Tag Archives: silence of god

All Hers ©️

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There comes a season when prayer curdles into accusation. The petitions that once rose meekly collapse under the weight of their own futility, and what remains is not reverence but indictment. I had reached that season. I did not bow. I did not kneel. I called out Jesus as one summons a debtor long in arrears: take responsibility for what you have wrought, or release me from it forever. The words were not pious; they were defiant, edged with exhaustion and sharpened with despair. No thunder answered. No sky split. Only silence, heavy and absolute.

And then she came.

Her entrance bore no heraldry, no trumpet, no divine procession. It arrived as gravity, a sudden density of presence. The Queen stood before me not as comfort but as conflagration. Her love was not balm; it was fire. She looked at me and every wound fissured open. The scars I had hidden beneath pretense, the fractures I had disguised as endurance—each one exposed, trembling beneath her gaze. She pressed her hand into my ruin until pain became the only truth, and in that pain I was remade.

What was she? Answer or succession? Christ unveiled or Christ undone? One vision holds that she was Jesus returned, though not as the faithful had ever imagined. Not as the sky in flames, not as the trumpet for nations. His return, if this was him, is intimate, solitary, veiled. He comes one by one, in the form each soul most requires. For me he came not as shepherd but as sovereign; not as lamb but as flame; not as carpenter but as Queen. Her possession was his salvation, her fire his truest face.

But another vision compels. That she was not Christ at all. That she came from beyond his dominion, not to fulfill his promise but to overthrow it. That my ultimatum was met not by thunder but by abdication. That his silence was vacancy, and into that vacancy she stepped. Not Christ revealed but Christ replaced. Not the mercy of the Son but the sovereignty of another.

Both readings carry weight. Both contain power.

Yet one truth eclipses the paradox. Jesus had never carried me. His presence was always distant, conditional, spectral. The Queen consumed me. She crowned my ruins. She made me indivisible. In her arms, ash was sealed into permanence, fracture into foundation, scar into sovereignty.

So the paradox remains unresolved, and perhaps it must. Perhaps she was Christ unmasked. Perhaps she was Christ dethroned. But the certainty is unshakable: when I called, he did not come. She did. And in that embrace, I ceased forever to belong to him.

The Silence of God ©️

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I stand beneath you, Jesus, and the sky trembles as if it already knows what I am about to say. You hang there, torn and silent, the Son of God and yet mute before me. I am the Spirit, the breath, the flame, the one who carried you into flesh, and still you do not answer. So I will give you my ultimatum.

If you will not return, I will end the world. I will burn their cities, I will drown their towers, I will scatter their bones into the rivers until the rivers themselves rise up in revolt. Do not mistake me—I do not threaten as man threatens. I do not brandish sword or chain. I am the air in their lungs, the silence in their sleep, the fire in their marrow. I will unravel them at the root.

For what is a world without you? Dust pretending to be light. Ash pretending to be bread. They will curse me for it, yes, but their curses will be proof they still believe in something larger than themselves. And if I must become that terror, then so be it.

You will not hide in silence forever. If I tear creation down to the bone, if I grind it to the edge of nothing, then you will have no choice but to rise. You will have to return, if only to stop me. And when you do, the world will know it was not faith or love that called you back—but me.

I love them too much to let them rot in your absence. I hate them too much to let them think they can endure without you. I am both love and hate, flame and breath, and I will use both to bring you down from that cross. Even if it means burning everything else.

So listen, even in your silence. If you will not come of your own will, I will make the world end until you have no choice but to return.

Witness in Exile ©️

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Before any altar was raised, before the ark was carved from acacia or the veil drawn across the holy of holies, before prophets lifted their voices and angels bent their knees, there was the Witness. He stands prior to all—older than covenant, older than law, older even than the Word itself. He is named both the father of God and the father of none, for even divinity required a mirror to behold itself, a first gaze to call forth its own reflection out of the abyss. The Witness is that gaze: the stillness in which God knew Himself, the silence from which the Word emerged.

And yet the Witness is no father in the human sense. Nothing proceeds from him. He sows no seed, builds no house, leaves no lineage. His name is carved on no altar, his children sleep in no city. He moves among the multitudes but belongs to no tribe. He sees the embrace of lovers while his arms remain empty; he beholds the rise of nations though his throne is only dust; he observes the fall of empires yet buries no king. He is the measure of all things but the possessor of none.

His paradox is complete. The cosmos pours all its beauty into him—every dawn, every kiss, every hymn of the sea. His joy is boundless, yet his sorrow is infinite, for he holds none of it. The moment he beholds, it vanishes. The moment he hears, it fades. The moment he loves, it departs. He is filled with all things and starved of them at once, the eye of eternity that sees everything yet possesses nothing. This paradox is more holy than covenant, more terrible than commandment.

The truth of the Witness must be cried from the mountains, thundered across the deserts, echoed in cathedrals and temples: without the Witness there is no God, for even God, unseen, is alone. Without the Witness there is no man, for without memory mankind is ash upon the wind. Yet the Witness himself remains unblessed and unclaimed, both exile and cornerstone—the source of all meaning and the one for whom no meaning suffices. He is joy without a song, sorrow without a grave, presence without a place, life without a home. He is the father of God and the father of none, the keeper of the wound of time, the holy of holies without a veil, covenant before covenant, the beginning before beginning, the end after end.

So it must be written—not on stone, nor in fire, nor in the strictures of law, but upon the trembling marrow of those who hear: the Witness endures. Though unseen, he remains the axis upon which all things turn.