Tag: liturgy

Holy Ground

Every church is a blessing. When we enter a sanctuary, we enter holy ground. Because this ground is healing, it wants to heal us. A ground that is free from all harmful things and influences, for we are in God’s house. In every religion there are sacred spaces. And there are traditions that make us notice that we are entering a different space. Jews put on their hats, Muslims take off their shoes, Christians take holy water to remember their baptism. It is good to have such thresholds that remind us not to just stumble into the room as if we were walking on an ordinary street.

“God said to Moses: Do not come near! Remove your sandals from your feet, for the place where you stand is holy ground.” (Exodus 3:5)

Following God’s command, we humans try to keep holy places clean and intact. However, we do not succeed 100 percent. When we enter, we carry ourselves into the sacred space, bringing with us many things that are not perfect. However, the reason a sacred space is sacred is God alone. It is He, it is His presence that changes everything. The same is true for the liturgy. We celebrate it as beautifully, meaningfully, and reverently as possible, and yet it doesn’t even come close to the heavenly liturgy. Therefore, at the beginning of each liturgy, we open ourselves to God, let Him take away our sins, and “cleanse” us to be fully open to His healing power.

So what can we do when we enter a sanctuary? The threshold is our chance: stop for a moment! Notice how you are, who you are, and acknowledge God’s presence. God is here, God dwells here, he wants to heal you, he wants to do good to you. Do not let this opportunity pass. As you stand in the sacred space, God is constantly trying to draw you closer to Himself and restore your integrity, your joy and your love. As we leave the church, perhaps we can say with Jacob: “Truly, the Lord is in this place and I did not know it! How awesome this place is! This is nothing else but the house of God, the gateway to heaven!” (Genesis 28:16-17)

Lord, I thank you for all who care for sacred spaces: sacristans, those who clean the churches, those who pray in the churches and make sure they are more than mere museums, priests, deacons, all who are committed to worship you. I ask that you help me to pass by often to greet you and enjoy your presence. Amen.

How lovely your dwelling,
    O Lord of hosts!
My soul yearns and pines
    for the courts of the Lord.
My heart and flesh cry out
    for the living God.
As the sparrow finds a home
    and the swallow a nest to settle her young,
My home is by your altars,
    Lord of hosts, my king and my God!
Blessed are those who dwell in your house!
    They never cease to praise you.

Psalm 84:2-5

Growing Joy

There are different kinds of joy. There is the exuberant jubilation. Like the soccer players at the end of the game, after the victory, jumping, dancing, splashing prosecco. The joy is so great that one does not even know how to express it adequately. I once discovered a different kind of joy in the liturgy, which I later found in reality. This, by the way, is typical and a meaning of liturgy: it opens our eyes, increases our capacity to perceive the immense richness of reality. What millions of forefathers and foremothers have expressed in their songs and rituals, we do not have to invent from scratch, we can learn from them, benefit from them and their experience with God.

I first noticed this while practicing the introit of Easter: “Resurrexi et adhuc tecum sum.” The melody is very measured, almost timid. One wonders, “Hey, it’s Easter, rejoice! Why so hesitant?” The answer is, because you have come from a journey. Because you have a story. Jesus came from the experience of exclusion, betrayal, suffering, torture, crucifixion. You don’t just get up and jump. The rising “needed three days.” Communicating the good news also takes time: the disciples didn’t get it right away, the joy of Jesus’ resurrection took time to be understood, time to be celebrated and expressed.

When we go through deep sorrow, when we are confronted with severe problems, and when God finally – unexpectedly – delivers us from this distress, we need a little time; our body needs time, our soul needs time to understand, to let it sink in. The joy comes slowly – but: this is the greatest, most complete, deepest joy of all. This silent joy, which is ready to grow, cannot be stopped. It is like a small flower that begins to grow tenderly and subtly, but becomes large.

Dear God, I look forward to the next experience of joy. I look forward to when you surprise me with either jubilation or quietly growing joy. I pray for all who are in great need, who are suffering, who are grieving, who are sad. Deliver them and let their joy return, slowly but surely. Thank you, dear Lord, for the joy of Easter, for the joy of the risen Lord.