Zekharya stumbled through the graves, his robes catching on thorny bushes that had sprouted between the limestone markers. As the morning sun cast long shadows across the weathered stone, the former kohan had an odd feeling that he should not be here, not only because he was alive among the dead but that he was clean among the unclean. Yet he feared no guilt or punishment. He feared nothing at all.
The wheat seed dies to live again.
As he walked quickly out of Chelkat Kohanim, the priestly section of the cemetery, those words from his childhood lessons echoed. His rabbi had used that simple metaphor to explain the great mystery. Yet now, feeling the cool breeze on skin that, hours ago, had been nothing but bone, Zekharya questioned everything he thought he knew.
His feet carried him through the city gates, past market stalls where merchants haggled over prices. No one looked his way. No one noticed when he knocked over a basket of figs.
“Like Eliya raised the widow’s son.” Another teaching surfaced—one of the few concrete examples they had. But that was different. That was a prophet wielding divine power, not like Zekharya’s strange reawakening—no, re-assembly! He could think of no other appropriate word.
After long wending through the city streets, the familiar steps to Beit ha-Mikdash stretched before him. His legs moved with a lightness he hadn’t felt in decades. How many times had he climbed these same steps, offering sacrifices and prayers, never truly understanding what lay beyond death’s veil?
A group of kohenim rushed past, their faces tight with concern. One passed straight through Zekharya’s shoulder. The sensation sparked no pain, only a peculiar tingling that reminded him of diving into cold water.
“Rabbi Gamaliel always said . . .” He spoke aloud, though no one could hear. The words died in his throat. What good were the teachings now? This was beyond anything the sages had described in their endless, careful debates about techiyat ha-metim, the mysteries beyond the grave.
He reached out to touch the wall of Beit Ha-Mikdash. His hand passed through the stone like smoke. Yet when he focused, really concentrated, he could feel the rough texture beneath his fingers. This new existence defied everything he understood about the physical world.
In the courtyard, worshippers gathered in clusters, their voices low and urgent. They spoke of missing bodies, of guards who’d fallen like dead men, of women claiming impossible things. Zekharya moved among them, unseen, drinking in their words while his mind raced through scripture, searching for some kind of guidance as to what these clues meant.
Zekharya’s memories of his duties as Kohan washed over him—the careful measurements of incense, the weight of responsibility as he entered Ha-Mikdash, the trembling of his hands as he placed the burning coals. The division of Abijah had served with distinction, maintaining ancient traditions passed down through generations of faithful servants.
But another memory kept interrupting his reverie, brighter and more insistent than the rest. The image of Elisheva’s face the morning he’d left for his period of service, her eyes bright with hope despite decades of disappointment. The way she’d straightened his robes, checking every fold and hem as she always did. The slight tremor in her hands that betrayed her advancing years.
That had been before the angel. Before his muteness. Before . . . Yochanan.
His throat tightened at the thought of their son. After so many years of barrenness, the miracle had come. He remembered watching Elisheva’s belly swell with life, unable to voice his joy, reduced to gesturing and writing on tablets. Yet her radiance had spoken for them both.
Where was she now? The question buzzed around his head like the bothersome zevuv that had plagued the ancient Egyptians. If he had risen, surely she too . . . The thought sent him spinning away from the Temple courtyard, away from the familiar rituals that had defined his life. His feet moved of their own accord, drawn toward their small house in the hills.
“Elisheva,” he whispered, his voice still strange to his ears after so many months of enforced silence. The name tasted like honey on his tongue. Elisheva—God is my abundance. He was content in the wonder and amazement of his resurrection . . . but still wished to spend it with his beloved.
He guessed that, if she had also been raised, she would have gone to their home in the hills—a home she loved, though small—the home they shared with their beloved miracle child, a child spoken of so strangely by prophets, prophetesses—complete strangers.
***
“Elisheva. My Elisheva.” She heard a familiar voice behind her and turned to look. It took a moment to scan the crowd. Where had that voice come from?
Then her eyes met his. Instantly, he was the only person on that ageless limestone pavement. The rest of the throng was a blur as she felt a great welling inside her. Suddenly, she didn’t care that she was being jostled by strangers on every side. He was there. He was right there. A sheepish, girlish grin spread wide across her face as she hesitantly stepped, then ran, to his arms. They embraced as their tears wet each other’s cheeks.
“Zekharya!” She cried into his shoulder. “You’re here! You’re not . . .” It took a moment to dawn on both of them that they were each here, and that they were . . . so young, so . . . ‘perfect’ was the only word that came to mind.
“Elisheva! You’re . . . You’re more beautiful than the day we were wed!”
“And you . . . your beard, your eyes . . . so dark and handsome!” She held him tightly to herself again, not wanting to let him go again. Ever.
In a little while, they drew back from their embrace and simply drank in each other’s presence. The disbelief, the joy, was overwhelming. They knew they should question, question everything about where they were, why they looked so different, what was happening around them. But simply their presence, their presence with each other . . . and the feeling of almost lightness in their bodies, in their minds and hearts, was enough to leave them in utter bliss.
They were totally free to be concerned or not about what was happening around them: the bustling crowd, the noise that rose and swirled around the rows of columns nearby. Solomon’s colonnade, which they always thought was so majestic and impressive, seemed so puny and fragile now. It seemed so . . . immaterial.
“We need to go further in,” Zekharya said finally, breaking the singing silence between them.
She agreed, letting him know without words that she had the same urge. A force was pulling them both towards the doors to the more interior spaces of Beit Ha-Mikdash, the Hazrat Nashim, the court of women.
As they walked, floated, whatever they were doing, they kept glancing furtively at each other. The briefest of smiles on their lips. Like two teenagers trying to judge each other’s thoughts and intentions. Or were they both just scared the other would vanish at any moment, like the ghost of a dream?
Then, to their left, the fifteen circular steps of the HaMaalot lead through the gate of Nicanor into the priests’ area.
Then, they were there, before the doors of the temple proper. Herodes’ glistening white-and-gold showpiece—said to resemble a snow-capped mountain from afar—wrapped around them both, dwarfing them both.
***
Their conscious thought slowly returned to the people sharing the space around them. None seemed to notice them as they went about their rites and rituals.
It would be soreg, totally forbidden, for Elisheva to enter further into the area of Ha-Mikdash, yet the irresistible urge seemed to open even the air before them.
The great doors, which usually took 20 priests to open and close, must have swung open—and closed—silently by themselves. Or had the two newlyweds simply breezed right through them unaware? Was this a dream, an illusion?
Whatever it was, they were inside . . . she was inside. It dawned on Zekharya that his Elisheva could be seized, taken out, and stoned within moments if she was seen in this holy precinct.
The first thing he noticed—out of habit—was that not just one but several of the lights of the tall menorah had actually been allowed to go out—something never to be allowed! As Elisheva and Zekharya moved further through the mighty opening, he was aware of several kohanim standing, murmuring, gesturing upwards at the front of the space. His fellows were dutifully fearful and hesitant to approach the front of the sanctuary, but their odd attitude was even stranger than that. Like something was visibly taunting them from above their heads. They seemed frozen in their tracks.
It was no wonder that none made a move toward them. Their eyes were transfixed. And extremely frightened.
***
Their conscious thought slowly returned to the people sharing the space around them. None seemed to notice them as they went about their rites and rituals.
It would be soreg, totally forbidden, for Elisheva to enter further into the area of Ha-Mikdash, yet the irresistible urge seemed to open even the air before them.
The great doors, which usually took 20 priests to open and close, must have swung open—and closed—silently by themselves. Or had the two newlyweds simply breezed right through them unaware? Was this a dream, an illusion?
Whatever it was, they were inside . . . she was inside. It dawned on Zekharya that his Elisheva could be seized, taken out, and stoned within moments if she was seen in this holy precinct.
The first thing he noticed—out of habit—was that not just one but several of the lights of the tall menorah had actually been allowed to go out—something never to be allowed! As Elisheva and Zekharya moved further through the mighty opening, he was aware of several kohenim standing, murmuring, gesturing upwards at the front of the space. His fellows were dutifully fearful and hesitant to approach the front of the sanctuary, but their odd attitude was even stranger than that. Like something was visibly taunting them from above their heads. They seemed frozen in their tracks.
It was no wonder that none made a move toward them. Their eyes were transfixed. And extremely frightened.
***
His wife stood amazed at the sight around her.
“Zekharya? How am I in here?” she said finally, in hushed breath.
“I . . . I really don’t know,” he almost laughed out loud, except for the solemness of the place and the presence of the priests, his former colleagues, seemingly unaware of his, their, presence. “I don’t know . . . about . . . a lot that’s happening—” He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes were drawn forward and upward into the dim light at the front of the holy place. His throat caught.
The sight!
What was a standard picture for him every 12 months—when his priestly rank was on duty—was totally wrong! The parokheth, that beautifully embroidered wall that stood some forty feet tall, almost disappearing from sight in the golden heights of the space, was shredded! An obscene gash plunged from top to bottom, the beautiful, gold-embraided threading hanging like some worn camel blanket, dangling in disarray down its length.
Elisheva stood aghast, looking first at Zekharya and then following his eyes upward. Though she had never set foot on these stones, she knew a travesty had occurred—a great crime against the temple. The very soul of the people was shamefully torn in two.
They finally became aware that the men standing in front of them, just past the table of showbread, were hugging, weeping unashamedly in each other’s arms. Zekharya had never seen grown men of Israel weep in such a way, like women.
He had wept at times with his Elisheva when she was especially grieved over her long barrenness, but that was in the privacy of their own home. This was so . . . public.
And yet, he felt it too. He sensed that something . . . something enormous had happened here. Something that shattered their world . . . and would continue to do so. But there was no sign of other violence against the temple. The altar of incense, the candlesticks, they were all intact. Only the veil that fenced off the Kodesh haKodeshim, the holy of holies, from even the priests. That sacred divide was standing unabashedly open, almost welcoming puny humans to look . . . to actually enter inside.
Zekharya saw them separate from their tearful embrace and begin to speak. What started as quiet questioning soon became a vigorous debate—something they were so good at.
“We have been faithful to maintain this place for centuries. How can we be faithful to God if we do not repair so ghastly an assault on his holy place?”
“But what if God himself is responsible for this? We would be working against God.”
“Ach, you speak like old Gamaliel.”
“But the Kodesh ha-Kodashim lies exposed. Anyone can gaze inside . . . even a Gentile!”
“Yahweh himself will send a pillar of cloud to cover it if he so wills.”
“Should we take it down then? Disassemble and dispose of the tattered ruins in a proper way?”
“What would be a ‘proper way’? The law speaks nothing of this!”
A moment of bewildered silence passed.
“You may say I’m a fool, Tzadok, but I think it may have something to do with this Yeshua character we just had crucified. He spoke of destroying the temple . . . well, you saw the darkness at midday. You felt the earthquake. ”
“Pah!” The speaker moved to spit on the ground, then abruptly caught himself. “That Galilean has nothing to do with this!”
They departed in embarrassed, confused silence.
As the priests withdrew, Elisheva turned to Zekharya, her brow furrowed in thought. “What could this mean, my love? Why would the curtain be torn so?”
Zekharya shook his head slowly. “I know not, dear one. It is a great mystery.” He gazed upward again at the rent veil. “But this I do know. That curtain was a handbreadth thick. No mere human hands could tear such a fabric from top to bottom.”
“You believe it was the hand of Yahweh Himself?” Elisheva asked.
“I can conceive of no other explanation,” Zekharya replied. “But to what purpose? For centuries, such a veil has stood as a divider between the holy place and the holiest, shielding it from all human eyes. Only the high priest dared enter beyond it, and only once a year on yom kippur, after extensive rituals of purification. What can it mean that this sacred barrier now hangs in ruins?”
Elisheva considered this gravely. “Perhaps . . . perhaps it signifies that the way into the holy of holies now stands open?” she ventured. “That access to the very presence of God is no longer restricted?”
Zekharya nodded thoughtfully. “You may be right, my love. With the veil torn away, nothing prevents any worshipper from approaching the throne of mercy. But by what means has this access been granted?”
Elisheva clung to her husband, “Perhaps this is the beginning of the new kingdom our son Yochanan proclaimed was coming!”
After a long moment, they drew apart, hands clasped, as they turned again to contemplate the mystery of the torn veil. Awe and wonder shone on their faces at this evidence of God’s mighty work.
“Elisheva, we need to be out of here,” he firmly took her hand to guide her back out through the mighty doors. Something drew his glance back for one last look—a glow from between and behind the torn edges of the curtain.
Shekinah.
***
The two of them flew from the temple, down the steps, across the stone plaza, down more steps, finally stopping at a wide bench on the side of the road, merchant stalls on either side. They were not out of breath, nor were they exhausted in any way from their flight as they would have been in their last age. As they sat, they both looked down at their feet, expecting to see blistered, callous, dusty appendages, worn from the years and the miles. But instead they found themselves swinging them, as two toddlers would on a too-tall seat. Back and forth they swung them, just enjoying the movement, the freedom.
Then they each paused. Elisheva turned slowly to Zekharya.
“Zekharya, what is happening? Who are we? Where are we? None of this makes any sense.”
“Perhaps we should be asking, ‘When . . . are we?’ I awoke this morning in—the cemetery! Sitting among the rocks, the tombs. What I was doing there, I do not know.”
“Zekharya! You too? I awoke among the tombs also, and one of the ossuaries nearby had . . . had my name on it. And it was broken . . . and . . . and empty!”
Zekharya looked at her, taking her hands and staring into her eyes with wonder, his mind spinning with speculation.
As he replayed this morning’s events, his path into the city, he realized he had come directly along the route to his family tomb.
“Obviously, something great has happened, and though we seemed to have been blessed by it, others around are strangely disturbed.”
“The temple . . . why were we both so driven to visit the temple?”
“It had to have been the paroketh, how it was torn. That was the only thing that was different.”
***
As they sat in wonder, a crowd approached from their right, from the direction of one of the city’s great gates. The sound of their voices echoed off the residences and shops that formed canyon walls on either side. Some carried scythes, and others carried bundles of barley sheaves.
Yahweh’s words to Moses also echoed unbidden through Zekharya’s mind, “Speak to the Israelites and tell them, ‘When you gather in the harvest, then you must bring the sheaf of the first portion of your harvest to the priest, and he must wave the sheaf before the Lord to be accepted for your benefit—on the day after the Sabbath the priest is to wave it. This is a perpetual statute throughout your generations in all the places where you live.”
“Three days ago was Pasach, and yesterday was Shabbat.”
“How do you know this, Zekharya?”
“The Ḥag ha-Bikkurim — celebrating the first fruits.” His eyes directed her to the passing crowd. “See the sickles, the sheaves they carry.”
“Of course . . . my favorite festival!”
They both watched the joyous throng making their way to the temple, back the way they had just come.
“I can’t help thinking that ha-Bikkurim means much more this year than it ever has before,” Zekharya muses. “And you and I are taking part in a new and wonderful way!
Elisheva looked at him, puzzled.