Saturday, 19 October 2019
Do you remember in our last conversation how I complained that people, and I should specify them as Christians, have similar reactions when I share what I believe I am learning from God from my heart? There is an instant numbness, a recoil, a dimming to the eyes that happens which, when taken with the words they speak, equates a quiet yet definite judgment along with a peculiar withdrawal. The very idea that I could be learning anything from God, without the accountability of men, is summarily rejected. Who am I, after all – a question that I ask every day.
It is peculiar and perplexing because I speak only what I have come to believe is the truth, and that in the face of lies that we tend to believe. Yet perhaps the extent of our deceptedness, or deceptivity, is greater than I had ever imagined. It is almost as though we want to perpetuate it as a natural state of being, a cocoon in which we sop up whatever nutrients we ate in the world when we were yet caterpillars, which equates a form of self-cannibalism in which we never get to escape the cocoon and morph into that marvelous butterfly with the varicolored wings – a completely different creature – all because we choose to feast on lies that we’ve come to cherish more than the truth that sets us free, the truth that would destroy the old you in light of the transformation of the one that comes, radiantly, in the wake of its glory.
At every turn when Jesus spoke and acted he encountered resistance. You can see it clearly in the Book of John in chapter 8. He is telling the people where his words come from and, as he stated also elsewhere, that he only speaks that which his Father teaches him teaches him to say. Also elsewhere, he teaches that God is the Father of each one of us, and that we are all brothers. Man has no place above another man in the kingdom of heaven. Such truths do not compute in the Carnival, which is born and maintained on hierarchies where those at the top soar and reap riches from the broken backs of those below.
Even a slight elevation of one man above another is both damaging and diminishing. It is damaging because it is inherently forceful; the weight of the man above crushes the one below, even if it is a subtle crushing. It is diminishing because if God is right and we are made in His image then each of us is equally in that image and the playing field among his children is level. To set yourself above another is essentially to take a bit of the seat of God and, even more horrifically, to get between the person below you and the God that he needs to be his, presently, that he may heal and grow. This is the fault of many a priest and pastor, but also of the majority of those who take no such titles.
On the other hand, Jesus came with an understanding of the way of the kingdom of heaven, the basileia as he called it, the mind of God in my estimation. He turned it all over; that the greatest in the kingdom shall be the least, that you must come as a child or not at all. The sense is that if you have strength you are to help those who have less. Place them above you. Undergird them. Make them more important than your self. Love those who are incapable of mirroring its return back to you.
All of which is a meal that, at the table of the Carnival, is made of ingredients that are not savory nor stomachable to it. However, you can clearly see that if we humans were to adopt the same attitudes as Jesus, the world would rapidly change.
Unfortunately, it would also lead to our demise, or at the very least a sequestering. Thus, the resistance from those with whom I have so earnestly tried to share. What the Carnival cannot eat, it kills.
Until next time, stay safe – but not too safe; have fun – but not too much fun.