A
t first, the realization that it had actually happened amused him. Well, he thought, the old man finally gets his day. He thought it not dissimilar to eulogies at funerals. Nice perhaps, but since you are dead, how can you enjoy them? He was less than impressed.
When the reality of his actually doing the services of Censer-priest began to seep into the cisterns of his self-esteem, tired cynicism yielded to childlike joy opening the dawn of a percipient day. Like the taste of exquisite wine, he rolled it around in his brain, letting it bring to life the calloused taste buds of jaded emotions. He allowed himself to enjoy the inebriation — at least, partially. The other pain, that at his age he would never see a son, he did not think about. It is pleasant and perhaps more significant, after a manner of speaking, to be chosen when you are old. Could it be seen as an endorsement of his years? The rationalization amused him; perhaps all had not been a waste. For now, he would humbly serve. This provided him a semblance of peace.
The first week of October, Zechariah stood facing the altar. At his left stood the table of showbread. To his right, the seven-branched candlestick. Before him stood the golden altar of incense on which red coals glowed. Deep notes of the Magrephah filled distant corners of the Temple summoning priests and people to whatever holy service awaited them. Still the old priest waited as he had been instructed until the signal came to spread incense on the coals. The signal came; the incense spread and rich aromas filled the candle lit room. Is it not odd, thought Zechariah, that sensate faculties in one’s nostrils titillate one’s sense of worship? The whole scene struck him as sublime and absurd at the same time. The warm musical notes, the smells, the stunning visionary beauty of the altar, candlesticks, and Veil. Since God lives in the heart, thought he, of what worth are these things? Does the Creator have the slightest interest in the smell of pleasant odors? Despite his doubts, he loved everything about this service.
It became for Zechariah, a wondrous ceremony; an old man who had long since lost his capacity for awe. His head bowed, his eyes closed, his hands postured in prayer, when involuntarily — he blinked. A soft glow, brighter than that warranted by the candlestick, illumined the marble floor where his gaze fell. His pupils focused for the slightest of instants as if examining the masonry patterns in the floor. Whence comes this light? Apprehension elevated as slowly, he lifted his head.
