cleansed

“So the reason that you always disappear is because of how I feel now, isn’t it?” I asked gently.

He smiled gently. “Yes.”

I bumped my knee against his. “But don’t go yet, okay?”

“Okay.” He bumped me back. “Do you want to work, then?”

We went to the beach and I saw what I’ve seen for too long now- black smoke rising out of the palm trees, laughter like high-pitched birds cackling, the sound of alien legs and feet shuffling on the sand.

I walked through the house and pulsed white light through every room. Creatures appeared like a video game and I sliced them with a sword, battered them with an axe, and they dissolved into ash. Creatures with black, slimy skin. Creatures with no head. Creatures with a face of fangs. Creatures that ran at me like deformed dogs, on uneven and unsteady limbs.

Destroyed, destroyed, destroyed. Maybe I was screaming the whole time. I don’t even know for sure. It seemed I could feel their oily thick blood all over my skin, in my bared teeth, clumping in my loose, wild hair.

There was a silence and I ran my hand over the countertops in the kitchen, slowly walked through the living room, and then he was there. In the doorway. The way he’d been so many times, when it meant I was about to be torn apart, sliced open, organs spilling out, so many empty holes to be ruined.

His neck looked broken, his head dangling loosely to one side, occasionally popping up like a puppet as he spoke. His eyes were black, black, black. His voice sounded like shrieking metal. His arms hung rotten and limp at his sides.

I was terrified beyond words, but approached him anyway, and this is when Fisher came to lay on my chest.

“You aren’t welcome here,” I said.

His broken neck waggled slightly, and his foul fangs slid from behind his lips. “I see that you know who you are now.”

“Yes. I do.”

He began to talk nonstop, telling me what was real, what wasn’t, and I felt an old, familiar feeling. Smoky sickness, weeping into my brain, making my logic surreal and confused. Fisher laid his little foot on my hand and flexed his claws gently into my fingers.

“Get out,” I sneered, lifting my hands and pushing him backwards with pure energy. “You don’t belong here.”

He kept trying to speak, but I continued to blast him backwards with my hands, until he was at the edge of the sea. My entire body was shaking.

“You are not welcome here,” I announced. He began to shrink as I screamed, smaller and smaller, until he was the size of the tiny, piggish little demon that first attacked me in 2005. How silly and small and pathetic he was now, how he’d always been. Nothing magnificent or awe-inspiring… just another bag of garbage energy, a tiny little charger that tried to suck from the innocent.

And I told him so. How dare you steal from a little girl. How dare you take something she had no idea she was giving. How could you betray a love so pure, so generous, so naive.

But of course, he had no smoky words for that.

I spun around to face the island, and light rose from the sand. “None of you are welcome here. This. Is. My. Home.

“All. Of. You. Are. Banished.”

A blinding light seared through the entire landscape, and there was the sound of shrieking and screaming and tearing of flesh. I felt severe, searing pain roar through my third eye, and my entire body convulsed through one strong shudder.

And then all was still.

clarity

There have been a lot of important figures in history, to be sure, but imagine being so famous some people don’t believe you ever existed. Your life changed how we have chosen to count the passing years for two millennia. People turned you into a demigod, but your loudest followers are so far from your original message that on the other side, your name is now a side smirk for all sorts of snide jokes.

Well, what would Jesus do?

Grabbing hands and screaming pleas for your time and love and healing and grace from every corner of the world, from now to probably the End of All Time. Your name invoked in hate and violence and destruction and murder.

Having two selves- the person everyone expects you to be, the path that cannot ever be deviated, the Living Example, and the actual man, full of passion and rage and sensuality and grace and laughter.

///

I used to be so smug, one of those people who couldn’t wait to tell people that Christmas wasn’t really Jesus’s birthday. That the whole immaculate conception story was a centuries old Egyptian ripoff. Like that proved something, like it invalidated anything.

Yeshua will get to you, though. His energy is like a wildfire. Even as an atheist, “Footprints in the Sand” made me sob uncontrollably. There is something about that level of Divine Energy that if you embrace it with no arrogance, no pretense, no jaded overeducation or smug skepticism, it will change your entire soul.

I’ve studied a lot of the Bible but not all, because let’s be honest- it’s painful to wade through at times. I prefer the KJV to the NIV because I think the NIV is too watered down, yet another translation of a translation of a translation.

But KJV is dense, archaic. Like swimming in mud. It gets tiresome.

Also: is it not interesting that Aramaic no longer exists? Of all the languages to lose.

I actually really like Psalm, too- there is so much agonized wailing at what a sadist the Universe is, and it’s so comforting. Spiritual journeys are so lonely and soul-rending at times, and it is a salve to hear someone say the words you’ve been wrestling with in the dark.

///

I believe The Crusades weren’t just about converting the heathens- it was also about destroying anyone who wasn’t on Peter’s side of history. Peter the rock, the fool, the loudmouth, the bully, the coward. Jesus is so over Peter’s shit sooo often in the Bible, which is why it is such a tragedy that he’s the one who got to control the narrative after his murder.

Peter is much more evil to me than Judas ever was. I agree with the historical theory that Judas was making a power play when he gave up Jesus’s location, thinking it would start a holy war. He was sure it would finally show publicly the things they’d all seen privately, that it would give greater glory to the teacher he was so proud of.

This is a man who had just recently witnessed his mentor braiding a whip by hand, then using it to attack an entire temple of people in a blind rage. He had no reason to believe that Jesus would just give up, agree to suffer a death of unimaginable terror, humiliation, and agony.

I don’t know what any of you know about crucifixion, but it’s a nasty, vile, brutal death. Not only are you nailed to the wood, the position of your body causes you to slowly suffocate. The Romans added a few extra inches in the give of the nails so people could wriggle up to gasp for air for hours, for days. To prolong the agony.

No one in their right mind would assume a person who they believed could easily get himself out of trouble would willingly sacrifice himself to this kind of death.

On the other hand, Peter is a backwoods, bitter, short-tempered, illiterate fisherman, later in his years than some of the others, and very set in his misogynistic, closed off, judgmental ways. He hates Mary and doesn’t make a secret of it, and is the one that caused her to flee for her life. He can’t even admit he knows Jesus in a moment when owning his faith was of paramount importance. When he was told to his face that he’d be the neutered bull he always had been.

And then he asked to be crucified upside down like a groveling ass bitch, too, because he wasn’t worthy of the same death as his teacher.

And he wasn’t.

Peter is the worst because he is insidious, secret, harmful with the pretense of helping. Popular Christianity as it is today is Peter’s church, to be sure. Joel Osteen and Billy Graham are Peter’s perfect preachers.

///

I love but am not sure of the theory that Pontius Pilate had Jesus drugged and faked his death so he could escape with his wife. So they could start a resurrection rumor, something else to be stolen from an older faith, from a place Jesus likely visited and studied in.

But I also believe that Jesus is one of the oldest souls of all time, and that lifetime was to show people what can be possible when you have gratitude and grace. I believe he has the brightest soul in the Universe, and wanted people to understand that there is life after death. What true nirvana looks like.

A simple political martyr, son of a carpenter from Nazareth, does not change the entire line of time. Something happened.

I also think his life also had larger Universal implications through his relationship with Mary Magdalene, one of the secret power players of spirituality, who I am absolutely obsessed with on every level, like a sickness.

I am a fan of the generally accepted theory that Mary Magdalene is actually Mary of Bethany, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, who you may recall is the one who made Jesus cry the one of only two times mentioned in the gospels, when he didn’t come to heal her brother and she fell to his knees to ask why.

The same woman who anointed his feet with spikenard oil and took down her hair in front of him, which was an enormous scandal considering the fact that women of that time shielded their hair from any man but their husband. Some still do.

The same woman who was the first person to see his (possibly) resurrected self. Or perhaps the self that was coming to insist that they run for their lives. Start all over as ghosts.

It certainly doesn’t seem to be fitting with what I know about Jesus that he would suddenly just give up, die so willingly. Yeshua is very much like the element of air- invisible power. A unseen force that can tear the roof off of someone’s house. And if you ever can see the rage in the air headed towards you, you will be lucky to live through the leveling.

To quit? It seems strange.

How many secrets are buried in the Bible? Newton (yes, that one) spent the last years of his life obsessively trying to decode it, sure there was a hidden message.

When you read it deeply and with reverence, it’s hard not to feel like you are reading a cipher full of misdirection. All the most important women in the New Testament named Mary. All the shady characters called Simon. The Lost Years of Jesus. (He wasn’t really lost, just being found elsewhere, but.)

I cannot stop this obsession, and I don’t want to. Once I take a break from constantly spending money, I’m going to buy some more Biblical research books.

Clarity.

I am who I am, entirely.

There’s the one who is So Good, the Chaste and the Pure, the one with standards unreachable by anyone, even himself. His whole existence is grabbing hands and blame and pleas and disgraceful acts in his name. No one ever wants to meet the real person.

And there is the one who is So Bad, the Manipulative and Destructive, the one who will pull anyone to his depths, who delights in proving we are all ruined like him. He is the whisper in the ear of every monster that has devoured a soul. His words can poison the mind of any person on this earth with the correct invitation. There is no real person. We all think we’re the one to finally see it. No. There is no redemption song for the truly wicked.

And then there is the Neutral Party, the Fulcrum, neither Good Enough nor Too Evil, who skates on the edges of all trouble, whose mouth talks her out of much punishment, whose ferocity makes her too terrifying to confront or fully control. She does what she wants at all times, and constantly faces the consequences of it. Never accepted by the Good Kids, too much of a tryhard to be allowed to hang with the Bad Ones. Too real, too honest. Cast aside, isolating and isolated. The shepherd of the lost lambs- no one really wants the truth, and will forever punish the messenger.

Not just one person was banished from Paradise, in truth. There were three: fire, air, and water, all sent to earth to suffer. They never get to be fully loved. They never are allowed to belong. They murder and have been murdered. Tortured. Torturer. They have never let each other have a full life, always interfering and meddling and destroying.

Love and hate and love and hate, and the entire world suffers because of it.

They are the Universe’s longest eyeroll.

Powerful and powerless.

The living example

the filthy whisper

the wraith in the mist.

The most favorite and the most hated and the most invisible. The example of how love can be a punishment, a violence, a mistake. How it can be both right and wrong.

Eternity’s lesson. Ancient babies. Too extra for the Universe. The keepers of the flesh. The guardians of the forgotten.

The divine rejects.