Martin Zender - Flawed By Design: Think Your Sins are Ruining Gods Plans for Your Life? Think Again

Flawed By Design

Also by Martin Zender

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Think your sins are ruining God's plans for your life? Think again.

STARkE & Hartmann

Flawed By Design

2004 by Martin Zender

Published by Starke & Hartmann P.O. Box 6473 Canton, OH 44706 wnw.starkehartmann. com 1-866-866-BOOK

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the author, except as provided by USA copyright law.

ISBN 0-9709849-3-6

To my fellow sinners

Now we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the transcendence of the power may be of

God and not of us.

the apostle Paul 2 Corinthians 4:7

A woman crashes into the home of Simon the Pharisee. The town sinner, she neither knocks nor removes her sandals. Whoredom is fresh on her clothes, yet something belying this rests angelically upon her face. Only one person here can appreciate the transformation. The woman hurries to the feet of the Master.

An unusual thing had occurred in the early morning hours of that day, after the last man (the last client) had slipped into the Jerusalem night. As she looked about her cubicle, a dread of the future gripped her. Why should she feel this now? Why tonight? No immediate answer came, yet a vision of her final hours flickered in the flame of her one remaining candle. She would die in this room; which night, she did not know. It would be soon, though. Death would come slowly in a pool of blood, released onto the floor by her own hand. Her sister Mariba would find her. Mariba would scream, there would be a funeralthirty days of mourningthen it would all be over.

The walls closed in. Stars twinkled outside these walls, somewhere. A sun shone on the other side of Earth, though not for her. For her there was only the shadow cast by her burning piece of wax, a leather ghost running from her feet to a corner, up a wall, across the ceiling, then back to her naked feet. Nothing could escape the cubicle. Floor, wall, ceiling, then back to engulf her. Fier hands went to her face now; she was crying.

She had to get out.

Not one other soul occupied the side street where she burst from her home. Urgency along this void of humanity became her silent scream. She would not break down in the city.

Outside the Essene gate, down the valley of Hinnom, up over the aqueduct, then west toward the Bethlehem Road; this brought her to the field. Recently gleaned, dead and quiet, the soil sent coolness into her legs. From above, the heavens lay frozen and mute. Between these two voids she fell to her knees to gather a piece of Earth. Instead, she found a stone, for God had placed it there centuries ago, for her to find. Now it would become her means of hating Fiim. She picked up the stone as a man would grasp it, then found her feet. Fier left eye was already trained into the heavens, right wrist cocked toward the throne room.

All agonies now shifted to the act of throwing. Every sinew, muscle, joint, and fragment of despair made ready the rock for the face of God. She would hit Him, yes. And her tongue, too, lay poised with the forbidden question, What have You made me?!

The stone traveled a little way into space, propelled by the impetus of the word made. But then it returned to Earth, though she never heard where.

She had missed.

The forbidden question, however, had not missed at all. In fact, it had hit squarely, and she knew it. Something had happened. Now she felt millions of invisible eyes. She had unmistakably commanded something, perhaps everything. The field was now a stage. With knowledge of this came a liberating rush of boldness. If she was naked before the universe, then she would be naked. What happened next happened too quickly to stop.

Grasping her robes, she tore them aside to expose her breasts. These hung ample and perfect, bequeathed by the Placer of the Stone. Next, she withdrew a vial of olive oil from a small leather pouch around her waist, then turned it upside-down into her left palm. Shaking her breasts lightly back and forth, she cupped and slapped the oil to them. Everyone attended, yet not a star moved from its place above the distant row of acacia trees.

Now she gave it to God and to whoever else was up there. This is what I am! she cried. This is what You

made me!

She let her arms fall to her sides, then shook her breasts back and forth before the Master Craftsman and His cohorts, faster and faster, harder, then harder still. Her breathing quickened to panting, her hair flew about her face, her waist hurt from the twisting. Surely, she was mad.

Look at me! her voice quavered. This is what I am! This is what I do! This is what You made me!

Less than a minute, and it was over. God, it was enough. No. It was too much. She wrapped the sections of clothes around her. Then, still heaving from her effort, she fell to her hands and knees in the field, weeping. The soil was indifferent to her tears. She, too, was soil. She did not dare look toward heaven now.

She waited very still for the strike that would kill her. She wondered if it would hurt. At least it would be fast, she thought. She would at least meet it kneeling, her face to the ground.

When would it come? WTy was it taking so long? Perhaps the ground would part and swallow her. She wished it would hurry.

But the sky did not open, and the ground did not part. Rather, a saying came into her mind. This saying came uninvited, and wholly unimagined. It came distinctly, fashioned of only two words: I know. These words calmed her enough so that she dropped her hands to her sides and fixed her eyes toward a faint glow to the East, above Jerusalem. The sun was coming up. Oddly, her agony felt dispelled. She felt warm now, as if an arm had been laid on the back of her neck and shoulders, sending warmth through her whole body. She even looked at her left shoulder, as if she would see a hand there, so real did it feel. But no hand was there. But an arm did lift her to her feet and the words came again, I know, only this time they were followed by her name.

Scene II

Later that day, near midday, Mariba came to see her.

I saw the Teacher! Mariba said.

Mary was drinking a cup of coffee then, her fifth. Jesus? Where?

He entered the home of Simon, the Pharisee. Maybe a half hour ago. (Luke 7:36"Now a certain one of the Pharisees asked Him, that He may be eating with him. And entering into the Pharisees house, He reclined.)

Thats it. Im going there, Mary said. And she got up to leave.

What do you mean, youre going there? asked Mariba.

Im going there.

You cant just walk in. Let me tell you about him

first.

I already know, Mary said. Ive heard. She was already at the door.

What will you do when you get there?

I dont know yet.

Are you completely mad?

What does it matter? He lives near the Tower of Mariamne, right?

Simon? Yes. But youll never find his place.

Ill find it. And with that, she was gone.

Scene III

(Luke 7:37-38And lo! A woman who was in the city was a sinner. And, recognizing that He is lying down at table in the Pharisees house, fetching an alabaster vase of attar and standing behind, beside the feet of Jesus, lamenting, she begins to rain tears on His feet, and with the hair of her head she wiped them off and fondly kissed His feet, and rubbed them with the attar.)

Attar is an essential oil obtained fromflowers. Jesus knew the timing. So when Simon finished a sentence that ended in coming, the Teacher looked toward the door. Simons glance followed His. Several seconds elapsed. What was He staring at? Then the door burst open.