[a stolen story]
This life is but a vapor, and men’s words are but shadows of truth. I am compelled by this, and yet I wince at its reality. I am undone by the fear that what I do now might be nothing more than another folly in the parade I have been a part of. I believe deeply that something must be said, but still I wonder if my actions are meaningless.
From my youth, I looked on with such pride at the robes wise men wear. It seemed as though their beautiful colors and delicate folds told some story of the wealth of insight and piety they had amassed. Now that I wear them for myself, I realize that they are nothing more than armor — to shield and to shroud.
There is something wrong — a tragedy unspeakable — when an organization as important and life-changing as mine lays down conviction to don vanity. I have witnessed the collective thought that regulation can replace repentance take hold and flourish, and what’s more, I feel that I have perpetuated the notion. Admittedly, life is simpler when all that is required of me is to contribute to the grand show. The facade, though, does nothing to mask the horrors beneath it when, before God, it is made of glass.
Picking up pen and setting it to paper, I realize that while I have done this more times than I could count, it somehow feels different. Today my words flow from somewhere deeper than my heart or my head. There is a weight heavier than I’d like to bear. Nevertheless, I believe God has given it to me to carry.
Having finished my treatise, nothing more than questions which beg answers, I must now decide what must be done with it. A letter? A leaflet? A prayer? A flame? Finally resolved, I throw caution to the wind, pick up my hammer, and stride confidently to the church.