From the Table - A Seasonal Story showing the Power of Viewpoint. by Tracy Williamson

For as long as I could remember I'd been there in the temple courts. From the hopes of aeons past when I'd been hewn, planed, shaped and formed with hands that seemed to love me and respect the mighty tree I had once been, I'd become a table, a resting place, not for feasting or study but for every indignity imaginable.  Rough hands would push me into place; animals of all kinds would shove against me. Birds were chained to hooks that were roughly jammed into my once beautifully carved surface and with others flying overhead, I'd soon be covered with their filth.  Every day I was bombarded by the cacophany of human and animal cries, shouts, bleats, grunts and screams.  Yet I'd been created for worship in the temple.  I'd been carved with love and given dignity and the hope that I had a glorious destiny.  I would be carrying the very vessels of worship.  I would be a bearer of the presence of God.  As the days went by I became more and more enraged with the role I was being forced to play.  I hated being part of the cheating of those poor people who were so desperate to worship God.  I hated the feel of those heavy coins rolling across me.  They always rolled the wrong way into the bags of those thieves that had stolen me and robbed me of my destiny.  I hated seeing the shame bowing the backs of those hopeful ones who came in a never ending queue.  I could feel their weight as they leaned on me and longed to lift them up and give them hope but it was as much as I could do to keep standing myself. 

But one day, everything changed.  Dimly through the temple gates I'd heard a rising ululation the previous day.  A sound I'd never heard before.  A roar of wonder, joy and delight coming ever closer.  Not the shouts and shrieks I was surrounded with but something just beyond.  'Hosanna's'; 'Son of David;' 'Hallelujah' Yes I was still overwhelmed by deafening clamour and shoved in all directions, yet somehow as I heard this distant swelling of joy, a new sensation filled me.  It wasn't too late.  There was still hope .  I could escape and enter into all that I'd been carved for.  

And now that moment of change was upon me.  For the temple gates burst open and suddenly He was there.  What was different about Him?  I could not say and I hardly had time to ponder for in the very moment of His entering the temple courts a roar of holy indignation burst from His lips. 

Like a whirlwind I saw Him running towards me and then came the scorching impact of His hand upon my side.  The shrieks, caws, grunts and shouts of the temple courts faded away, as with a sound like my dimmest memories of the waterfalls I'd been planted  by for generations, I heard Him shouting judgement on them for making this sacred place a den for robbers.  Joy overwhelmed me, even as I crashed to the ground.  Those rough grabbing hands and ugly shaming voices were all fleeing away.  I had no strength and as I lay  crumpled and upturned, I felt the deepest shame envelop me for it was I who had carried all the means of their thievery.  How could I ever stand again? Yet even in that dawning of despair, in the dirt and debris, I felt again the burning passion of His hand upon my side.  He'd only had to touch me and His red hot passion for God had seared me.  And yet, and yet, somehow, it had filled me too.  In fact, wave after wave of a fiery passion and desire for God was pouring over and through me.  Gone were the coins, the chained birds and raucous voices.  I knew my life as it had been was finished.  Would I ever stand again?  I did not know but now felt such an overflow of joy that His hand had rested on me that it no longer mattered. 

And moments later I felt I would surely melt to nothing, for in the now quiet and holy atmosphere, His hands suddenly touched me again.  They wrapped around me and I felt a great rush like living water flow through me and without knowing how, suddenly I was standing again. And He was standing with me and as His hand rested on me, on that very part that had so filled me with shame and disgust, I felt His love flowing into every crack, every scar, every build up of filth, melting it all away. He was resting against me.  Oh I could not believe the wonder that filled me as I carried the weight of my King.  Weak and hurting people started coming up, blind and sick, children and adults.  They staggered in and leant against me and oh it was such a joy to support Him and them together.  And to my utter awe, as He laid His hands upon them, I saw their limbs straightening, their eyes seeing, their smiles returning.  How could it be that I, a mere table that had been used as a vessel for thieves and sacrilege, was now a support and resting place for the hand of God? 

All I could say was, 'Let my all be yours, dear Lord, let your passion be mine.  Thank you, O thank you.  I love you and live for you.' 

Tracy Williamson is an author and speaker working together with blind singer songwriter Marilyn Baker for MBM Trust.  www.mbm-ministries.org  Tracy shares a home with Marilyn in Kent and apart from writing, enjoys time with friends,  sampling exotic foods, all sorts of books, chocolate, baths and wine.  Tracy's latest book, Unashamed will be published in September 23.