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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
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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
: 1-905-549-3981
: 1-905-549-5021
Photo credits
Back cover courtesy of Monique Berry, Mediterranean Garden, RBG, ON
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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
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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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
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Salvation is Free
By C. Douglas Johnson
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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
BA
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F C
OIN
S
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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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
CR
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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
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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
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
CO
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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].
Page 8
Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
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
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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
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
CR
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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
Page 10
Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
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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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
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Page 12
Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
TE
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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
Page 13
Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
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.
Photo credit: Valdis Grinberg
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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
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].
Photo credit: Valdis Grinberg
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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives
Pho
to c
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Ber
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edit
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BG
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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives