Sacred Space & Desecrated Space

The Metaphysics of Sacredness and Desecration

Note

This essay is planned to become a talk on the metaphysics of consecrated and desecrated spaces for The Two Trees Conference. Enjoy, friends.

Introduction

There are places where heaven and earth intersect, where the veil between the visible and invisible is thin, where the presence of the Triune God dwells in a way unlike anywhere else. These are sacred spaces—set apart, or better yet, consecrated. But just as holiness has its dwelling, so too does desecration. There are places where heaven and earth are joined in ways that are perverse and illicit—through acts of divination, necromancy, ritual sacrifice, and other dark arts. In these spaces, darkness festers, and the echoes of ancient rebellion still whisper through stone and soil. If sacred space is the dominion of Yahweh, then desecrated space belongs to the adversary, an inversion of the holy, a distortion of God’s good order. Likewise, just as relics (If you’re Catholic or Orthodox) and other objects can become vessels of grace, so too can they be marked by corruption—things profaned, tainted by sin, or dedicated to lesser gods.

This lecture will explore the theological, historical, and literary dimensions of desecrated space and cursed objects. Drawing from biblical exegesis, church history, and the imaginative vision of writers like C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, we will examine how desecration operates within both the natural and supernatural orders, how sacred and desecrated spaces are contested, and how Christians are called to reclaim and sanctify such spaces for the glory of God.

The Biblical Theology of Space: From Sacred to Desecrated

Dr. Michael Heiser, in his work The Unseen Realm, argues that sacred space is not merely a poetic construct but a real theological category. From the Garden of Eden to the Tabernacle to the Temple, the Bible presents us with places where Yahweh’s presence is uniquely manifest. These places are ritually sanctified, and their boundaries matter. When those boundaries are transgressed—whether by idolatry, impurity, or violence—these places can become desecrated.

Eden was the first holy mountain, the original sanctuary where God walked with man (Gen. 3:8). But when Adam and Eve rebelled, they were driven eastward, exiled into a world outside of sacred space. The pattern continues: Cain is exiled further east after his fratricide; Israel, when it defiles the land, is sent into exile. To be removed from sacred space is to be cast into a wilderness where demons dwell.

The theme of sacred space continues with Jacob’s vision at Bethel (Gen. 28:16-17), Moses’ encounter at the burning bush (Exod. 3:5), and the construction of the Tabernacle as a microcosm of Eden, all culminating in Solomon’s Temple as a permanent dwelling for God’s presence (1 Kings 8:10-11). However, when Israel fell into idolatry, the Temple itself became desecrated, leading to the exile and eventual destruction of the sacred dwelling.

Azazel, mentioned in Leviticus 16, is key to understanding desecrated space. The scapegoat, bearing Israel’s sins, is sent out into the wilderness—a realm associated with demons, death, and disorder (Lev. 16:10). The wilderness is beyond the bounds of covenant life, a forsaken place, and the habitation of dark powers. Jesus, in His temptation, is driven into this same wilderness to contend with Satan, reclaiming what had been lost.

The eschatological vision of the New Jerusalem in Revelation 21:22-27 presents the final sanctification of space, where no impurity remains, and God fully inhabits the world once again. The progression from Eden to exile, to restoration, reflects the ongoing struggle between sacred and desecrated space throughout redemptive history.

The modern world, having been stripped of a sacramental imagination, often struggles to comprehend the concept of sacred space. Yet, in the biblical worldview, the world is not neutral; it is a theater of divine and diabolical activity. Space is not merely empty distance; it is charged with presence, meaning, and orientation toward or away from God. Sacred space, then, is not simply a location designated by human will, but a metaphysical reality in which God’s presence is uniquely manifest. Conversely, desecrated space is not merely abandoned or misused. It is space inverted, twisted into an anti-sacrament, where the absence of God is filled by darkness.

Sacredness and desecration are, at their core, matters of participation. To be sacred is to be drawn into the life of God, to partake of His order and presence. To be desecrated is to be drawn into disorder, into estrangement, into a realm ruled by corruption. This is why biblical language for the sacred so often involves themes of purity, cleanness, and illumination, while desecration is linked to uncleanness, corruption, and darkness.

Church History and the Theology of Cursed Space

The early Church inherited a robust theology of sacred and desecrated space, recognizing that certain places had been given over to dark spiritual powers. The Church Fathers understood that the remnants of false worship left a lingering presence, even after the physical idols were removed. Augustine, in City of God, describes pagan temples as being haunted by demons, warning that "the gods of the pagans are demons" (Ps. 96:5). He saw idolatry not merely as an error in belief but as an act that created a spiritual foothold for malevolent entities—an insight that also provides a theological lens for understanding what many today call “paranormal phenomena.” Rather than adopting the language of parapsychology, it would be more fitting to speak in terms of “desecration” or “cursedness,” restoring these realities to their proper place within Christian theology.

Pope Gregory the Great, writing to missionaries in England, instructed them to convert pagan temples into churches, understanding that places can be reclaimed, but only through deliberate consecration.

“Tell Augustine that he should be no means destroy the temples of the gods but rather the idols within those temples. Let him, after he has purified them with holy water, place altars and relics of the saints in them. For, if those temples are well built, they should be converted from the worship of demons to the service of the true God. Thus, seeing that their places of worship are not destroyed, the people will banish error from their hearts and come to places familiar and dear to them in acknowledgement and worship of the true God” (Epistles of Gregory the Great 11.56).

This principle underscores the reality that desecration is reversible through sanctification.

The medieval Church took these ideas further, instituting formal rites for the exorcism of places and objects. The Rituale Romanum, a manual of official Catholic exorcistic practices, details prayers, blessings, and sacramental formulas for reclaiming desecrated space. Medieval monks, such as those in the Benedictine tradition, routinely blessed fields, wells, and even roads before travel, recognizing that even the land could be corrupted by spiritual malevolence.

The Celtic Church, particularly in Ireland, preserved a deep awareness of cursed landscapes. Sites of former pagan worship were either reclaimed for Christ or abandoned to remain uninhabited due to their defilement. St. Patrick’s Lorica (or Breastplate) is an example of how spiritual warfare was integrated into the daily practice of sanctifying spaces. Additionally, medieval churches were built with consecration ceremonies that included the sprinkling of holy water, the anointing of walls, and the placement of relics to purify and establish them as holy places.

In the Eastern Orthodox tradition, the Great Blessing of Waters—often performed at Theophany—was used to reclaim not only churches but also rivers, homes, and entire towns, driving out demonic influences and sanctifying them for God’s purposes.

This is evident even within Protestant traditions. Martin Luther, nearly a decade into the Reformation, retained much of the ancient baptismal rites, including exsufflation, the act of blowing three times under the child’s eyes while declaring, “Depart, thou unclean spirit, and give room to the Holy Spirit. This ritual, alongside the renunciation of the devil, underscored the belief that baptism was not merely symbolic but an act of spiritual warfare, reclaiming the baptized from the dominion of darkness. Likewise, the Anglican tradition preserved the practice of renouncing Satan, affirming that entry into the covenant community involved not just faith but a deliberate rejection of the enemy’s claim.

A Sacramental View of Place

Hans Boersma, in Heavenly Participation, argues that modernity has flattened our vision of reality, stripping away the sacramental understanding that the Church once held. The loss of a sacramental ontology has not led to a world emptied of spiritual forces, but rather a desacralized world, one more susceptible to the powers of darkness.

Philosopher Jean-Luc Marion, in Being Given, argues that sacred space is not just a human construct but a space where divine presence renders reality different. Mircea Eliade, in The Sacred and the Profane, asserts that sacred space functions as a “hierophany”—a revelation of the transcendent breaking into the mundane. This is why churches, relics, and consecrated land are not merely places of worship but ontological ruptures in the ordinary flow of space and time. When such places are desecrated, the disorder is not just symbolic but metaphysical, severing a connection between heaven and earth.

Boersma sees the modern church's retreat from viewing spaces as holy as part of a larger crisis of secularization. When churches become theaters, and cathedrals become mere tourist sites we do not merely lose beauty—we lose the battle for sacred space itself. He calls for a return to the patristic and medieval vision of a reality infused with divine presence, where space, time, and materiality participate in God's sanctification.

Christ, in His death and resurrection, decisively disarmed the principalities and powers (Col. 2:15), reclaiming authority over all creation. Christians, united with Christ, are now participants in this victory and have the authority to reclaim sacred space. The early Church understood this well, as Athanasius records: "By the sign of the cross, all magic is stayed, and all witchcraft is confounded" (On the Incarnation 31.5). The cross is not merely a symbol but an active force that reclaims desecrated ground and restores it to the dominion of Christ.

If Boersma is right, then our task as Christians is not merely to defend doctrine, but to re-enchant the world, to restore sacred presence where it has been driven out. Churches should not be sterile meeting halls but places where heaven touches earth. Our homes should be places of blessing, where hospitality and prayer drive back the encroaching shadows. Even the land itself should be sanctified, not exploited—a truth our forebears understood better than we do.

This struggle between sacred and desecrated space is not just a matter of theological doctrine or historical practice—it is a fundamental reality woven into the fabric of the world. It is no surprise, then, that this tension has profoundly shaped the Christian imagination, influencing how we tell stories about good and evil, light and darkness, order and chaos. Literature, particularly in the works of Christian authors like J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, serves as a powerful means of revealing these spiritual dynamics.

J.R.R. Tolkien masterfully illustrates the battle over sacred and desecrated space in The Lord of the Rings. In The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien masterfully illustrates this concept. Consider Mordor—a land whose very geography has been twisted by spiritual corruption. The air is poisonous, the water undrinkable, the land lifeless. Mordor epitomizes the ultimate desecrated space, a perversion of the divine order. In contrast, places like Rivendell or Lothlórien are depicted as untouched by corruption, almost as Edenic remnants of a world before the fall. The difference is not merely aesthetic; it is profoundly spiritual.

Similarly, in The Silmarillion, Tolkien presents the land of Beleriand as a place that is slowly corrupted by the presence of Morgoth, the first Dark Lord. As evil takes hold, natural beauty decays, and the land itself becomes twisted and lifeless—a pattern that reflects the biblical reality of how desecration distorts creation. The destruction of Beleriand by the end of the First Age is a sobering image of how unchecked spiritual corruption leads to the loss of sacred space entirely.

Lewis also explores these themes in That Hideous Strength, where the N.I.C.E. headquarters becomes an anti-temple—a place where science and sorcery intermingle to create a space dedicated to demonic control. The land is described as oppressive, unnatural, almost alive in its malevolence. Likewise, C.S. Lewis portrays in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe how the Stone Table, a place of ancient power, is desecrated by the White Witch before being re-sanctified through Aslan’s sacrifice and resurrection.

In both Lewis and Tolkien, desecration is not just an absence of holiness; it is the presence of something antithetical to holiness. These literary works echo a profound theological reality: desecration is not just moral decay but the corruption of creation’s very essence.

Conclusion: The Call to Reclaim Sacred Space

We live in an age of desecration. Churches are turned into nightclubs, altars are replaced with screens, and places once dedicated to God now serve as shrines to self-indulgence. But if history teaches us anything, it is that desecration is not the final word.

The task before us is not to retreat, but to reclaim. We must be builders, restorers, consecrators. Like the missionaries of old, we must enter into desecrated spaces and, through prayer and presence, drive out the darkness.

For in the end, the earth is the Lord’s, and He will reclaim what is His. The day is coming when all things will be made new, when every desecrated space will be purified, when the whole earth will be filled with His glory as the waters cover the sea. Until that day, we take up the ancient task: to bring light where there is darkness, to speak holiness into desecration, and to make ready the world for the return of its rightful King.

If we are to reclaim sacred space, the restoration must begin in our daily lives. Our churches must be more than mere gathering places—they must be temples of divine presence, consecrated and set apart from the profane. What fascinates me is that this understanding still lingers within certain Protestant traditions. The 2019 Book of Common Prayer, for instance, includes a rite for dedicating a building, invoking Psalm 24: "Be lifted up, you gates; be lifted up, you ancient doors, that the King of Glory may come in." This rite calls upon the Lord as the Lord of Hosts—a title that asserts His authority over the entire heavenly host, whether thrones, dominions, or principalities.

This battle is not confined to history or literature—it plays out in our world today. When churches are stripped of their sacred symbols, when the liturgy is reduced to entertainment, and when the architecture of our sanctuaries mirrors corporate boardrooms rather than the courts of heaven, desecration has already begun. Reclaiming sacred space in our time means making deliberate choices to resist these trends. It means restoring reverence in worship by recovering a sense of awe in our liturgical practices. It means valuing sacred art, music, and architecture that reflect the weight of divine reality rather than prioritizing trends of convenience or pragmatism.

The work of reclaiming sacred space is not simply about preserving old traditions—it is about bearing witness to the reality of God's presence in a world that has forgotten Him. Every act of consecration, whether in our churches, homes, or communities, is a declaration that the kingdom of God is breaking in. Just as our forefathers took pagan temples and sanctified them for Christ, we too are called to push back against the encroaching darkness. We do this not only in our places of worship but in our workplaces, in the way we shape our children, in the arts we cultivate, and in the daily rhythms of our lives.

This is not a passive calling. It is an active, priestly vocation—a mission to re-enchant the world with the real presence of Christ.