I’m feeling like I have returned to the terrible place of darkness, that insoluble shadow in which my heart chokes, in whihc my light has become the latern for bloodshed, and the deepest remains of light in me have gone.


My hands are covered in the blood and minds of martyrs, made by my own hand, brought underneath the great throne of my own judgment through my own workings.


Pitiless, endless chasm of hate, I became these things when I lost sight. I have hidden my light so deeply within me that I do not know where to find it. I have lost my way so thoroughly that I cannot begin to find myself.


And what am I doing? Having a moment with my conscience, that blasted thing that proves my own disunity with myself and with others, for were I a man of stronger devotion, I would leave the matter altogether and just go love. For that would be the Christian thing to do, instead I recite the Grand Inquisitor, straining against my inclination for the sake of my own heresies.I am not the man who founded a heresy and discovered it was orthdoxy.


I am the man who ran to orthdoxy, made  a mockery of it, of her, and of Him, and in the process debased with blood the very altars i thought to worship at. I have desecrated the very holy place i sought to carve out for Him, and in doing so feel myself beyond pardon. But there is the hook of vanity. Were I unable to forgive myself, he would no sooner let me condemn myself, for my vanity.


I thought myself a man going in the right direction, but beauty came to seek me out, and I found I was the most unlovely of all. Wretched and pitiful, I thought I would be the man who worshipped with a pure heart, instead I have made war, have discouraged myself in the throes of empty struggle and have given myself to the pursuit of vapor.


I have fallen to these empty works of the perishing world, these effervescent indulgences that have swayed my heart from truth. And I want to hate Him sometimes. Him in all his righteousness, but I can’t, not anymore.


I saw what he did, with his suffocating bleeding body, with his broken heart and great burden, and I remember, that He has been raised, and in doing so has initiated that holy harmony wihc we await. In Him, all things are being set to rights, even me. Even all my sins, all my injustices are being set to rights, and I choose Him. I choose to the best of my little depraved ability to serve this One, who with his gasping breaths asks for our forgiveness. I choose this one, who is more than a hero, more than a martyr, more than a revolutionary.


I dedicate myself to the darkest of moments, to the deepest of living hells, to the endless seas of torment that are following this bloodied man across the world. I choose to dedicate myself to this weeping savior, who seeing what we are has chosen not to destroy us, but to forgive us.


Forgive me, for my deviations, for my explanations, for my irreverence and blasphemy. My blasphemy has been to surrender my own freedom to that unthinking purpose, and I thought I did it in service of you, but I did nothing in your name. I lied to myself, to think that I could walk away from You, in your name. Forgive this blasphemy, I ask in earnest.


I have seen where I have been, have bloodied my hands in the feeble attempts to grasp the razor blades that are the contours of your will, there is only safety within, to be on the fringes is to choose life, which is death. So, here we are, and I will not make a commitment out of emotional self pity or vain imagination at perfection, I merely ask that in your grace and mercy you would have the grace to draw me out of this mess and into your purging fire.


I look at where I have come from, and realized that even this is not right, for anyone who sets his hand to the plow and looks back is not fit for the kingdom. Hopefully I have not even set my hand to the plow, for I have looked back all too often, and in spite of your grace chosen to go another way.


Somehow, I reduced You into something safe, something bearable, something less than what You are, so i could be safe, and not have to face You. I hated You. At least, I wanted to. maybe I did.


I wanted to be another, to be in another place, another life, and the only question that made sense was why me?


I didn’t expect to find you here so soon, so welcoming, so embracing. I don’t know where my hope went, but I’m asking you to help me find it again.


We all turned out so broken, so empty, so full of hurt, all of us, not one escaped. I look back, and think, wow, we have all been abandoned, left for dead, broken in various ways, and have been shamed. We were all children, and we all suffered as children, some less than others, but we all suffered, and how can our suffering be atoned for?


We depart from this table, from the community of our buried lives, from the places in which we suspended our hopes, we depart from this place in which our lives were walked away from, and we embraced becoming that thing which the pain makes us. I cannot speak for them, though I wish I could.


So, I depart from it. From letting the pain conform me to its own image. I cannot bear this broken heart alone, but I am trying to confide in you.


We were young once, but have since tasted the thing which we desired most, and it has brought our destruction with it. We are beautiful, and still young, still untested by the rigors of endless torment, though we have known pain.


Our eyes belie the simplicity of our empty hearts, we try to smile and glow. But we cannot.


Though she has passed through a thousand hands and will pass into a thousand more, she will never be satisfied. The ebauty she has in front of the camera, is just as wounded off screen, and it’s all in her eyes. Those eyes have known pain.


His eyes, I cannot speak for, but I can speak for myself.


I speak as one who has in these years since our youth been brought through many places, many names, many impressions. I have been savior and saved, and I have been tormentor, I know my eyes, they lie. They have known life, and have known death, and in these hands a beating heart still holds a promise, a whisper of redemption. And if the sun is truly rising, then tell me a story.


If there is love in these hands, let’s build for a kingdom, so that we can see inbreakings of heaven on earth. And if we are all utterly hopeless, then let me be tormented, and take from me this dire knowledge that destroys me.


I know that there is redemption here, I only do not know what form it takes. Other than to proceed in the path of our father Benedict, and in silence love the people.


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