The Beauty of Holiness

How is it that we have come to think of holiness as grim, gray, and kill-joy?

MAUI SUNSET
Sunset on the island of Maui

Now and then as I read a Bible text, a phrase grabs my attention and then haunts my thoughts for some time afterwards. I can’t quite make sense of it, and yet I can’t quite let it go. It’s like a musical tune that runs over and over again in my mind.

That happens for me when I read Psalm 29 in the translation of the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. It is a praise psalm. It begins:

Ascribe to the Lord, you gods,

            ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.

 Ascribe to the Lord the glory due his Name;

            worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness. [Psalm 29:1-2]*

There it is, at the end of the last line, the phrase I find so odd: the beauty of holiness. The psalmist invites us to worship God in a mode of holiness, which for him is something incredibly glorious and beautiful.

The reason why the phrase pulls me up short is that I don’t customarily link holiness with beauty. In the religious tradition I grew up in, the two are opposites to each other, like matter and anti-matter. There is always something a bit suspect about beauty. You can never quite trust it. It can seduce into sin. And so you never dare to link it to holiness.

A Legacy of the Reformation

How did the religious tradition I grew up in acquire that mindset? I think it goes back to the spirit of ascetical Christianity, but in my tradition, especially to the Puritan strand in the Reformation.

Puritans were generally appalled at all the sensual display of medieval Catholicism–its incense, its statues and stained glass, its fussy vestments, its grandiose architecture, and its elaborate music that only trained choirs could sing. Throw all that out and give us just the plain Word. We often forget, for example, that for a couple of centuries after John Calvin Presbyterians never sang hymns in church, only metrical psalms, and never accompanied by an organ.

So Protestants of the Calvinist variety tended to frown upon any efforts to inject beauty into worship services. Keep everything stark and simple.

But I think there is a deeper reason for the dichotomy, and it goes back to the Separatist strand in the Puritan effort to reform the Church of England. The Separatists took very seriously what the apostle Paul says in 2 Corinthians 6:17: Wherefore come out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the Lord, and touch not the unclean thing: and I will receive you. [I quote it in the King James Version, for that was the wording that was always used in the churches where I grew up.]**

Holiness meant keeping separated from anything unholy and unclean. That included anything in churches corrupted by association with ungodly Catholicism, but also anything in the wider world that smacked of sin and evil. And one of those corrupting forces in the wider, sinful world was beautiful things, whether fine fabrics and gold buttons or paintings upon their walls.

As a result, holiness came to be associated with a kind of austere life, simple, plain, and unadorned. It tended to dress in black, and avoid amusements like dancing and theatre. A fine example of this grim, kill-joy understanding of holiness is the grim, kill-joy Christian community we meet in the movie Babette’s Feast. Its austere, gray life fits perfectly into the barren, wind-and-rain-swept landscape of coastal Denmark.

This was the tradition I grew up in, and so I find it odd indeed when I hear the psalmist linking holiness with beauty. How can he do that?

In Search of the Fuller Sense of Scripture

Here’s how I have come to deal with that strange juxtaposition. It involves a practice of reading Scripture that I like to indulge in: the practice of juxtaposing one text against another. In this way I can grasp the fuller sense of Scripture.

This past Sunday, the lectionary assigned as the epistle reading portions of Revelation 21-22. These two chapters describe the elder John’s vision of the new heaven and new earth that God will create at the end of time. At its center is the city of the new holy Jerusalem that descends from heaven to settle on earth.

The descriptions of the city are glorious indeed. It shines. It shines not only in the hovering glory of God, but also with its shimmering gold streets and jewel-studded gates.

The city is built around a garden, from which flows a river of living water. Besides its streams grow the trees of life, producing fruit in all seasons. John compares the city’s beauty to that of a bride adorned in her finest for her husband.

Here in this vision beauty is indeed linked to holiness, for the city is said to be the holy Jerusalem. But what constitutes its holiness? It is that God dwells in this city fully. There is no temple because there is no need to confine God within the sacred space of a building. Instead sacred space has expanded to embrace the whole of the new creation.

What makes the city holy is God’s indwelling presence. It is also what makes the city incredibly beautiful.

Now I always read the visions of Revelation as symbolic, not literal. The city stands for the new community of humanity that will become the norm in the Kingdom of God. And in that kingdom, the promise of Christmas–Emmanuel, God with us–will be completely and ultimately fulfilled.

The Incarnation Points to the Answer

The story of the Incarnation, therefore, provides the key to how beauty and holiness become not only linked but fused together. As God comes to dwell in every human heart and in every chink of God’s world, everything comes to be absorbed into the holy. The distinction between the profane and the sacred is abolished. The holy can shine in beauty in all of creation.

What then we Christians are called upon to do is not to separate ourselves from the world in grim, kill-joy grayness, but go forth to fulfill the call that the voice in the vision speaks to Peter in Acts 10:15: What God has made clean, you must not call profane. That message comes just before messengers knock on Peter’s door with an invitation to come and meet with the Roman officer Cornelius. Peter does, preaches the gospel to Cornelius and his family, and they become the first Gentiles to enter the Christian church.

With this story, we see the momentum of the Incarnation on the move. The distinction between the Jew and the Gentile (a distinction that many Jews and Christians saw as a distinction between the sacred and the profane) was starting to be erased. And as more parts of God’s creation were brought into God’s kingdom, the holy was able to shine more and more in all things as the beauty of God.

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* The King James Version follows the translation of the Anglican Book of Common Prayer. Other modern translations translate the line differently.

**What my religious tradition also tended to ignore is that in this verse in 2 Corinthians, Paul is quoting the Old Testament. It is not his own words. That also affects, I believe, how we read and interpret this verse.

Heaven’s Not My Eternal Home

Scripture Text: Revelation 21-22

O Lord you know I have no friend like you.


If Heaven’s not my home then Lord what will I do?

The angels beckon me from Heaven’s open door,

and I can’t feel at home in this world anymore.

These lyrics from a popular gospel hymn express the hope of millions of Christians. No one questions that the belief that heaven will be our eternal home is biblical teaching.

But we ought to. For it is certainly not the vision we get in the Book of Revelation. In Chapters 21-22, we have John’s vision of the life that is coming after the Eschaton. And in his vision, our eternal home is not an ethereal heaven above, but a recreated earth. The new Jerusalem descends from heaven to a new earth. There it will be the eternal resting place of God and God’s people.

In Revelation, we do not rise to heaven, but heavens descends to us. As John says, “Behold, the dwelling of God is with men. He will dwell with, and they shall be his people, and God himself will be with them” (Revelation 21:3). So we ought to look forward with anticipating joy to this glorious union of heaven with earth.

John’s vision is deeply incarnational, as is the theology of the whole New Testament. “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” is the proclamation of the Gospel of John, and of all the New Testament. Jesus Christ is Emmanuel, God with us, in every sense of being.

The New Testament hope is not the Hellenic hope, the hope that at death our immortal souls will be set free from the corrupting flesh. Blessedness for Plato and many of his fellow philosophers is the liberation of the soul from its bodily prison. The soul is blessed in its nakedness.

The New Testament hope, on the other hand, looks forward to that great day when mortal flesh should put on immortality (1 Corinthians 15:53-54).  Rather than standing naked before God,  the apostle Paul looks eagerly to that day when our souls are clothed with their new heavenly bodies (see 2 Corinthians 5:1-5). And our personal hope is the hope of all the material universe, which groans in longing for that  day when it will come to share the glorious liberty of the children of God (Romans 8:21).

Eastern Orthodox theology puts this great hope into the maxim: God became a human being in order that human beings may become divine. I love this way of expressing God’s purpose in both creation and redemption. We human beings—bodies, mind, spirits, and social units—are destined by God to be one with God’s own life. No wonder we are encouraged to pray constantly: Thy kingdom come!