Esta publicación forma parte de The Lantern Practice, una serie sobre cómo aprender a ver más allá del ruido, la ira y la primera historia que nos contamos a nosotros mismos.
Lately, it feels as though the whole world is trying to pull off a bandage too quickly.
Maybe this has happened many times throughout history. Maybe every age has its own hidden wounds, its own covered places, its own truths beginning to show at the edges.
But right now, it feels raw.
It feels as though many things are being uncovered at once, and not always with mercy.
Something has been covered for a long time.
Something underneath has been hurting.
Something hidden has begun to show.
You can feel it in the way people speak. You can feel it in the sharpness of the news, in the arguments, and in the constant need to explain, accuse, and expose.
It is not only that things are happening.
It is that things are being uncovered.
But the world does not always uncover gently.
The world can be harsh with truth. It can grab at the bandage and pull. It can call exposure healing. It can call humiliation honesty. It can point to the wound without knowing how to tend it.
And when truth is handled that way, people flinch.
We cover ourselves again.
We defend harder.
We explain more.
We reach for an alibi.
I think this happens in the world, but it also happens in us. I know I do it.
We all have sentences we use when something feels too tender to face. Maybe the world does too.
“No tuve otra opción.”
“Así soy yo.”
“"No importa."”
Sometimes those sentences are partly true. We might even call them half-truths. That is why they are so easy to keep. They are not always complete lies. They may have just enough truth in them to sound reasonable.
But sometimes an explanation becomes a covering.
A paper over a crack.
A cloth over a stain.
A bandage over a wound that has not yet healed.
At first, the covering may have helped us. It may have protected a place we did not know how to tend. It may have given us time. It may have kept us moving when stopping felt impossible.
But a covering can become a hiding place.
And hiding places can become heavy in time.
That is where this second part of The Lantern Practice begins.
The first practice was to pause before mistaking the explosion for the whole story, whether in the world or in ourselves.
The second practice asks us to look gently at the explanations we use after the explosion.
Not harshly.
Not with shame.
Not as though we are tearing ourselves apart to prove we are honest.
Gently.
Because you do not rip away a bandage that has been there too long.
You soak it first.
You moisten the edge.
You give it time.
Then you lift one corner, and then a little more, until it begins to loosen without damaging what is tender underneath.
Truth sometimes needs to be approached that way.
Not because truth is weak.
Because we are.
And because some wounds need patience before they can bear being touched.
Sin can do strange things to our sight.
It does not always arrive loudly. Sometimes it settles quietly. It bends our vision little by little. It changes how we see God, how we see ourselves, and how we see other people.
It can make what is good look threatening.
It can make what is harmful look reasonable.
It can make truth feel like an attack.
After a while, we may not even realize we are looking through something.
A veil of fear.
A veil of pain.
A veil of pride.
We think we are seeing clearly.
But we may be seeing through what has covered us.
That is why confession can be such a mercy.
Not because God does not know what is there.
He already knows.
Maybe we come because we are tired of hiding from the truth He already sees with love.
We come with the wound, the covering, and the sentence we have repeated so long that we almost believe it completely.
And God is not cruel with what is tender.
He does not handle truth the way the world often does.
The world wants exposure.
God wants healing.
The world may shame.
God reveals.
The world may point at the wound.
God tends it.
That difference matters.
An alibi tries to make the wound smaller by explaining it away.
Mercy does something far greater.
Mercy lets the truth come into the light without leaving us alone with it.
There is such relief in that.
Not the relief of pretending nothing was wrong.
The relief of finally bringing what is wrong into the presence of the One who can heal it.
Sometimes confession is the first honest breath after holding something too long.
It is the moment we stop saying, “It does not matter,” when it does.
It is the moment we stop saying, “I had no choice,” when perhaps fear had more power than we wanted to admit.
It is the moment we stop saying, “That is just how I am,” when perhaps God is inviting us to become more whole.
Confession lifts the veil.
Sometimes slowly.
Sometimes with tears.
Sometimes with relief we did not expect.
And maybe that is what we need to remember, not only in our own hearts, but in the way we look at the larger world.
An alibi can belong to a person.
It can belong to a family.
It can belong to a whole people.
The alibi says, “This is fine.”
The confession says, “Something needs healing.”
The alibi says, “There was no other way.”
The confession says, “Fear may have led us.”
The alibi says, “Do not look too closely.”
The confession says, “Let the light come in.”
But this light must be held with care.
The Lantern Practice is not about becoming harsh with ourselves or harsh with the world. It is not about dragging every hidden thing into the street and making a spectacle of it.
It is about learning to see with God beside us.
It is about carrying the lantern low enough to notice the covered place.
Then asking:
What am I explaining away that may actually need to come into the light?
That question can feel uncomfortable.
But it can also be merciful.
Because what remains hidden cannot be tended.
And what is brought into mercy can begin to heal.
Maybe this is why the world feels so raw right now. Maybe many coverings are being pulled at once, but not always with love. Maybe many wounds are being exposed, but not always with wisdom. Maybe many people know something is wrong, but they do not yet know how to bring it into the light without fear.
Faith teaches another way.
Not ripping.
Not accusing.
Not pretending.
Just bringing the covered place to God and letting mercy soften the edge.
Little by little, the veil begins to thin.
The falsehood loses its hold.
The wound can breathe.
What was distorted can become clear again.
Sometimes the sentence we use to defend ourselves is the very place truth is waiting.
A veces, la coartada es donde se esconde la confesión.
And sometimes confession is not the moment we are condemned.
Sometimes it is the moment we can finally see.
So carry the lantern lower.
Look gently at the covered place.
Do not tear at what has been hurting for a long time.
Let mercy soften the edge.
Let truth come into the light.
And trust that God knows how to heal what has been hidden.
Maybe that is what we need to remember.
Truth does not have to be cruel to be true.
Mercy does not have to pretend in order to be merciful.
God knows how to touch what is bruised without breaking it.
“A bruised reed he will not break,
and a dimly burning wick he will not quench.”
~Isaiah 42:3
So carry the lantern lower.
Look gently at the covered place.
Let mercy soften the edge.
Let truth come into the light.
Mis pensamientos y oraciones están contigo.
May God bless you as you let mercy soften the edge.
************************
Follow Along with Us In This Series
La práctica de la linterna: No confundas la explosión con toda la historia.
La práctica de la linterna: La coartada y la confesión
Deja un comentario