Break the silence by being silent. Oh Lord, may the only sound from Your child be the tears coming from my broken heart, the steady stream pouring from the upwelling in my soul. And so here I sit, in the midst of forty-five other broken hearts, all of us desperate for a taste of Holy Mystery; to catch a glimpse of the Invisible, to touch the cloak of the Almighty come down from his heavenly throne to minister to us, the sick and dying – lepers all. We long for something, anything, even pain. We just need to feel You again. All we have are ourselves. We eat but it doesn’t satisfy, we drink but it does not quench, we boast but it brings only emptiness. And oh God, we are tired of ourselves. Indeed, we are sick of it, for we are killing ourselves! Why can my fingertips no longer feel? What is this numbness overtaking me? All roads may indeed lead to Rome, but all tears lead us to You. We want no more broad and easy roads leading us to a false empire with a false king, idols made from our own hands, our own images stamped on coins that buy naught but death. No, my God! we want the tears. We want what’s outside the city gates, we want to be led by a pillar of fire. We need to feel the heat and cold, dryness and rain, the hard ground and the manna from heaven. But oh! it is so clean and sanitary inside these city walls, and this charlatan king makes it so hard to leave. Why do I feel so safe inside my apathy?! But lo, here I stand at an intersection in this morphine city, and here at my feet lies a coil of rope. Both paths lead to an escape – one to numbness and one to tears; one to death and one to You.
So which one will it be?
Do I rappel over the city walls into dangerous freedom?
…or do I fashion yet another noose?
