“Walk about Zion, go all around it,
count its towers,
consider well its ramparts;
go through its citadels,
that you may tell the next generation
that this is God,
our God forever and ever.
He will be our guide forever”
(Psalm 48:12-14)
The psalmist delights in the city of Zion and its apparent massive infrastructure. He does so not because he’s an architectural scholar or a construction magnate. He does so because in Zion he witnesses the physical manifestation of God’s power, glory, and splendor. One of the reasons the Church has historically built so large houses of worship was to inspire a similar sense of wonder and awe at God’s magnificence in the worshippers. Obvious remnants of this architectural-theological approach still exist even in our church building at First Presbyterian. All that gray stone, that lofted cupola whose windows do not so much let the sunlight in as allow the light from our worship to flow out into the world, and all that stained glass – so much stained glass! – all of these architectural elements are no accident. They are, especially collectively, an attempt to physically manifest the invisible attributes of our God.
Of course, such physical manifestations of God’s grandeur is nice, but not essential. A church is no less a church because it meets in an old high school gym, a community center, an abandoned storefront, or in someone’s home. And this is because under the New Covenant established in Jesus Christ, the manifestation of God shifted from a geographical place (Jerusalem, the Temple) to the collective witness of each Christian in whom the Spirit dwells just as Yahweh dwelt in the Temple. It is we, God’s elect, who are now the towers, ramparts, and citadels. And so, let’s engage that metaphor a bit deeper.
A tower is a tall building meant both for observation and, when necessary, offensive attack. In the Church, the “towers” are the theologians and educators. It is these men and women who strive to view the world from the lofted vantage point of education and who can spot and call out lies, deceit, and every other impending threat to the Body of Christ.
Ramparts are the defensive walls around a city. In the Church, the “ramparts” are those who are deeply convicted, the ones who are not easily swayed by the zeitgeist and who do not bend when the winds of change blow. Of course, there is always room for doubt in the Christian faith (see: Thomas), but the whole Church is edified by those deeply convicted members who hold to the truth of God’s love and grace even (and especially) in a world of hate and blame.
Finally, the citadel is a fortress, typically on high ground, that protects a city. It is the place where the people who live beyond the ramparts flee when threats mount against them. In the Church, our “citadels” are those who are skilled in hospitality, who make space for others, feed them, talk with them, create a sense of security and love.
Friends, we have a church full of towers, ramparts, and citadels who should be for all of us a physical manifestation of God’s glory and might, His love and grace. God still finds a way to make His invisible attributes visible; He just does it through people instead of buildings.
Utilizing a similar architectural metaphor, I’m reminded of a funeral I led for Doris Story in which the Rev. Jack Groat attended and co-led with me. He gave a fine eulogy to Doris, declaring her a “pillar of the church.” Of course, that’s a designation we might just as easily apply to Jack (though I would contend with his years of education and experience he better resembles a tower; alas, it’s best not to quibble over a metaphor). But the same point holds, namely that our lives are meant to be a sort of architecture that reveals God to the world. So let us be. Amen.
