of the self-indulgent, self-absorbed rich. Dives typifies the nature of sin described by Martin Luther as man incurvatus in se, man turned inward upon himself. The parable portrays the end of such a centripetal existence as isolation from others and separation from God, a painful and hopeless semblance of existence.

Friends, both this parable and this sermon are sobering, and I am not at all having a good time. The parable ends with a sense of utter hopelessness for the rich man and even for his five living brothers who he says will not listen to Moses and the Prophets and who Abraham says would not listen to a man risen from the dead. They, too, are already incurvatus in se, curved inward on themselves, black holes of self-absorption.

But, please God, we are not. God has graciously given us this day, this moment to repent if repentance is called for. God has graciously given us this day, this moment to receive this parable if it is spoken to us. God has graciously given us this day, this moment to take to heart the words of St. Paul to his protégé Timothy:

17 As for the rich in this present age, charge them not to be haughty, nor to set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly provides us with everything to enjoy. 18 They are to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share, 19 thus storing up treasure for themselves as a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of that which is truly life (1 Tim 6:17-19).

The poor are God’s gift to the rich, and the rich are God’s gift to the poor. As the parable of Dives and Lazarus preaches, the poor need the rich for their relief; the rich need the poor for their salvation.

Where do we start? Perhaps with the heart. Is there in my heart a haughty spirit based on my prosperity? When I see the sojourner or the poor do I feel superior, do I feel entitled, do I feel that I have earned — by my own ability and effort — my prosperity while they certainly have squandered their opportunities? Do I think “there but for the grace of God go I” never realizing that my relative wealth may be more God’s testing of me than God’s grace to me? Do I feel secure in my prosperity — in the food in the cupboard and refrigerator, in the unworn clothes in the closet, in the steady job or retirement income, in the IRA and stock portfolio — or do I recognize these as gifts from God in whom alone is my security? Perhaps we start there, with an honest look into our hearts.

And, as we open our hearts, we must also open our hands to do good as opportunities present themselves — and they always present themselves. I cannot remedy homelessness or hunger, nor can the church, nor can the government. But I can, from time to time, relieve, at least for a moment, the hunger of this one person in front of me, the want of that person who asks me for mercy, the plight of this suffering group who appeals to me for aid. That was the example of Mother Teresa who said that not all of us can do great things, but we can all do small things with great love. I can do the small thing. You can do the small thing.

A young man struggling in vain with sin came to Elder Paisios in total despair. After listening to the young man, after feeling his pain, Paisios said, “Look, my good fellow, never start your struggle with the things you cannot do, but with the things you can do. Let’s see what you can do, and let’s start from there.”

Small steps, small things done with great love: what can we do to be generous and to share what we have? What can we do to give even a cup of cold water to the thirsty? It is easy to become overwhelmed with the magnitude of poverty and need around us and to turn inward not so much out of selfishness or greed, but out of hopeless and despair. But, Christ planted the cross in the midst of hopelessness and despair. Christ, in his resurrection, gave us a new song to ward off hopelessness and despair: Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! And, Christ sends us out into the world to do the work he has given us to do, to love and serve as faithful witnesses: to do the small things with great love, to do the things we can do empowered by his Spirit, to notice and to feed Lazarus.

Let not the needy, O Lord, be forgotten;
Nor the hope of the poor be taken away (BCP 2019, p. 22).

Amen.

It should go without saying — but it does not, so I must say it — that what I publish here is my own thought. I am an Anglican priest in the Anglican Church in North America (ACNA) and I certainly write from that perspective. But, in doing so, unless otherwise noted I am not expressing the views of my parish, my diocese, or my province.

I am old enough to remember the spate of assassinations in the 1960s, perhaps most notably the murders of John Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, Jr. Each revealed a sickness at the heart of American social and political life. But the murder of Charlie Kirk is to me, for many reasons, fundamentally and qualitatively different. It has become the “third rail” of discourse: touch it — speak of it — and risk your own “death.” It has revealed and exacerbated the deep divide in our nation and, most tragically, in the church.

Glen Scrivener shares some helpful insight into the source of — or at least the contributing factors behind — these divisions. He calls them the Six Lies. To adapt a classical Christian phrase, I might call them the social logismoi, the persistent, erroneous thoughts with which we are being assaulted by the evil one. To borrow from St. Ignatius of Loyola, these thoughts are characteristic of spiritual desolation and must therefore be recognized and rejected.

I commend to you Glen Scrivener’s video, which was brought to my attention by a good and faithful fellow priest. It is around seventeen minutes long and is most certainly worth the time. The link follows:

I will call him Kevin though that is not his name. I assure you that he is quite real and that his story, following, is accurate or at least reflects truly what he has told me of his life. It is his story through his eyes.

I think I first met Kevin several months ago in the parking lot of a coffee shop my wife and I frequent. My memory is not what it once was, and it never was much. It could have been longer. I generally wear a clerical collar when out, so I am an “easy mark” — particularly in parking lots, it seems — for those soliciting donations. Frankly, that is one of the reasons I dress as I do; I want the poor to know that they can turn to the church in need. I always keep a few dollars in my shirt pocket wrapped around a “blessing card” from the church.

As Kevin told me once, the little help that people offer is not a remedy for the poor, but it can be a relief. I try to offer a bit of relief in the name of the Lord as the Lord gives me opportunity. It is too little, I know, and that weighs on me.

Kevin began frequenting the coffee shop himself, often dozing at a corner table. I have never seen him “bother” anyone or ask anyone but me for money or other help. He has always been polite and even apologetic when asking me. Over time we began to talk and I learned some of his story. I know more than I will tell here; he is only a bit younger than me, so his life has been long and complicated. In Cliff Notes version, Kevin is divorced and estranged from both his wife and his one adult daughter. He has one living sibling, but there was a rift in their relationship when their mother died — squabbling over such inheritance as there was. Kevin is now alone in the world. I do not assume that he is innocent in the breakdown of these relationships; I have no basis for judging that, nor any need to do so. The simple facts remain.

Kevin worked with his hands and his back, not for a retirement plan but just to live day-to-day. He is now physically unable to work, and he has no income. He also has no home. Each day he travels a route of a few shops or restaurants where he can sit for awhile: not too long in any one place lest he be evicted. He is generally at the coffee shop in the late afternoon, perhaps because he knows my wife and I will be there that time of day. Not infrequently I give him a ride to his next stop, a burger shop in town where he can eat cheaply, and I make sure he has enough money for his daily bread. He prefers this particular eatery because it is relatively cheap and because it is within walking distance of the woods where he sleeps on some plastic sheeting on the ground. He has neither tent nor sleeping bag. I have offered but he tells me the police will just haul it all off. I make no judgment; the police are just doing their job, though that part of their job may partake of the powers and principalities against which wage spiritual warfare. Kevin gets up each morning and walks to a nearby convenience store where he can clean up a bit and use the restroom. And so his days go.

When my wife and I went to the coffee shop today I was glad to see Kevin there. We had not been out for coffee in a few days, and I was concerned about him. He was dozing so I decided to wait a bit before checking on him. We had just been seated when I saw the shop manager approach Kevin. After a brief conversation, he stood up and started for the door. I joined him and we walked out together. For the first time, he had been asked to leave this shop. I understand the business reasons. Kevin probably does, too, but he was clearly hurt by the incident. I know that he has money for food tonight, but I don’t know where he will go tomorrow afternoon or where I will meet him again. I suppose I will seek him out at his “favorite” restaurant.

When I returned to the coffee shop, I spoke with the manager, not to castigate her in any way, but to tell her Kevin’s story and to comfort her. She was shaken by the incident, not because Kevin was rude or threatening, but because it is hard for a compassionate person to treat another person as less than a person. Poverty took a toll not just on Kevin in that moment, but on that caring young lady as well. It is damnable from top to bottom. I suspect she will sleep no better tonight than will Kevin.

Homelessness and poverty seem intractable.

I have sought help for Kevin from some in our scruffy city who are in the “poverty” business, those who work with non-profits and with the city. Kevin is one of those for whom the “cracks” seem particularly designed, and he falls right between them all. I have offered to take him to one of our local shelters, but he fears them more than sleeping outside. From my conversations with those who know, he is right to do so. I have no idea what Kevin will do as winter approaches.

Why am I telling you this story? In part, simply to humanize the poor and homeless. It is easy to generalize them as a group; it is another thing entirely when you know a name and a story. I have known some of the poor in our city: Tarzan and Jane — yes, those were the names they went by — Tumbleweed, who was proud of being the last hobo, and several others several years ago when St. Demetrios church and the good people there let me help with the soup kitchen they ran in their church in inner-city Knoxville. The homeless in Knoxville differ from the housed not in temperament but in means: there are jerks and “saints” in both groups and all of them are image bearers or God. Now I know Kevin and his story. So do you.

I tell this story also to ask you, in your mercy, to pray. Pray for Kevin. With the city and its various agencies, little seems possible. With God, all things are possible. I have though often of late of the film “Man of God” on the life of St. Nektarios of Aegina. When faced with a situation everyone bewailed as impossible he said simply, “We shall see.” And he prayed. What will become of Kevin? We shall see.

Pray for me, also, please. God has a “wicked” sense of humor. This Sunday I am scheduled to preach on Jesus’ parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus.

As two or three gathered in the St. Mary Magdalene Chapel this morning for the Daily Office, I offered this prayer among others:

2. For The Universal Church
Gracious Father, we pray for your holy Catholic Church. Fill it with all truth, in all truth with all peace. Where it is corrupt, purify it; where it is in error, direct it; where in anything it is amiss, reform it. Where it is right, strengthen it; where it is in want, provide for it; where it is divided, reunite it; for the sake of Jesus Christ your Son our Savior. Amen.

It is a good and holy prayer penned by William Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury under Charles I, and I can offer it from the heart. But, it is equally important — and arguably more important — for me to offer it for the heart, specifically, for my heart. It is difficult to see how the prayer might be answered for the Church until it is answered for me. And so, before praying it for the Church, perhaps I should offer it for myself:

Gracious Father, I pray for my heart. Fill it with all truth, in all truth with all peace. Where I am corrupt, purify me; where I am in error, direct me; where in anything I am amiss, reform me. Where I am right, strengthen me; where I am in want, provide for me; where I am divided, reunite me; for the sake of Jesus Christ your Son our Savior. Amen.

I need truth, yes, but truth with peace. It is possible to be thoroughly right and thoroughly lost. What does it profit a man to gain the argument but to lose his soul?

Where I am corrupt — and where am I not? — create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right Spirit within me.

In error — me? Grant me the humility of Orthodoxy, the wisdom humbly to remain within the folds of truth as discerned by the Church, and not to regard my own divergent opinion as special revelation.

And so goes the prayer through the last petition: Where I am divided, reunite me. And, I am divided. I attempt to serve too many masters. I do not love the Lord my God with all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my mind. And, as for my neighbors, I often love them with all my convenience, but no more. So, may the Lord gather up the scattered and squandered pieces of my heart and reunite them in him.

It is said that all politics is local. Perhaps all prayer is, too, at least primarily so. Only then can it rightly move outward.

Apostles Anglican Church
Fr. John A. Roop

Temples and Prayer: A Homily on 1 Kings 8
(1 Kings 8:22-61, Psalm 86, Hebrews 8)

Collect for Ember Days
Almighty God, the giver of all good gifts, in your divine providence you have appointed various orders in your Church: Give your grace, we humbly pray, to all who are [now] called to any office and ministry for your people; and so fill them with the truth of your doctrine and clothe them with holiness of life, that they may faithfully serve before you, to the glory of your great Name and for the benefit of your holy Church; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Construction on the Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família — the Basilica of the Holy Family — began in Barcelona, Spain in 1882; it is scheduled for completion in 2026: one hundred forty-four years of work on the church. There is no modern construction effort that rivals that level of devotion and commitment. Notre Dame Cathedral was begun in 1163 and completed one hundred eight-two years later, but construction techniques were slower and more labor intensive then. Chartres Cathedral was s work-in-progress — building, expansion, rebuilding after fires — from 743 until 1520, though work is always ongoing. I suspect all the ancient cathedrals were multi-generational affairs, a century or more in the making.

By contrast, Solomon’s Temple took a mere seven and a half years, which speaks to the modesty of that structure compared to the grand medieval cathedrals. But, whether humble like a tent in the wilderness or grand like Sagrada Família, we know that sacred space is important. Synagogues, mosques, churches, temples are important. So, today we come to the text of 1 Kings 8, the dedication of Solomon’s Temple, with a solemn sense of wonder and grandeur.

What is a temple? We might, without pausing for deep reflection, say that a temple is a place where a god dwells. I can’t speak for pagans and for their notions of their gods and temples, but when I was in India, there were Hindu temples seemingly on every street corner, much like Protestant churches in the United States. Whether those who visited the temples thought that Vishnu or Shiva or Ganesh actually dwelt in the temples, I don’t know. But, we do know that our God, does not. That conviction is the opening salvo of St. Paul’s defense before the Areopagus in Athens:

22 So Paul, standing in the midst of the Areopagus, said: “Men of Athens, I perceive that in every way you are very religious. 23 For as I passed along and observed the objects of your worship, I found also an altar with this inscription: ‘To the unknown god.’ What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. 24 The God who made the world and everything in it, being Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in temples made by man, 25 nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mankind life and breath and everything” (Acts 17:22-25).

Nor did the Jews — those who thought rightly about this matter — imagine that the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob dwelt in the tabernacle or temple. That conviction is also central to Solomon’s dedicatory prayer:

27 “But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you; how much less this house that I have built (1 Kings 8:27)!”

Solomon actually takes this matter further than St. Paul did: not only does God not dwell in temples made by human hands, he does not dwell on earth or in heaven made by divine hands/ divine word. St. Thomas Aquinas expressed the same notion: God is not one being among other beings who can therefore be localized to a place. Rather, God is the act of “to be;” God is being itself. So, it seems that we cannot, after all, say that a temple is the place where God dwells.

What then? How are we to think about a temple, and, in particular, about Solomon’s Temple? Let me suggest this, though I don’t think for a moment that it is a final, comprehensive, authoritative description: a temple is a place where God makes himself — his presence — known to his people, and where his people worship and entreat him. A temple is a place of God’s self-revelation and man’s worship and petition. A temple is a focal point of divine-human interaction. A temple is “God’s house” not in the sense of God’s dwelling place, but in the sense of a meeting place. A church building is God’s house in the same way: a place where God reveals his presence and where his people worship and entreat him.

There were temples long before Moses’ tabernacle and Solomon’s temple. The first temple is creation itself. God created something that was not himself, a place, and then he populated it with creatures, not least humans. So, this creation, this world, became the meeting place of God and man, the place where God revealed himself to his creatures and where his creatures worshiped him and fulfilled their God-given vocation. To impose language that only developed later, we might say that Eden was the Holy of Holies of the temple of creation, the place where God revealed himself uniquely to Adam and Eve, the prophets, priests, and kings of creation.

Later, there were other places where God revealed himself to those he called to be his people — often at specific geographical locations or at natural features like groves of trees or wells or mountains. For Abraham it was the Oaks of Mamre.

For Hagar it was a spring in the wilderness on the way to Shur and later at a well in the wilderness of Beersheba. For Moses it was on Mount Sinai.

These kind of natural temples come with a certain risk: that the people will form an image of “nature gods,” the gods of groves or wells or mountains. We even see Judah, as early as the reign of Rehoboam, son of Solomon, lapse into this error:

21 Now Rehoboam the son of Solomon reigned in Judah. Rehoboam was forty-one years old when he began to reign, and he reigned seventeen years in Jerusalem, the city that the Lord had chosen out of all the tribes of Israel, to put his name there. His mother’s name was Naamah the Ammonite. 22 And Judah did what was evil in the sight of the Lord, and they provoked him to jealousy with their sins that they committed, more than all that their fathers had done. 23 For they also built for themselves high places and pillars and Asherim on every high hill and under every green tree, 24 and there were also male cult prostitutes in the land. They did according to all the abominations of the nations that the Lord drove out before the people of Israel (1 Kings 14:21-24).

Even the Temple of the Lord — Solomon’s Temple — could be and was abused, being treated by the people as a good luck charm, a guarantee of God’s favor. That’s what Jeremiah said:

7 The word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord: 2 “Stand in the gate of the Lord’s house, and proclaim there this word, and say, Hear the word of the Lord, all you men of Judah who enter these gates to worship the Lord. 3 Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel: Amend your ways and your deeds, and I will let you dwell in this place. 4 Do not trust in these deceptive words: ‘This is the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord’ (Jerusalem 7:1-4).”

Despite all that can go wrong with a temple, Cicero’s maxim holds true: Abusus non tollit usus — Misuse (abuse) does not negate proper use. And what does Solomon see as proper “use” for the temple as he dedicates this magnificent structure in Jerusalem?

27 “But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you; how much less this house that I have built! 28 Yet have regard to the prayer of your servant and to his plea, O Lord my God, listening to the cry and to the prayer that your servant prays before you this day, 29 that your eyes may be open night and day toward this house, the place of which you have said, ‘My name shall be there,’ that you may listen to the prayer that your servant offers toward this place. 30 And listen to the plea of your servant and of your people Israel, when they pray toward this place. And listen in heaven your dwelling place, and when you hear, forgive” (1 Kings 8:27-30).

The temple is the place toward which God’s people will pray and the place from which God will hear and forgive. So, this text — 1 Kings 8, Solomon’s dedicatory prayer — is as much a primer on prayer as it is on temples. It is also a window into the character of God and God’s relationship with his people.

The first type of prayer that Solomon mentions is a plea for justice in the wake of sin:

31 “If a man sins against his neighbor and is made to take an oath and comes and swears his oath before your altar in this house, 32 then hear in heaven and act and judge your servants, condemning the guilty by bringing his conduct on his own head, and vindicating the righteous by rewarding him according to his righteousness” (1 Kings 8:31-32).

I am very hesitant myself to pray for God to condemn the guilty because I know only too well my own guilt. I find it easier to pray for God to reward the righteous; even though I may not count myself among them, there is something right about them being rewarded. I can’t begrudge them that. But the important implication of all this is that God cares about justice and will himself adjudicate between the guilty and the innocent. If he did not care, if he did not judge, then there would be no way to consider him good. The temple is not merely a place of mercy, but also a place of justice. In fact, if there is no justice, no final putting of things to rights, then there really is no mercy either. It is justice that ministers mercy to the aggrieved. Only God knows how to perfectly “balance” justice and mercy. It is only in God, as the Psalmist says, that “Mercy and truth have met together; / righteousness and peace have kissed each other” (Psalm 85:10).

The theme begun in this first petition for justice continues in several petitions that follow: the temple is the place to pray for forgiveness of sin. Solomon rehearses several calamities that might come upon the people and nation, and he assumes that sin is their cause. Then, naturally, repentance, confession, and prayer are the remedy:

“When your people Israel are defeated before the enemy because they have sinned against you…”(1 Kings 8:33).

“When heaven is shut up and there is no rain because they have sinned against you…” (1 Kings 8:35).

“If there is famine in the land, if there is pestilence or blight or mildew or locust or caterpillar, if their enemy besieges them in the land at their gates, whatever plague, whatever sickness there is…then hear in heaven your dwelling place and forgive…” (1 Kings 8:37-39, selections).

And then, worst of all, Exile:

“If they sin against you — for there is no one who does not sin — and you are angry with them and give them to an enemy, so that they are carried away captive to the land of the enemy, far off or near…if they repent with all their heart…and pray to you toward their land…then hear in heaven your dwelling place their prayer and their plea, and maintain their cause, and forgive your people who have sinned against you…” (1 Kings 8:46 ff).

Modern sensibility recoils from this, doesn’t it? When sickness comes we sometimes think first of physicians and “natural causes” and only later, if at all, of sin and Godly discipline. We generally want prescriptions and not penance. And, even if we think of the possibility of spiritual causes for our afflictions, we most likely think of an attack by the hate-filled enemy rather than of an admonition from a loving Father. Please don’t misunderstand. I am certainly not saying that specific, identifiable sin always lies at the root of all the difficulties we experience in our lives, though there may well be a causal relationship. We dare not look at another — at any other — experiencing illness or poverty or hardship of any kind and ask, “I wonder what his sin was that God is punishing him so harshly?” That is to make the same mistake the disciples made: “Who sinned that this man was born blind — the man or his parents?” No, it’s not that simple at all; the ways of God are not our ways and are often beyond our understanding. But, when hardship comes to me, it is appropriate that I do a thoroughgoing examination of my own life, that I ask God if this is correction, and that I repent for known sins and ask God to reveal to me my hidden sins.

There is one more prayer that I want to highlight, this one having nothing to do with sin. It is surprising on the lips of Solomon, a sign of the coming Gospel of the Lord.

41 “Likewise, when a foreigner, who is not of your people Israel, comes from a far country for your name’s sake 42 (for they shall hear of your great name and your mighty hand, and of your outstretched arm), when he comes and prays toward this house, 43 hear in heaven your dwelling place and do according to all for which the foreigner calls to you, in order that all the peoples of the earth may know your name and fear you, as do your people Israel, and that they may know that this house that I have built is called by your name” (1 Kings 8:41-43).

Solomon looks forward to an ingathering of the gentiles, so that all the peoples of the earth may know and fear the name of the Lord. That is a remarkable sentiment coming generations before the great prophets envisioned the same universal inclusion. It is, of course, a signpost pointing toward the fulfillment of the Temple, pointing toward the coming of the one who is himself the true Temple of the Lord, Jesus who is the “place” where God reveals his presence to man, Jesus who is the one to whom and through whom prayer is made, Jesus who is the one in whom all the peoples of the earth will come to know God. Solomon blessed God in his holy temple. We bless God in his only-begotten Son, to whom be glory and honor now and for ever. Amen.

From Saint Paisios:

The icon which is painted with devoutness draws the Grace of God from the devout iconographer, and then eternally transmits solace to the faithful. The iconographer is depicted, translated, into the icon he makes; that is why the spiritual state of the iconographer plays such an extensive role. Father Tychon used to tell me, “My son, when I paint the Epitaphios icon, I chant the hymn: “The noble Joseph, after taking down Your sacred Body from the Cross, wrapped it in a clean shroud and laid it in a new tomb.” He used to shed tears as he chanted, and his tears fell upon the icon. Such an icon preaches an eternal message to the faithful of the world. Icons preach eternally down through the ages. One who is suffering will look upon an icon of Christ our Lord or of Panaghia and receive comfort (Saint Paisios the Athonite, Spiritual Counsels II: Spiritual Awakening, Holy Hesychasterion “Evangelist John the Theologian” (2024), p. 171).

Saint Paisios continues:

The entire foundation is devoutness. You see, one leans against a wall where an icon has stood and receives divine Grace, while another might own the best icon, but because he is not devout, receives no benefit. Or, one can be assisted by a simple wooden cross, while another, who is not devout, will not be assisted by the True Precious Cross itself (ibid, p. 172).

It matters little if icons are precious to you, an integral part of your faith, or if you eschew them as images bordering on idols. The selection from Saint Paisios only uses icons as a context for discussing devoutness — the devoutness of the one who creates and gives and the devoutness of the one who receives. It is not the product that matters primarily, but the spirit in which it was created and with which it is received.

Arvo Pärt’s music is the most performed of any living composer. It is lovely, but it is more. Pärt is a devout Orthodox Christian and his “devoutness” suffuses his music with a grace that less faithful composers simply cannot impart to theirs. I am listening to his “Spiegel im Spiegel” as I write. Mere listening is not, perhaps, prayer, but it is not far from the kingdom. More is received by the listener than mere aesthetic joy. Grace is imparted if the devoutness of the composer is met with the devoutness of the listener.

While I do not claim “devoutness” for myself, this music wafts its sweet aroma over me. I can receive a bit of its grace now, and, please God, more as I grow in holiness.

The spirit in which we do our work matters. If the devout iconographer can imbue his icon with grace, why not the devout teacher or lawyer or plumber or physician or carpenter or engineer or mother? Why not anyone who works as unto the Lord?

And if one can be assisted by a simple wooden cross as St. Paisios said, then why not me? “To the pure, all things are pure,” St. Paul writes to St. Titus (Titus 1:15a). “To the one who has, more will be given, and he will have an abundance,” says our Lord (Matt 13:12a). The one who has grace can perceive grace in all things and receive it as his own. When some see and receive only bread and wine, others — with devotion — see and receive the Body and Blood of our Lord, grace upon grace.

All this makes the cultivation of “devoutness” of utmost importance. The greatest gift one has to offer the world is his/her own devout heart.