Conversations with a hidden doubt

Conversations with a hidden doubt

With the release of a long-pent sob, I snap the door shut.

It is in the church. The meeting was a success. Outside, from the edges of the door beaming with light, comes the muffled sound of voices full of joy and laughter.

Here, in the dark, the only light is from the orange streetlamps like hellfire, beaming dimly in from curtained windows. All is dyed orange and drab and black shadow.

I kneel to pray, the chair in front of me known only by touch and by its support of my weight. I begin to cry.

How is it, being in the church of my sincere belief, the church of light and truth, that I feel so deep in shadow?

My prayers intensify. The weighted dark presses down with such force as to take the stability of my breath. I close my eyes, willing to shut out the darkness with more darkness, the darkness of my environment with the darkness of my choosing, to be blinded.

Outside, the murmurs of laughter float mocking into the room from the brilliant edges of the door, light and joy together intruding on the sacral dark.

I cannot stand it. I want to scream, but to whom? The God who rebukes for unrighteousness? Is this not unrighteousness, ungratitude, the spirit of backsliding and balking? To the ears of church members and leaders who know it not and need know it not? To the currents of unknowing time that know not and care not?

I heave myself to my feet and stumble to the door. Just outside it is light and hope, deeper burdens than anything darkness could possibly lash upon my back.

I pause, door on the handle. What's the point? I will stumble into the light carrying the darkness with me. Where would it go? It is stuck, jammed gears, clogged toilet, tidally locked planet about an M class star. Fear takes hold. What if they see it, my darkness, my doubt, of which even I have no clue of the origin or end? Worse, what if they ask? I am supposed to be an example of the believers, an active force in the work of salvation, a leader and participant in the great work of the great God. Supposed to be...supposed to be. They will see that I am not what I am supposed to be. Oh, what hell I have built up for myself! A reassuring metal plate about a shifting core of magma and feathers...it is an illusion, an assurance of solidity above supports that have melted in the heat and can no longer do the work of supporting. That damned shell. That damned concrete bubble, solidified by years of seeking approval and positive reinforcement.

I grip the handle, turning my knuckles white. I think of that White Current, the Light of Christ, ever flowing from somewhere, yearning for it to drip into the cracks and carry my pain away, yearning for the flood of proverbial neutrinos from that distant Daystar to interact, for once.

The light and joy intensify their knocking. I grit my teeth. The White Current is always there, it seems. It is a force that never leaves, always communicating the light of a love that lies beyond my comprehension despite my awareness of its presence. Oh, I wish it would step away, and I become a wound in it. To abandon to nihilism, to nothingness....what sweet relief.

But my imploring receives a gentle no. You have a work to do, it reminds me...it? He? Them? What am I speaking to? An Exalted Man? A river? A mirror?

I take a deep breath, polarize the hull plating, and step into my burdens. That offensive light enshrouds me.

It is okay, whispers the Current. I understand. I am with you. You are okay.

A lone neutrino vibrates a neuron.