Christian Perspectives

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A MAGAZINE WHERE INANIMATE OBJECTS DESCRIBE BIBLICAL EVENTS

Objects describe Jesus’ crucifixion Bag of coins Crown of thorns Cobblestone Easter 2011

Spike Cross of Calvary Temple veil thread

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

Welcome to the Easter 2011 issue of

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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 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.

About the Magazine

In this Issue

ISSN: 1920-4205

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

Frequency: Biyearly

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

Founding Editor: Monique Berry

Salvation is Free by C. Douglas Johnson

Designer: Monique Berry

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

Editorial Assistant: Jennifer L. Foster

* Scripture references are from the Youngs Literal Translation

Contact Info

Unrequited by Carolyn Agee Cobblestone............................................................................ 7 A Hard Path by Rebecca R. Taylor Spike ......................................................................................... 8

 : http://1perspectives.webs.com  : perspectivesmagazine@gmail.com

Fury, Indifference, Touched by Matthias Hoefler

 : 1-905-549-3981  : 1-905-549-5021

Cross of Calvary..................................................................... 9 It is Finished by Monique Berry Thread in the temple veil ................................................. 12

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

The Blue Thread by Jennifer L. Foster

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

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From the Editor’s Desk

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 sworddriven 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

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

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Photo credit: c Shutterlinda | Dreamstime.com

Salvation is Free

By C. Douglas Johnson

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

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‘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

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 cdouglasjohnson@yahoo.com.

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

BAG OF COINS

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.

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Photo credit: c Jill Battaglia | Dreamstime

CROWN OF THRONS

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

Unrequited

By Carolyn Agee 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.

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 carolynagee@ymail.com Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

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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

COBBLESTONE

A Hard Path

By Rebecca R. Taylor

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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.

Photo credit: Creative commons

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.

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 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 rebecca_taylor2@hotmail.com.

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

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

SPIKE

Fury, Indifference, Touched

By Matthias Hoefler

S

Photo credit: iStockPhoto | Pears2295

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.

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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.

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/.

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

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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

By Monique Berry

Photo credit: Creative Commons

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 manmade 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.

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

(Continued on page 10)

CROSS OF CALVARY

It is Finished

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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!

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 rainslicked 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.”

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.

Photo credit: Valdis Grinberg

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 perspectivesmagazine@gmail.com or visit her website at http://monique-berry.webs.com.

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

Photo credit: Monique Berry, Mediterranean Garden | RBG, ON

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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

TEMPLE VEIL THREAD

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

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splendid weighty curtain: forty feet across, sixty feet tall, four inches deep.

The Blue Thread

By Jennifer L. Foster

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.

Photo credit: Creative Commons

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.

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.

Panoramic designs of the heavens and the twelve signs of animals—within the interpretation of Jewish cosmology—completed the decoration of the Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

(Continued on page 13)

Page 13 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!

Photo credit: Valdis Grinberg

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.

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.

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.

“It‟s an earthquake!! God help us!!” declares the white marble floor.

How can this be? How can I, an insignificant embroidery thread, be allowed to view this innermost sanctum?

The powerful scent of sweet spices bursts in waves over me.

I take it in like a lightning flash. I shudder, unsteady at the edge. Fear overtakes me, then panic.

“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.

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.

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

Page 14 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.

“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.

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.”

Photo credit: Valdis Grinberg

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 jenniferlfosterlit@sympatico.ca.

Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

Photo credit: Monique Berry, Bottle brush blossom, Mediterranean Garden | RBG, ON

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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives

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Easter 2011 ~ Christian Perspectives