Monday, November 7, 2016

A post I should not make

I like to fantasize that I was Jesus Christ in a past life.  I am lonely and it is a congenial fantasy.  Judge me as you choose.  To be sure, the psychiatric wards are filled with Jesus's.  As Mark Knopfler sang, of Speakers Corner "two men say they are Jesus; one of them must be wrong".  It's a good line.

But I would like to present to you some unique ideas, some notions that I have not seen presented anywhere else.  This is my burden: to be filled with ideas, which I have every reason to believe are highly useful, and to be understood, as far as I can tell, by no one.  To be sure I could be more determined and more effective at getting my ideas out there, more steadfast in working to find supporters.  But I do tire sometimes, trying and trying and trying and failing and failing and failing.

And I have actually been enjoying some peace the past few days.  The part of me that reacts with an electric jolt to the notion of our society failing is not reacting as much.  I am not caring as much.  I am not so much becoming apathetic, as realizing that no matter how much I excite myself, no matter how much I set myself on fire, most people will not care, and for the most part it makes no difference.  The illusion of control can be comforting, but accepting that it is an illusion also makes life much less serious.

Christ began his ministry around age 33.  Where was he until then?  He was politically engaged arguing with his fellow Jews against a suicidal rebellion, which would lead to the end of everything left of traditional Jewish life oriented around the Temple.  He could see that the Romans, while tolerant enough in peace, were quite willing and able to commit acts of mass murder and destruction if driven to do so.

He could feel the murder in the air, and the end of an era.  He begged people not to do what was in their hearts.  And at a certain point, he realized it was all useless.  It might be ten years, it might be a hundred (although that wasn't likely), but their way of life would be broken.  Parts might remain, but the fabric would be torn.

And that is when he began his ministry, his highly impractical creed of love.  It was born in part of despair.  The larger project of saving the whole failed.  He was unsuccessful and he knew it.

So he preached let us love one another, for soon all will be for naught. Let us love one another as God loves us.  Let us forgive our enemies.  Let us no longer fight them, for soon all will be for naught.  Let us seek the good and the beautiful and the sacred in our hearts, and let us try to feel the ways of God in our hearts, for soon all will be for naught.  We must prepare, because our world is going to become dark, and ash will fill the air, and the screams of the guilty and  innocent alike will fill the air.

And he knew that after all the attacks on the Jewish leaders he had made for so many years that his new turn to the crazy would set them against him.  They wanted and preached victory.  They fought for Jewish independence, and they sure as fuck didn't need some dirty beggar and rabble-rouser putting those sorts of ideas into people's heads.  Victory was on their mind, victory of the sorts preached throughout their scripture.

And he knew this.  But he was a stubborn mother-fucker, and he didn't quit.  He was a warrior, and warriors accept only victory and death.  And victory, now, was healing people hurting in their souls.  He focused on the down-trodden and invisible because they are the only ones able to listen, to hear with new ears, to accept new truths, to be taught in any way, shape or form. It is largely still this way, today.

And when they nailed him on the cross he felt fear, yes, but more sadness.  He had failed again.  He had been misunderstood again.  It was not the death that bothered him, but failing to be heard. He knew he had touched some hearts, but he could also likely sense the bandits and robbers--the wolves--already circling around the emotional effect they could see that his words had, and trying to figure out how to use them for their own benefit.

Maybe he came back from the dead, maybe he didn't.  People come back from the dead, according to the reports of people I believe, many times every year around the world TODAY, albeit typically through mediums.  This would not be a unique miracle.

And over time the story persisted of something unusual, something inexplicable, behavior that did not fit within any good narrative other than those of sacrifice and love.  And over time the story grew.  A virgin birth was added, walking on water, loaves and fishes, magical healings.  The mother, who in fact he dreaded, became a saint, and was worshiped in her own right.

And for thousands of years a fossilized institution has preached of love, and practiced charity with the same diligence as the Goodfellas in Queens--who did distribute toys every Christmas to all the kids--with all the genuineness of wind up toys.

And thus a global, Catholic institution of immense wealth and power grew up on the seed of someone whose main virtue was being willing to risk everything he had and was at every moment of his life.

Is any of this true?  I don't know.  I don't tell my mind where it can and cannot go.  Once the notion of limits is in place it shrinks instantly.  I don't share everything, and was not sure if I should share this, but it feels right, so here you go.

Whoever wins tomorrow, I am ready to change my life and my focus.  I think this is true.

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