curtain torn, door open.

And I climb the Holy mountain of God.
I strain my eyes to see his temple, his house, enthroned upon glory, dressed in everlasting light.
How beautiful.
I will find God there.
I walk up to the door.
Hands knock, fingers tight, knuckles white.
The door of God is large.
I rap hard on its surface.
No answer comes from within.
God, are you there?
Again I knock, this time harder.
The door is hard, and it hurts my knuckles.
Blood escapes.
God, are you home?
Maybe I should shout.
So I do.
I shout as loud as I can.
I scream, yell, cry out from the depths of my soul until my lungs threaten to leave my body.
Where are you God?
Is it too much to answer me?
Is it too much to open your door and let me in?
But I will not give up, even if God is silent.
I pound, fists clenched, flesh broken, wood resists.
And wood and flesh embrace.
This hurts God.
Why don’t you answer?
Why do you have a door if you aren’t going to open it?
Why do you have ears if you aren’t going to listen?
Why did you give me a voice if it wasn’t to cry out to you?
Why would you let me experience so much pain in simply trying to get to you?
And so, with knuckles scraped hard, bone showing, blood weeping, I collapse on the doorstep of God.
God, where are you?
And I hear a familiar voice say “Here I am.”
I look to see He Who Loves Me standing behind me, a smile wrinkling his nose.
“Why are you seeking me here?” He asks.
I don’t know God, I know this is where you live. I wanted to find you.
“Child, how do you forget so easily? I do not live here anymore, I live with you.”
Oh, with me. Right. I had forgotten. How silly of me.
“Shall we go down?”
Yes, let’s.
So hand in hand, I walk with the Uncreated One down the tall and mighty mountain of God to earth, and into my humble house, made of love and faith, where together we live in perfect harmony.
God is not on the mountain.
He is here with you.
You do not need to seek his dwelling, for he dwells with you.
There’s a reason the curtain of the temple was torn.
It was torn for you and me.
It was torn because it was made void. It isis useless now.
The Spirit of our Father does not live on the mountain, high in the heavens, or within a temple, pure and holy. He lives within many temples: all who call upon his name and trust in his grace.
That’s you.
That’s me.
We are the house of God.
We need not climb his mountain, nor knock on his great door, nor shout his name until he answers.
For why would you seek entrance to an empty house?
You are his house.
Simply believe that.
Simply talk to him.
He’s always with you.
If you can’t hear him, maybe it’s not because he hasn’t open his door to you, but rather, you haven’t opened yours to him.
Destroy the locks.
Open the door.
He is kind, full of laughter, overflowing with love.
Why would you not trust him to dwell within you?
Open your door.

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