The Holy Ache (Epithymia)

She was there

when the ruach of God

stirred the dust,

a whisper of desire,

a holy ache,

woven into the soul.

Before the fall,

before the shame,

before the grasping,

there was longing.

A pull toward the Other.

A hunger not of lack,

but of love.

In the cool of the evening,

they walked with God.

Naked.

Unashamed.

Every ache was an invitation.

Every desire,

a direction.

But we forgot.

We traded wonder for knowledge,

mystery for mastery.

We left the garden,

not just with thorns in our heels

but with a dislocated hunger

gnawing in our bones.

Now,

we chase shadows in neon temples.

Scroll.

Swipe.

Consume.

We feed on illusions

and call it satisfaction.

Even our prayers feel

packaged.

Predictable.

Safe.

We do not wait anymore.

We click.

And so desire,

that once holy ache,

becomes compulsion.

We light incense to the

gods of dopamine

and name it freedom.

We ask the algorithm to soothe us.

We drink,

not because we thirst,

but because we cannot bear the silence.

But still,

something stirs.

A deeper ache,

a quieter hunger.

It comes in the stillness,

between breath and breath,

between grief and grace.

It comes when the addict

lights a candle instead of a pipe.

When the lonely one

lifts bread to her lips,

not to fill the stomach,

but to remember love.

Every ache is an altar.

Every hunger,

a bell,

calling us not to indulgence,

but to the slow Eucharist

of being known.

We lift our hearts.

We bring our ache.

We say with trembling lips:

Lord, I am not worthy,

but only say the word.

For this is no shameful thing,

to long,

to yearn,

to ache.

It is the soul’s memory of Eden.

It is the ember of glory

still glowing beneath the rubble.

And so I offer this ache

not to the market,

not to the screen,

not to the dragon

in the pixel,

but to the One

who kissed dust into life,

who became flesh

to bear our ache in his own.

O Beloved,

I have desired with desire,

not always rightly,

not always gently,

but I bring it now

as offering.

Let it burn holy.

And one day,

when time is torn

and all things made whole,

when the ache gives way

to the Answer,

we will feast.

And longing will sing.

And the fire of our ache

will become

the flame of communion,

joy without end.

—

Holy One,

in the depths of our restless longing,

teach us to hold desire with grace,

not as a hunger that devours,

but as a flame that illuminates the path to you.

Turn our compulsions into worship,

our restless ache into patient hope,

our shadowed cravings into the bright fire of love.

Come, kindle in us a desire for justice,

a yearning for mercy,

and a holy ache for your kingdom.

Until that day when all longing is fulfilled,

walk with us in the silence between breaths,

and let our hearts be restless only for you.

Praise be to you,

Jesus.

Creation groans.

Our hearts yearn.

For your return.

Amen.

-Rev’d Jon Swales

This poem is part of a collection called ‘Desire’