a true disciple

             The cell is dark and the man, weak. Cold, slabbed-stone, jutted, sprinkled with hay and other bits of rejected earth is his pillow. Rats are companions, darting from shadow to shadow, scrutinizing the captive as something not quite dead, far from alive. Moonlight is rare in these dungeons, and even when permitted to shine, is denied access to the cavern of the heart.

          The days are dark and darkness overruns darkness. A Voice is forgotten here, because voices are louder when everything is melancholy, waiting for death. An unkempt beard ruffles upon his face. His neck is drooped, eyes crusted and doleful, gazing perpetually at the stone floor, arms limp at his side, legs outstretched, seated and defeated, unmoving, floating in the vastness of the cell.

            Darkness overruns darkness.
            A candle in his heart is almost out, the last draining moments of his faith.

            Has my life been a lie? he wonders. Was I mistaken?

A sudden picture springs forth in his memory. There is a lake and lines of people, hopeful and thankful. This is the one, he had said.

This is the one whose sandals I am unworthy to untie.

A white dove descends toward the one and rests on his shoulder…

            But darkness overruns darkness and the vision is extinguished as quickly as it came. Was I mistaken? He cares not at all that his death is certain and soon. In truth, he wished it would come sooner, a merciful slash of judgment. He simply must know before the solemn rest, whether he had acted faithfully, whether a welcome awaited him, whether Truth had truly arrived, or not.

            Has my life been a lie? he wonders. Was I mistaken? Is he the one who was to come? Obscure and dark are my eyes. Not for me, but my brothers, as we wait for salvation. Was I mistaken?

            A clamor of movement dissolves these dangerous reflections, two men suddenly above the pit, peering down. The man, as if remembering strength stands alert and excited.

            What did he say?! he asks thirstily, as if the fate of his soul hangs upon the blade of this answer.

Is he the one who was to come?

            Master, the men replied, dripping love for the broken and selfless creature, he said;

            The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is preached to the poor.

            A rush of emotion fills the cell and arms he had forgotten embrace him oh so closely.

            The incarcerated man crumples in sobs and his brothers long to hold him. He weeps not for himself, but in joy for the light of the new day’s dawn curving around the horizon. A new breath of eternity and hope he feels. The captivity is almost over. The torture nearly complete, hope has come.

            Darkness overruns darkness no more. It has been pierced by the Light.

            Blessed is the man who does not fall away on account of me.