(This is a narrative I wrote on Acts 3 for class.)
My name is the Holy House – some call me the footstool of God’s presence. I don’t say this to brag, but just as a matter of fact. Within my walls lies the heart of Jerusalem, the focal point of all Jewish life. For over 500 years I’ve stood as a pillar of faith and learning in the One True God in the midst of a world that’s turned their back on truth and chosen destruction. I’ll be destroyed in a few more years, but don’t cry for me – I’ve seen some truly awesome events in my lifetime, never more than what recently happened.
You see, the faithful Jews – what there are these days, I suppose -- visit my courts for teaching, discussion, the three daily prayer sessions to Jehovah, and the two offerings of sacrifice for the forgiveness of the people.
All sorts of people come through: rabbis and scribes, Pharisees and common folk, and, of course, the sick and the poor.
I’m not just the heart of
Israel because of what I represent, but because the life of the people literally flow in and out of my gates every day.
I hear and see a lot more than you’d give me credit for.
For instance, I bet you would have never noticed Jerrod over there before today – he was just another one of a crowd of beggers who had to be carried in by relatives to make what living they could by begging alms from temple-goers.
Jerrod wasn’t as bad as some, say the lepers, but he was cursed with lame, twisted feet.
He saw life from ground-level, every day, and I looked down on him.
So did many others, some who might’ve plunked a coin or two in his cup to gain religious merit for themselves, but they never truly cared for him.
Today, Jerrod began with his well-worn litany of pleas: “Spare some money for a lame man? Mister, won’t you take pity on me and dig into your pockets for relief?” He could hear the clinking of coins as the crowd shuffled on by. When he asked a pair of men for what they could spare, Jarrod didn’t even look in their faces when he said it. To look meant he had hope.
However, the men stopped and demanded his attention.
I saw Jerrod’s face grow sharply interested – not many people stopped these days.
I witnessed his shoulders slumping when they admitted they had no money to spare.
And then Peter invoked the name of someone I’ve seen from time to time – Jesus of Nazareth – and Jerrod’s eyes bulged as his ankles shifted and regained normal form, and he sprang to his feet in delighted surprise.
I have no doubt that the Jesus who I saw circumcised as a baby, who cleaned out my courts from men looking to make a quick and dishonest buck from travelers, the man who Peter went on to say was the Messiah, was the true power of what I represent. Today, my courts rang out as a man rightly praised God, jumping and running everywhere for the first time in as long as he could remember. What others took for granted, he received as a miracle.
You see, in my courts, people lift up their prayers and attention to God, but so often forget that we worship a God who answers back. That man became part of the new temple of God, the living temple in whom God placed his Holy Spirit. Some would say I should be sad to see the torch passed, but I gladly accept it as a promise fulfilled.
