Peccavi

She was a trespasser in the temple of the baptised. A heretic amidst a throng of believers. Her darkness stained the sterile ground of the worthy, and yet she steals herself to move forward, towards the altar of the ordained.
Was it humility or shame that kept her from looking up? Or maybe it was fear of punishment. The stained glass windows allowed so little light, and it casted eerie shadows along the pews. 
She touched the tabernacle, waiting for it to burn her hands. The white Host  looked nothing like bread, and definitely nothing like flesh that might somehow more appropriately symbolize the Body. The chalice contained red wine, like diluted blood from a venous drain. She looked up then, and saw the crucified Christ. “Peccavi”, she whispered. “I have sinned…”.
The wind whispers, but she felt no flagging. A ray of light slipped through the stained window above the altar, but she was not burned. Infact, she felt nothing at the moment, no presence, no illuminating thoughts. “This is just a place”, she thought. “A place of sacrifice and offerings.” She looked at her dirt stained hands, her tattered clothes, and she was enveloped with shame. “ I have nothing to offer but my sins”.
Somewhere, in the deep recess of her heart, she heard Him. A calmness amidst her storm. He said, “ It is all I ever wanted you to give me”.
The temple of God is not for the self righteous but for sinners and outcasts. It is not for the clean but for the filthy. It is not for the healthy but for the broken. The temple of God is not a place but a moment somewhere within our barest souls.

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