It was quiet.
The sun had stopped shining.
Creation held its breath for everything had changed. Only it was as if nothing had changed. New and yet the same. Different but not.
The mysterious steps of the dance had reached their climax with the Creator King suspended between heaven and earth. The Temple of God had been beaten, stabbed, and nailed to a tree with his blood left to pool on the ground.
Then a whisper was heard.
A whisper that grew in power as the silence of the ages was broken by a death cry that cut through the barrier between the Creator and creation, the physical and spiritual.
The curtain that hung in the great temple near the skull hill had been ripped into two. The sword that blocked the path of paths had shifted; leaving a needle hole through which humanity could walk.
The echoes of that day run wild both backwards in history as well as forwards into the future. And those who stop to listen to these echoes die.
And it is a good death.
In dying we allow the echoes of that day to raise us up again as living stones of the Temple. Not a brick and mortar temple like Solomon’s temple; rather a temple build of people in which the Spirit of the Creator King dwells.
We – humanity – had been restored in part to the original design in which we were made. With Jesus the Messiah as our chief cornerstone, this temple was one that spread out forwards and backwards through time, encompassing all tribes, nations, tongues, genders, races and the like.
It was a metamorphosis to end all metamorphoses.
The end of the world had come and the Kingdom of God had invaded human history!
Nothing would ever be the same again!
It was the beginning of the restoration, the start of the end in which the mission of the Creator would be completed.