Everyone's Temple of Everywhere

Bonjour from Paris.

I’m in a park on Rue du Temple in the Marais—once the old Jewish quarter, now a chic area filled with gay clubs. This park is dedicated to Elie Wiesel of blessed memory.

But what “temple” is this street and area named after?

Curious, I checked—and it’s connected to the story we’ve been reading all week below the bible belt.

Rue du Temple refers to the Knights Templar, a religious military order founded in Jerusalem on the Temple Mount. In 1140, they built a massive citadel here in the Marais as their Parisian headquarters.

Their full name? The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. Like so many throughout history, they were drawn to that sacred hill in Jerusalem, wanting to claim it as their own.

Centuries later, their story is one of many that echo the repeated yearning—and violent striving—for ownership of sacred space.

We are now in the Three Weeks of mourning on the Jewish calendar, recalling the destruction of that same Temple—twice. It's a cautionary tale: empires rise and fall, buildings crumble, but sacred presence lingers. Not fixed in place, but woven into the human heart. That’s the real Temple—portable, indestructible, alive.

A verse from this week’s chapters of Chronicles carries this radical truth. After King Solomon finishes building the grand Temple, God appears in a dream—not to praise but to warn: if the people stray from justice and moral life, the Temple will fall. But meanwhile, God adds, this will be the hotspot of connection with the sacred:

“I have chosen and consecrated this House for My name to dwell there forever. My eyes and My heart shall always be there.”
(II Chronicles 7:16)

A beautiful vision: a safe space where the Source of Life sees us, hears us, and holds us with an open heart.

But what happens when the Temple is gone? When, as warned, it becomes a ruin, and we are exiled, dispersed?

The Talmud, post destruction, asks: how can we feel sacred presence now, without a Temple?

One rabbi says: when you pray, look down—because God’s presence was in the earth, on the mountain.
Another says: look up—because the heart must reach toward the heavens.
A third rabbi listens, then says: do both. Let your eyes be downcast in humility, your heart lifted in hope.

Not just posture—but perspective.

The sacred is found inward and upward, in our groundedness and our longing. Wherever we are, we can reach the Holy—not just on one mountain, in one temple, mosque, church, or synagogue. Or park.

In every hurting, beating human heart.

During these three weeks of grief we can take the time each day today to feel the grief not just over what happened but what is happening right now. It was Elie Wiesel who told us that “the opposite of love is not hate but indifference.

The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.”

In these days of tragic conflict over sacred land, this reminder matters more than ever. Don’t be indifferent. Every life and every piece of land is sacred and all should be equally honored as we are all equal in the image of the sacred everywhere and everyone - not one mountain or nation more than others.

The Temple Mount remains the epicenter of grief and rage as the tragic feud led by the most extreme among us, despite the compromise and peace so many of us desperately want.

May we all act and pray, body and soul— however we avoid indifference -for relief and repair, healing and hope, for peace on that holy hill and everywhere.

Even here, in Paris.

This Shabbat, find a quiet moment to close eyes, open hearts, ask for help from within, beyond, from our ancestors—for all who seek the sacred and deserve to live in peace.

Merci for joining me below the bible belt.

Our journey with Chronicles continues next week.
Shabbat Shalom.