Canter Bridge

A series of disproportionate pairs shape the narrative of Solomon’s temple dedication. The first of these is the inequity between the meticulous choreography on the part of the worshippers and the liturgy-halting appearance of YHWH’s glory.

It is possible to read the sacrifice of animals as the intended pinnacle of this momentous day at Solomon’s new YHWH-house in Jerusalem. If so, that liturgical anchor has been displaced by prayer. The change hinges on the priests’ inability to play their role:

Then the temple of the Lord was filled with a cloud, and the priests could not perform their service because of the cloud, for the glory of the Lord filled the temple of God.

Biblical scholars compare the overlap between Israel’s Primary or Deuteronomistic History (Genesis-Kings) and her Secondary History (Chronicles-Ezra/Nehemiah). In doing so, they note the fixation of the latter history on matters of worship, written from deep inside the period when Solomon’s temple was a memory and the scattered people had begun to develop new forms of worship that did not depend upon ecclesiastical edifice and its royal patronage.

This adaptation to historical circumstances—a skill set at which both Judaism and Christianity excel—likely explains the emphasis on Solomon’s long dedicatory prayer. On the surface, the king appears a marvel of extemporary speech and agile recovery when the work stoppage imposed by the divine guest upon the eager priests throws a wrench into the crescendoing work of worship.

Priests can cease their labors—perhaps this is what we are meant to understand—yet prayer, even from far-off places and accent-heavy lips, carries on effectively.

The second disproportion is the absence of Solomon’s intended guest. Prayers directed towards this temple, we are told, are heard by YHWH himself. Yet he hears from heaven.

We are meant to understand that no house can contain him. Yet even so YHWH dwells with humankind. The One who stands over the ‘heavens of the heavens’ condescendingly lends an ear to those whose lack of imagination require a little place in which to seek an audience.

Solomon is resolutely forthright about this deficiency of the house he has built.

The heavens, even the highest heavens, cannot contain you. How much less this temple I have built.

One marvels at the confessed artificiality of the whole endeavor. Yet because this detail of cosmic architecture is confessed openly rather than acknowledged by the cognoscenti with an ironic wink, the temple remains in the biblical narrative an effective rallying point for Israel and others who would seek YHWH by turning towards it even as they named his very uncontainability.

YHWH, indeed, dwells with humankind. Not because he can do no other, locked in the chafing restraint of space as we are, but because he chooses to do so.

Thus, Israel’s song, so galvanizing to the forsaken, so empowering to the joyful, so irreducibly inviting to YHWH himself when its melody drifts to his high place.

The Lord is good; his love endures forever.