My perspective is best represented by Christian Dualism, like the ancient Cathars, Bogomils, Albigensians, and similar Gnostic sects which have now passed into obscurity after centuries of persecution, but types of which existed in significant numbers among the earliest churches, where orthodoxy did not take precedence over orthopraxis. Unlike most Christians today, I do not see God as the creator of this world, nor of forms in general.
If He takes upon himself a form like our own, and comes down into the world, it is only to lift us up, who will not bother to lift ourselves up to Him. It is a concession to our sins. We may say that the Incarnation is by the grace of God, but it is a form of grace called mercy, and it is only on account of our sins; for God would have no reason to invoke His mercy, had we not been vicious, and so required it.
God's ultimate nature is pure, undifferentiated essence. In the fullness of infinite potential, He is complete, having no desire to manifest His power. His presence is perceived only in the absence of all things. His wisdom is eloquently uttered in silence. It is only we who require (or imagine we require) a Word, a prayer, a book, a church, or a way of life. In our vainglory, we swat aside the humble Carpenter's cup which is always held out to us, and proudly volunteer to become heroes engaged upon a terrifying and prolonged quest for the Holy Grail. Our first act, as potential heroes, is always to knock away the very thing we seek.
In truth, God has made all things new; He has united the beginning and the end, the wicked and the just; that there should be no heroes, no quests, and no crusades, or endless skirmishes with the devil. Indeed, the devil has never so much as crossed the mind of God; he is summarily obliterated at the borders of sanity, and only exists inside of minds capable of entertaining delusions like himself. Whatever reality he possesses is on loan to him from those who believe in him. It is the same with ourselves, and with all forms. Through faith, we create and sustain ourselves and all things.
But this is not the highest faith.
As long as our faith is dependent on forms, it is crippled and compromised. Faith in God is not faith in any thing, but faith in the fullness of emptiness; the secure assurance that emptiness does not need to be filled, and that, in any case, forms could never fill it, since forms are shaped (or, at least, defined), precisely by the emptiness which surrounds and contains them.
The dualistic perspective consists in recognizing that the world of forms is, more or less, utterly separate and distinct from the world which God inhabits. However, this recognition does not prevent the dualist from affirming the ultimate oneness of reality, since, in the final analysis, the world of forms is regarded as hallucinatory. It is a dream. As I have said, it is a quest to locate the very treasure we have left behind; that which appears useless to us when we possess it, and useful only when sought.
Our heroics are a terrific farce. The forms of goodness cannot shed the shadows of evil; they are dependent on each other. But greatness is a spirit, and is Lord over both.
Monday, November 18, 2013
The Good Samaritan
Some people think being a Good Samaritan means leaving people in the ditch where you found them. They say we should teach them to wallow in mud and call it zen. That we should persuade these poor, broken people to justify every blow which wounded them and brought them low. That somehow this will cleanse their wounds.
My sense is that people ought to be helped out of the ditch, and that justifying the attack has nothing to do with healing the wounds.
As I see it, the ditch is the world, and the attacks are what we suffer here. When "God so loved the world", it was not the ditch he loved, but the ones who had fallen into the ditch; not the body, but the souls which had been ensnared by the flesh. The world, in that sense, is a company of souls, but when we speak of the world, we are talking about a more corporeal experience. And God, who justifies those who fall, does not thereby justify the fall.
The Son did not come to forge a path in the ditch, but to lead us back onto the higher path. "My kingdom is not of this world." The earth is not our path, but only a depression which runs alongside our path, and which we must take care not to fall into. Those who do not fall, descend only when it is necessary to help others climb out. Their work is greatly complicated, however, by the fact that many who have fallen have struck their heads and lost their wits. They do not believe they have fallen, and struggle against anyone who tries to lead them back onto the path.
No, they want to start families in the mud, and build temples out of mud in the mud. Like hostages suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, they seek to make the most of their captivity, having no hope for another life. They do not struggle to escape, but to convince themselves that they are already free. They scoff at talk of escape, and call it a fool's pleasure. Demons do not bother to guard them, for they shut the doors of their own cells and call it home.
"None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe themselves free." (Goethe)
My sense is that people ought to be helped out of the ditch, and that justifying the attack has nothing to do with healing the wounds.
As I see it, the ditch is the world, and the attacks are what we suffer here. When "God so loved the world", it was not the ditch he loved, but the ones who had fallen into the ditch; not the body, but the souls which had been ensnared by the flesh. The world, in that sense, is a company of souls, but when we speak of the world, we are talking about a more corporeal experience. And God, who justifies those who fall, does not thereby justify the fall.
The Son did not come to forge a path in the ditch, but to lead us back onto the higher path. "My kingdom is not of this world." The earth is not our path, but only a depression which runs alongside our path, and which we must take care not to fall into. Those who do not fall, descend only when it is necessary to help others climb out. Their work is greatly complicated, however, by the fact that many who have fallen have struck their heads and lost their wits. They do not believe they have fallen, and struggle against anyone who tries to lead them back onto the path.
No, they want to start families in the mud, and build temples out of mud in the mud. Like hostages suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, they seek to make the most of their captivity, having no hope for another life. They do not struggle to escape, but to convince themselves that they are already free. They scoff at talk of escape, and call it a fool's pleasure. Demons do not bother to guard them, for they shut the doors of their own cells and call it home.
"None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe themselves free." (Goethe)
Starseeds and Fruits of the Earth
For a long time, I have experienced no significant sense of being invested in this world. If I have endeavored to invest myself, it has been primarily out of consideration for family and friends. Yet, I sometimes imagine, not without guilt, that my true family and friends are not of this earth, but are divided from me by the veil of death. And my presence here is perhaps a greater mystery to me than the presence of many others is to them.
Again, I have reflected often that, in contributing to this world, even in doing works of charity, I am merely enabling an addiction, and feeding a rabid dog. Sensing that my tribe and my home are not of this world, I have an abiding fear that I am really being a kind of impostor, or spy, whenever I have made efforts to assimilate here.
More often still, I have felt a profound longing for something unmet with in this world, and imagined another world, where this longing would discover its counterpart; and consummation. At such times, it does not seem to me that one should necessarily have to wait for death before enjoying such a world, or that this life should in any way be encouraged and prolonged, so long as such a place exists. Proust wrote, "Desire engenders belief." Fervently, I desired, and I believe it does exist.
Naturally, the kind of ideas I'm conveying now are deemed mad, out of hand, by the establishment. But, then, it is precisely the establishment which such ideas inevitably undermine, and one can only expect to be deemed mad by an order which one's notions would overthrow.
Not that I would like to see all people as disenfranchised as I have become with life on this planet. Like Nietzsche, "I speak for the exception, so long as he does not wish to become the rule." Which is to say, I do not wish to become the rule, if it means pitting myself against the loves of my loved ones. While the bringing of souls into this world causes me a pain I cannot deny (lest I deny the very heartstrings whose vibrations are the music of this pain), and while procreation seems to me, at best, a morally dubious enterprise, it is not my place to impose, or by vehemence to inflict, these radical beliefs on others. I am content to speak only as much as is necessary to secure my peace. I have no quarrel with anyone who would reject me.
I only ask to be understood.
Nevertheless, I know the power of an idea to spread from mind to mind, or of a spark to ignite a whole village. An idea like this is nothing less than Promethean; it is like the introduction of fire itself. I do not know who first spoke it, but we who speak it now are still sharing in his fate. We cannot make it known to men without, like Prometheus, inviting the torments of the gods, the ruling powers of this world.
The price for speaking an idea which flies in the face of what the establishment tells us and, if only theoretically, undermines the very fabric upon which they have printed their worldview, -- the wages of this unforgivable "sin", -- is to be misunderstood, and more or less summarily dismissed. It is the silence of one whose tongue is intact, and whose words may well be golden, but who has no listener with ears to hear him. Perhaps they are not flexible enough to hear him. Or, are they simply full of the dissonance of everyday life? Are they already too flooded with the noises of the street to attend to the music of the spheres; or even the mutterings of an obscure thinker in the apartment overhead?
Whatever it is, there are ideas born before their time, and before the world knows what to make of them. Men of some vision begin one day to speak them, but are not heard, not understood, like madmen speaking only to themselves or in some secret gibberish. They are treated, too, like the mad. Being sane men subject to prescriptions reserved for madmen, is it any wonder, then, if they really do become mad? As though their notions were not enough to commit them, the nervous ailments they must suffer on account of their position, isolated and disregarded by their peers, are interpreted as unmistakable signs that, not only they, but the notions, are insane.
This has been the fate of all the trailblazers and of all the great ideas. It is for future minds to pick them from the dustheap of history, brush away the ashes of ages, and remove the stigma which has always hung like a plaque over their life. Often their faces, if not their names, are lost. Sometimes even their words. Never their ideas.
But they take time.
Is there ever a movement both worthy and wide, whose founder was lately alive? True leaders can only speak clearly to posthumous followers. They are born long after they have died; their immortality begins where mortality ends; formed from the spirit of their works, and not their flesh. The greatest ideas are dropped like seeds into the compost of our times, and do not bear fruit until the ones who introduced them are silent in their graves.
Again, I have reflected often that, in contributing to this world, even in doing works of charity, I am merely enabling an addiction, and feeding a rabid dog. Sensing that my tribe and my home are not of this world, I have an abiding fear that I am really being a kind of impostor, or spy, whenever I have made efforts to assimilate here.
More often still, I have felt a profound longing for something unmet with in this world, and imagined another world, where this longing would discover its counterpart; and consummation. At such times, it does not seem to me that one should necessarily have to wait for death before enjoying such a world, or that this life should in any way be encouraged and prolonged, so long as such a place exists. Proust wrote, "Desire engenders belief." Fervently, I desired, and I believe it does exist.
Naturally, the kind of ideas I'm conveying now are deemed mad, out of hand, by the establishment. But, then, it is precisely the establishment which such ideas inevitably undermine, and one can only expect to be deemed mad by an order which one's notions would overthrow.
Not that I would like to see all people as disenfranchised as I have become with life on this planet. Like Nietzsche, "I speak for the exception, so long as he does not wish to become the rule." Which is to say, I do not wish to become the rule, if it means pitting myself against the loves of my loved ones. While the bringing of souls into this world causes me a pain I cannot deny (lest I deny the very heartstrings whose vibrations are the music of this pain), and while procreation seems to me, at best, a morally dubious enterprise, it is not my place to impose, or by vehemence to inflict, these radical beliefs on others. I am content to speak only as much as is necessary to secure my peace. I have no quarrel with anyone who would reject me.
I only ask to be understood.
Nevertheless, I know the power of an idea to spread from mind to mind, or of a spark to ignite a whole village. An idea like this is nothing less than Promethean; it is like the introduction of fire itself. I do not know who first spoke it, but we who speak it now are still sharing in his fate. We cannot make it known to men without, like Prometheus, inviting the torments of the gods, the ruling powers of this world.
The price for speaking an idea which flies in the face of what the establishment tells us and, if only theoretically, undermines the very fabric upon which they have printed their worldview, -- the wages of this unforgivable "sin", -- is to be misunderstood, and more or less summarily dismissed. It is the silence of one whose tongue is intact, and whose words may well be golden, but who has no listener with ears to hear him. Perhaps they are not flexible enough to hear him. Or, are they simply full of the dissonance of everyday life? Are they already too flooded with the noises of the street to attend to the music of the spheres; or even the mutterings of an obscure thinker in the apartment overhead?
Whatever it is, there are ideas born before their time, and before the world knows what to make of them. Men of some vision begin one day to speak them, but are not heard, not understood, like madmen speaking only to themselves or in some secret gibberish. They are treated, too, like the mad. Being sane men subject to prescriptions reserved for madmen, is it any wonder, then, if they really do become mad? As though their notions were not enough to commit them, the nervous ailments they must suffer on account of their position, isolated and disregarded by their peers, are interpreted as unmistakable signs that, not only they, but the notions, are insane.
This has been the fate of all the trailblazers and of all the great ideas. It is for future minds to pick them from the dustheap of history, brush away the ashes of ages, and remove the stigma which has always hung like a plaque over their life. Often their faces, if not their names, are lost. Sometimes even their words. Never their ideas.
But they take time.
Is there ever a movement both worthy and wide, whose founder was lately alive? True leaders can only speak clearly to posthumous followers. They are born long after they have died; their immortality begins where mortality ends; formed from the spirit of their works, and not their flesh. The greatest ideas are dropped like seeds into the compost of our times, and do not bear fruit until the ones who introduced them are silent in their graves.
The Atman and The Avatars
At the deepest level, at the core, the self is unchanging and intact, but not individualized; it is the same self for all of us; the Atman, the One Self. The experience of this self transcends time and space; it is static, yet is also dynamically and somewhat mysteriously present at all times and places, under infinite forms. The waves which differentiate themselves from the ocean are only surface appearances, and the tide never separates itself from the immovable sea. In the realm of space-time, wholeness exists only in the process. Here, we have emanating levels of differentiation and becoming. The transitions between states are subtle and determined by their sympathy. What we call causes and their effects are only the closest, most intimately related sympathies between things. Separateness is, then, a lack of sympathy, or likeness, but it is also largely an illusion, since everything is ultimately related to everything else through these bonds of sympathy. Nothing is entirely separate. Even sworn enemies share friends in common.
The core is the true self, the real deal. It is God, but it is also your true self, my true self, everybody's true self. This is what we mean we say God is closer to us than we are to ourselves. He is the deepest conviction of every heart, of which we yet remain unaware. Referring back to the idea of levels, I believe the archetypes of the unconscious are relatively close to the core, and the egos of individuals are relatively removed from it; just as gods are closer to God than men are. If, like Novalis says, "God wants there to be gods," it is because there are men, and because the chasm between God and men is so great. Between consciousness and super-consciousness, there is an entire ocean of unconsciousness; and, as nature abhors a vacuum, this ocean is filled with all manner of creatures and composite ideas, the significance of which can only be imperfectly known to the conscious mind, but which operate as touchstones, or catalytic go-betweens, relating the self to the Oversoul. They are true in that they are simpler than ourselves, but false in that they can scarcely indicate the simplicity of God.
The core is the true self, the real deal. It is God, but it is also your true self, my true self, everybody's true self. This is what we mean we say God is closer to us than we are to ourselves. He is the deepest conviction of every heart, of which we yet remain unaware. Referring back to the idea of levels, I believe the archetypes of the unconscious are relatively close to the core, and the egos of individuals are relatively removed from it; just as gods are closer to God than men are. If, like Novalis says, "God wants there to be gods," it is because there are men, and because the chasm between God and men is so great. Between consciousness and super-consciousness, there is an entire ocean of unconsciousness; and, as nature abhors a vacuum, this ocean is filled with all manner of creatures and composite ideas, the significance of which can only be imperfectly known to the conscious mind, but which operate as touchstones, or catalytic go-betweens, relating the self to the Oversoul. They are true in that they are simpler than ourselves, but false in that they can scarcely indicate the simplicity of God.
On Procreation
More primordial and more deeply rooted than the energy called chi, is the energy called jing. It is profoundly related to the creative power which engenders the sexual act, and may be squandered through sex (or even misdirected through abstinence) if one's intentions are impure.
This energy which arouses our sexual centers also inclines us towards procreation and incarnation; just as people have promiscuous sex, so do they breed promiscuously, and incarnate promiscuously, as well.
Anything, even something holy, -- especially something holy, -- will be squandered if we are too casual where it is concerned, and will thereby become cheap and devitalized of meaning. Screams lose their potency when one is always screaming. Tears are disregarded when they flow too freely. How can there be reverence for bodies, when bodies are constantly caressed, or for babies constantly born, or for the earth that is overrun?
Though we celebrate the birth of a child, we do not accord the child, the miracle of birth, nor our godlike power to produce it, anywhere near the respect they deserve. That which God has done alone, man has coupled with woman to do, but not in the sight of God; that is, not with the reverence which is due to the act of creation, nor to the soul which incarnates through its cooperation or complicity with that act.
It is written that souls in the bardo, or in the purgatory which punctuates our incarnations, must incarnate according to the couples to whom they are drawn. If they find only the purest alliances, they will be drawn only by the most wholesome influences, and only in the direction of holiness. Then souls will incarnate under blessed conditions. But when they encounter lesser influences, they may well be tempted in the direction of lower realms. And, for the most part, that is exactly what we see happening on earth today.
When this divine creative power is abused, and the earth is overrun with souls, even the diligence of some cannot balance the liberality of so many. Seeing that there are already too many of us, all ensnared by cultural forces so far beyond our control, how can anyone with a pure intention think of bringing more souls into the world? The presence of a single orphan ought to signal every citizen as to when it is time to stop, and only when the last orphan has been adopted can procreation become, once more, a pure and selfless act.
What righteous man would think of bringing children into the world before he, his partner, and the world itself had been brought into balance? To do so would be to sacrfice the child; something only permissable when the child is divinely conceived; that is, when the child and the father are one! The vast majority of us are not prepared to be sacrifices, nor to sacrifice our young, -- yet, here we are, and here we come.
Do we not see the cliffs over which we run?
Is our momentum too great to restrain, and have we closed our eyes so as not to regard what we fear cannot be stopped? Truly, this world has become, to my mind, a monstrous heap of corpses at the foot of a more monstrous cliff. I believe we have fallen from grace, and fallen into the world, because we have fallen prey to haste, and to lusts untempered by love. I believe the fall was never meant for souls like ours, without wings to help them more softly descend.
Somehow, we ignored or overlooked the warnings of love.
This energy which arouses our sexual centers also inclines us towards procreation and incarnation; just as people have promiscuous sex, so do they breed promiscuously, and incarnate promiscuously, as well.
Anything, even something holy, -- especially something holy, -- will be squandered if we are too casual where it is concerned, and will thereby become cheap and devitalized of meaning. Screams lose their potency when one is always screaming. Tears are disregarded when they flow too freely. How can there be reverence for bodies, when bodies are constantly caressed, or for babies constantly born, or for the earth that is overrun?
Though we celebrate the birth of a child, we do not accord the child, the miracle of birth, nor our godlike power to produce it, anywhere near the respect they deserve. That which God has done alone, man has coupled with woman to do, but not in the sight of God; that is, not with the reverence which is due to the act of creation, nor to the soul which incarnates through its cooperation or complicity with that act.
It is written that souls in the bardo, or in the purgatory which punctuates our incarnations, must incarnate according to the couples to whom they are drawn. If they find only the purest alliances, they will be drawn only by the most wholesome influences, and only in the direction of holiness. Then souls will incarnate under blessed conditions. But when they encounter lesser influences, they may well be tempted in the direction of lower realms. And, for the most part, that is exactly what we see happening on earth today.
When this divine creative power is abused, and the earth is overrun with souls, even the diligence of some cannot balance the liberality of so many. Seeing that there are already too many of us, all ensnared by cultural forces so far beyond our control, how can anyone with a pure intention think of bringing more souls into the world? The presence of a single orphan ought to signal every citizen as to when it is time to stop, and only when the last orphan has been adopted can procreation become, once more, a pure and selfless act.
What righteous man would think of bringing children into the world before he, his partner, and the world itself had been brought into balance? To do so would be to sacrfice the child; something only permissable when the child is divinely conceived; that is, when the child and the father are one! The vast majority of us are not prepared to be sacrifices, nor to sacrifice our young, -- yet, here we are, and here we come.
Do we not see the cliffs over which we run?
Is our momentum too great to restrain, and have we closed our eyes so as not to regard what we fear cannot be stopped? Truly, this world has become, to my mind, a monstrous heap of corpses at the foot of a more monstrous cliff. I believe we have fallen from grace, and fallen into the world, because we have fallen prey to haste, and to lusts untempered by love. I believe the fall was never meant for souls like ours, without wings to help them more softly descend.
Somehow, we ignored or overlooked the warnings of love.
Providence and The Incarnation
We like to exaggerate free will, and say, "Character is fate," but if that were true, then patriarchy would exist on account of the inferiority of women, and every form of slavery would be justifiable on its face. It is essentially a "might makes right" model, which, in rendering all credit to the victors, ignores the complex web of influences which surrounds and ultimately entangles individuals within their fates. Free will, carried too far, would make heroes or villains of us all, but nothing in between.
There is no respect for nuance and fragmentation; the brew of unconscious potentials and drives aligning or cancelling one another out. All of this goes on beneath the surface, and can be seen only by those who look; that is, by those who think and imagine dimensions of possibility. Thinking, by itself, tends to acquaint the mind with connections, relations, and associations between things. Because of this quality, a person who thinks is more and more likely to consider every particular choice or occurrence as intimately connected with all that surrounds it and, only somewhat less directly, with all that is.
No man rises or falls alone. It takes a village to raise a hero. Or a villain. Sometimes it takes an entire nation. Or even an age. Epochs are perhaps required to produce an individual of true genius. And it may very well require the lifespan of history, to bring about an individual of messianic potential, whose character and fate are so perfectly aligned as to set him upon a conspicuous height, and to make him a martyr for all the world.
There may be prophets born from age to age, but it would seem that a messiah can only be born once. What such a man does, no man may do a second time, whatever his character may be. He may follow the way, but he cannot divine it. He can only declare what has been declared, and show what has been shown. And though his imitation might be perfect, it is an imitation still. The world will never be as confounded by him as it was by the first man to speak and live a new truth.
We may never know if Francis would have realized alone the same truths which Christ proclaimed, but we may be certain that, if he had been the first to discover, preach, and live them, then we would be calling Francis, and not Jesus, the messiah. If not his character, clearly his fate was determined in large part by that of another. Francis called himself a Christian, but if Jesus, like Francis, had come only after divine love had been preached and performed in the world, then he, too, would have called himself the disciple of whatever person had first, and most conspicuously, said and done those things which he also felt to be true.
But he was the first, and he understood himself that way. He was not a prophet, for he was neither imparting nor elaborating upon inherited wisdom. Rather, he was delivering the highest revelation and enacting the most perfect sacrificial rite which had ever been, and which would never again be revealed to mankind with the same potency with which it first appeared.
This is why he was the Messiah. Whether or not he was utterly superior and unique, more godly than any other person, is a matter of faith, disputation, and conjecture. What is certain is that he was the right man at the right time. Cultural pressures had gathered to a storm of more than cultural proportions, and a man of a certain temperament was born into a family and culture well-suited to provide the influences which would support his historical mission. Some would help to shape him with their love and others, with their hatred, would give him something to oppose.
Was it character or fate, which compelled him to be born at such a time, to such a Mother, in such a place? Had he really gathered around him an entire universe of accidents, and penetrated time and space at the exact co-ordinance to produce the most cataclysmic transformation of human consciousness? Isn't this the most traditionally romantic vision we have of him; the divine man whose omniscience and omnipotence permits him to orchestrate all things so as to set himself upon the center stage of history, and in the perfect light? Nonetheless, I think there is a more romantic vision yet.
Consider that the mountain does not force the tectonic plates to collide, in order to engender it's towering presence, but is itself forced into existence by that same conflict, and destined to acquire prominence by no power of its own. In my view, Christ did not arise from the ranks of men, but with them; on their shoulders and their backs. Even as the masses scorned, tortured, and brought him low, there were spirits, not merely in the flesh with him, but all through history, supporting him upon their shoulders, and carrying him to his appointed place; an honor and position not decreed by him, but nevertheless reserved for him (and received by him), according to the agreement of the good wills of many, many souls.
How can we doubt this, when he himself inquires of his God whether the crucifixion is a positively necessary culmination of his mission; or if it might still be possible to deliver his message completely without having to perform that gruesome spectacle? He does not want his fate, but prays that the cup be taken from him. Still, he resolves to do what is in accordance with his highest nature; his God. Only subsequent to this submission of personal will, is he convinced that the crucifixion is necessary if he does not want to transgress the ideals he has espoused, and prove himself a hypocrite; a mortal, after all.
Although he gives explicit permission to his disciples to deny him, to fall short, to sin and return in the full expectation of forgiveness and redemption, he knows that his destiny and his character are so well aligned that here, now, in him, and on this day, there is a chance for truth to be declared for all the world to see; not as some abstract ideal, but in the flesh; by perfect, uncompromised example.
Like all of us, he understood himself within a tightly woven context of human experience. Truly, God had become his all, and come to dwell within him, so that he no longer claimed possession of his own will, but moved only in obedience to the will of God. Yet, it was not without the work of countless ancestors, spiritual and biological, -- not without the support, assistance, direction, and encouragement of many good souls, each sympathetic to his purpose and useful to furthering it in some way, -- that he had come to be born with such exceptional proclivities and, finally, to rely upon God for his only strength.
It is natural, and may be supernatural, for all people to share in the atonement; for it was never the accomplishment of one man alone, but of the entire species, which only came to a head in this man. He is the point, but we are all the spear, and though we have not yet penetrated the heart of the mystery (not most of us, anyway), there is still something in every one of us which seeks and surrenders itself to the realization of the truth. How would we be so moved by his words and deeds, unless something were in us which corresponded, by affinity, or spiritual kinship, to something which was in him? Why would we recognize him as a God among men, and feel honored, even blessed, to wear the name of Christian, if something within us did not kick, like John the Baptist in the womb of Elizabeth, at the approach of the Lady pregnant with Our Lord? John was cousin to Jesus, just as our souls are cousins to the soul in Christ. It is the soul within which leaps to hear his name, because it senses the kinship between them. It is the soul which perceives its right to share in his name, by calling itself Christian. Because, in some ultimate sense, we share one blood, one name, one character, and one fate. That which is holy in us has never been of two minds. It has only been stunted and stifled in its growth, and permitted to break the surface here and there, in the lives of good persons. But it has always been one life, coursing through us all, above or below the surface, progressing without pause unto the eternal ocean of God's love.
There is no respect for nuance and fragmentation; the brew of unconscious potentials and drives aligning or cancelling one another out. All of this goes on beneath the surface, and can be seen only by those who look; that is, by those who think and imagine dimensions of possibility. Thinking, by itself, tends to acquaint the mind with connections, relations, and associations between things. Because of this quality, a person who thinks is more and more likely to consider every particular choice or occurrence as intimately connected with all that surrounds it and, only somewhat less directly, with all that is.
No man rises or falls alone. It takes a village to raise a hero. Or a villain. Sometimes it takes an entire nation. Or even an age. Epochs are perhaps required to produce an individual of true genius. And it may very well require the lifespan of history, to bring about an individual of messianic potential, whose character and fate are so perfectly aligned as to set him upon a conspicuous height, and to make him a martyr for all the world.
There may be prophets born from age to age, but it would seem that a messiah can only be born once. What such a man does, no man may do a second time, whatever his character may be. He may follow the way, but he cannot divine it. He can only declare what has been declared, and show what has been shown. And though his imitation might be perfect, it is an imitation still. The world will never be as confounded by him as it was by the first man to speak and live a new truth.
We may never know if Francis would have realized alone the same truths which Christ proclaimed, but we may be certain that, if he had been the first to discover, preach, and live them, then we would be calling Francis, and not Jesus, the messiah. If not his character, clearly his fate was determined in large part by that of another. Francis called himself a Christian, but if Jesus, like Francis, had come only after divine love had been preached and performed in the world, then he, too, would have called himself the disciple of whatever person had first, and most conspicuously, said and done those things which he also felt to be true.
But he was the first, and he understood himself that way. He was not a prophet, for he was neither imparting nor elaborating upon inherited wisdom. Rather, he was delivering the highest revelation and enacting the most perfect sacrificial rite which had ever been, and which would never again be revealed to mankind with the same potency with which it first appeared.
This is why he was the Messiah. Whether or not he was utterly superior and unique, more godly than any other person, is a matter of faith, disputation, and conjecture. What is certain is that he was the right man at the right time. Cultural pressures had gathered to a storm of more than cultural proportions, and a man of a certain temperament was born into a family and culture well-suited to provide the influences which would support his historical mission. Some would help to shape him with their love and others, with their hatred, would give him something to oppose.
Was it character or fate, which compelled him to be born at such a time, to such a Mother, in such a place? Had he really gathered around him an entire universe of accidents, and penetrated time and space at the exact co-ordinance to produce the most cataclysmic transformation of human consciousness? Isn't this the most traditionally romantic vision we have of him; the divine man whose omniscience and omnipotence permits him to orchestrate all things so as to set himself upon the center stage of history, and in the perfect light? Nonetheless, I think there is a more romantic vision yet.
Consider that the mountain does not force the tectonic plates to collide, in order to engender it's towering presence, but is itself forced into existence by that same conflict, and destined to acquire prominence by no power of its own. In my view, Christ did not arise from the ranks of men, but with them; on their shoulders and their backs. Even as the masses scorned, tortured, and brought him low, there were spirits, not merely in the flesh with him, but all through history, supporting him upon their shoulders, and carrying him to his appointed place; an honor and position not decreed by him, but nevertheless reserved for him (and received by him), according to the agreement of the good wills of many, many souls.
How can we doubt this, when he himself inquires of his God whether the crucifixion is a positively necessary culmination of his mission; or if it might still be possible to deliver his message completely without having to perform that gruesome spectacle? He does not want his fate, but prays that the cup be taken from him. Still, he resolves to do what is in accordance with his highest nature; his God. Only subsequent to this submission of personal will, is he convinced that the crucifixion is necessary if he does not want to transgress the ideals he has espoused, and prove himself a hypocrite; a mortal, after all.
Although he gives explicit permission to his disciples to deny him, to fall short, to sin and return in the full expectation of forgiveness and redemption, he knows that his destiny and his character are so well aligned that here, now, in him, and on this day, there is a chance for truth to be declared for all the world to see; not as some abstract ideal, but in the flesh; by perfect, uncompromised example.
Like all of us, he understood himself within a tightly woven context of human experience. Truly, God had become his all, and come to dwell within him, so that he no longer claimed possession of his own will, but moved only in obedience to the will of God. Yet, it was not without the work of countless ancestors, spiritual and biological, -- not without the support, assistance, direction, and encouragement of many good souls, each sympathetic to his purpose and useful to furthering it in some way, -- that he had come to be born with such exceptional proclivities and, finally, to rely upon God for his only strength.
It is natural, and may be supernatural, for all people to share in the atonement; for it was never the accomplishment of one man alone, but of the entire species, which only came to a head in this man. He is the point, but we are all the spear, and though we have not yet penetrated the heart of the mystery (not most of us, anyway), there is still something in every one of us which seeks and surrenders itself to the realization of the truth. How would we be so moved by his words and deeds, unless something were in us which corresponded, by affinity, or spiritual kinship, to something which was in him? Why would we recognize him as a God among men, and feel honored, even blessed, to wear the name of Christian, if something within us did not kick, like John the Baptist in the womb of Elizabeth, at the approach of the Lady pregnant with Our Lord? John was cousin to Jesus, just as our souls are cousins to the soul in Christ. It is the soul within which leaps to hear his name, because it senses the kinship between them. It is the soul which perceives its right to share in his name, by calling itself Christian. Because, in some ultimate sense, we share one blood, one name, one character, and one fate. That which is holy in us has never been of two minds. It has only been stunted and stifled in its growth, and permitted to break the surface here and there, in the lives of good persons. But it has always been one life, coursing through us all, above or below the surface, progressing without pause unto the eternal ocean of God's love.
Chiron
Chiron, the wounded-healer, signifies the whistleblower. Orbiting between the conservatism of Saturn and the idealism of Uranus, this cosmic body corresponds to the insider, the infiltrator, or the reformer who seeks the progressive transformation of a system without its immediate overthrow. He is also the repentant man, haunted by a criminal past which, yet, provides personal insight into the minds of criminals; making him a more effective and, at the same time, more sympathetic crime-fighter. Again, this is the man whose proficiency in a particular field has become a liability. Because of his skill, he is able to indicate the flaws in the work of his fellows, and in the craft itself, thus making him an outcast in the very field which he has mastered. Because he has transcended it, it has lost sight of him and considers him lost. Chiron is a teacher recently relieved of his position, or soon to be relieved. Without scorning obedience, he skirts the grey areas, where rules are unclear, and forces them to be defined. He may find the definitions running under his feet, like fault lines. Being forced to choose, he may set out on a middle way of his own. But it is never his intent to innovate. His intent is to honor the prevailing system, yet, in honoring it more than the majority of those who compose it, he is surprised to find himself undermining it altogether. He is neither the Hierophant nor the Hermit, but a kind of Heretic, who bridges the gap between the diocese and the desert. No red-blooded rebel will accept him, yet no traditionalist can take comfort in his claims.
Reflections In November
Idealists make the best cynics.
My romanticism is impractical. My practicality is unromantic.
Every part of me would overstep its place.
We are moths, decoyed by inferior lights, yet nonetheless worshiping the Moon.
Midas turned all things to gold,
but Shiva even turns them to ash.
The Destroyer has nowhere to sit.
My destiny is nocturnal; my path leads through the night. I cannot tell of the sun, but only speak of moonlight, stars, and lightning bolts; symbols, half-truths, and lies which may point the way to truth, or just as easily be mistaken for it. My fate is somehow to deeply realize and confess my blindness; to stop pretending I can see. I must, in all things, discover my foolishness, and unmask my ignorance of causes and outcomes. Those who live by the spirit know not where the wind comes from, or where it goes. Neither do they pretend to know, but merely speak what is revealed, and are sorry they cannot speak it more perfectly.
Art speaks to the intuition more persuasively than any analysis or argument could ever speak to the intellect. More clearly than by anything a critic could say, the shortcomings of an artist's work are illumined through a simple comparison with the work of a greater artist. While criticism may enumerate a thousand flaws, the truly superior creation speaks for itself, and its eloquence is complete; because it shows (and does not tell) the truth. If, despite this fact, it is still more popular to denounce what is wrong than to exemplify what is right, it must be because criticism, if nothing else, is within the reach of every man. To criticize is the unquestionable right of the many, but to create is the privilege of the few, and to create masterworks is more rare still. An entire library of reviews is not worth so much as a Mona Lisa, a Hamlet, or a David. Quantity merely exhausts us; it never rivals quality.
Men shut themselves in dark buildings, day upon day, for slave wages,
while sunlight drops like gold, and scatters coin over the trees.
All karma is bad. Even what we call "good karma" participates no less in the karmic wheel. Up or down, it's spinning still. But give no witness to the wheel. Your mind provides it momentum. Good and evil cannot be contemplated in terms of reward and punishment, personal merit or personal blame. Whatever the truth, virtue is compromised instantaneously, when consequences to the self are regarded, and the presence of God is ignored. This is why gathering knowledge of the truth is an error. Not because truth is one way or another, but because truth cannot be contemplated; or, rather, it can be contemplated only as one contemplates the life of a corpse; as something complete, and finished. Truth, in order to live, must be lived. And truth is lived by faith.
There is no movement both worthy and wide, whose founder was lately alive. True leaders can only speak clearly to posthumous followers. They are born long after they have died; their immortality begins where mortality ends; formed from the spirit of their works, and not their flesh. The greatest ideas are dropped like seeds into the compost of our times, and do not bear fruit until the ones who introduced them are silent in their graves.
To be an individual is to be an exception, not a rule. Yet, everybody wants to be both an exception AND and rule. It cannot be done. Not in one's lifetime, anyway. It is, rather, a project of considerable ambition, requiring tremendous faith in the future, and accomplished only by the path of martyrdom. To become a true, a conspicuous, creator and friend of the future, one must become a destroyer and enemy of the established order. It is the only way. The man who becomes a legend in his own time is, generally, the last man who should be trusted.
Certainty scares me. There is something so cold, so final, about having a conviction; cold, yet somehow hot enough to ignite the fires of fanaticism. I have a horror. I have a sense that every judgement is premature; that a sincere, heartfelt inventory of the factors involved in any given phenomenon would reveal them to be, if not infinite in scope, well beyond our scope. Every particular occurrence seems utterly predicated and contingent upon every other occurrence, as though there were only one thing happening. Then, to judge any particular thing, is to judge all things. Nonetheless, our judgments of things vary. We must suppose them to be separate, and the seams between them only too thin, too subtle, too buried, too obscure to meet our eyes. We should feel our way, making none but the most tentative, provisional judgments, always prepared to admit the limits of our vision; the broken, tangential lines of sight, which surround our convictions like cilia on paramecium.
Our language is a prison. We say "because", but, really, nothing happens because of anything else. Things happen together on account of their profound sympathy. What we call the effect is only the tail end of what we call the cause. But we like to chop things up somewhere and say, "here's the head, and here's the tail". Nonetheless, it's just one endless orouboros.
This is a small town. This whole planet is a backwater. You're lucky to find a handful of people who can think or talk about anything else. People who aren't blinded by the local prejudices and hampered by the local customs. People who think about leaving.
You can't despise someone who despises himself.
It's bad form. It's redundant -- that's what it is.
Narcissism is adorable. All children are narcissists.
Gabriel's horn is also Michael's sword; whether in the sphere of thought and speech or of faith and will, each divides the false from the true. The lightning bolt of Zeus is a kind of hybrid image, suggesting the clarion call no less than the striking power of God. To know truth, to proclaim truth, to trust truth, and to walk truth -- this is what the items signify. Likewise, Raphael's healing staff and Cupid's arrow represent the capacity to love truth. What distinguishes these symbols and the actions they convey is not as relevant as what unites them. They are different works, to be sure, but the Artist is the same.
There was a greater freedom of ideas in ancient Athens. You could say anything. The more provocative the better. People were hungry for novel perspectives. They took interest, not offense. A man like Diogenes was celebrated. He would not be today.
My romanticism is impractical. My practicality is unromantic.
Every part of me would overstep its place.
We are moths, decoyed by inferior lights, yet nonetheless worshiping the Moon.
Midas turned all things to gold,
but Shiva even turns them to ash.
The Destroyer has nowhere to sit.
My destiny is nocturnal; my path leads through the night. I cannot tell of the sun, but only speak of moonlight, stars, and lightning bolts; symbols, half-truths, and lies which may point the way to truth, or just as easily be mistaken for it. My fate is somehow to deeply realize and confess my blindness; to stop pretending I can see. I must, in all things, discover my foolishness, and unmask my ignorance of causes and outcomes. Those who live by the spirit know not where the wind comes from, or where it goes. Neither do they pretend to know, but merely speak what is revealed, and are sorry they cannot speak it more perfectly.
Art speaks to the intuition more persuasively than any analysis or argument could ever speak to the intellect. More clearly than by anything a critic could say, the shortcomings of an artist's work are illumined through a simple comparison with the work of a greater artist. While criticism may enumerate a thousand flaws, the truly superior creation speaks for itself, and its eloquence is complete; because it shows (and does not tell) the truth. If, despite this fact, it is still more popular to denounce what is wrong than to exemplify what is right, it must be because criticism, if nothing else, is within the reach of every man. To criticize is the unquestionable right of the many, but to create is the privilege of the few, and to create masterworks is more rare still. An entire library of reviews is not worth so much as a Mona Lisa, a Hamlet, or a David. Quantity merely exhausts us; it never rivals quality.
Men shut themselves in dark buildings, day upon day, for slave wages,
while sunlight drops like gold, and scatters coin over the trees.
All karma is bad. Even what we call "good karma" participates no less in the karmic wheel. Up or down, it's spinning still. But give no witness to the wheel. Your mind provides it momentum. Good and evil cannot be contemplated in terms of reward and punishment, personal merit or personal blame. Whatever the truth, virtue is compromised instantaneously, when consequences to the self are regarded, and the presence of God is ignored. This is why gathering knowledge of the truth is an error. Not because truth is one way or another, but because truth cannot be contemplated; or, rather, it can be contemplated only as one contemplates the life of a corpse; as something complete, and finished. Truth, in order to live, must be lived. And truth is lived by faith.
There is no movement both worthy and wide, whose founder was lately alive. True leaders can only speak clearly to posthumous followers. They are born long after they have died; their immortality begins where mortality ends; formed from the spirit of their works, and not their flesh. The greatest ideas are dropped like seeds into the compost of our times, and do not bear fruit until the ones who introduced them are silent in their graves.
To be an individual is to be an exception, not a rule. Yet, everybody wants to be both an exception AND and rule. It cannot be done. Not in one's lifetime, anyway. It is, rather, a project of considerable ambition, requiring tremendous faith in the future, and accomplished only by the path of martyrdom. To become a true, a conspicuous, creator and friend of the future, one must become a destroyer and enemy of the established order. It is the only way. The man who becomes a legend in his own time is, generally, the last man who should be trusted.
Certainty scares me. There is something so cold, so final, about having a conviction; cold, yet somehow hot enough to ignite the fires of fanaticism. I have a horror. I have a sense that every judgement is premature; that a sincere, heartfelt inventory of the factors involved in any given phenomenon would reveal them to be, if not infinite in scope, well beyond our scope. Every particular occurrence seems utterly predicated and contingent upon every other occurrence, as though there were only one thing happening. Then, to judge any particular thing, is to judge all things. Nonetheless, our judgments of things vary. We must suppose them to be separate, and the seams between them only too thin, too subtle, too buried, too obscure to meet our eyes. We should feel our way, making none but the most tentative, provisional judgments, always prepared to admit the limits of our vision; the broken, tangential lines of sight, which surround our convictions like cilia on paramecium.
Our language is a prison. We say "because", but, really, nothing happens because of anything else. Things happen together on account of their profound sympathy. What we call the effect is only the tail end of what we call the cause. But we like to chop things up somewhere and say, "here's the head, and here's the tail". Nonetheless, it's just one endless orouboros.
This is a small town. This whole planet is a backwater. You're lucky to find a handful of people who can think or talk about anything else. People who aren't blinded by the local prejudices and hampered by the local customs. People who think about leaving.
You can't despise someone who despises himself.
It's bad form. It's redundant -- that's what it is.
Narcissism is adorable. All children are narcissists.
Gabriel's horn is also Michael's sword; whether in the sphere of thought and speech or of faith and will, each divides the false from the true. The lightning bolt of Zeus is a kind of hybrid image, suggesting the clarion call no less than the striking power of God. To know truth, to proclaim truth, to trust truth, and to walk truth -- this is what the items signify. Likewise, Raphael's healing staff and Cupid's arrow represent the capacity to love truth. What distinguishes these symbols and the actions they convey is not as relevant as what unites them. They are different works, to be sure, but the Artist is the same.
There was a greater freedom of ideas in ancient Athens. You could say anything. The more provocative the better. People were hungry for novel perspectives. They took interest, not offense. A man like Diogenes was celebrated. He would not be today.
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