Zeal for Your House Will Consume Me

HOMILY: SUNDAY, 9TH. NOVEMBER 2025

ZEAL FOR YOUR HOUSE WILL CONSUME ME

Beloved brothers and sisters in Christ, today we stand before the mystery of the Temple—not merely as a building of stone, but as a living reality, a sacred dwelling, a sign of communion between heaven and earth. The readings appointed for this feast—the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica—draw us into a profound meditation on the nature of the Church, the holiness of God’s dwelling, and the zeal of Christ for the sanctity of His Father’s house. But more than that, they invite us to recognise that we ourselves are temples of the Holy Spirit, living stones built into a spiritual house, called to holiness, to communion, and to transformation.

In his vision, the prophet Ezekiel sees water flowing from the threshold of the temple —a stream that becomes a river, bringing life wherever it goes. Trees grow along its banks, bearing fruit in every season, their leaves never withering, their roots nourished by the sanctuary’s flow. This is no ordinary river. It is the river of grace, the river of baptism, the river of divine life that flows from the heart of God into the world. It is the living water that Christ will later speak of to the Samaritan woman, the water that becomes in us a spring welling up to eternal life.

This vision is not merely poetic. It is prophetic. It points to the Church, born from the pierced side of Christ, flowing with blood and water —the sacraments of baptism and the Eucharist. It points to the grace that flows from the altar, from the font, from the Word proclaimed and the Spirit poured out. It points to the reality that wherever the Church is truly alive, there is healing, fruitfulness, and renewal. The dead sea of sin is made fresh. The barren land becomes fertile. The broken are restored. The exiled are gathered. The temple is not static—it is dynamic, overflowing, generous, and life-giving.

Psalm 46 echoes this theme: “There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy dwelling of the Highest.” God is in its midst; it shall not be shaken. This is the promise of divine presence—not merely in a building, but in a people. The city of God is not defined by walls or architecture, but by the indwelling of the Lord. When God is present, there is peace, even amid turmoil. Nations may rage, kingdoms may totter, but the Lord utters His voice, and the earth melts. He is our refuge and strength, our fortress and shield. The One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church of Christ, then, is not merely a human institution—it is the dwelling of God among His people. It is the place where heaven touches earth, where grace is poured out, where the Word becomes flesh and dwells among us.

Saint Paul, writing to the Corinthians, makes this truth explicit: “Do you not know that you are God’s temple, and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?” This is not a metaphor. It is a revelation. Each baptised believer is a temple. Each soul is a sanctuary. Each heart is a dwelling place of the Most High. And this truth carries both dignity and responsibility. “If anyone destroys God’s temple,” Paul warns, “God will destroy that person. For the temple of God, which you are, is holy.” This is a solemn word. It reminds us that holiness is not optional. It is essential. It is the very nature of our identity in Christ. We are not our own. We have been consecrated, set apart, made sacred. Our bodies, our minds, our relationships, our choices—all are meant to reflect the presence of God within us.

But this holiness is not self-generated. It is received. It is the fruit of grace. It is the result of being built on the one foundation, which is Jesus Christ. “No one can lay a foundation other than the one that is there,” Paul says, “which is Jesus Christ.” The Church is not built on personalities, programs, or preferences. It is built on Christ. He is the cornerstone. He is the foundation. He is the source and summit of our life. And when we build on Him, we build securely. When we build on anything else, we build in vain.

This brings us to the Gospel, the dramatic moment when Jesus enters the temple and finds it desecrated. Oxen, sheep, doves, coins, tables—commerce has invaded the sanctuary. The house of prayer has become a marketplace. And Jesus, consumed with zeal, acts. He makes a whip of cords. He drives out the animals. He overturns the tables. He scatters the coins. He commands: “Take these out of here and stop making my Father’s house a marketplace.”

This is not a gentle moment. It is a moment of righteous anger, of prophetic action, of divine judgment. But it is also a moment of love. For zeal is not rage. Zeal is love on fire. Zeal is the passion of holiness. Zeal is the refusal to allow what is sacred to be profaned. Jesus is not angry because of the inconvenience. He is angry because of sacrilege. He is angry because the place meant for communion has become a place of transaction. He is angry because the temple has lost its soul.

And yet, even in this moment, Jesus points beyond the building. When asked for a sign, He says, “Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.” They misunderstand, thinking He refers to the physical structure. But He speaks of the temple of His Body. He speaks of the mystery of the Incarnation, the Passion, and the Resurrection. He speaks of the new temple, the living temple, the temple not made by human hands. He speaks of Himself—and by extension, of His Body, the Church.

This is the heart of today’s feast. We celebrate the dedication of a building—the Lateran Basilica, the cathedral of the Bishop of Rome, the mother church of all churches. But we do so not to glorify architecture, but to glorify God. We do so to remember that every church building is a sign of a deeper reality: the Church as the Body of Christ, the temple of the Holy Spirit, the dwelling of God among His people. We do so to renew our own dedication, our own consecration, our own identity as living stones in the spiritual house.

And we do so with urgency. For the cleansing of the temple is not merely a historical event. It is a present call. It is a summons to examine our own hearts, our own communities, our own practices. Have we allowed the sacred to become commercialised? Have we turned prayer into performance? Have we made the Church a place of transaction rather than transformation? Have we forgotten the holiness of the sanctuary, the dignity of the liturgy, the reverence due to the presence of God? Has the Church become a place for secular Humanism and politically correct pragmatism, instead of being the dwelling for the Eternal Truth of Salvation?

Jesus’ zeal is not outdated. It is eternal. He still desires a holy Church. He still desires a pure bride. He still desires a house of prayer. And He still acts to cleanse, to purify, to restore. Sometimes gently. Sometimes dramatically and even angrily. But always lovingly. Always zealously. Always with the desire that we might be truly His.

So what must we do?…

First, we must allow ourselves to be cleansed. We must open our hearts to the whip of cords—not in fear, but in trust. We must let go of what clutters the sanctuary of our souls. We must renounce sin, distraction, compromise, and pride. We must make room for grace, for silence, for worship, for communion. We must become temples worthy of the Spirit who dwells within us.

Second, we must build on the right foundation. Not on trends or ideologies, or interreligious dialogue with impossible faiths, but on Christ. We must root ourselves in His Word, in His sacraments, His promises, His Salvation, His path, in His love. We must be faithful to the teachings of the Church, to the Holy Trinity, the apostolic tradition, to the communion of saints. We must be living stones, not loose bricks. We must be part of the structure, not apart from it.

Third, we must let the river flow. We must be channels of grace, not dams. We must let the water of life flow from the temple into the world. We must bring healing, fruitfulness, and renewal to the dead seas around us. We must be trees planted by the stream, bearing fruit in season, with leaves that never wither. We must be signs of hope, of holiness, of heaven.

Fourth, we must honour the sacred. We must treat our churches not as auditoriums, not as parliaments. but as sanctuaries. We must approach the altar with reverence, the tabernacle with awe, the liturgy with devotion. We must teach our children the meaning of sacred space. We must resist the temptation to trivialise, to entertain, to commercialise. We must be consumed with zeal for the house of the Lord.

And here, beloved, we must speak with sorrow and truth. The corruption of the temple is not only external. It is not only in coins and cattle. It is also in hearts that have grown cold, in shepherds who have forgotten their flock, in ministers who seek privilege over service, titles over truth, and self-styled honours over humble obedience. When bishops and priests become more concerned with wealth and self-entitlement than with witness, more enamoured with prestige than with pastoral care, the temple suffers. The sanctuary is wounded. The Body of Christ is bruised.

This is not condemnation—it is lament. It is the cry of the prophets, the grief of Ezekiel, the zeal of Christ. It is the call to repentance, to renewal, to reform. For the Church is not a palace—it is a house of prayer. The priest is not a prince—he is a servant. The bishop is not a lord—he is a father. And when we forget this, we betray the temple. We desecrate the sanctuary. We scatter the sheep.

But Christ does not abandon His house. He cleanses it. He restores it. He raises it up. And He calls each of us—lay and ordained—to holiness, to humility, to communion. He calls us to build the Kingdom of God, not our own kingdoms. He calls us to wash feet, not to seek thrones. He calls us to be consumed with zeal—not for status, but for souls.

Finally, we must remember the promise. “Destroy this temple,” Jesus said, “and in three days I will raise it up.” This is the promise of resurrection. This is the promise that even when the temple seems destroyed—by persecution, by scandal, by division—Christ will raise it up. He is the builder. He is the restorer. He is the Lord of the temple. And He will not abandon His house.

So let us rejoice today—not merely in a building, but in a mystery. Let us rejoice in the Church, holy and glorious, wounded and beloved. Let us rejoice in the temple of our bodies, consecrated by baptism, sealed by the Spirit. Let us rejoice in the river of grace, flowing from the altar into the world. Let us rejoice in the zeal of Christ, who loves His Father’s house, and who loves us enough to cleanse, to heal, and to raise us up.