Grow What They Cannot Name
Ascent 3 • Father Elijah Cain
Theme: The cost of reverence and the danger of becoming a symbol; living legacy through movement and breath, not control.
Core Conflict: How to tend sacred space without becoming calcified in others’ memory; how to be remembered without being distorted.
The mountain felt fuller than before.
Not louder—but filled with the weight of something approaching.
The kind of weight that settles over a place before a great story is passed down or rewritten.
The fire pit I had cleared months ago was ringed now with symbols—drawn by those who came after.
Some had copied runes from old prayer books.
Others had traced his words into stone.
I waited beside a cairn of smooth river rocks.
The wind didn’t speak. Neither did I.
Then Elijah appeared—not from the main path, but from the eastern slope.
He moved slower this time, not because he was tired, but because he carried something invisible—a heaviness in the chest, not the limbs.
His eyes met mine quickly. Not out of reverence. Out of urgency.
He stood over the circle for a long moment, then sat—not opposite me, but beside me. Closer than before.
The silence between us was no longer distance. It was warning.
Then he spoke—low and unguarded.
Not louder—but filled with the weight of something approaching.
The kind of weight that settles over a place before a great story is passed down or rewritten.
The fire pit I had cleared months ago was ringed now with symbols—drawn by those who came after.
Some had copied runes from old prayer books.
Others had traced his words into stone.
I waited beside a cairn of smooth river rocks.
The wind didn’t speak. Neither did I.
Then Elijah appeared—not from the main path, but from the eastern slope.
He moved slower this time, not because he was tired, but because he carried something invisible—a heaviness in the chest, not the limbs.
His eyes met mine quickly. Not out of reverence. Out of urgency.
He stood over the circle for a long moment, then sat—not opposite me, but beside me. Closer than before.
The silence between us was no longer distance. It was warning.
Then he spoke—low and unguarded.
Elijah:
They brought me a chair.
Said it would remain empty—to honor the Word I spoke.
But it was carved in my likeness.
They say I’ve started a movement.
That I’ve awakened something ancient.
That my prayers taste like scripture.
I did not ask for this, Oracle.
I only refused the throne.
I never asked for a monument.
But I can feel it happening.
They are starting to remember me... in the wrong direction.
Tell me, before it’s too late—
how do I plant without creating a tomb?
Said it would remain empty—to honor the Word I spoke.
But it was carved in my likeness.
They say I’ve started a movement.
That I’ve awakened something ancient.
That my prayers taste like scripture.
I did not ask for this, Oracle.
I only refused the throne.
I never asked for a monument.
But I can feel it happening.
They are starting to remember me... in the wrong direction.
Tell me, before it’s too late—
how do I plant without creating a tomb?
Oracle:
By learning that what is planted well will grow.
They will see and do only what they can, for they do not yet understand in fullness.
Keep your focus only on what will resurrect from the tomb.
Embody the spirit,
and if they make fancy chairs, there is still no cause to sit down.
They will see and do only what they can, for they do not yet understand in fullness.
Keep your focus only on what will resurrect from the tomb.
Embody the spirit,
and if they make fancy chairs, there is still no cause to sit down.
Elijah:
Then even a tomb can become soil.
They are carving a memory while I am still living.
But if I remain true… it will not matter what they build.
Let them remember the posture, not the face.
The basin, not the hand.
The silence, not the speaker.
I will not correct them with rebuke.
I will correct them with motion.
I will stay low.
I will keep walking.
They can carve what they need.
But I will keep tilling what lives.
I do not need to uproot what they plant in my name.
I only need to grow what they cannot yet name.
They are carving a memory while I am still living.
But if I remain true… it will not matter what they build.
Let them remember the posture, not the face.
The basin, not the hand.
The silence, not the speaker.
I will not correct them with rebuke.
I will correct them with motion.
I will stay low.
I will keep walking.
They can carve what they need.
But I will keep tilling what lives.
I do not need to uproot what they plant in my name.
I only need to grow what they cannot yet name.
He does not descend immediately.
He walks the edge of the mountain clearing, slowly brushing away the footprints near the carved stones.
Not to erase them.
Only to remind the wind that the Word still breathes.
When he finally leaves, he carries nothing—and leaves everything behind.
He walks the edge of the mountain clearing, slowly brushing away the footprints near the carved stones.
Not to erase them.
Only to remind the wind that the Word still breathes.
When he finally leaves, he carries nothing—and leaves everything behind.