Temples of Stone and Flesh

I will put my dwelling place among you, and I will not abhor you. I will walk among you and be your God, and you will be my people. I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt so that you would no longer be slaves to the Egyptians; I broke the bars of your yoke and enabled you to walk with heads held high.” (Leviticus 26:11-13)

The walls echo as our feet nervously pace through the church. Dark stone walls rise around us, and steep ceilings hold up the black night sky outside. Every surface is ornately structured, decorated with glass and gold. A statue of Mary cradling the marred body of crucified Jesus sits next to another statue of the same woman grasping a pure white baby. Saints of men and Mary cover the walls, peering down at us with holy eyes, and priests lined in black chant Romanian incantations as we gape at our surroundings. This church is older than America; it has held centuries of Orthodox tradition and worshipers, it has outlived kings and priests and countries. It reminds me of the temple in the Old Testament, that Solomon dedicated to the Lord saying, “I have indeed built a magnificent temple for you, a place for you to dwell forever.” (2 Samuel 8:13) A heavy dark curtain stretches from one end of the sanctuary to the other, separating the priests from the people. My squadmates and I stare at it, and I know we are all thinking the same thing, “Didn’t that curtain tear in two when Jesus died?” (Luke 23:45)

We are in Alba Iulia, one of the most historic towns in Romania. The church we were visiting stood in the center of a fort that the city is built around. Truly, it is a magnificent work of art. But God isn’t dead, He isn’t eternally infantile, and His presence is not contained behind a curtain. What arrogance of man which believes that we could ever build a structure that is worthy of the God we serve. What striving this church has represented, to think that we are responsible for making God comfortable. This is the same God who chose to dwell in a tent in the desert for 40 years with His people rather than request a palace for Himself. This is the same God who chose to come down to earth, be born in a manger, just so He could feel our suffering, heal our sicknesses, and walk among us. Emmanuel, God with us. Yet here is a physical demonstration of humanity mistrusting God’s intention to live among us. It isn’t just the architecture of Orthodox churches that represent the striving of Christianity. Aren’t our whole lives constructed of pretenses and pleas? We mistrust that God loves us just as we are, so we build up for ourselves temples of works to please Him. We don’t believe we are worthy of His love, so instead of jumping in, we pace uncertainly in front of the curtain. 

But this is not what God means for us. This is a distorted love, one that depends on appearances. If God only loved us because we made Him a beautiful temple, or followed his commandments perfectly, then we wouldn’t be loved at all. If our best performance was a building, then it would be a crumbling barn, not a palace. How fortunate for us that a crumbling barn was exactly where He chose to enter the world. Here He is, in the midst of our insufficiencies and our arrogance, our pretenses and our mess-ups. Here He is, with a love so pure that it is enough to cover all of humanity in righteousness. Temples of stone and gold He did not need, perfect sacrifices we failed to bring, yet we are the ones with whom He chose His holy dwelling. No longer are we separated by the curtain, but we can enter into the Holy Place with great confidence. (Hebrews 10:19)

He is the Lord our God, who brought us out of the land of sin and freed us from slavery. He broke the bars of our yokes and enabled us to walk with heads held high. Praise the Lord, who chose a temple of flesh rather than stone.