Paper Altars

I brought my sadness before the altar in a golden plate.

“It’s not much of an offering” I thought to myself, but it was a burden that was becoming too difficult to bear. I had hoped he would receive it. I looked down at my sandaled feet as I walked along the long marble corridor, my white robe swishing below the golden plate I carried.

My prayers were, for so long, consumed with finding joy. True joy, deep seated joy. I had, for so long, been frustrated with my melancholy heart. Upset with my mundane everyday. I kept trying to find the good in the little things. To keep the faith. To be content and happy. These things did not come to me naturally, and my practice at these disciplines was arduous work. Even so, the magic and beauty of the world had dulled around me, despite my efforts. This sadness, now in the offering plate, had crept in around my heart. Tears flowed easily and often, though I didn’t know the spring from which they seemed to burst forth.

Had I ever known what it was like to be light-hearted, my mind held no memory of it any longer. When I was a child, I suppose. When I knew less of the dangers and horrors of this world. When it was so easy to laugh. Yes, I remember that young girl full of life.

“Make me like a child again, for they are the ones that inherit your kingdom.”

At the door now. The altar lay beyond. I knocked twice on the large oak panel, exquisitely carved and inlaid with iron. The sound boomed and echoed down the corridor. The doors were pulled open, and a warm yellow glow poured out from the room beyond the threshold. The alter stood proudly at the center of the massive room, an incense holder hanging to its right.

My heart began to pound as if it were that solid oak door. The holy of holies, what right did I have to be there? The inner sanctuary, what sins lay hidden behind this white robe? The Lord’s table, what was this sad little offering doing in a golden plate?

Yet, I was here nonetheless, and, somehow, the doors had been opened. My concrete feet lifted to find the ceremonial steps, and I ascended to the altar. Chest high it stood, a marble and gold wonder engraved with the greatest care. I held my breath, and gently set the plate on the marble top. As the lip of the plate kissed the surface of the slab, the incense lit, and the aroma quickly filled the room. I took a step back and knelt down to pray. My arms touched the floor and my forehead hovered just over it, as my hair covered my vision.

“Adonai, have mercy on me, a sinner. Restore to me the joy of your salvation.”

“Adonai, have mercy on me. Restore to me the joy of your salvation.” I repeated it over and over again, feeling the heaviness in my chest get deeper and deeper with each word I pleaded.

“Please” I barely uttered, crouched down and eyes shut tight, as the lump in my throat, my quivering lips, and my bridled tears prevented me from speaking aloud. I know not how much time had passed, nor how many times my mouth repeated my plea.

I had tried with everything in me to live, to truly live. It was as though real life was behind a curtain – I could see it, though I could not touch it. I could reach for it, but never get beyond my own fleshy body. I could strive for connection, but never get beyond my own apathy.

“Please”

“Please, child, stand and remove your sandals. For you are on holy ground.”

The voice startled me, though it was resonant and gentle. I lifted my head to see a robed floating figure above the altar, my plate now gone, the figure so radiant I could not make out its silhouette or face. I stood and took off my sandals.

“Child, the Almighty has seen your agony. He has seen your hardened heart. He has seen the burden that sits in your soul. He has seen the wrong done against you and the wrong within you.”

I felt so exposed. So rawly cut open and examined to the depths of my very being. The Almighty knew me, and saw me. And I could do nothing but stand and wait for judgment.

“Come, child, and be cleansed. Be healed. Be free,” he said as he grabbed a large vessel from behind the altar. A wave of relief. He meant for me to receive mercy. He meant to baptize me, and I stepped forward – so ready to be washed and made new by the water. So ready for my heart to melt and be made new. So ready to feel tenderness and joy and all the things my head had told my heart were much too vulnerable and unsafe to feel.

He readied the jar, and as he tucked it back before swinging it forward on me, I closed my eyes and stretched my arms out wide, ready to be renewed by the holy water.

His arm swung forward, and I felt a thick, warm coating all over me. I opened my eyes to discover the jar did not contain water, but blood. The sight and the sensation shocked me, and I began trying not to panic as my breathing became rapid..

“You were expecting water,” he said – almost perplexed at my reaction. “But water cannot free you. You yourself are living by water, by your own works, by your own efforts.”

“You are now at the altar, at the place of sacrifice. A sacrifice must be made to atone for sin. A sacrifice must be made to set right. A sacrifice must be made to set free. Blood must spill.” He gestured to me and the blood that now formed a sizable pool at my bare feet.

“Praise be to God the Most High, who provided the blood to cover you! His blood ripped the curtain between you and life, tore the veil separating creation from himself, washed every sin from his sight, and redeemed every one who calls on his name!”

“Yes, the blood is scary. The sacrifice great and hard and gruesome. But another has paid the price for you, and you are to be found in him – you call him Jesus of Nazareth. The Passover Lamb, given unto you, to cover you and restore you and redeem you. Walk in this truth, abide in this loving sacrifice, and your joy will be made complete. Not by your own striving, but by his might and his blood.”

Dear Reader, if you resonate with this character, with this numbness, with this sadness, with this striving, I urge you to lay it all down at the altar. Preach the Gospel to yourself – you are truly seen, and deeply known – and loved even deeper still. You have been washed in the blood. You are made new not by striving, but by the work already completed for you on the cross. Let striving cease, and know that He is God.