He erected the pillars at the portico of the temple. The pillar to the south he named Jakin and the one to the north Boaz.
1 Kings 7:21 (NIV)

When I was a kid, my mother took up china painting and my dad decided he wanted to learn how to make stained glass. Looking back, I find it fascinating that I come from a family of artists and artisans. One of my brothers worked on the restoration of the Vice-President’s office in Washington D.C. My other brother led the crew that gilded the gold dome of the Iowa State Capitol, and he restored the mural that you see when you stand beneath the dome and stare up into the cupola. At the age of 89, my father was commissioned to design and build a 9’x4′ stained-glass piece for the new wing of our local hospital.

Our home is filled with beautiful works of art by my family members.

Today is the final in a series of what casual readers most certainly find to be boring, descriptive chapters. First we learned about Solomon’s administration, then about Solomon gathering supplies for his building projects. Yesterday we learned the details of Solomon’s Temple. Today, we get the 411 on Solomon’s palace and all of the furnishings inside the Temple.

Included in the furnishings were two giant bronze pillars that stood just inside the Temple entrance. One to the right of the entrance, and the other to the left. And they each had a name. One was called Jakin (Yakhin), meaning “He establishes” or “He will establish.” The other was Boaz understood to mean something along the lines of “In him is strength” or “By his strength.”

Put those two ideas together: He establishes. In Him is strength. I imagine entering the Temple between those two declarations. What a great metaphor to greet you as you enter God’s Temple. A constant, silent reminder that the nation’s security doesn’t ultimately rest upon Solomon’s administrative brilliance, military power, international alliances, trade network, or spectacular architecture.

God establishes. God strengthens.

Being part of a family that has helped restore and furnish many beautiful and historic buildings, I can’t help but take a keen interest in the detail, the beauty, and the craftsmanship with which Solomon insisted God’s house be filled.

God doesn’t object to beauty. The Temple isn’t merely functional. There are decorative lilies and pomegranates, ornamental chains, cherubim, and palms made of gold and polished bronze.

None of these things is strictly necessary. A basin holds water without twelve bronze bulls beneath it. A pillar stands without hundreds of bronze pomegranates around its capital. A lamp gives light without being made of gold.

Beauty exceeds utility. Just think about creation. The God who made sunsets, peacock feathers, autumn maples, galaxies, orchids, and Iowa thunderstorms apparently doesn’t subscribe to the notion that everything worthwhile must be merely practical. Beauty can itself be an act of worship.

But, as with yesterday’s chapter, there is a spiritual warning hiding in the beauty of the building. Because what is built with my hands should never overshadow what God desires to build in my heart.

The danger comes when the house I am building for myself quietly becomes more important than the dwelling I’m making for God within my life.

Solomon spent seven years on God’s house. Thirteen on his own. Perhaps that is perfectly explainable. But given where Solomon’s story eventually goes, I can’t help but hear the author quietly whisper: “Tom? Pay attention.”

Because spiritual drift rarely announces itself. I don’t wake up one Tuesday morning and say to myself, “Today seems like a lovely day to slowly lose my soul.”

I simply keep building. One more project. One more achievement. Then another acquisition and an additional accolade. An extension, followed by one more thing that needs my attention. Until one day I discover that my “palace” has become enormous while God’s dwelling within me has been quietly neglected.

And that brings me back to those two bronze pillars standing outside the Temple. Jakin: “He establishes.” Boaz: “In Him is strength.”

Those names confront the great illusion beneath my frantic building projects. I establish my life by my strength in order to achieve my accomplishments and ensure my legacy.

Time-out.

I mentally step foot into Solomon’s Temple, and the pillars silently speak a much-needed reminder into my soul.

“He establishes.”
“In Him is strength.”

Today’s chapter ends with an understated final verse. After all Solomon’s magnificent work is finished, he brings into the Temple the treasures David had prepared before him. Solomon didn’t start this story. He inherited something. Then he contributed something. And eventually he will hand something onward.

That’s my place too. And again, I think about my family members and all of their works. I think about my father’s magnum opus, a giant work of stained-glass that will beautify our local hospital for generations after he is gone.

We aren’t constructing the whole Kingdom. We’re simply artisans invited into God’s workshop for a little while. We receive materials from those who came before us. We exercise whatever wisdom, skill, creativity, resources, and strength we’ve been given. We add our small piece to something vastly larger than ourselves.

Then we lay down our tools. Someone else picks them up. And, in the quiet this morning, that’s the thought that’s flitting around my head and heart as I head into this day.

I want to build beautifully.
I want to build faithfully.
I want to build with everything I’ve been given.

But I never want to confuse being the builder with being the One who establishes the house. Because when my little shift at the construction site is finished, the two pillars will still be standing as an unspoken reminder:

“He establishes.” “In Him is strength.”

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