A Room Called Mercy

Imagine a room, a place to go that is a sanctuary.  A room of comfortable furniture, a warm and inviting place to be where one’s defenses are not necessary…indeed one cannot enter the room with them, they simply will not fit through the door.  And because of this, we may stand at the door or window of this room and look in for a long time, desiring to enter, but unable.  Our eye immediately goes to where we would sit.  We can breathe in the sweet, warm aroma that fills our lungs and stirs in us the desire to let go of the impediments and rush in. 

When we are able to drop the armor we have assembled and we’re able to go in we find that it is beyond what we expected.  It is a blessing that exceeds our dreams or anticipation. 

As we begin to soak in and absorb the essence of this room we find that we are letting go of some of the secret tools we’ve smuggled through the doorway that provide us with some sense of security—weapons against the fearful sting of criticism—excuses that we have crafted in order to release our consciences from judgment.  How these things were smuggled in points to the strange mystery of our own powers of deception as well as to the depth of the mercy this room contains. 

As we become accustomed to the room we begin to notice keepsakes scattered about, just like we might keep a photo album or a ceramic souvenir from a trip sitting upon an end table.  But these keepsakes are odd reminders of wounds still unhealed—indiscretions of our own and others—dishonesties and responses that we have rationalized.  Finding these things embarrasses us, fills us with a peculiar contempt for whoever would lay such things around for us to find.  We may even find ourselves looking toward the doorway, tempted to leave in order to nurse the self-justifying rage that stirs like a serpent in our chest.   This room begins to smell putrid to us as we hold these things in our hands and as the poison of our self-righteousness courses through our veins. 

And yet we feel something else, something that causes the sharp edges of the indiscretion we hold in our hands to suddenly turn to dust and then vapor and then disappear.  Left in our hands is something that we cannot describe, but it seems to be a precious coin with which we may purchase an invaluable gift. 
This is A Room Called Mercy.  A room of wonder where the miracle of transformation occurs.  A room where we cannot remain as we were when we entered.  A room through which we pass into the grand banquet hall of God’s love.

© Stephen Carl