The Mouth That Opens After the Long Dark

In the writings of John of the Cross, there comes a season he calls the dark night — when every familiar consolation withdraws, when prayer feels like speaking into a sealed room. The soul, stripped of its comfortable certainties, descends into what feels like absence but is actually the deepest presence.

It is precisely here that Romans 10:9 finds its fullest meaning. "If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart" — but notice the order of the interior life. The heart believes first, in the silence, in the dark, in the place beneath words. Belief is not first an intellectual conclusion. It is a yielding, a surrender that happens in the contemplative depths where the ego finally loosens its grip.

Then — and only then — the mouth opens. The confession rises not as theological performance but as overflow. Like water finding its way through cracked stone, the declaration "Jesus is Lord" emerges from someone who has been broken open by divine encounter.

Teresa of Avila understood this. In her Interior Castle, she described the innermost dwelling place where the soul and God are so united that speech becomes almost unnecessary — yet the mystic returns to the world and speaks with astonishing clarity and power.

This is the invitation: let your salvation be more than a sentence repeated. Sit in the silence long enough for the Lord to reach the rooms in your heart you have never unlocked. What rises to your lips afterward will be a confession that carries the weight of genuine encounter.