The end of my semester was saturated with turmoil. Superficially, it looked simply like a few conflicts with several people I loved dearly, but many of the challenges were internal. I was suffocating with feelings of guilt, shame, self-hate, and self-demeaning thoughts. Any interaction with anyone was another opportunity to criticize myself.
Of course, these thoughts were not something new, not something born out of the recent conflicts. Rather they were preexisting, having only been amplified until they were impossible to overlook. Recently, I was listening to a sermon, and the speaker invited us to take part in a listening activity – the experience is accounted for below.
—
The speaker stood on the platform, microphone gripped underneath her deep red nail polish. Before her sat about a hundred students from a multitude of colleges, all equally focused on the words that lightly tumbled into the microphone.
“Imagine,” she spoke. “Close your eyes and just imagine with me.” Hundreds of eyes fluttered closed simultaneously.
“You’re in a plain room, one that is dimly lit. You’re in the center of it, sitting on a stool. There’s nothing on the walls, only a door right before you.
“The door opens, and in walks Jesus. He walks into the plain room and he stands before you, and you’re looking at him. He looks at you. What is he wearing? What is his expression as he looks at you?
“He approaches you, and he leans in and whispers something to you.
“What does he say?”
—
I’m sitting in a dim room alone, the air slightly damp and heavy on my skin. I’m wearing a clean cut blazer and slacks, and underneath an off-white ruffled blouse. I’m sitting directly under a single light bulb that I squint to look up at, yet barely manages to illuminate the room. The room around me is plain, the walls strikingly bare.
I am tempted to look down at my hands, to examine my short cut, unpainted nails or play with the scar on the back of my left hand. I am tempted to trace the lines on my palms, outlining them and then outlining them again. I take a deep breath and hold my chin up. I let my eyelids close slightly to feign nonchalance, and nonchalance to feign confidence. I stare ahead at the wooden door before me.
It begins to swing open, and I hold my breath. He steps in from behind the door, and then He is before me. Everything about Him is gentle – the soft glow of His white robe is vibrant even when the light above me casts Him in the dark. I see Him, the way He stares at me, the way His hands slightly brush against the folds in His robe. I see Him, and He sees me, and I want to cower and hide, to button my blazer in vain or fold my arms.
But I sit still, and I wait for Him. He stands there looking at me before His expression begins to change, becoming one of intense concern and worry. He takes a step towards me, and then another, and before I know it He is beside me, leaning over until His head is beside mine, and I am left to look back at the door over His shoulder. He opens His mouth to speak, and I sit still, not wanting to miss a word.
I grow cold with the fear of what He could say. My head is clouded as I run through possibility after possibility of what I could have done wrong. I think back to the times I stumbled, the times I misspoke, the times I acted foolishly out of anger, and I am scared of which of these He will bring up in accusation. I brace myself as I hear the words begin to leave His mouth.
He rests His hand gently on my shoulder, the warmth of His fingers dissipating my poisonous thoughts. “Stop,” He whispers, almost painfully. “What have you done to yourself?”
the.teleidoscope 