That’s the kind of story we find woven into the legends surrounding the building of the Temple in Jerusalem. And it's a vision that even found its way into the writing of Franz Kafka.
Think about it: King Solomon, blessed with wisdom beyond measure, overseeing the construction. The very best materials flowing in from across the known world. Skilled artisans ready to bring the vision to life. According to the tales, everything fell into place with uncanny ease. As Howard Schwartz recounts in Tree of Souls, "Everything came through for him in the construction." Foreign workmen delivered precisely cut marble slabs. Solomon himself measured with supernatural accuracy. The stones rose effortlessly, almost as if guided by an unseen hand. It was as if, according to rabbinic myth, as noted in the preceding entry, "The Temple Built Itself," p. 421.
But here's where Kafka's unsettling genius comes into play. He takes this idealized image and introduces a jarring, disturbing element. In one of two parables he penned about the Temple (the other being "Leopards in the Temple"), he throws a wrench into the works.
Imagine these pristine stones, ready to be fitted together to create a holy space...but defaced. On every single stone, etched with what must have been fiercely sharp tools, were crude scribblings. The meaningless markings of children, or perhaps the barbarous scratchings of mountain dwellers. Etched in anger, or with the intention to defile, or utterly destroy.
What does it mean?
These weren’t fleeting graffiti. Kafka tells us they were carved deep, intended to last. These marks of imperfection, these signs of human fallibility, were destined to outlive the Temple itself.
Kafka, while not explicitly Jewish, was deeply aware of the Temple's central importance in Jewish tradition. The parable, while universal in its themes, clearly evokes the earthly Jerusalem and its iconic Temple.
The image is powerful. It’s a paradox. The holiest of places, built with divine assistance, yet marred by the indelible marks of human imperfection. The perfect and the profane, existing side-by-side.
Perhaps Kafka is suggesting that even in our most sacred creations, the flaws of humanity are ever-present. That even in the face of the divine, our own messy, imperfect nature leaves its mark. Or maybe he is saying that these marks are not flaws at all, but rather a reminder of the human element, the very reason we strive to create something sacred in the first place.
It leaves you wondering: can true holiness exist without acknowledging the imperfections that surround it? Can we truly build something sacred if we ignore the scribbles on the stones?