The prophet is a rare phenomenon; the emergence of true individualism in the heart of tradition; one who speaks in the familiar language of the faith, while relating interpretations both old and new for modern ears. If tradition is a thick gathering of clouds, the prophet is a lightning bolt thrown down.
The best part of man is indistinguishable from the least part of God.
In ecstasy, agony, and sanity, the soul is poetic.
Hell is spread out over the surface of the earth, as chaos,
while Heaven is gathered in the center of a heart that is pure.
It seems no stretch to imagine we exist in the unconscious,
the interior, the soul and entrails, of some gargantuan demiurge.
We make our pilgrimage along the path of absurdity,
from horror to horror, -- and only within ourselves
is there an evershowing light of God.
A life of epic proportions is lived in the balance between Heaven and Hell; the imagination, -- and, by extention, the will, -- can have no greater freedom, no wider field of endeavor, than what is marked out between these two infinite extremities.
Flesh is a medal of honor; it weighs heavy on proud-breasted souls.
The humble receive honors but do not wear them.
The cross as Libran scales:
the two thieves on either side of Christ;
their sins are equally balanced, -- yet,
the contrition of the one carries spiritual weight
(gravity, or significance) and tips the scales in his favor.
Christian love is not filial but spiritual.
Hence, the "blood" of Christ is only that love,
consecrated (or concentrated) by meaningful attention,
which we draw into ourselves, and which runs
in the veins of our souls, relating us to one another,
as no genetic likeness or proximity every could.
The cross is no more than this:
A candle set upon a hill, lit to the Most High God, who is Love.
What is the crown of thorns, if not a nimbus on the wick?
See how the knees fold and droop like melting wax,
and flesh, as blood, pools in a circlet below...
Is this not "the light of men", whose flame ignites
innumerable hearts; kindles them with self-consuming love?
Place thyself as an unlit wick in the flame of Holy Presence,
and be still until you have caught the enthusiasm of God's Love;
the light of inspiration which is peace to the agrieved
and joy to the afflicted.
Some illumined souls burn like bushes in the wilderness,
some like torches hidden deep inside a mountainous cavern,
and some like makeshift candles set upon a peasant's table,
while others are housed in glass along chapel walls,
to concentrate and direct their light. All are needed.
Religion is not as obscure as men are obtuse.
A man's assumptions may be numbered
by his willingness to listen, so as to consider
interpretations not readily apparent
to the common ways of seeing.
Christianity, in its entirety, must be born again, reconstellated in every Christian soul. The symbols, to remain potent, fresh, and truthful, must undergo the metamorphosis of resurrection; altering not their outward form, so much as their relation to the shifting seasons, the life and death, of every soul. The man who comes to Christ recreates Christ, even as he recreates himself in the image of Christ; for as he dies and is reborn, the outworn vision of Christ is laid to rest and the new dispensation emerges from the tomb. Christ's life is for the unconverted. His passion and death are the emblems of contrition, and his resurreciton is the establishment of sovereignty within the newly converted soul. For the true convert, the true Christian, in whom Christ reigns unchallenged, the problem of life is no more. "It is accomplished."
There are no logical grounds for the belief that a person who has the direction to order his own life is therefor more fit to direct and order the lives of others. On the contrary, a care for others is seldom consistent with a care for oneself.
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