When the Sun Goes Down on Holy Rage

A Poetic Vigil on Ephesians 4 and John 14- Let this reflection end in the truth we keep coming back to: That there is no exile from presence. That rage does not break the covenant. That we burn with ache—and are still beloved. That the Holy One is singing Kyrie Eleison over our hearts.

When the Sun Goes Down on Holy Rage

Let the sun go down on your exhaustion. Let the sky change colors. Let the same sun become something softer.

But do not forget who you are. Do not forget that even rage longs to be witnessed—and not abandoned.

Do not forget
who holds you.

Do not forget
the mug of tea pressed into your hands.

Do not forget
the one who followed you to the edge
just to whisper, "that looked hard,
can I give you a hug?"

The Holy One did not forget
that time you lay down on a pew—
the darkness wasn't really empty.
Do not forget,
that’s why you wept.

Because you weren’t alone.
And your Rage and your Why
Were met with soft fire—
Fire that kisses but doesn’t consume.

Let the flame burn clean.
Let the storm pass through.
Let your shaking be holy,
your silence be prayer.

Do not forget the friend
who needs to witness your tears
to believe their own weeping is safe.

Let holy rage be a rhythm, not a rupture—
the rhythm that begins repair.

Let despair be seen, not shamed.
And met with arms wrapped around shoulders.

Let witness be sacred, not solo.
If there must be grief,
let no one be a stranger in the circle.

When you are angry, burn with truth—
but do not burn the bridge,
the one who will get you to the other side.
The one sitting with their shoulder pressed into yours.

Let the sun set, but not your connection.
Let the sun set, but let the glow dance
in the shape of your neighbors who came,
just to bring bread.
They came to tend the fire,
They came to return you to love.

And if you forget how to rise,
may you feel a hand reach back for yours.
May you hear someone whisper, "It's okay to rest here.
I’ll hold the light until you’re ready."

And if your voice trembles,
let it tremble in truth. And if your knees buckle,
let them bend into the lap of mercy.

Because you do not carry this alone.
Because you never did.
Because your anger is not abandonment.
It is longing—
and longing is sacred, too.

If Love does not abandon us in our burning,
then no one else has the right to declare us outside the circle.

And if Love always says “you can return,”
then no policy, no prejudice, no pulpit, no fearful voice
can claim to speak for the Holy
while locking people out of it.

This prayer is mercy.

Mercy

Mercy

Mercy