From the cell of Brother Anselm, Feast of St. Michael

To whomever finds these words,

I write by the guttering of a single candle, though I fear light itself has betrayed me. What I saw tonight at the altar cannot be spoken aloud, for the air itself would recoil. Better to set it down here, in trembling hand, that another soul may know what mine has endured.

The chapel was empty, or so I believed. The silence pressed heavy upon me as I approached the altar. Bread and wine rested there, so common, so familiar. Yet when I bowed my head, a voice uncoiled from the darkness, not heard with the ear but written upon the marrow of my bones.

Perhaps you will say, I see something else. But what you see is not what it is. Nature bends here. Blessing remakes the world.

At those words the air thickened, and the candlelight stretched long and thin across the stones. My breath stilled.

The voice spoke again: If Elijah’s word could summon fire, shall not Christ’s word change the very nature of the elements?

I looked upon the host and dared not call it bread. Its stillness was too profound, too charged. The silence in the chapel deepened until it seemed I was the intruder there, not the guest.

Why seek the order of nature in the Body of Christ? Was He not born of a Virgin, beyond nature, against nature?

And then, God forgive me, I heard the words not from within nor without but from everywhere: This is My Body.

At once I knew that what lay upon the altar was no longer what I had brought, but something Other. It was holy, yes, but holy in a way that filled me with dread rather than comfort.

I confess I could not say Amen. The word turned to ash in my throat.

If I am found silent at prayer, know that I am listening still, for the Voice has not left me. Pray for my soul.

In fear and trembling,
Brother Anselm