And yet there may be no religion at all. It may be all form, and show, and appeal to the senses. There may he nothing to satisfy the conscience — nothing to cure the heart. It may prove on inquiry that Christ is not preached in that stately building, and the Word of God not expounded. The ministers may perhaps be utterly ignorant of the Gospel, and the worshippers may be dead in trespasses and sins. We need not doubt that God sees no beauty in such a building as this. We need not doubt the Parthenon had no glory in God's sight com- pared to the dens and caves where the early Christians worshipped, or that the meanest room where Christ is preached at this day, is more honorable in his eyes than the cathedral of St. Peter's at Kome.
Let us however not run into the absurd extreme of supposing that it matters not what kind of building we set apart for God's service. There is no Popery in making a el mrch handsome. There is no true religion in having a dirty, mean, shabby, and disorderly place of worship. " Let all things be done decently and in order." (1 Cor. xiv. 40.) But let it be a settled principle in our religion, however beautiful we make our churches, to regard pure doctrine and holy practice as their principal ornaments. Without these two things, the noblest ecclesiastical edi- fice is radically defective. It has no glory if God is not there. With these two things, the humblest brick cot- tage where the Gospel is preached, is lovely and beauti- ful. It is consecrated by Christ's own presence, and the Holy Spirit's own blessing.
The second thing that demands our attention in these verses, is the remarkable manner in which our Lord commences the great prophecy of thin chapter.