II. The Beauty of the Sanctuary
It’s difficult not to admire
The architecture of a temple
So mysteriously astounding
As the human body,
But in the inner chamber
Of the upper room of this same temple
Lies an even greater wonder.
Yes, inside this temple
There is a place of almost unspeakable beauty,
And to speak of it at all
Requires a language foreign to many:
The language of poetry and metaphor.
In this sanctuary,
A river of light streams
Through the stained glass windows of the soul,
And the mind is tinted and washed
In the flood of stories and images
That come pouring through them
Endlessly, moment after moment.
Look up to the ceiling
And see the faces and figures of those you’ve known
( Whether in fiction or in religion or in reality):
Heroes, villains, family, friends, enemies, deities, teachers, dearest lovers—
See them all present in the great panorama
Painted across the inner walls of the great dome
That encapsulates this sanctuary.
Look around you,
And see the halls of your memory
Carved with every character
That has ever made a deep and lasting impression on you—
And see the sharpest and most penetrating words they have spoken
Chiseled in stone above the doorways.
_______________
We are what we eat.
And in this room
The soul hungers for love and for knowledge—
For truth, for beauty, and for purpose—
It hungers for the fullness of life.
And a steady diet of any food for thought
Or any stream of consciousness
Is bound to shape us in drastic ways.
But where does this river come from
That both creates and colors
My mind, memory, and spirit?
These characters that have formed,
In-formed, and inspired me—
I did not create them.
No, I merely opened my eyes
And received them the same as anyone has—
And from them I received their love, words, and actions
Poured out for me in their time and their energy.
( Yes, I know that not only their energy,
But their time, too,
Is very much a limited commodity.
And yet, so often they have chosen
To spend it no where else
But with me
And so I must say, “Thank you.”)
Yes, this river that streams into the temple windows
Flows for the perpetual sacrifices of others
And makes us who we are:
It is the clay we sculpt with
And the blueprint we imitate.
Every good martyr, soldier, mother, father,
Servant, laborer, friend, teacher, beloved—
They all daily reveal to us a glimpse
of the sacrificial heart of Christ.
But we are the ones who receive this gift of ourselves,
Both in our daily bread and from the selfless offerings of others,
And choose to repay this debt of gratitude
By pouring ourselves out again and again for one another
As a living sacrifice and an expression of love.
How many have poured
Their time and energies into me
And made me who I am!
But each of them, too,
Are who they have become
Because of those who have been
Impressed upon them
For good or for ill.
And so,
When every face impressed in me
And etched into the chamber of my heart
Is likewise, made up of multitudes,
Then each of us must be
A temple of temples—
A mosaic of mosaics—
Yes,
If every face is a puzzle
Then each and every piece within it is,
Just as well, another face
And another puzzle, complete.
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