Mass readings for the 4th Sunday of Advent:
2 Samuel 7.1-5, 8b-12, 14a, 16 Psalm 89.1-4, 26, 28 Roman 16.25-27 Luke 1.26-38
Today we get the story of David contemplating the building of the Temple; and he would seem to give good reason for the project: he is a king living in a magnificent palace, he has power and riches, he rules over a successful and, at least for the moment, a unified and secure kingdom. To build this temple is an act of gratitude; but more a payment of a debt incurred by all that God has given him. And that would be a natural reaction; one exchanges gifts; and the greater the man the greater the gift he is to give, and the greater the god, the tribute should be great indeed.
Further to this, David reflects on the fact that the Ark of the Covenant resides in a tent, and he must wonder about the dignity of this. The kingdoms and empires that surround Israel, they don’t erect tents to their deities, they build monumental structures that testify to the greatness of their gods. How can Yahweh, the King of all the gods, as some Israelites understand God, or more accurately as the prophets characterize Him, the only true God, then live in a tent? To build this temple is a duty of the king and the people. To do otherwise is to embarrass God in the eyes of the world.
David’s trapped, so to speak, in the mindset of what we might call the “popular culture” of the ancient world (but we still retain some of this understanding of religion) – but our God, the true God, gives not plug nickel for what the world regards as fitting for Him, for what we think honours Him.
We get a sense of God’s taking offense at this suggestion of a temple. Not so much at the idea of it as a house of worship, which is fine and well and good, but rather as it being somehow a validation of Him. And so, through the prophet Nathan, he rebukes David and makes it clear to him that the monument that God desires, the Temple he would have is not going to be made by human hands, built of stone and precious wood, filled with objects of gold and silver, but rather his house is to be the people themselves, his home is among them. And so, that tent isn’t really a matter of shame, but a sign of the reality of God; that he is someone who very much sojourns with us; not resides upon some great height removed from humanity, and access to his presence strictly regulated according to the hours of operation of some building.
And God, centuries later, will make that absolutely tangible in terms of the reality of this project: He makes a home in the womb of Mary, takes flesh from her substance, and comes into the world, and to borrow the words of Saint John, pitches a tent of flesh, dwells among us fully, humanly.
Don’t take the following as a criticism, because we’re trying to make a fine distinction here.
At the holidays we dress up our houses, our apartments, our churches; we deck them out with boughs of pine, and cedar and holly, we string lights, we likely go a little overboard with it all, and may have some regret when the bill for the electricity comes around next month, but we say, “well, it’s Christmas.” And we lay on parties, and stock our bars and fridges with food and drink, to put on our own version of the sumptuous banquet that any ancient potentate would in honour of his gods. And we do this, again, because it’s Christmas; as if the day is owed this. Then there’s, “I guess we should go to mass… it is Christmas.” And here, most explicitly is the idea of the payment in exchange: we get the week’s holiday, the parties, the presents, what have you; I guess we owe God something for all that. So, how well do we worship when a heavy sense of being obliged to do so is in our hearts? It’s not unlike visiting a great aunt, not because you love her, but because you’re in the will.
As long as we can distinguish between celebration in joy of our faith, from any sense that this is somehow a tribute to God, then we’re good. We don’t owe God twinkling lights, or lawn displays, or parties or dinners, or even a big donation to the church or a worthy charity. All of that should spring from gratitude; and not a sense of obligation, a settling of a debt, a payment for services rendered.
Rather, what we owe God is something far more precious, what he asks of us is something I know we have hesitation give: that is ourselves, our souls and bodies to be a living sacrifice.
When the angel Gabriel asks this of Mary, he prefaces his question with the gentle words, “be not afraid” because he knows how unsettling, not only his presence is for her, but also how potentially disturbing his request is going to be. God approaches us all in like manner. We must trust him with our lives, and do so completely. Thy will and not mine, is to be our answer; we are the servants and handmaids of the lord; and if not, then we are not part of that house that God is building, that family he is making. We’re abiding elsewhere, and standing outside of the true temple that is his home. Sure, we can visit, we can come among God’s people, but as a tourist, admiring perhaps what we find, or being puzzled by it all, but we will not be fulfilling his plan for us and for all humanity.
This is why we regard Mary, Our Lady, so highly; why we do put her on a pedestal, up there where we can see her. We do this for all the saints really, but her first and foremost of all. It’s because she and they trusted, they overcame their fears, because like Mary they did not scoff at the angelic message, or run from God’s word, but rather sought to understand how it is that this can be; how is it that we, in all our frailty and fear, can actually be of real service to Him.
And then, as with all the servants of God, say, “Here we are, we come to do your will.”
Amen.