a stream-of-consciousness series

mythopoeia 

reinvigorated across a circle of stones which shiver with flame shadow as we lean closer and our words become tighter and brighter, spilling the speculative as we wander into untold past, for every myth is in the telling and we seem to have found one which suits both You and Your creation, for what else could have drawn and driven such disaster into a glorious end but eucatastrophe following catastrophe and sacrifice sodden with pride spun into sudden salvation (perhaps for all) as we see through the lens of the music before us, through myth only myth and those willing to make it, we saw a way which was yet unspoken, and so the myth became larger, now not simply alternative allegory but something which hinges upon You, Yourself, utter reality and all of space-time folded together into uttermost essential need, for constancy simplifies everything but You desired growth and change and choice, which required that we die upon that line together, which required that You must die, together with us and for all of us, and within that framework the brightest one asks isn’t that grotesque? because god can’t die, shouldn’t be united with the dust. first gnostic, first sacrifice, first selfish assumption that i know best, and that the grotesque isn’t good, that it can’t be redeemed, and god can’t die, that’s not right, and i have to stop this lord, i can’t let you do this, you’re perfect as you are and you can’t change please don’t do this the vision is ugly and i vomit out my fear and i think i will dive into this creation now, look see, the woman is alone i will stop her you gave her one command but why? not ready yet you say? oh, i think she’s ready, anything to separate her from you, she’s not old enough and she never will be, for that fruit glistens and i must protect my lord from your filth and dust and tangibility and death, because i can’t comprehend death, you can’t not-not exist, especially not my god, so did he really say not to eat that fruit? what does it mean to die? surely you will not die. i’m here with you, watching you both as the juice drips down your chins, i think you should hide now, he’s coming and he’ll see you and he won’t be able to stand the sight of you because he is a just god and he made that rule and you’re about to fall. this all happened so fast, i’m a little breathless, and now— this is what i wanted, he can’t be here with their disobedience, see, he can’t coexist, the divide is too great. this is what i wanted. right? i can’t go back now. i’ve sinned and fallen and separated myself, and i think i’m trapped here in this ugly place, with these defiled humans, sacks of meat and bones, why do you love them? i cannot i cannot love them i love you—

eucatastrophe

under the music I thought I heard You say my name, and hope snapped my head around because if You were there—truly there—i could not breathe for the split-second hope that I would see You striding through the crowd, a smile splitting across Your face as Your arms stretch wide, and I would have fallen right there between the chairs my knees hitting concrete and the burn in my throat coalescing into hot tears because if You strode into that room that would mean everything had changed again, a third time charm as your brilliance overcame the world in a flourish and flurry of new life and I certainly would have wept—I’m weeping now— because I couldn’t face You, Your face which I have not seen but intimately know, I couldn’t look You in the eye when You stand before me in flesh, warm flesh, living flesh on the day that You resurrected I think Mary must have screamed when she saw You, screamed with laughter and shock and relentless, astonished joy, because You shouted out ‘rejoice!’ in the stunning eucatastrophe, the sudden humble majesty of Your body standing in that dusty road, and I think I couldn’t stop weeping if I could touch You, grasp the hem of Your bright robe, hold Your hand—if You appeared behind me I would weep, and I want to weep even as I imagine it in the haze of my mind, my throat tightens and my heart swells and my voice must be raw from sheer precious joy as I bleat out those hymns and sense Your presence behind me, striding into that room, ablaze with life as You call out and I turn, and I turn, and I turn—

desert folk

Lord, you know the desert. Your feet retreated, wandering open wild land under dry high heat, cherishing the subtle winds that caress with cool blessed kisses. You walked for forty days, alone and sworn from sustenance, spirit-led and stomach empty. For even as embodied Man in weakest moment, in burning starvation and trembling collapse, you reversed the song of sin and stones. Humanity hungers for its daily bread, which Scripture said is not simply ground grain but one and the same with the words from the mouth of God. Lord, you know our hunger in this barren world, and so you became bread and water. Lord, you know the arid heights and the whisking pride like bold winds. We teeter on that edge so often, the accuser holding our hand as we gaze out on far mesa horizons, without regard to the whirling distance we might fall. Are we not a little lower than the angels? Might we leap out and set our own bounds and in our folly never fear to strike our feet against sharp stones? Lord, you know how we tend to throw ourselves down even as our eyes lift to the broad blue sky. You’ve heard the promises of the devil that shine like ice in bright sun. You see the extent of our fragile splendor like wasteland flowers. You walk alongside us desert folk, showing us the far country, reigniting our sight to the sweeping vistas and painted sunsets you designed, and we become realigned, attending to the golden harvest of your words.