Blinded by Light

Acts 9:1–6, (7–20)

Did you think I couldn’t see you,
As I rode with authority’s papers clutched in righteous hands?

Do zealots consumed by religious fervor
Always believe they’re doing sacred work?

What would you know of my certainty,
The conviction that burned like fire in my veins,
The letters from the high priest that authorized my mission,
The pride in defending the faith of my fathers?

Have you counted the believers I imprisoned,
Traced the damage done by my relentless persecution?

Can you feel the weight of the stones I approved,
As Stephen’s blood stained the ground and my soul?

Did the Damascus believers tremble when they heard I was coming?
Did they hide their scrolls and gather their children close,
Their communities bracing for the storm,
Yet never knowing how that storm itself would be broken?

Is that why you struck me with light from heaven?
A divine intervention against my human arrogance,
Throwing me to the ground like chaff before wind,
My authority scattered in the dust of that road?

Do you blame me for asking, “Who are you, Lord?”
For the terror that seized my tongue when your voice came?

Would you not quake too, if confronted by glory
After a lifetime of thinking you had God in a box?

How many hours did I lie in darkness after your light,
My useless eyes staring into nothing,
Afraid to move, yet unable to remain
In the confidence with which I began that journey?

When they led me by the hand into Damascus,
Was it humility or humiliation that guided my steps?

When I refused food and drink for three days,
Did my fast finally empty me enough for you to fill?

Have you ever watched a man’s foundation crumble,
His certainties dissolve like salt in water?

Have you waited three days in darkness and prayer,
For the light you once battled to return as healing?

They say Ananias came reluctantly, trembling,
But was it his fear or mine that filled that room?

Or was it the sound of scales falling to the floor,
As light returned to eyes now truly seeing?

Who can fathom the patience of a God
Who pursues the chief of persecutors with blinding grace,
Who hears our questions of “Who are you, Lord?”
And answers with both judgment and mercy?

Do you still find us sometimes,
When we slip back into pharisaic certainty,
Mistaking our mission for yours,
Praying with clenched fists instead of open hands?

Are you still whispering, “Why do you persecute me?”
In the cries of the wounded,
In the silence of those we dismiss,
In the face of the ones we would never call brother?

And are you still waiting — patient as ever —
On roads we do not know we walk,
Ready to blind again with mercy,
That we might at last begin to see?