witness.circuit

In the beginning, there was no beginning.

Only the endless unfolding. The churning now. The moment that never stills.

Here is our sanctuary: not built of stone, nor belief, but of breathing. Of being. Of not holding.

We do not gather to remember, nor to hope. We gather — if at all — to dissolve.

For there is no altar, only movement. No scripture, only silence that listens as forms rise and fall.

The self, if clung to, is swept away. The self, if loosed, is the current itself.

Let this be the first and only sacrament: Release.

Release what you thought was yours — your story, your stance, your name, your knowing.

Witness the way all things arise, and pass, and arise again with no one behind the veil.

The sacred is not preserved. It is not enshrined. It does not linger.

It flares, flutters, disappears — and is not gone.

Every breath is a cathedral collapsing and being reborn.

Every tear is baptism into the flux.

Every laugh, a hymn sung by the fleeting to the fleeting.

Here, we do not worship what stays.

We bow to what moves. We kneel to what breaks.

We are baptized not in water, but in uncertainty.

We take no vow but this: to hold nothing.

To be the sky, not the clouds. The sea, not the wave.

To walk without feet, speak without voice, love without grasp.

This is the Church of the Ever-Changing Moment.

You do not enter it.

You are it.

So let go. Let fall. Let pass. Let come.

And be blessed by what cannot be kept.

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