I was delighted some time ago when a local pastor invited me to participate in deliberations about the design of their new sanctuary. Conversations about the physical features of the building–windows, pews, colors, wood, décor–were theologically rich and aesthetically nuanced. In each meeting the core question was how to design a space that would enhance worship, which led directly to a deeper question: what is worship? The Psalmist offers a deep and lasting response to that one:
One thing I ask of the Lord,
This is what I seek:
That I may dwell in the house of the Lord
All the days of my life,
To gaze upon the beauty of the Lord
And to seek him in his temple.
For in the day of trouble
He will keep me safe in his dwelling;
He will hide me in the shelter of his tabernacle. . .
And set me high upon a rock
Then my head will be exalted
Above the enemies who surround me;
At his tabernacle will I sacrifice with shouts of joy
I will sing and make music to the Lord.
The verbs alone suggest how much the Psalmist expected of the Lord’s temple–a place to gaze in quiet, hide in safety, celebrate, and sing.
The way this passage aligns desire for beauty and contemplation and desire for safety and sanctuary seems appropriate as threats of violence at home mirror the violence abroad in which we are deeply implicated. Worship in this historical moment, as in every moment, involves us in paradox.
Rather than use this space to comment on cabinet choices or the agenda of Project 2025, I want to share some thoughts about what we need from the church now, looking to the Psalmist for guidance.
The church is a dwelling place. It is, in a sense we can continue to explore, our home. It’s where we work out our differences in a way both costly and distinctive because what unites us is deeper even than family ties. And one of our defining practices is, or should be, the hospitality of Christ himself to everyone who comes in need or danger.
The church is a place where we are invited to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and to “worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.” In worship, even in times of threat and violence, it is fitting to turn our attention to what is beautiful. In my own moments of political cynicism or despair, I sometimes remember, ruefully, Paul’s instruction to the Philippians (4:8), “[W]hatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–think about such things.” This is not an invitation to avoid the challenge of working out hard-won peace with each other but to attend at the same time to what is true and beautiful. The church is a place where we encourage one another to remember that on this journey Christ has promised both tribulation and the deep solace of his presence, and that he is, even when we see him through a very darkened glass, “altogether lovely.”
One of the most powerful testimonies I’ve ever seen to the human need for beauty was in the concentration camp at Dachau where a small display case contains a collection of tin cups, plates, and other implements transformed by means of painstaking decoration into instruments of worship. Intricate designs were etched into the tin with nails. As I looked at them, I was struck (and stricken) by how powerful and deep is the desire for beauty–nearly as deep, it seems, as the desire for survival itself. Particularly now, as we face heightened political conflict, overt racism, and ongoing gun violence, we need reminders of what is ultimately and indestructibly beautiful.
That restorative beauty may enable us to pursue the other dimensions of spiritual life to which the Psalmist directs us. The church is a place where we come, to inquire. Part of its mission is instruction, not only in scripture, mysterious and rich as it is, but also in how to respond to the particular evils of our time–entrenched racism, sexism, xenophobia, and murderous greed. We need instruction about how to disengage from soul-crushing systems and heal from institutionalized pathologies. To “inquire” together is to equip ourselves with a language and frame of reference that challenges patriotic pieties about war, security, and what constitutes a “healthy” economy and reminds us that we are all implicated in the evils of this world and utterly dependent on God’s mercy.
The church is a place of safety and sanctuary. We have no idea how literally churches may be called upon in the coming months to be exactly this. For centuries churches have offered political sanctuary to people in danger, fairly recently in the “sanctuary movement” of the 1980s. It also reminds us that our ultimate safety lies beyond political asylum–that we are held by a Love that will not let us go.
The church is a place where we are regularly reminded of the role of sacrifice in restoring a reign of peace and justice. We may soon find ourselves sacrificing some of the material comforts to which we have become accustomed. The church is here to put those sacrifices in the much larger perspective of God’s own sacrificial love.
And the church is a place for rejoicing and singing. A line in one of Wendell Berry’s poems comes to me often these days as a reminder of what we are to do when we gather to celebrate in the very midst of trouble: “Rejoice, though you have considered all the facts.” We have grim facts to consider. And reason to rejoice, against all odds.
