A short story based around the Book of Revelantion, the hymn "Veni Creator Spiritus", and the ancient order of Compline. Following John A.T. Robinson and others, I think there is more evidence for the Neronian persecution than the Domitianic dating.
The Hermit of Patmos
The nights are the hardest.
When the wind claws at the cave mouth and the sea roars like a wounded beast, I feel again the smoke of Rome in my lungs, the screams of the faithful carried off to Nero’s gardens. I see the torches, living torches of Christians, tied to wooden posts, set alight, burning in the emperor’s courtyards. I hear the laughter. I smell the flesh.
Rome burned and temples and porticoes were destroyed in the conflagration. I saw the smoke arising from the fallen city of seven hills like incense of ruin. And the Christians paid the price, a scapegoat for Nero, for we are seen as a pernicious superstition, a disease, spreading into the capitol and across the world.
O God, come to our aid.
O Lord, make haste to help us..
I whisper into the dark, come, Creator Spirit, visit the minds of your people. Visit mine, for it is breaking.
I came to Patmos as a fugitive, but I have become a hermit by necessity. The island is barren, a spine of rock thrust from the sea. I eat little, sleep less, and pray always. Yet prayer is no longer the gentle rhythm it once was. It is a trembling, a fire, a weight. For I have seen what no man should see, the celestial fire.
Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire,
and lighten with celestial fire.
It began on a day of thunder. I had been fasting, my body thin as driftwood, when the sky split open with a sound like iron tearing. I fell to the ground, clutching my ears, but the voice entered me like a blade of light: “Fear not.” And then the vision came, bright as the sun, terrible as the storm.
I saw the Son of Man, eyes like flame, hair as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire, feet like burnished bronze. His voice was the voice that stilled the waves of Galilee, yet now it shook the foundations of the world. Around Him seven stars burned, and in His hand was a sword of purest light. I remember crying out, “I am not worthy! I am dust, I am ash!” But He touched me, and strength returned to my bones.
Since that day, the visions have not ceased.
At times I see the throne—high, radiant, encircled by an emerald rainbow. I see the four living creatures crying, “Holy, holy, holy.” I see the elders casting their crowns like sparks before the One who lives forever. And I, a broken man on a forgotten island, tremble at the glory.
Other times I see darker things. Beasts rising from the sea, crowned with blasphemies. A dragon whose tail sweeps the stars from the sky. A woman clothed with the sun, pursued by the ancient serpent. And the smoke of Babylon rising like incense of ruin.
When these visions come, I clutch my cloak and whisper the hymn that has become my anchor: enkindle our senses with light, pour love into our hearts. For without that love, I would be lost. You, O Lord, are in the midst of us and we are called by your name; leave us not, O Lord our God.
Enable with perpetual light
the dullness of our blinded sight.
Tonight, as the moon climbs over the jagged rocks, I feel the weight of the world pressing upon me again. I think of the brothers and sisters who died in Rome, of Peter and Paul, now long dead. I think of the ones still suffering. I think of the Church, small, scattered, hunted, and I wonder how such a fragile flock can endure the wolves. These are savage wolves that have come among us, not sparing our flock.
Then the vision returns, not in thunder this time, but in stillness. A city descends from heaven, radiant as a bride. Its walls gleam with jasper; its gates are pearls; its streets shine like gold refined in fire. And from within it comes a voice like a river: “Behold, I make all things new.”
My tears fall freely. The persecutions, the flames, the exile, the loneliness, none of it is the final word. The final word is glory. The final word is peace. The final word is God. There will be no more night: we will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for God will be our light, in this new world, this new creation, reborn from the ashes of the old.
I rise, steady at last, and whisper into the night: Maranatha, come Lord Jesus, and make this broken world anew.
The nights are the hardest.
When the wind claws at the cave mouth and the sea roars like a wounded beast, I feel again the smoke of Rome in my lungs, the screams of the faithful carried off to Nero’s gardens. I see the torches, living torches of Christians, tied to wooden posts, set alight, burning in the emperor’s courtyards. I hear the laughter. I smell the flesh.
Rome burned and temples and porticoes were destroyed in the conflagration. I saw the smoke arising from the fallen city of seven hills like incense of ruin. And the Christians paid the price, a scapegoat for Nero, for we are seen as a pernicious superstition, a disease, spreading into the capitol and across the world.
O God, come to our aid.
O Lord, make haste to help us..
I whisper into the dark, come, Creator Spirit, visit the minds of your people. Visit mine, for it is breaking.
I came to Patmos as a fugitive, but I have become a hermit by necessity. The island is barren, a spine of rock thrust from the sea. I eat little, sleep less, and pray always. Yet prayer is no longer the gentle rhythm it once was. It is a trembling, a fire, a weight. For I have seen what no man should see, the celestial fire.
Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire,
and lighten with celestial fire.
It began on a day of thunder. I had been fasting, my body thin as driftwood, when the sky split open with a sound like iron tearing. I fell to the ground, clutching my ears, but the voice entered me like a blade of light: “Fear not.” And then the vision came, bright as the sun, terrible as the storm.
I saw the Son of Man, eyes like flame, hair as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire, feet like burnished bronze. His voice was the voice that stilled the waves of Galilee, yet now it shook the foundations of the world. Around Him seven stars burned, and in His hand was a sword of purest light. I remember crying out, “I am not worthy! I am dust, I am ash!” But He touched me, and strength returned to my bones.
Since that day, the visions have not ceased.
At times I see the throne—high, radiant, encircled by an emerald rainbow. I see the four living creatures crying, “Holy, holy, holy.” I see the elders casting their crowns like sparks before the One who lives forever. And I, a broken man on a forgotten island, tremble at the glory.
Other times I see darker things. Beasts rising from the sea, crowned with blasphemies. A dragon whose tail sweeps the stars from the sky. A woman clothed with the sun, pursued by the ancient serpent. And the smoke of Babylon rising like incense of ruin.
When these visions come, I clutch my cloak and whisper the hymn that has become my anchor: enkindle our senses with light, pour love into our hearts. For without that love, I would be lost. You, O Lord, are in the midst of us and we are called by your name; leave us not, O Lord our God.
Enable with perpetual light
the dullness of our blinded sight.
Tonight, as the moon climbs over the jagged rocks, I feel the weight of the world pressing upon me again. I think of the brothers and sisters who died in Rome, of Peter and Paul, now long dead. I think of the ones still suffering. I think of the Church, small, scattered, hunted, and I wonder how such a fragile flock can endure the wolves. These are savage wolves that have come among us, not sparing our flock.
Then the vision returns, not in thunder this time, but in stillness. A city descends from heaven, radiant as a bride. Its walls gleam with jasper; its gates are pearls; its streets shine like gold refined in fire. And from within it comes a voice like a river: “Behold, I make all things new.”
My tears fall freely. The persecutions, the flames, the exile, the loneliness, none of it is the final word. The final word is glory. The final word is peace. The final word is God. There will be no more night: we will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for God will be our light, in this new world, this new creation, reborn from the ashes of the old.
I rise, steady at last, and whisper into the night: Maranatha, come Lord Jesus, and make this broken world anew.
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