Member since:
June 25, 2008

The Cave

June 28, 2009 04:37 PM EDT (Updated: June 29, 2009 10:52 AM EDT)

views: 176 | comments: 61

The earth opened up to take them in, worshippers tunneling deep into the ground, as if the heart of God beat within it. Their caves were dug out of the clay and dirt, temples hidden in the mire. No place on earth stood higher than these, the sanctuaries of the God who speaks your name. Though they were hidden well, they were easily found by all who sought them.

“Come deep, come deep,” the voice of God gathered them.

I entered, carrying my soul in a hidden place, ashamed as I was of its blackness. Around me the others stood, light and full of promise. They glowed. I glimmered, but with shame.

We hid from our enemies, each of them a brazen hand lifted against our God. They came to destroy us. They hunted us. But they could not find us here, in the belly of the earth.

I stood with the holy ones, though I struggled to remind myself I was not one of them. I would not praise like the others or God himself would recognize my voice and cast me out into the burning sun of the day. He could not abide my presence, not with these blood stains on my hands.

The crowd around me was full of life and joy. They swayed, they sang. Every tongue was freed to sigh and cry and praise the object of our worship, the God who knows you.

The cave was dank and cool, damp like a fog but somehow fresh and clean and clear. There was a sense of order in its walls, with a dancing spine of freedom. I sang despite myself. I lifted my voice high and swung it through the air like a flag. I praised.

And then I was silent. Had anyone heard me?

A hand pressed into my back and another on my shoulder. I turned reluctantly, certain I would be asked to leave.

Instead, I was asked, “Do you need forgiveness, my child?”

He was a holy man. The tassels of his garment nearly touched the ground. They were knotted in our traditional way, though strangely white and brilliant against the floor of the cave. He had seen right through me.

“No,” was my answer. I did not want to be forgiven. I did not deserve it.

“No,” he repeated slowly as if he didn’t quite believe me.

I felt as if I had hit him hard. He was wounded. I thought he would turn away, but he did not.

When he finally spoke again his voice was calm and inviting.

“Perhaps not,” he said with a shrug. “But you need to be set free from that shame.”

He went on, “You have carried it all this way. But you were never meant to.”

How did he know this about me?

I gathered my veil into my hands and pulled it against my face. Peering out over the gauzy fabric, I could not bring myself to look at him. He knew too much about me.

I was a stone, unable to feel, unable to move.

But he did not turn away. He did not ask me to leave. He waited.

Days went by, years, eons. The people of the cave came and went, each entering to worship and leaving refreshed. Some carried great burdens as they passed us, others great hurt. I saw many healings as I waited for mine.

I wanted to walk free like the thousands who passed by me. But I was guilty.

“I know,” he said, his voice still and strong. “But you can’t be forgiven unless you are.”

With that the truth wrapped itself around my guilt, pulling me from it and it from me. The tassels of his sleeve brushed my arm and opened my eyes. I could see then the God who sees me and, for a brief moment, nothing else.