“One of the seraphim flew to me, carrying in his hand a glowing coal which he had taken from the altar with a pair of tongs, and he touched my mouth with it.” (Isaiah 6:6-7)

The glowing coal from the altar purifies the prophet’s lips. Consecration ceremony for him who is going to talk in the name of the Lord. Painful and meaningful introduction for prophecies, oracles, sermons, exhortations. Test by fire that comes from the altar and burns the lips of the prophet so that the prophet may speak the word of God to the people of God. Rite of seraphim whose task is to proclaim the sanctity of the Thrice Holy.

I’m humbly asking the seraph with the glowing coal in his hand to touch with it the tips of my fingers. I’m a writer and I write with those fingers words which I want to proceed straight from the altar without any personal interests, low selfishness, narrow opinions, or hidden vanity getting mixed with them. Let him burn my fingers with the fire from the altar so that they may never write a word that may hurt, a sentence that may do harm to anyone, a book that may discourage the reader. I want my pages to carry with them the message of faith and love, of cheer and joy, of zest for life and trust in eternity, of understanding and compassion, of brotherhood and solidarity, of humour and adventure to brighten the mood of whoever reads them, provoke a smile, lighten the heart, enliven life. I want the blessing of the seraph with the glowing coal in his hands for those pages to be white, clean, shining, even if my fingers hurt with the healing. A right mind, a loving heart, supple fingers. That is my wish as a writer for all my books and my writings and my letters and my emails, and it is for that gift from heaven, which only God can give, that I entreat the seraphim at the altar to do their duty as guardians of holiness with glowing embers of fire.

I can feel with Isaiah his anguish and his protest when he received the call from the Lord and recoiled at his own unworthiness: “Woe is me! I am a man of unclean lips!” I am full of complexes and ambition and jealousy and pride that often cloud my mind, twist my judgement, condition my expression, and reach through nerves and tissues down to the tips of my fingers as they strike the keys on the keyboard and print the text. They stain with the shadow of selfishness what should have been pure light of truth.   

“Woe is me! I am a man of unclean fingers!” My fingers have refused work and have sought pleasure, have grasped gain and have let go of responsibilities, have caressed softness and have shunned rough touches, have welcomed vanity and have ignored duty. My fingers have been irresponsible dancers on the keyboard of life instead of being docile instruments of order and regularity and precision. I am a man of unclean fingers, and I know it in the bottom of my heart and in the depths of my conscience.

That is why I’m asking the seraph at the altar of fire to consecrate my fingers in his sacrifice, so that they may point to righteousness and, working though the channels of my body, may give back to my mind and my conscience the balance of justice and the seal of love that I wish may flower in my writings and my words.

The prophet’s lips have to taste first the glowing coal from the altar. Let the writer’s fingers taste it too.