When the Word Leaves Your Mouth

The poverty of giving what cannot be taken back

“Give blood and receive the Spirit.”

— Abba Longinus

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At the end of a retreat, a man stands emptied in a particular way.

Not exhausted only.

Not relieved only.

But exposed.

Because what has been given was not information.

It was the heart.

And once spoken, the heart no longer belongs to him in the same way.

It has passed into others.

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There is a temptation in that moment to look back.

To measure.

To search faces.

To gather some sign that what was given has been received.

But the word, once released, refuses to return for inspection.

It goes where it will.

Some of it falls into confusion.

Some of it is forgotten before night.

Some of it wounds.

Some of it consoles.

Some of it disappears entirely from sight.

And some of it descends quietly, like seed into hidden earth, where no eye can follow.

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This is the poverty of the one who speaks.

He does not control what becomes of what he has given.

He cannot preserve it.

He cannot defend it.

He cannot even fully understand it once it has left him.

He is left with silence.

And in that silence, something is taken from him.

The subtle possession of his own word.

The illusion that he could shepherd its outcome.

The hidden desire to be seen, understood, confirmed.

All of this is stripped.

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To entrust one’s heart is not a poetic act.

It is a form of death.

Because the heart longs, quietly, to remain intact, to be held, to be recognized.

But the true offering does not return to the one who gives it.

It is spent.

Given over to misunderstanding, to indifference, to distortion, to hidden fruitfulness that may never be known.

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So the man stands at the end with empty hands.

No proof.

No certainty.

No claim over what has been sown.

Only this:

to speak,

to release the word,

and to let it disappear into silence.

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If he tries to follow it, he loses it.

If he tries to reclaim it, he corrupts it.

If he tries to measure it, he reduces it.

So he must let it go completely.

As the sower who does not dig up the seed to see if it lives.

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And here, at last, something pure can begin.

Not in the speaking,

but in the relinquishing.

A trust that is not emotional, not even perceptible.

A trust that stands without evidence:

that in the silence where the word has gone,

beyond his reach,

beyond his knowing,

God Himself is at work.