Sirach 50

The book that began with the praise of wisdom ends with the praise of a man, and the man is a priest. Simon, the son of Onias, served as high priest in Jerusalem, and the writer remembers him above all for one thing: he held up the house of God. "In his life propped up the house, and in his days fortified the temple." The image is of a man who finds the sanctuary in need of repair and pours his life into restoring it.

Of all the things a leader could be remembered for, Sirach chooses this. The greatest legacy is to have strengthened the place where God's people meet Him, to have left the worship of God stronger than you found it.

Simon is not only a builder of stone. He "took care of his nation, and delivered it from destruction," enlarging the city and securing it against ruin. The priest who tends the altar also tends the people. In Israel the sanctuary and the nation were never two separate concerns, for the well-being of the people flowed from their right standing before God. To care for the house of worship and to care for the vulnerable city were a single calling.

The chapter quietly insists that true priesthood looks outward, that the man closest to the altar is also the man most responsible for the safety of those he serves.

Simon "obtained glory in his conversation with the people," that is, in the way he carried himself among them, his bearing and his dealings in the sight of the whole community. His honor was not won in secret. It was visible in how he moved through the daily life of the nation, and it was crowned by his enlarging the entrance of the house and the court, opening wider the way into the place of worship.

A leader of God's people earns a glory that the people can see, and the truest of that glory is measured by how much wider he has opened the door to God.

Now the writer abandons plain description and reaches for the heavens. Simon shone "as the morning star in the midst of a cloud, and as the moon at the full." These are images of light breaking through, of a brightness that pierces darkness and grows to its fullness. The morning star rises when the night is nearly over; the full moon floods the dark with borrowed light. The high priest, robed and serving in the sight of the people, becomes a sign of the light of God shining into the world, a reflection of a radiance not his own.

The images climb from star to moon to the sun itself: "as the sun when it shineth, so did he shine in the temple of God." This is the brightest comparison the writer can make, and he places it precisely "in the temple of God." Simon's glory is liturgical glory, glory that belongs to the place of worship and the act of worship. He shines most when he is serving God before the people.

The light he gives off is the light of a life turned toward God in the very act of leading others to Him, and that is the only glory that ever truly shines.

The comparisons pour out in a flood: the rainbow, roses in spring, lilies by the water, frankincense in summer, the budding olive, the rising cypress. Creation at its most beautiful is gathered up to describe one man putting on his robes for worship. And the phrase that gathers it all is striking: he "put on the robe of glory, and was clothed with the perfection of power." The high priest's vestments were no ordinary garment.

To put them on was to be clothed in the glory of his office, to wear, in cloth and gold, the holiness of the God he served. The robe declares what the man is called to be: a visible bearer of the beauty of holiness.

The scene becomes a living tableau. Simon stands by the altar, and "about him was the ring of his brethren," the sons of Aaron gathered around him like branches of palm trees, like cedars on the mountain. Worship in the house of God is never a solitary act. The high priest stands at the center, but he is surrounded by a ring of fellow priests, and beyond them the whole congregation. The chapter paints worship as a great encircling, the people of God gathered around the place where heaven and earth meet, each in their order, all turned toward the same altar.

At the center of the service is an offering poured out. Simon "stretched forth his hand to make a libation, and offered of the blood of the grape," pouring the drink offering at the foot of the altar as "a divine odour to the most high Prince." The phrase "the blood of the grape" is an old and tender way of speaking of wine, and here it is poured out before God. The whole drama of Israel's worship turns on something given up, something poured out and surrendered to God.

The lifted hand, the cup emptied at the altar, becomes the very heart of the act, an offering that rises before God as a pleasing fragrance.

As the offering is made, the trumpets sound. The sons of Aaron blow the beaten trumpets and raise a great noise "for a remembrance before God." The trumpets are not mere ceremony. They are a memorial, a way of bringing the people before God's attention, of saying with sound what the heart longs to say: remember us, look upon us, receive this worship. Worship reaches upward, and the blast of the trumpets is Israel lifting its whole self toward heaven, asking to be held in the memory of God.

Then comes the response of the whole congregation, and it is the natural answer to the glory described all through the chapter: "all the people together made haste, and fell down to the earth upon their faces, to adore the Lord their God." This is worship in its bodily fullness, the entire nation prostrate before the Most High. The singers lift their voices, sweet melody fills the great house, and the people pray until the worship is perfected.

The chapter shows what the presence of God draws out of a people who truly see Him: not a casual nod, but faces to the ground, voices raised, the whole body bowed in adoration.

After the offering and the adoration comes the crown of the whole chapter. Simon comes down from the altar and "lifted up his hands over all the congregation of the children of Israel" to bless them. This is the high priest's greatest act, the blessing of the people in the name of the Lord. Israel knew the words of this blessing: "The LORD bless thee, and keep thee... The LORD lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace" (Numbers 6:24-26).

The whole splendor of the chapter, the robes, the light, the trumpets, the worship, leads to this moment when God's favor is spoken over His people through the lifted hands of His priest. Glory bends down into blessing.

The blessing calls the people to prayer and grounds it in memory: pray to "the God of all, who hath done great things in all the earth, who hath increased our days from our mother's womb, and hath done with us according to his mercy." Before any petition, the chapter rehearses what God has already done. He has watched over each life from its very beginning, multiplying days, dealing with His people not according to their deserving but according to His mercy.

This is the bedrock under every prayer: we ask God for what is to come because we have already tasted His goodness in all that has been.

The priest's blessing asks for two things above all: "joyfulness of heart, and that there be peace." These are the deep gifts the worship of God is meant to leave in a people, gladness within and wholeness without, joy in the heart and peace in the land. And the aim of it all is faith: "that Israel may believe that the mercy of God is with us." The point of the whole glorious liturgy is not display but trust, a people sent home from the house of God more sure of His mercy than when they came.

The truest fruit of worship is a heart that believes God is near and good.

Here the author signs his work. "Jesus the son of Sirach, of Jerusalem, hath written in this book the doctrine of wisdom and instruction, who renewed wisdom from his heart." After the soaring vision of the high priest, the writer steps forward to name himself and his purpose. He has not invented his wisdom; he has "renewed" it, drawing the ancient wisdom of his people up out of his own heart and setting it down for those who come after.

It is a humble and honest seal: a man offering what he has gathered, hoping it will guide others toward the God whose glory he has just described.

The book ends where it began, with a blessing on wisdom: "Blessed is he that is conversant in these good things: and he that layeth them up in his heart, shall be wise always." Wisdom is not gained by a single reading. It is laid up, stored, treasured in the heart until it becomes part of the one who keeps it. The person who lives close to these "good things," turning them over, returning to them, hiding them within, becomes wise not for a moment but always.

The whole book has been an invitation to this: not merely to admire the glory of God's house, but to carry its wisdom home in the heart.

The final line gathers up the whole book into a single promise: "if he do them, he shall be strong to do all things: because the light of God guideth his steps." Wisdom is for doing, not only for knowing, and the one who does it is given strength and a light to walk by. The chapter that opened with a priest shining like the sun in the temple closes by promising that same light to the ordinary believer who keeps God's wisdom.

The glory does not stay locked in the sanctuary. It becomes a lamp for the feet of anyone who treasures these things and lives by them, leading their steps all the way home.