You stand on the jagged volcanic cliffs of Patmos in 95 a.d. Bitter sea spray bites your lips while the relentless crashing of the Aegean tide echoes against black rock. An exiled leader sits near a cave entrance with his tired fingers tracing the cracked edge of a papyrus roll. He holds a dried river reed. The damp parchment smells of stale fish and old sweat. The man drops his frail writing instrument as a sudden voice shatters the rhythmic tide. The sound carries the sharp blast of a war horn tearing through the damp air. The violent acoustic vibration rattles the loose stones beneath your feet.

The old exile spins around toward the noise. Seven oil lamps standing over four feet tall burn with intense yellow heat. Among them stands the Son of Man wrapped in a heavy woven robe. A golden sash spans three inches wide across his chest. The hair on his head possesses the stark whiteness of bleached winter snow. His eyes resemble a raging hearth fire consuming dry wood. When he steps forward his feet glow fiercely like brass pulled directly from a roaring smelter. His voice echoes with the immense pressure of a thousand rushing rivers crashing over steep cliffs. He holds seven burning points of light in his right hand. A sharp blade appears to emerge from his mouth with every spoken syllable. The sheer brilliance of his face forces you to avert your gaze as the old man collapses completely motionless upon the cavern floor. The Lord reaches down and rests his glowing right hand upon the fallen servant. He commands the frightened exile to discard all fear and begin writing everything he sees.

That dried stalk of river grass lies forgotten on the volcanic stone. We often expect profound encounters to occur within polished marble sanctuaries or quiet gardens. Yet the raw force of divine revelation frequently interrupts the bleakest moments of human isolation. The reed waits for a trembling hand to pick it up and record the impossible. We all carry such ordinary tools into our daily exiles. A pen or a simple notebook becomes the fragile instrument for documenting sudden intrusions of grace.

The hollow reed rests precariously near the edge of a deep rock fissure. It represents the inadequate capacity of human language to contain a blinding reality.

Truth always demands a sturdy vessel. The scent of burning oil mixes with the crashing tide as an old man prepares to sketch the infinite.