Look Out, Pilgrim: Epilogue

Symbolism, then, is not some secondary concern, some mere curiosity. In a very real sense, symbolism is more important than anything else for the life of man.

-James Jordan

OK. I confess I've been foolin' around with this series. It sorta grew. After I wrote Look Out, Pilgrim I, I thought it was too gloomy. So I tried out #II as a balance. Then I decided to do #III for fun, to see if there was a third way to interpret the Temple symbol . At present I spend too much time in #I, I used to be a stronger advocate of #III, and I would love to live all the time in #II. That doesn't mean that this particular symbol is less than true, or subject to human whim; it means that it is larger than we supposed and encompasses more than one phase of human need and perception. Like their Creator, symbols have an endless quality about them. That's why their study keeps changing us.

Pilgrim, the way through the Temple is exciting.

Look Out, Pilgrim III

...(N)othing could hide the essential business of the Temple, which was the ritual slaughter, consumption and combustion of sacrificial cattle on a gigantic scale....To the unprepared visitor, the dignity and charity of Jewish diaspora life, the thoughtful comments and homilies of the Alexandrian synagogue, was quite lost amid the smoke of the pyres, the bellows of terrified beasts, the abattoir stench....

-Paul Johnson

A couple of weeks ago I read Ezekiel's vision of the eschatological Temple, and this quote from Paul Johnson's A History of Christianity came to mind. The fact is, that by the time of Jesus, Herod's Temple (and all it represented) had become Big Business, with a self-aggrandizing hierarchy that had completely lost touch with both the God and the people of Israel. I once heard a local Bible teacher ask, "What do you think the priests and elders did when the veil of the Temple split open on the first Good Friday?" Answer: "They stitched it up and went on business as usual." The institution had hardened to the point that any new voice other than its own could not be heard, even the voice of God in pain and thunder.

The irony is that as the Temple was hardening into judgment, God was raising up a new Temple outside its walls. A small group of disciples sat in the garden across the Kidron Valley, or walked the hills of Galilee, and the Holy Spirit brooded over them as he had once done over the temple of the Restoration. Something new was being nurtured. In time, Rome destroyed Jerusalem, and the church emerged as the Temple of God.

This is, of course, a pattern throughout history. Movements that begin in spontaneity and power harden over time and assume the posture of the True Church, and the Holy Spirit becomes attached to forms and doctrines which he resists because he will always be free. Movements begin their downward spiral as soon as they become self-conscious of the Spirit's presence, or see themselves as the last great move of God.

The question is, where is the Spirit moving today? What is going on outside the walls of our own comfortable traditions? Where are the genuine Sprit-filled leaders that God raises up through history? And how do the people of God stop the process of calcification that has made previous movements as hard as the stones of the Temple?

Pilgrim, the way through the Temple is a dangerous business.

Look Out, Pilgrim II

...(N)othing could hide the essential business of the Temple, which was the ritual slaughter, consumption and combustion of sacrificial cattle on a gigantic scale....To the unprepared visitor, the dignity and charity of Jewish diaspora life, the thoughtful comments and homilies of the Alexandrian synagogue, was quite lost amid the smoke of the pyres, the bellows of terrified beasts, the abattoir stench....

-Paul Johnson

Last week I read Ezekiel's vision of the eschatological Temple, and this quote from Paul Johnson's A History of Christianity came to mind. Johnson reminds us of the grubby and gory work that actually occurred on the grounds of Herod's Temple. It is easy to be fascinated with the death and carnage that the worshipper passed through on his way to prayer, and to draw analogies to the difficulties and suffering of the Christian life. But Johnson missed something in his description. Above all this bloody activity stood the Temple itself, calm and majestic, so bright that a pilgrim coming over the Mount of Olives had to shield his eyes when the sun reflected off its gold and polished marble.

I remember a member of our church years ago who was planning to go to South America as a medical missionary. He became an EMT because his ambulance took him to places where he could experience "real life." One of our mentors reminded him that pain and suffering were not "real life," but the results of the fall. "Real life" was the healing he brought to those in need. (And ultimately "real life" is the resurrected life of the future.) He was focusing on the carnage of the court yard, not the quiet power that rose above it.

When I was in college, I went through a particularly tough time my senior year (career, etc.). I remember finding comfort in looking at the stars. They never changed, the familiar constellations were always there. They transcended the confusion and fear that were part of my state of mind--a reminder that their was Someone out there who never changes.

Though Herod's Temple was destroyed, the "concept" of Temple has not changed. Ezekiel's vision of a glorified Temple was of an eschatological reality toward which we are drawn. As Rosenstock taught, the future is not a fearful unknown, but a living reality in the mind of God that shapes the present and helps us define who we are. Past, present, and future are one in Christ. We taste that future in our best and highest moments: in worship, in our stained glass sanctuaries, in our fellowship meals together. Those are the times that the future world and this world overlap. The Temple is a symbol of that future into which all the world is moving.

Pilgrim, the way through the Temple is a glorious business.

Look Out, Pilgrim

...(N)othing could hide the essential business of the Temple, which was the ritual slaughter, consumption and combustion of sacrificial cattle on a gigantic scale....To the unprepared visitor, the dignity and charity of Jewish diaspora life, the thoughtful comments and homilies of the Alexandrian synagogue, was quite lost amid the smoke of the pyres, the bellows of terrified beasts, the abattoir stench....

-Paul Johnson

This morning I was reading Ezekiel's vision of the eschatological Temple, and this quote from Johnson's A History of Christianity came to mind. I've read (and heard) countless lectures on the symbolism of the Tabernacle and the furnishings of the Temple, including a description of the Temple as seen from the Mount of Olives on a clear morning, when the sun, reflecting off gold and polished marble, blinded the pilgrim's eyes. But none of the commentators and allegorists tell the rest of the story quite like Johnson. I've always had a suspicion that under all the beautiful imagery there was another reality.

I have an aversion to blood, something I'm not proud of, but there it is. I've found myself wondering what it would have been like to be an Israelite lad taking his lamb to the place of slaughter. When it came down to it, would I become nauseous or faint? All that blood. Was there a stain on the earth when the Tabernacle moved on? How did they handle it at Herod's Temple, which had a paved court yard? Troughs?

I've thanked God often that I am on this side of the covenantal shift. Jesus became the propitiatory sacrifice for sin, the fellowship offering that brings peace between men, and the burnt offering of total dedication and worship. At a more selfish level, I am glad that I don't have to lay hands on a lamb and watch its throat cut. I am also grateful that the sacrifices of the Old Testament passed through the cross and became the bloodless oblation of the Eucharist. I much prefer bread and wine.

It is not my intention here to get into the doctrines of the atonement or of the Supper. I'm thinking about this at a personal/corporate level. If the Temple in the New Covenant is the church, where are the parallels? Cynically, I could say that the church (at least evangelicals) are willing to sacrifice human beings for orthodoxy and orthopraxy in a skinny minute. But that is, as I said, cynical.

So let me put it this way. I have loved the church and church life because of "the dignity and charity of diaspora life" and the "thoughtful comments and homilies." Stained glass, Easter lilies, the singing, the cleanness, the exhilaration of worship, the acceptance of fellow believers. I like the view of the Temple from the Mount of Olives, a foretaste of the eschaton.

But there is another side to life with Christ within me. I have said more than once that God is ruthless with my sin. Ruthless, at least, in comparison to my excuses and weak apologies. There is the smell of the blood of an unwilling animal deep within my heart, where God cuts and slices because He is much more concerned with my salvation than I am. And at a corporate level--well, love is easy at dinner in the church’s fellowship hall, where we look at each other through stained glass. But in the parking lot, at work, in the unguarded moments where the fear or anger or hurt of the other emerges, where either through a slip of the tongue or a genuine confession the truth comes out, when there is blood on the pavement, when the stained glass shatters and love becomes a call to die--that’s a different matter. And I’m speaking of relating to other believers. To reach out in love and acceptance to the people of the world, to rub shoulders with the irresponsible, the cynical, the controlling, the floundering, and that frustrating unbeliever who seems to find love and sacrifice easier than I, requires a rending that no man in his own strength can produce. Someone else must wield the knife.

Pilgrim, the way through the Temple is a messy business.

Spontaneous Earth...

I know I shouldn't like the old pagan e.e. cummings, but I do, I do...

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting

fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked

thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

beauty, how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

thou answerest

them only with

spring)

Overload

The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer; My God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

It may be an unwise time to blog. My health has been in grumpy mode since the pollen began. We are changing our computer system at work, with the attendant frustrations and loss of time. Our "clients" are increasingly rude, hostile, or stoned. And my Facebook/ meta-church/ electronic family has become so diverse that my inner world is expanding more quickly than I can process ideas. I am mentally tired. I am suffering from what I hope is a passing case of overload.

But the stress has had one interesting effect. I have seen Jesus through so many perspectives lately, that in frustration I've asked, "Who are you, Lord?" "I mean, really, Who are you?" My mind has become so encrusted with Christ as a theological concept, that I am again forced to the Center. And I don't mean "who are you to me." That would involve a conceptual definition. I mean, "who are you for me?" God made flesh, Man in the eternal Trinity, God suffering, God condescending, God loving, God broken, God not just giving life but giving himself as life--what does that have to do with my rising from my bed tomorrow?

I desire the trust that moves beyond knowledge, to not "concern myself with great matters, nor with things too profound for me;" to sit at his feet for a season.

"His desire is toward me..."

The church has historically thought of the Song of Songs as an allegory of Christ and his church, or of Christ and the individual soul. More recent commentators, who feel that the allegorical approach is a cover up for the church's embarrassment about all things sexual, exalt the Song as a story of two lovers, no more, no less. Delitzsch strikes a middle ground: the Song is a love story, but because all love stories are reflections of The Love Story, it can be considered a type of the greater. So far I hold with Delitzsch.

Interpretive issues aside, no Christian who repeatedly reads the Song can escape finding himself in the narrative. In this entry I want to look especially at the three confessions made by the Shulamite--confessions that are the result of the actions of her lover.

The first confession is "My beloved is mine, and I am his." It follows two opposite experiences: first, disenchantment with serving in the vineyards for her brothers (religious experience defined by someone else--legalism),and, second, the giddy awareness of being in love. She is feeling both the relief of being loved, but also the fear of going back to what she came out of. Note the order of the confession: "he is mine" is spoken first. The relationship depends on her capacity to hold on. She is tenacious out of desperation and fear. While that is a mark of a new Christian fresh from the bondage of the world, it will eventually block maturity.

Her lover does not deal with this fear by consolation. Rather, he creates situations in which she must choose between her fear and her desire for him. She prefers the safety of their country home. But he comes and calls her away--and at least one time mentions the dreaded vineyards. When she disobeys, he withdraws his presence. In two instances he does this, and both times her love for him overcomes her reticence to follow. In one case she is abused by the "watchmen on the walls," the keepers of the status quo who do not believe it is proper for a young lady to demonstrate too much exuberance about her lover.

It is impossible to read these passages and not think of the "dark night of the soul" or the kataphatic/apophatic tension I mentioned in "Boxes," March 6. Most of us spend a long time in this phase. Notice the confession at the end of this process: "I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine." It is the reverse of the first. It is spoken by one who has learned the joy of obedience.

But it is not the last word. The third confession is "I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me." The very words create a yearning in the heart, so close and packed with meaning, and yet so far away--causing one to stretch to hear it. This confession is not brought about by withdrawal and discipline. It is preceded by some of the most intense love poetry in any language. It is spoken out of intimacy; it is purely relational. It does not come from external experience, but from direct knowledge of the character of a person.

It is a statement of absolute rest, not lethargy; peace, not timidity; trust, not fatalism. She loves him because she knows the depth and security of his love. She returns to the vineyard, not out of obligation, but because it is where he is. May God bring us all to such a place before we die.

(Picture: 12th Century cover of a manuscript of the Song)