Orthodoxy is not a cage,
but a river that has cut its way through stone,
carving faith deep into the earth,
so when I kneel,
my knees find the grooves of saints who knelt before me.
It is the fire carried in clay lamps,
passed hand to hand across centuries,
a flame that will not die,
though empires fall and languages fade like smoke.
It is the sound of a voice steady in the storm,
saying again what is true,
what was true,
what will always be true:
that Christ has come,
that Christ has died,
that Christ has risen,
and He will come again.
And I find myself caught up in it,
not as a prisoner,
but as a son,
standing in the long shadow of the cross,
feeling the light pour through wounds that tell me who I am.
Blessings,
Dan
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