Living in the Kadosh Hakadashim...

And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook and the rocks split. The tombs broke open and the bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life.

Matthew 27:50 – 52

So I was washing my hands in the bathroom the other day (that one’s for you mom) when a friend of mine came in who had recently attended a worship service in Victoria. When I asked Him how it was he remarked on the joy that can be found when the music is so loud your voice is completely lost. I smiled, concurred, and then went back to class, but my friends comment got me thinking.

What would it be like to be completely surrounded by the presence of God – to be engulfed by Him? How would that change the way I live, think, and dream?

In the Bible it speaks of such a place, a place where the strong became weak, the proud –humble.

Kadosh Hakadashim, the Holy of Holies, the Most Holy Place.

Every year at Yom Kippur the High Priest, and only the High Priest, would pass through a curtain in the temple and enter into the Holy of Holies - with a lower priest gripping onto a rope that was attached to the ankle of the High Priest, why you ask? Well in case the sacrifice was performed improperly and the High Priest had to be smitten of course (in which case the other priests would not have to enter the Holy of Holies but rather could drag him out).

My first reaction was to wrap my head around this, to comprehend the glory that was being revealed that caused these men, these spiritual leaders, to keel over and die. Wait though, that can’t be the God I know, can it?

When Jesus died the curtain was torn. Men who had trembled at the mentioning of Kadosh Hakadashim, could now see what was behind the curtain, and it must have been a disappointment. This veil was a symbol of distinction between man and God - between us and Him.

Now don’t get me wrong – I am beyond grateful, beyond appreciative for the atonement of our sins, but lately (in my humanness) I’ve been wondering. What would it be like to be so insignificant, so weak, so frail – in the presence of God? And why, if I worship the same God who took residence inside this Holy Place, why has my reverence subsided? Why has my humility not increased in light of who He is? Why am I still as arrogant, as proud, and as boastful as I was yesterday?

In no way is this year about me. It is not about the kids I will come alongside at church, the people I will reach on the streets of New York, it is about a God who can do “abundantly more than we can ask or imagine” (Eph. 4:20).

I am not a good person. In the sight of God our “righteous acts” are considered used menstrual rags (Isaiah 64:6).

The One who will love the people of St. John’s will not be me.

The One who will weep when faced with the realities of Brooklyn, will not be me.

When I cry because of a brother in anguish, those will not be my tears.

When I stand against opression - the enemy, those will not be my legs.

"He must increase, but I must decrease" (John 3:30).

So dear brothers and sisters I ask that you pray for me – not that I would find out who I am, what I can do – but that God would remain consistent in his grace, considering me worthy to hurt for the ones he loves.