Sunday, March 29, 2009

What Does Not Matter

What does not matter is whether anyone actually reads this blog today or tomorrow or in eternity, or in infinity. What matters is that I write this blog, and that my words have myself behind them, that my words are not shallow like a small creek, but deep and wide like an extraordinary poem.

I have learned how small I am, and I have seen how large the difficulties are. My own work is invisible in any scale beyond that of my own little hamster run. I am crucified to my life and I cannot escape the cross. This I have tried many times, bloodying my wrists and feet struggling against the bonds which hold me. But there are Roman soldiers at the foot of my cross, just as there were when our Lord was crucified. Luckily they play dice, and fall asleep during their watch. If I can stand the pain -- the extraordinary sensations, I can open up the wounds which they have inflicted upon me so that they are large enough to slip off the head of the nails.

But still I must bide my time. They know that I will struggle against the crucifixion -- that I will sweat both water and blood, salt and urine and feces, along with my drool and the running of my nostrils and the tears of my eyes. Every orifice is open in this crucifixion, so they expect me to struggle. And if I struggle with intelligence, I can open my wounds large enough to escape.

I must let them gamble away my belongings. They would link me to them anyway and help the dogs to find me. I want my escape to be genuine. The suffering is almost unbearable -- beyond my own ken, but if I remain open there is a help which comes to me, which bears my strength and my weaknesses and which fills me with a higher impulse, one that is stronger than death.

Now I cry out in thirst. All the fluids are leaving me, and they offer me gall and vinegar, which I refuse -- they have placed droplets of poison on the sponge -- not to kill but to decrease the consciousness so that the pain can be endured. This is not what I wish for. I wish for more suffering, a deeper suffering -- a suffering beyond that of a single man. I wish to suffer for these men who stand below me playing games and laughing. They see me suffer and struggle but they cannot see my laughter, because it is deep within me. I recognize them -- they are children at play, and they play soldier. At a certain point they become exhausted with my moaning and my crying out. They do not know that I have been opening my wounds with a purpose, and that my crying out has not been my suffering but theirs. Finally they are asleep, and supported by the guest I release first one arm and then the other. I keep my wrists wrapped around the T bar of the cross, so that I might release my feet, which are pointed sideways and through which the nail has pinned both heel bones. But as it seemed to them that I pushed myself up to breathe, I was also grinding the bone in a strange circle so that when I was ready, my feet would release themselves. Now I do this, and with the outer foot free, I begin to turn my knees forward and release the other foot. After this, I do not leave the cross. It has been my home, and its wood knows my suffering. All trees henceforth will pass this tale from generation to generation.

Below me at a distance are my friends, they are wept out and also sleep. Only one is remained awake, so that when I fling myself off of the cross he catches me. Nicodemus. In the meantime Joseph of Arimathea has gone to Pilate to ask for the body. The soldiers have woken up now but do not wish to lose their salaries, so they simply ask "how did he get off the cross?". The answer was given we took him down according to our traditions so that he could be buried before Sunset. Then one of the Roman soldiers took his spear and jabbed it into my side and saw the water and blood gush, and assumed that I was dead. But he missed my heart, which I had stopped from beating.

I was lain in a tomb and ministered to whilst the tomb was sealed with a Rolling Stone. The Romans followed and stood guard, but in the three days wherein I recovered they fell asleep several times and so I left and left them my peace.

On the third morning the women came to minister unto me but I was in disguise. They fell, astonished at the empty tomb, but the work had been done. Except for the ratification, which took mystically 40 days, during which my disciples scattered until their bravery came back and they gathered together. I then sent the Spirit to alight upon each one of them -- and teach them how to communicate with all manner of persons, the good news of my work. I then took my leave. I then took my leave. I then took my leave.

1 comment:

David Pinkston said...

I really appreciate this particular post (all of them are well-written). This one I read in the right space, at the right time...experiential first-person perspective is needed for authentic transformation of consciousness. Thank you for posting this.