Dear Brethren, why do you speak as if all is well in Zion? Who are you speaking to?

I am in Zion. But I am not well.

Something has changed between us. Because your eyes used to look kind, but now seem empty, afraid. And your voice used to sound encouraging; now it seems spiteful.

Why don't you hear me, Brethren? Why don't you answer? Why won't you see? Is it because I partook of the fruit, and discovered your secret parts? Is it because I've taken back the name of God that you have used in vain?

I wanted to forgive you for the sake of all our years together. Forgive and forget. But the more I look, the more I see.

And now, I no longer trust your sleepy, well-worn words. All is well. All is well in Zion, yea Zion prospereth.

Sometimes I still like to remember the good old days, when things were simple. Times when there was work to be done, numbers to tally, fields to harvest—and I knew what to do.

Back when we talked about things: meetings, cupcakes, money, morality, and light—especially light. You seemed to know everything: what it looked like, felt like, where it came from, and why I thought you knew more about light than anyone.

We lived quietly like that for a long time.

I grew up, got married, bore children, while listening to the sounds of your voice. You put me to work and I labored. I had questions, but you didn't deliver, so I ignored, doubted, hushed them. And we were happy for a while.

Then the light came. And, though we had talked of it before, I was not prepared for how completely the light would change everything.

At the time, I saw the light as a thrilling sign that you were right: there was a light, and it was good. Time passed. So did the light—sometimes more frequently, sometimes less. But each time I swelled with confidence and confirmation—you were right all along.

At last, one day, the light came, but did not pass. It stayed blazing like a pillar of fire against the brittle little door. It seemed to be knocking? Of course, the door was closed and locked as it always had been, at your request.

There were dangerous strangenesses outside, you said—things to bring deceit, darkness, death. But I was not afraid of the light. Surely you did not mean this. I opened the door.

Was I ready?

She entered. Gentle as a sunbeam, terrifying as a supernova. She bore no weapons, made no threats, yet I fell back with a mind of fog and a heart of glass. I shattered beneath her gaze.

She said her name was Truth. She had come to set me free, but it was going to be messy, and it would hurt…

She began. Slowly, but without pausing, she walked around our room.

Everywhere, shadows skittered like mice—hiding themselves from her relentless reality. My skin crawled too, wanting to escape. But deep within, I was hungry to know the good from evil. So I stayed and watched—riveted, ravenous.

She lit every shabby corner, opened every secret cupboard, emptied every private drawer. She drained the stagnant excuses, brushed away the webs of self-deception, exposed the grimy secrets. And then she crushed my collection of delicate little lies.

Now I was afraid. What did this mean for me? For you? As she walked, I noticed… you never looked at her. If she went to one corner, you looked to the other. When she walked by, you closed your eyes.

I wondered if you could see her at all.

At last, when the room lay in shambles, Truth went to the walls. Her hands were strong, her grip was sure. She wrenched down the curtains. I recoiled, blinking. I had no idea there were windows.

I felt ridiculous.

I looked around at what was left. Shards of broken promises, crumpled dreams, tattered confidences, pools of tears.

Had I been breathing this choking dust the whole time? Was this the place I had thought so neat only moments before?

It didn't matter. I was in Her presence now. Radiant. Glorious. Beautiful. And brighter than a noon day sun.

Finally, she came to me, and knelt. I looked and saw, for the first time, the fetter binding me by a long crooked chain to you.

It fell away under her touch. Dull, lifeless, like a gaping mouth on the floor.

She stood, saw my wide, frightened eyes, and said, “It is finished.”

When I turned back, Truth had gone. But she left the door and windows open. The room was bright.

“Have these secrets been here all along?” I asked you. “Are those your fingerprints?” And, “Why?”

Eventually, there was nothing left but the sticky trails on my cheeks. So I pressed my shaking hands into the throb of my head. I stood. No fetters. My feet felt light—I'd never felt that before. It wasn't all pleasant, but it wasn't unpleasant, either.

I grabbed a broom. I watched you. I began to sweep. And I waited for you to answer.

Then I saw you straighten your lapels, adjust your ties, smooth your hair, clear your throat. And you spoke the same old words in that same old voice that was once comforting, but now felt distant—as if you were speaking right through me.

I approached. You looked the other way. I spoke, you did not reply. I yelled, but your voice droned on. Over and over, you said the same old things: “All is well, all is well, all is well in Zion.” Then I realized something.

Your prophecy had come true. I had opened the door, seen Truth, followed the light, taken the fruit, and so, I had died to you. That was my brokenness on the floor. And now I am only a ghost—a phantom from what was.

You look beyond me—as if we had never known each other. As if I hadn't trusted you with everything all my life. As if your words had not formed my mind, our room, my world.

But the mess is still here, and the broom is in my hands—the ghost, I, am cleaning away the remains of what we made. It is a great, yet humble work.

A lonely work—yes, but holy, also.

You always told me to beware of enemies—strangers, demons, liars, cheats—scoundrels from the outside. They might hurt me, you said. They might take advantage.

I spent so many years and decades wary of the outside. I never thought to suspect that my greatest wounds might come from behind, beside, before me—from the ones I once called “my Brethren.”

Sincerely,

a holy ghost