You bring yourself before the sacred,
before the holy,
before what is ultimate and bigger than your lone life
bigger than your worries
bigger than your money problems
bigger than the fight you had with your sister and your aches and pains
bigger, even, than your whole being, your self who is
and trapped within
and blessed with
a body that does what you want
and doesn’t do what you want
and wants all the wrong things
and wants all the right things...
You stand at the edge of mystery,
at the edge of the deep,
with the light streaming at you,
and you can’t hide anything—not even from yourself,
when you stand there like that,
Maybe you call your pastor and say,
What is this?
What am I looking at?
What do I do?
And your pastor comes and stands at the edge with you
and looks over.
She can’t hide anything either, she thinks,
not even the fact that she doesn’t know the answer to your question,
and she wonders if you can tell.
She thinks of all the generations who’ve come there before you
and cast words out toward the source of that light,
wanting to name it.
Somehow, she thinks to herself, the names stayed tethered to the aging world and got old
while the light remains timeless and burns without dimming.
the armful of worries you brought to the edge of mystery
have fluttered to your feet.
Unobscured by these, you shine back, light emanating unto light.
You, with your broken heart and your seeking,
you are the utterance of the timeless word.
The name of the Holy is pronounced
through your being.