Laodicea

I tiptoe down the path to the abyss. It’s worn smooth by my bare feet, a familiar route I’ve traveled so many times that it’s empty of the greening, empty of the wild growth of his world – as empty as my insides feel. I think I’m dancing, bare feet twirling and whirling, as I dip and sway in my imaginary ballgown of finery. My pretend facade that all is well within me. But with each light press of my toes I seek relief from the numbness that grows and spreads; trying to draw all measure of music and noise over the hollowness. I flirt with unseen suitors in the crowd that promise to hide me from the death that sits inside me, waiting for me to look at it. Each dance with each suitor is only a temporary relief, passing so quickly I am left more desperate than before I agreed to it. I am aware of the dangerous edge I now balance on, but I can’t stop my feet from following this path once again, not when it taunts me with surcease, an end to the tug of war that grips me between two tight fists of control and nilism.

The abyss draws near and I flit right up to its edge, leaning out so the hem of my gown dangles over the space, the emptiness making me dizzy as I peer down into the black vacuum of nothingness. Will I accept it this time? Stop fighting against the eerie voice that scrapes against my walls and bets on when I’ll let it win? My toes teeter right on the lip as I wonder… What would it feel like to just give in to it, the destruction of all meaning?

It frightens me, but I am paralyzed by my loss of hope, the emptiness where Love is supposed to sit, and the nakedness where faith used to shield me. If I don’t step off, if I don’t give in, long days of meaningless tasks and empty promises stretch before me. I can only see a fight I’m too tired to pick up my armour and engage in anymore. I hover, I pace.

I am unaware in my wounded blindness, that Someone is watching me as I teeter. I’ve forgotten him. Like I always do when I come down this path. The Amen. The first and the last witness to my soul and all the others like me.

I only think how I can’t hear his song, the waterfall of his deep voice that used to cascade over me with its deluge of comfort and promise. How long has it been? A day or 10? A month or a year? I don’t know if I believe in his greening anymore – if I will ever feel its magic – its spark of life that pulled me on towards him through deserts and valleys and long nights.

I know where I’m perched. That I should be fighting tooth and nail to get away from it, but I’m too tired to step back and too numb to step off. So I hover. Waiting in the weary. Neither hot nor cold. I tell myself I am fine, that I make my own way, my own clothes, my own dance.

In my hypnosis, I don’t see that my hair hangs in greasy, unwashed strands. That I stand naked and broken. I am not actually wearing the ballgown I imagined I fashioned out of empty pursuits and invisible threads of addiction and hypocrisy. My eyes are blind to truth and everything inside me is wretched, lost and mourning.

And then, as I teeter at the darkest edge of sanity, like a trick of hope, my name sounds against the dark. Maybe I imagined it, but I could swear I heard it drift towards me.

Following that sound, the knowledge comes over me slow, and gentle, a covering of Holy Spirit’s promise – that the Amen stands beside me, staring down just as I do, into the abyss, his shoulder brushing mine.

He’s been down there, in that abyss. It’s no mystery to him. The light pouring off him is blinding and warm and so full of that wild, greening substance that I can feel its whisper threaten to break through my numbness. But everything inside me screams in fear. If I let Jesus pull me away, if I choose him this time, I’ll be back here at some point. Looking over this edge. The peace of being with him won’t last. My faith is fickle, my doubt is sharp. And how much will it hurt when I find this path stretching out before me yet again? It’s better to stay numb I tell myself.

What happens when he finally gives up on me, when he spits me out? When he gets tired of waiting for me to pick up my shield and choose him?

I’ve been anticipating it. That moment when he’s done. I can hear the other churches gossip. They think I don’t know, but I see their cringes when they look at me – the one who failed to stay true. I can sense their embarrassed efforts to hide me from view, like an unwashed, alcohol-ladened bridesmaid bursting in on their wedding of purity. The thought smacks of resentment, and any feeling is too much feeling so I let it go. Ignoring them. Pretending I don’t feel like an outsider.

”Let me in, Laodicea,” He whispers, and my eyelids slide closed in longing. A tear slips down my cheek. Doesn’t he know how tired I am of fighting for him? Doesn’t he realize how long I’ve tried to hold on – that my fingertips are bloody from the effort to stay awake – to not give in to the sleep that calls me? I don’t want to let go of him, but I’m scared I already have. That he’s only a mirage. And the fear of it paralyzes my throat, my ability to turn my head.

“I’m right here. All you have to do is turn your head and let me in.” He says quietly. I know what he’s doing. Fighting the desolation in front of me with every word.

The tears drip faster as I waver. It’s too late, isn’t it? But somehow, already, the abyss isn’t quite so consuming, so close. My toes don’t touch the edge. Holy Spirit placed a safety switch inside my soul, attuned to the feel of the One who loves me – and the awareness that he’s here beside me is already soothing the jagged edges of my weary heart. There’s a shift inside the numbness, a slight, barely there give in the tight grip it has on me. Jesus’s voice always does that. It’s a coaxing invitation I can’t really refuse. Because he’s my home even if I forget and the only safety I know is in him.

There’s quiet movement at my side. I hold my breath, knowing he doesn’t move without purpose. Will he push me over, finally shove me out? Will he walk away? All my attention is on him, though I can’t yet turn my head, or open my eyes. Maybe him leaving me to my destruction would be better than this waiting. This inability to either pick up my will, or, step off and let the darkness swallow me whole.

And then I feel it. The rough graze of his robe as he pulls it over my head. The white softness of it as it filters light beneath my closed eyelids, gently brushes against my wet cheeks like a thumb removing my tears. It falls light and gentle, covering my bruised and tired skin. He gently guides my arms into his sleeves. Surrounding me in the bigness of his things, the eternity of his promise of the greening, his vow to never let me go.

When I open my eyes to him I realize, again, that he’s swapping out the lie that it’s up to me to hold onto him. And putting in its place the truth. That he’s holding onto me.

Gentle as a kiss on my forehead, Holy Spirit reveals the path I wandered down to the abyss for what it is: a lie of control and separation. She touches a sweet balm to my blind eyes that frees me from my nightmare that this world is only a slow, physical disintegration. My eyes blink and blink at the greening – the invisible renewal and resurrection of the Amen that never ends.

Swamped inside his garments as I am, I don’t stand naked in my death, in the wretched barrenness that is the thought of letting go of him. The sparkling gold of his dowry he put at my feet entices me with all his eternal promises of things only he can give me. Things I can only find inside his mystery.

I sigh as the comfort and the scent of him settles over my tired bones, onto my aching, lonely spirit. He lifts me up into his arms and I let my head rest on his chest as he carries me up to his throne where he’s made room for me to sit with him. I forgot in my desperate dance down that path that I am his beloved. That he doesn’t give up on those he loves. That his faith will shield me when mine gets too heavy to hold. That hard things will come and go, but not him. Not his promise to me. And not the eternity that he carved out for me inside his Love.

(taken from Revelations 3:14-21)

P.S. The greening (or Veriditas) is a term used by Saint Hildegard of Bingen to refer to the life giving power of God, a force in all creation of renewal and vibrant vital things.