Prophecy
two thousand and seven
exodus - a journal entry
'2007': Two thousand and seven years after the incident of a man-who-claimed-to-be-the-son-of-God was murdered in public on a hill in Jerusalem. One man, one event, one definition, one history. Two thousand and seven years later the event is still held up before life...a statement that redefines purpose. A statement that haunts every word I've ever heard.
It's a week later (07/01/07). It seems appropriate to fill this first week of pages with words I have suddenly found. The first week of this year, was to say the least, hard. It's the hardness a city soul encounters in the desert heat. A sense of general betrayal by the elements - a sense of being forsaken by the coolness of merciful shade. It's the hardness one encounters after the work is done yet the work does not stop, and the feel of flesh against unyielding metal circumstances seems to hurt the heart where it never did before.
Perhaps it was because Christmas disappeared beneath the blanket of work and never rose up again...not even as the year turned on it's side. It was a month of retrospectively considering all the mistakes I have made and through it all I never did find that moment to walk alone with You.
Set the Rest before me - the Promised Land and the fruits ripe with love. I see them now, even in my blindness... I see them causing the dry branches to yeild, to bow, to submit to the gravity of love.
'Who would love me? Who could love me?' the desert ghosts whisper in my ear as they tangle my hair and burn my skin. I am in the dry land, home to a legion of outcasts yet there is a song that wets my soul with salty tears, burns my heart with the sulphuric rain of judgement, melts my mind into a puddle of repentance for just Being...
'Here I am Lord.' It's two thousand and seven years of intelligent history yet for all the intelligence, I have not as yet been able to replace the idea of Him...the God of Creation, the God of Science, the God of Systems, the God of Jesus Christ who dared to be called Father of men ... dared to be known as Father-of-me.
'What am I doing here?' I wonder quietly. 'How did I get to this god-forsaken island of existence? What island? For here the ocean is but a desert and the only water there is resides in the secret place of tears, a mysterious place I have forgotten how to get to.
There are holy books and holy words. There's science and law. Consequences and a creed of good and evil. Right and wrong. How did I enter this land of doctrine? Here people walk around with a holy book-in-hand, shrouded in words, tangled in scripture,cocooned in laws. The words frighten me. They swarm like bees promising the sweetness of honey to the hive of the person but attack any person or thing that tries to reach beyond it into the heart of the hive. The bees scare me. Never has something been so sweet yet inbibed with such a deadly sting as those words of Holiness.
We fear evil unto us. I do... I fear people ripping my garments of truth aside to rape me of all I held sacred and dear, for no greater purpose than to prove that the guile and power of persons versus the protection of God is a viable battle. Once there was a sense of 'we can overcome the things of God' and the rapist would leave having reaked havoc sufficient to empty out a soul. Now he does not leave, but pulls her into his sordid life with the glint of madness in his eyes screaming like a banshee 'We have overcome God!' There is a madness here, a madness greater than evil.
But I will fear no evil, for thou o God art with me. They said christians were mad, that they dishonoured God for honouring Jesus as the son of God. They declared that a book of rules and laws would save them ... would save me ... Would save me from being an inmate of an everlasting fire...
They said it was not necessary for Jesus to be the son of God. He was a son of Man and that was enough. A son of Man. And so they split him in two and let the son of God disappear into the Heavens again without so much as blinking. and the death of the son of Man was not even recognised. Nobody noticed this half die, because nobody understood why it would or should die as surely as any being would naturally die if they were sawn in half...
A book of rules, a set of laws, a system aimed to develop me to my full potential...
They said it was necessary to behave to get to God...
In this dry-dry land I have seen the yoke of a black garment that draws in the heat and suffers the body to despair. I have seen many take off the garment and declare that 'There is no God to get to.' for the weight of the heat was unbearable to continue the journey.
I have seen many take off the garment, toss it aside and watch as it fell like a dead leaf to the golden sand. And they said 'I have no desire to get to God anyway,' and walked away.
I have seen many with no garment walk beside this exodus only to be told that they need to wear the garment to get to where the rest were going. They were scorned and scolded, tempted and abused until they too turned back having said, 'If this is the only kind of people that can get to God, I am clearly not this kind, or this God is clearly not for my kind.'
We were told to make a highway in the desert, to prepare a straight path for the Lord.
I have seen many build sand castles large enough for them to live in. A city of sand castles. A shelter and a home, and people were glad to take off their garments to rest within the sandy walls before adorning their cloth again to continue on their journey. I have seen these sand castles grow taller and taller, stronger and stronger until they seemed to reach the sky. And the castle-dwellers said to the pilgrims, 'Look we are almost done building a highway to the heavens. Come and help us complete this holy work, where the Lord is our strength and this very fortress and surely you will attain your promised land before the rest of the pilgrims. Here there is no need to wear those garments, for certainly these very walls are those garments. Every stone of this temple is a solidification of the law that is bound to proect us and keep us safe.' And yes, many pilgrims left the exodus and dwelt in the sand castles.
I have seen the sand castles turn into storm castles, where the walls melted into tidal waves of liquid sand and consumed the inhabitants in a single crashing moment. Storm-castles... some still say that it is the winds of Elijah coming to take them to the heavens, and this group of people have begun building more storm-castles. Many pilgrims leave the journey to dwell there, forever in anticipation for the escalator to heaven to descend.
I have seen... I have seen...
And they said that Jesus was just a prophet, and the hardness of the desert has begun to make my feet blister. Soon the sand will drink my blood...the blood that still cries out to an unseen God, 'Save us...save us. Help us...help us...' They say blood cries out it's final cry for ages beyond it's existence within the landscapes of the flesh. Will my final cry be this plea?
Jesus was before man...two thousand and seven years before me... yet he stands ahead of me, this cross and this sacrifice infront of me as if it is always just about to happen or has just happened. For all the modernisation in me, the intellectualism in me, for all the knowledge I have attained and could attain, this event still stands before me, an anachronism that holds time in it's being, from which life comes and seems to return to irrespective of human time lines of logic. Perhaps then Jesus stands the same way before a family, before a community, before a society, before a nation...before a religion as something to attain to: the promise of freedom. The hope of a soul, the hope of a family, of a community and society, the hope of a nation, the pinnacle of hope of religion. Is this vanity? Is this vantiy under the sun? Could a man be the hope of a religion? When religion lays itself down, collapses beneath it's weight and allows a Life to pick it up, to carry it across the final chasm between man and God? Am I the only one who's tired?
We talk too much about religion on this exodus. There's too many leaders leading us to God. There's even some who have spoken about sacrificing our gold to build a golden calf, to worship it, earn us some food worth that sacrifice in gold. There's others who say, 'God will provide the way, we need to wait' and I see daggers of betrayal in eyes trimmed with impatience, polished with annoyance, mounting a revolt spurred by accumulating offence, directed to the end that proves the righteousness of the last one left holding onto the gift of life.
There's a poet who loves God. He has seen God in every grain of sand, His breath in every flame, His power astride every mountain, His gentle hand of provision in every piece of meat. He saw the uprightness of God in tall tree trunks, the blessing of God in every birth. I loved the poet. So did the people. They wanted to make him king. The poet loved God too much to waste his time being king, and so declined. It was strange that there were some who behaved in a like manner to the poet but proclaimed that God could be found and held in all these material things. Some say that they believed that if their claims were as convincing as the poet, they would be made king by the people. The poet walks alone shrouded in words ... quieter than usual these days.
And now my feet are tired and I wonder at how this river of people could keep moving. In the desert, I too have wanted to turn away, I have wanted to put on the cloaks to belong, I have wanted to believe in the storm castles...But for all my wants I find only tired, burnt and broken feet. 'Jesus is not enough.' he had said to me, pain and disappointment flooding indigo eyes. 'What is enough then?' I wondered watching his back disappear into the crowd armed with holy books and philactaries. 'Where are we going then, if not the place where Jesus went? And if Jesus managed to get there how is it that he's not enough?' The thoughts hurt me. The answers hurt even more. In my head remain the words spoken to me millenia ago... 'My Father has given all judgement to me, for I am the son, and he who honours me, honours the Father.' If we're heading to the judgement seat of Life Eternal, there's one possibility in a million that we'l meet Jesus there. Is that possibility too little to ignore? My head swims in words... my heart quiet - quietly burdened beneath the weight of these thoughts.
And the night settles upon the earth, like an old faithful lover comfortably filling every hollow and curve of it's body - and I'm left alone with the quietness of my heart as the rest sleep beneath the warmth of their shrouds (having acummulated sufficient heat during the day to last the night), within the cocoon of their words, within the womb of their laws. My heart beats quietly in the wilderness of this exodus. I see some light of those thinking on the smoke of tabacco - unravelling the dynasty of religion and people... I'm too tired to think about it now. Jesus was never religion, he was hardly a man, he was no community or society, he was no nation, yet, he was real.
And the reality of him seems to dance naked in the midst of heavily clothed keepers of the law. The fountain of words that sprung forth from his heart blows the pages of the holy books over and about until they reveal exactly what he speaks. Covers are torn apart unlocking the spine to the body of pages that dictate order and structure as he chooses his next destination. His very movement stirring up the hurricane that tosses pages into the heavens like a salad, delivering one leaf at a time onto the plate. Words at the whim of heaven and we never did starve.
The reality of him contemplates me with the quiet understanding of the creator who understands exactly what went wrong and how to fix it. He never did offer me a sacrifice to sacrifice in order to get whole. The reality of him walks amongst the tents we have built for ourselves in the desert, with only himself to offer to those who do not believe that he is who he says he is. And this offering seems eternal to me. Were there 'infidels' and 'unbelievers' in the living dictionary that resided in Jesus? He said what the rest of them say - that there is a seperate place for believers and unbelievers. He said it as someone would when speaking about the facts of life and death - he said it almost as if to reveal how things just are. He said it as though holding up a mirror to life so that we could see what it really is - he said it as would any holy book would say it, but there was no hate in him. There was no religion in him, there was no power in him, only a longing to gather to himself, those who did not believe in the freedom that God has to offer, so that he might carry them naked and bare once again across that final chasm.
Where does this journey of days lead? Where is the rest of the land promised to us? When will the fighting and the bickering amongst ourselves end ('stop bickering amongst yourselves, no one can come to me unless the Father draws them to me!') Still his words ring clear in my head. Perhaps soon they will sink into my heart.
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