Amen Is Heavy

I’ve watched people auction their discipleship

for something that hums softer against the skin.

For tranquility rehearsed so well

it almost convinced the soul to unclench around it.

Something that performs well in the moment

but dissolves the second it’s asked to endure.

And I can’t ignore the strangeness of it—

how a life promised in abundance,

in something unending,

still gets bartered away

for what flatters the flesh the fastest.

At some point

deception requires consent.

You don’t just fall into illusion—

you accommodate it.

Dress it.

Defend it.

Call it holy because it doesn’t challenge you.

But images don’t carry substance.

They rehearse it.

And somewhere along the way

you started choosing what could be captured

over what could actually hold you.

I was not assembled for that kind of living.

There is something in me

that refuses to counterfeit meaning.

Even when misunderstood—

even when it costs me translation—

truth doesn’t lose its shape

just because it isn’t received correctly.

You feel it.

Before words.

Before logic.

Before you can soften it into something easier to keep.

That’s where we separated.

You trusted what felt agreeable.

I stayed loyal to what refused to bend.

So it was never timing.

Never misunderstanding.

We were building with different definitions of real.

I wasn’t becoming something comfortable.

I was becoming something that could withstand being seen

without rearranging itself to survive it.

You were perfecting the art

of feeling whole

inside moments that were never built to last.

And there is no bridge for that.

No repair.

No recalibration.

Because nothing broke.

It revealed.

And revelation doesn’t negotiate.

It stands there—

unmoved—

while everything false decides whether it’s willing to collapse.

You felt that.

You just chose something quieter.

Something that didn’t demand surrender.

Something that let you remain untouched

by the weight of what you already knew.

But don’t mistake relief for truth.

One disappears the moment it’s questioned.

The other waits—

unchanged—

until you’re done pretending you don’t recognize it.

And “amen”—

that is not a word you speak.

That is a moment

where your spirit stops negotiating with your flesh

and stands in full agreement

with what it has known

the entire time.

That is weight.

That is final.

And that’s where I was.