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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives Easter 2011

AA MAGAZINEMAGAZINE WHEREWHERE INANIMATEINANIMATE OBJECTSOBJECTS DESCRIBEDESCRIBE BIBLICALBIBLICAL EVENTSEVENTS

Objects describe Objects describe

Jesus’ crucifixion Jesus’ crucifixion

Bag of coins

Crown of thorns

Cobblestone

Spike

Cross of Calvary

Temple veil thread

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

Listen to biblical objects describe their experiences with the Trinity, the heavenly dimension, and the natural world.

The Background

The idea to produce this magazine came while I was reviewing back issues of Perspectives, which deals with

inanimate objects describing real-life events. I noticed that three contributors submitted entries pertaining to

biblical objects and animals. The seed was planted. Eventually, the possibility of devoting an entire

magazine just for objects mentioned in the Bible grew. Months later, I was reading a devotional—the

scripture for the daily reading was Joshua 24:27. I searched the Bible for similar scriptures. To my delight, I

read many references where objects like the sun, the moon, and other inanimate objects ‘voiced’ their praise

to God.

Welcome to the Easter 2011 issue of

In this Issue

From the Editor’s Desk ....................................................... 3

Bag of coins ............................................................................. 4

Salvation is Free by C. Douglas Johnson

Crown of thorns ................................................................... 6

Unrequited by Carolyn Agee

Cobblestone ............................................................................ 7

A Hard Path by Rebecca R. Taylor

Spike ......................................................................................... 8

Fury, Indifference, Touched by Matthias Hoefler

Cross of Calvary ..................................................................... 9

It is Finished by Monique Berry

Thread in the temple veil ................................................. 12

The Blue Thread by Jennifer L. Foster

And Joshua said to all the people,

Behold, this stone...has heard

all the sayings of Jehovah

which he has spoken with us.

Joshua 24:27

About the Magazine

ISSN: 1920-4205

Frequency: Biyearly

Founding Editor: Monique Berry

Designer: Monique Berry

Editorial Assistant: Jennifer L. Foster

* Scripture references are from the Youngs Literal

Translation

Contact Info

: http://1perspectives.webs.com

: [email protected]

: 1-905-549-3981

: 1-905-549-5021

Photo credits

Back cover courtesy of Monique Berry, Mediterranean Garden, RBG, ON


E very Easter Jesus and the cross are resurrected in the minds of millions of people. Even

though this form of punishment no longer exists, I feel it still carries on by way of

psychological crucifixion. I know in my life, I continually crucify the Lord.

Did you raise your eyebrows in shock and wonder, How can you say such a thing?

Simply this: my mind bleeds from wearing the crown of the mental thorns of the past. It

was Jesus who laid a crown of thorns on His head. He already received the necessary

judgment for sins committed in my mind—known and unknown.

Sometimes I crucify myself with shame while remembering past actions. Jesus’ hands were

nailed to the cross. He already received the required judgment for all the sins committed by

my former actions.

At other times, I drive nails of guilt for continually walking an unrighteous path. Jesus’ feet

were nailed to the tree for sins committed in my rebellious walk.

And I pierce my own heart and bleed with worry and unforgiveness. But it was Jesus’ heart

that was pierced for sins committed against others—times when I lacked compassion and

forgiveness for myself and for those who were weak.

A thorn-driven crown for sins committed by thought. Nail-driven wrists for sins committed

by past actions. Nail-driven feet for sins committed during my walk of rebellion. A sword-

driven heart for unforgiveness towards myself and my fellow man.

He was crucified once—it is finished!

I need to take up my cross—His burden is light—and follow Him. Receive Him. Walk in

the life He planned for me. He died to destroy the works of my enemy. I need to stop giving

my accuser the victory. It is finished!

I‟m not condoning sin or bypassing the emotions of genuine repentance. But there is no

need to live in the tomb of guilt and regret. It's

true that my Saviour paid an unimaginable

price for my sins. But He is raised! I vow to

reward His sacrifice by living in joy, victory,

and thankfulness. May you be blessed as you

read this issue. And by the way, Happy Easter!

Until the next time, keep the ink flowing.

Monique Berry

From the Editor’s Desk


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Salvation is Free

By C. Douglas Johnson


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Have you heard the saying

„there are two sides of a coin,

or three sides to every story?‟

Well, we‟ve come to give you

the real story, our first-hand account,

the truth, not a fable,

because we‟re the coins

and, we ain‟t no chump change!

We‟re more than

a jingling in your pocket.

We‟re the 30 pieces of silver

you‟ve heard about, read about.

We did our part

in fulfilling His purpose.

As the story goes,

Judas betrayed Jesus

in exchange for monetary gain.

For Judas, it was never about fame,

it was all about fortune.

He was happy to make a deal

but looked incredulous

when we started praise dancing

in the money bag

he had collected for his deed.

He clutched us to his chest

and sped toward home.

When Judas arrived home

and opened the bag,

we jumped out

singing, dancing,

and praising our God!

Satan, get thee behind us!

We‟re no longer bound

by what others believe.

No longer the object

of greed and corruption.

No more rocks

crying out for us.

Finally, we were free

to give God praise!

Thank you,

for your grace and mercy.

Thank you,

for saving me.

After catching our breath

from our Hallelujah Praise Party,

we noticed Judas‟ eyes—

big as silver dollars.

And that‟s when we saw

the guilt, the sadness.

In his quest for riches,

he realized he‟d lost his soul.

No amount of money

could buy him salvation.

He finally understood—

Jesus of Nazareth came to Earth

to pay the princely price

so that those who believe

might have everlasting life.

With tears streaming down Judas‟ face,

he cried,

“My God, my God.

Salvation is free!”

Dr. C. Douglas Johnson lives in metro Atlanta, GA, with his lovely wife and two kids. While he teaches and researches at Georgia Gwinnett College by day, he writes poems and creates word search puzzles by night. He plans to pursue research and writing related to calling and faith at work. Contact him at [email protected].

‘What are ye willing to give me, and I will deliver him up to you?’ And they weighed out to him thirty

silverlings. Mt 26:15


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The early morning hours hold a seeping chill.

Smothered by human hands and greed, subjugation

radiating from their fingers,

I sting, fight, bite in a futile attempt to provide my own

salvation.

This is not how I was meant to die...to live.

And I start to wonder, 'Is God merely blind or just

vindictive?‟

as I am cut from my slumber, petals plucked, swept away

by the unearthly wind, rustling in the courtyard—

the breeze that carries a doleful moan

and the thud of fist on flesh.

Their victim releases a hiss of pain,

the hair from his chin is uprooted like a noxious weed.

His eyes open wider, water,

muscles tighten beneath his skin.

And yet, he resists—not their blows, but the urge to

retaliate.

Guilt? Masochism? Or self-loathing?

What renders him so still?

The air thickens in solemn contemplation.

Condensation builds,

as the very heavens mourn

swollen eyes soft with love...

which these men ignore,

raucous laughter

erupting from beneath their liquored lips.

Twisted, entwined in matted hair, soaked in spit,

I protest below their revelled roaring,

“Hail, Jesus. King of the Jews!”

These slurred tones ring in my ears…as nerve endings

besiege my consciousness.

The paving stones spin around me.

Crushed hard against bone, swimming in blood,

I try not to taste the saline and iron pressed against my

lips,

like a libation to a Roman god.

I yearn for the dark, rich earth, soft and ripe after the rain,

for my petals, radiant white like a bride in the vestibule

moments before her vows.

I shiver. Alone. Vulnerable.

Aching for redemption.

And having plaited him a crown out of thorns, they put it on his head and a reed in his right hand, and

having kneeled before him, they were mocking him, saying, `Hail, the king of the Jews.' Mt 27:29

Carolyn Agee is an internationally published poet, living in the Pacific Northwest. She is passionate about film-making and human rights. She also enjoys experiencing other cultures, cuisines, and languages. Contact Carolyn at [email protected]

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Unrequited

By Carolyn Agee


A Hard Path

By Rebecca R. Taylor

Y ou‟ve probably read about me in the Bible. I‟m not

mentioned by name, but I am there and I want you

to know my story. Let me start by telling you that I am

more than just a cobblestone. I am one of many who

make up the path that Jesus walked on the day he was

crucified. Of all the people who have willingly passed

over me, His feet were the most memorable. That

moment will remain emblazoned in my mind forever.

As Jesus was led away from Pontius Pilate‟s

court, he humbly carried his own cross down my path.

Many followed him as he preached the word of God.

Jesus‟ words touched my heart because he told his

followers not to worry about him—to think of

themselves and their children.

When his feet reached me and his bare flesh

touched me, droplets of blood splattered across my face.

Jesus‟ suffering mixed with a river of tears.

As he walked by, the cross he was carrying

spoke to us.

“This is not the end. This day will change the

course of history. To be remembered forever by all who

believe.”

I sat there in my spot on the path, awestruck that

this rough wooden cross actually spoke to me. But one

of my fellow cobblestones, not as meek as I, questioned

the cross.

“Why is Jesus being led away to die?”

“I don‟t have the time to explain it all to you

now but you will soon understand. Jesus will ascend into

heaven in three days time. His blood is being shed to

save you and others.”

The cross‟s powerful voice riveted me but none

of the humans heard it. I decided that it was a message

that could only be shared by objects.

This event had a huge impact on my life. Jesus

died on the cross to ensure everyone‟s salvation. God his

Father, gave him the most difficult mission so that he

could remove all of their sins. I am still here, so many

years later. Our path has been repaired innumerable

times since the day Jesus walked on us. But

improvements haven‟t stop us from thinking about his

purpose that humid day almost two thousand years ago.

We will never forget the way his humility made

us feel—he didn‟t scrape us with his feet. He was gentle,

in contrast to the others who gouged and rocked us. He

respected us even though we are a simple, lowly path of

cobblestones. That morning I viewed myself in a new

way and decided to respect myself. I realized that just

because our task in life is small and doesn‟t require great

skill, we are not without value. For without

cobblestones, everyone who comes this way would have

to walk in dusty clay when drought persists or walk in

mud when occasional rains come.

If I could talk to Jesus, I would say with humble

gratitude, “Thank you, dear Lord, for all your lessons.

Thank you for making that fateful walk that Good

Friday. The day that changed the lives of everyone

present and future.”

He gave us all a chance to have a clean slate.

And as they led him away, having taken hold on a certain Cyrenian, coming from the field, they put on

him the cross, to bear it behind Jesus. Luke 23:26

Photo credit: Creative commons

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Rebecca lives along the St. Francis River in St. Felix-de-Kingsey, Quebec. She enrolled in an online course at St. Lawrence College to prepare her to be a full-time writer someday. Her recent publications have been included in Bread n’ Molasses, Grainews, Perspectives Magazine and previous issues of Christian Perspectives. Contact her at [email protected].


SP

IKE

S ecundinus was mad. “I want nothing more in the world

but to strangle him! I hate that liar. I want to squeeze his

neck until he gasps for air.”

“Morbid,” I said. He went further.

“I'd keep squeezing then release him, just slightly,

enough for him to get a second breath. Then I'd squeeze the

life out of him, squeeze and squeeze until he was no more.”

“I don't see what he's ever done to you.”

“They act like he's a religious genius. He grew up making

plows and tables, for God's sake!” he said.

I could have cared less. Why all the drama? I was a spike,

that's what I knew. How can you do wrong to a spike?

There was a rumor that Christ had told some people he

was going to die. Secundinus intended to hold him to that.

“Some of these people believe he's the Christ, the Jews'

Messiah. Champion of their God,” said Tertius.

“Dirty filthy thing,” raved Secundinus. “Praying on the

hopes of deluded souls. His talk about a loving God and a

coming kingdom. He dared embarrass the Pharisees, the holy

and righteous keepers of the faith.”

“You'd think you were one,” I said.

“I've seen the suffering he's caused,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Just what I said. The Pharisees. His lies bewitching the

common folk, trying to lead them down a path they cannot

tread. He can't do anything for them!”

I looked at the crowd. A man fell on his knees, maybe

entreating God, maybe worshiping. The air smelled of sweat

and wet dog. But there was also something sweet on the air,

something I couldn't identify. And no grass grew on this hill.

No trees, no plants. It was forlorn and desolate.

A boy clomped over to the crate I was in. I didn't care if I

was chosen or not. I had nothing against this man.

Secundinus, on the other hand, had to be chosen. It was

tricky. He had to move without the boy seeing him do it. The

boy glanced away as he reached in. Secundinus tried to get in

his hand. To give him a better shot at it, I rolled over the other

spikes. The boy's hand touched me lightly. But Secundinus

wasn't the only one who wanted to finish this Christ. Tertius

rolled in the way and the boy picked him up. Secundinus

swore.

Then he said, “This honor must be mine!”

When the boy returned, Secundinus wanted again to fight

for the position, but the boy was looking this time so there

wasn't much we could do. He picked me, and next chose

Secundinus.

For some reason I had imagined the wood splintering on

impact, but of course it didn't. The hammer pounded a thick

thud like a knock at midnight, bashing me into the patibulum

inch by inch.

An onlooker asked with a trembling voice, “Can the Love

of God die?” She was wide-eyed and ran her fingers through

her hair.

Jesus died.

For a moment all was quiet, except for the sound of men

and women crying softly. A centurion said something about

the Son of God.

After I was pulled out, the boy asked for me. He took me

to his house, and put me gently on a little wooden box. I lay

there for a couple days.

After, the boy named David, rushed into the house,

tripping in his haste.

“He's alive, mother! He's alive again!”

“Who's alive?” she asked, not looking up from her work.

“That Jesus man!”

The mother ran out of the house to tell her husband.

As I heard the lad's words, something blunt hit me in the

stomach. I broke open—a crack forming, a fine line running

across my skin. I didn't understand what I was feeling. Why

did I feel this way?

Then Christ was at the door. He came and talked to

David for a long time. Before He left, David offered me to

Him. Jesus accepted me.

Did He come for me, who took His life? I felt like I was

made of tin—like I had melted into the shape of a tiny heart.

Fury, Indifference, Touched

By Matthias Hoefler

And the centurion who was standing over-against him, having seen that, having so cried out, he yielded

the spirit, said, `Truly this man was Son of God.' Mk 15:39

Matthias Hoefler of Ohio has been published in Alien Skin,

Vision ezine, and Bewildering Stories. His blog is at

http://matthiashoefler.webs.com/apps/blog/.

Photo credit: iStockPhoto | Pears2295


M y bird‟s eye view takes place atop a hill on the

outskirts of Jerusalem.

The blood-sprinkled arms of the soldiers have

dropped me, Stipe, and the victim into the hole

prepared in the rock. The executioners have

unfastened the ropes and have stepped down off the

ladder. Jesus‟ head and back is secured in hollows

gouged out of me to prevent him from tearing while

hanging in the hot sun.

I am overwhelmed with helplessness. It‟s true

that I am a part of this cruel act; but it doesn‟t mean I

take pleasure in feeling men suffocate. In my heart of

hearts, I am a green tree—one who naturally resists

fire. And here I am attracting it.

Oh, the pain! Each time he lifts his head to take

in some air, the four-inch long thorns of the man-

made crown dig deeper into me. The one who laid

his beautiful cheek against me when he was tired, is

now unrecognizable. Bruised. Swollen. Deformed.

The crowd scowls at the very face that the angels

adore. On his entry into Jerusalem, the cheering

crowd had laid a carpet of palms at his feet. Today

they lay a carpet of blood.

“Insanity!” cries Patibulum, my crossbeam.

“Why is this man being crucified? Why am I

impaled to innocence?”

“I don‟t understand it, either,” exclaims the cross

to my left. “I know why my criminal is condemned

to die. But this! He calls himself the „King of the

Jews.‟ Is this sufficient judgment? Was the scourging

not enough?”

The third cross is mute and sullen today.

“How I wish it were!” I reply. “Then I wouldn‟t

have added to his sufferings, his gaping wounds

scraping against my spine.”

A sea of emotions swells beneath me. Slaves

cover their mouths, women weep, and iron-hearted

soldiers mock him. At the same time, it‟s a blessing

and a comfort to recognize people whom Jesus

healed in the crowd; they are on their knees rocking

back and forth, ironically watching their healer die.

Why doesn’t he open his mouth and justify

himself?

Immediately after thinking that, Jesus‟ spirit

says, “He is freely laying down his life for the sin of

the world. Scripture must be fulfilled. The wages of

sin is death. This is why the kingdom of darkness is

let loose for a season. Look.”

For a brief moment, I discern the spiritual realm.

I see the cause of all the insults and mockeries and

tortures. Legions of holy angels are held back as

hideous, repulsive principalities and demons of all

sizes fly through the air. Some sit on the shoulders of

the executioners, whispering in their ears. Some

enter the mouths of the mockers.

At the same time, Patibulum senses an unseen

force writing something all over us. I feel that it‟s

names—the names of every past, present, and future

soul—who would receive atonement for their sins if

they accepted His sacrifice. I also see a cloud of

witnesses including Moses, Daniel, and Isaiah

encouraging Jesus.

(Continued on page 10)

It is Finished

By Monique Berry

Photo credit: Creative Commons

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When, therefore, Jesus received the vinegar, he said, `It hath been finished;' and having bowed the head,

gave up the spirit. Jn 19:30


I n the midst of the darkest hour, Jesus‟ strained

voice recites ancient prophecies from Moses and

all the prophets.

“It is written: my own familiar friend in whom I

trusted, who ate of my bread, has lifted up his heel

against me. It is written: I gave my back to the

smiters, and my cheeks to them that plucked off the

hair; I hid not my face from shame and spitting. It is

written: He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did

not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the

slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is silent,

so he did not open his mouth.”

Jesus continues, “It is written: Surely he took up

our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we

considered him stricken by God, smitten by him, and

afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions,

he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment

that brought us peace was upon him, and by his

wounds we are healed...the LORD has laid on him

the iniquity of us all...”

Even while some of the chief priests and a few

Roman soldiers hiss and hurl thorny insults, he

prays, “Father, forgive them, for they don‟t know

what they‟re doing.”

I am humbled. What love! What amazing love!

A t midday, sun-split clouds darken and a

tangible blackness descends over the land.

Jesus is strangely heavy. I feel like I am carrying the

weight of the world. Even I can hardly breathe.

There is just silence. Eerie silence in man, beast,

and nature. Panic and fear are heightened.

The moment distant trumpets blast to announce

the sacrifice of the Paschal Lamb, Jesus commits his

spirit to the Father.

He is dead.

Suddenly the earth heaves. Boulders crumble

around me. Rain loosens the rocks from their hold on

the earth, and people scurry and slip on the rain-

slicked stones. Wind-twisted trees bow as the

thunder and lightning announce their presence.

My tears mingle with the rain and tears of Jesus‟

mother, John his disciple, and all those who stay

until the end.

After Joseph of Arimathea gently removes Jesus‟

lifeless body from my frame, the crowd disperses. I

am left alone with Patibulum.

“It is finished,” I cry. “Death has won.”

“No, Stipes. It cannot be!”

Suddenly, a shaft of living light surrounds us,

followed by a serene voice.

“Stipes, do not fear! Or be discouraged. Jesus is

not dead but alive! He is the way, the truth and the

life. Patibulum, at this moment, Jesus is setting the

captives free. Today you witnessed the effects of an

unsaved soul disconnected from God. But I tore the

veil that separated man and the Father. Remember,

God so loved the world that he gave up his only Son.

Whoever believes in Him will not perish but have

everlasting life.”

Monique Berry resides in Hamilton, ON. She is the founding editor of Perspectives and Christian Perspectives. Her work has appeared in Searching for Answers anthology, Personal Journaling, The Sitter’s Companion, and others. In her spare time, she facilitates a critique workshop, edits, and enjoys photography. Contact Monique at [email protected] or visit her website at http://monique-berry.webs.com.

Photo credit: Valdis Grinberg


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I am poised at the very edge of a catastrophic

event with historic and perplexing ends.

Suspended and broken, I hang from the temple veil.

Thirty-three feet of my blue-dyed linen fibers still

twirls from the top of the towering holy curtain. The

other eleven feet lies in a small pile on the inner

temple‟s marble floor.

But I, a common embroidery thread, cannot

forget the other part of my strand—my being. We

began along the banks of the Nile River in a fertile

flax-growing region of Egypt. Supple hands

uprooted our flowering plants, bundled us in sheaves,

retted, beat and dressed us, and finally spun us into

yarn and fine threads.

After we traveled by boat along a river and by

sea, by caravan and donkey on dusty roads, we were

sold to dyers and weavers. Artisans wove us into

elaborate cloth squares, and other highly skilled

Israelites added elaborate embroidery.

Panoramic designs of the heavens and the twelve

signs of animals—within the interpretation of Jewish

cosmology—completed the decoration of the

splendid weighty curtain: forty feet across, sixty feet

tall, four inches deep.

We were carried on the backs of almost three

hundred men into Herod‟s great and stately Temple

of Jerusalem. And until recently, we hung proudly as

a tiny yet integral part of the magnificent temple veil.

My life is forever altered! Who would imagine

that a simple blue embroidery thread could bear

witness to a startling travesty, a momentous event in

Jerusalem‟s second temple.

But I digress. A wise man named Jesus, who

recently preached in the outer courtyard, is unjustly

condemned to die—by the corruption of envy and

fear among religious leaders and an unruly mob. To

hang by the cruelest of deaths. By crucifixion. Along

with common thieves. A crowd of onlookers,

soldiers and believers follow the mocked and

scourged „King of the Jews‟ as he bears his own

cross to Calvary, the „place of a skull.‟

On Friday morning, an eclipse of the sun darkens

the temple. A sense of foreboding chills the temple

walls. In the inner and upper Court of the Israelites,

the plaintive bleat of a lamb punctuates the thick air.

Pungent odors of blood, pigeons, doves, and burnt

animal flesh from the massive sacrificial altar

permeate the adjacent court.

Priests slip in the shadows of their court to light

oil lamps. The curtain hangs heavy and unmoving in

the nearby Holy Place.

By mid-afternoon, the darkness over all the land

lifts. An agitated worshipper runs in the street and

enters the outer Court of the Gentiles, relaying the

Son of God‟s last words cried with a mournful voice,

„My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?‟

And „Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.‟

Jesus Of Nazareth is dead.

(Continued on page 13)

The Blue Thread

By Jennifer L. Foster

And lo, the veil of the sanctuary was rent in two from top unto bottom, and the earth did quake, and

the rocks were rent. Mt 27:51

Photo credit: Creative Commons


Suddenly, the temple veil is savagely ripped in

two, from the top to the bottom. Raw, rent and

jagged!

No party of high priests or elders could

orchestrate such an act. An unearthly symbol of rage.

Or grief. Surely it comes from a power above.

I, too, am torn—my place upon the thick ragged

edge of the giant tear. Exposed.

Of all the thousands and thousands of vertical

threads on the Babylonian weaving, my God placed

me at the centre. The edge of my vertical rip now

slopes inward toward the Holy of Holies. The

tabernacle. A most sacred place where only the

highest priest may enter by passing the temple veil

but once a year. To atone for the sins of the temple

and the nation of Israel.

How can this be? How can I, an insignificant

embroidery thread, be allowed to view this innermost

sanctum?

I take it in like a lightning flash. I shudder,

unsteady at the edge. Fear overtakes me, then panic.

Part of me, the broken part, lies

helpless on the floor with hundreds

of colorful threads. It‟s a floating

sea of mishmash color: blue,

scarlet, and royal purple.

The high priests stare awestruck

at the devastation done to the

temple veil. Clearly, they are both

outraged and terrified by this

violent tearing.

A crowd surges in the outer

courtyard. Israelites pour into the

inner courts.

Everything is changing!

My other embroidered part cries

out, “My dear Hanging One, the

floor is moving! What is happening?”

“My Broken One,” I yell, “the veil is severed in

two. I‟ll try to reach for you. Hold on!” I stretch and

lunge from the tattered edge of weaving.

Under the ceiling, pillars crack and buckle.

The steps leading into the inner court, the Holy

Place, heave and shift. They vent a scraping scream.

The mighty curtain shakes, then sags.

“It‟s an earthquake!! God help us!!” declares the

white marble floor.

“I can‟t see you, my own!” wails the other

shredded part of me.

I twist and fall, abruptly separated from the

rip‟s edge, in the repeated shocks of a major

earthquake. I land on the broad step of the golden

incense altar in the Holy Place.

The powerful scent of sweet spices bursts in

waves over me.

A deafening roar thunders through the

temple, the city of Jerusalem, and into the hills.

“Broken One, can you hear me? Broken One?” I

implore.



The aftershocks subside. The priests and elders

walk through the temple debris while wringing their

hands, moaning, and bowing. All point to the open

veil and the scattered shreds of fabric and our threads

on the floor.

T hree days later, a curious crowd swells in

the outer courtyard and then spills into the

city‟s streets. I can hear their high-pitched frightened

calls to one another. They shout about the terrifying

rip in the veil. A stroke of God Almighty.

In the Women‟s Court and the nearer Court of

the Israelites, some plead to hear the words of the

lone centurion. In subdued voices, a few onlookers

question, Is it true? and Were you there?

I hear whispers among the young priests,

something about the testimonies of women who

followed and tended the crucified Jesus—Mary

Magdalene and the mother of Jesus and others.

But there‟s more. The altar step has heard some

news.

“Listen, embroidery thread, pillars, marble floor!

There‟s rumbling that the earthquake has caused

rocks to rear and split. And opened the tombs! Word

is that many bodies of the saints who were sleeping

are raised and are coming out of the tombs.”

“Unheard of! You can‟t trust everything you

hear,‟‟ grumbles marble floor. He‟s hardened to most

everything.

A crumbled pillar sighs. “Anything is possible…

all this tumult. I can‟t see straight anymore…”

Altar step continues, “Since the resurrection of

the Christ, many of the saints are said to be here in

Jerusalem. And they show themselves to many

believers! The Christ followers.”

“I wish I could believe,” I whimper. “But I‟m

torn.”

“Strange but wondrous talk. Ever since Jesus

died, a fresh wind is blowing through these walls...”

notes altar step.

I‟m of two minds about everything. The

crucifixion, the tearing of the temple veil, my

privileged glimpse into the innermost sanctum. What

of my altered state? Part of me is lost. I can hardly

bear talk of the earthquake, rocks split in two, and

now more talk of resurrection and sightings...

I just don’t know. It seems preposterous. But you

never know…

T oday, while I lie splayed at an awkward

angle over the broken step, a Jewish man

with flowing hair and kind, warm eyes enters the

inner Holy Place. He has an aura around him.

Peaceful. Resigned. He looks like one of the saints.

Or a spirit. Yes, a beautiful spirit in a pure white

robe. The others cannot see Him but I can.

He looks at the massive tear on the veil from top

to bottom. The Spirit briefly peers past the open

curtain into the Holy of Holies. He seems to stare

directly at my frail, twisted thread on the incense

altar step.

I may be dreaming but I swear He found my

broken part on the temple floor, picked me up, and

then slowly walked out of the temple, carrying me

whole in His Hands.

Jennifer L. Foster lives in Hamilton, ON and has explored creative writing since retiring. She graduated from Queen’s University. Her poetry for children appears in an anthology, short stories in Perspectives Magazine, and haiku in Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine. Contact her at [email protected].



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cp march 2011 - w

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