How many more horrors must humanity create before some sort of deity deigns to arrive on the scene? I have created my own share of trouble causing hurts I never meant to inflict upon those whose love surrounds me. Paradox happens, says a cute bumper sticker with a picture of the sun shining through some storm clouds. Some (many?) helped others escape through fences and borders carrying babies against their breast while many (most?) watched the events on the evening news exclaiming with outrage from comfortable chairs. I have trouble with being simple when a learned mystic calls for simplicity in the attentive heart. In my mind complexity has no home in places where fires rage and to pause and practice any form of mindful breathing as bombs fall all around is a form of madness. The world as infinite manifestations of multiplicity gets up and gets dressed every morning and may pay a visit, if the quiet is just right, to a place where food has been laid out for a banquet in the midst of fallen down buildings where ashen-faced people arrive as if delivered by angels.
How is it that people being ordinarily moral cause universal suffering? I have been the recipient of those looks implying I hold all real virtue in the room and, frightened, I excused myself by running in terror through any open door I could find. Indifference to the fate of self is one way to seek the welfare of others. Another is to challenge the pride that tends to grow when in the midst of a group. What is rare, not at all normal or to be expected, if found, should make things easier. At least that is what I have been told. How can the words of a poem be sinful, as in missing the mark, while alleviating the suffering of another? So many point their fingers at the greatest immorality of society without any sense of ought or thou shalt. Their versions of harmony come before me bland and without reason. Give me instead a note from a daughter thanking me for taking her out to lunch or to live again the morning when I lay on the floor with a baby resting and drowsing on my chest as I rubbed her back, both of us tired from waking before the sun came up to lighten the day.
I believe in the madness of suffering shared. All flowers cry as their petals drop to the ground. As flower petals drop to the crying ground the crazy day in the desert misses the point. The point of the desert is to be crazy. Even ruins dominate the horizon. The dominant horizon ruins even the simplest of holy gestures made by hands. Holy, holding hands is a simple gesture. There is no room for the adversary there. The adversary is there in the room forcing a look at the way the world is. The way the world is forces a look at my belief in the shared madness of suffering.
Another way opens along the ground when you glance towards the bush that carries suffering like berries.
“We desire according to the desire of the other.” - Rene Girard Anti-septic joy-killers look for those who have honest relationships with their own hearts, while willfully seeking to back persons who wallow in well-financed ignorance and thoughtful thoughtlessness. Mourners remember, others ignore, the name of the last one lowered into the ground. Call on the people of the margins, those who suffer suffering, until the wizard behind the green curtain is revealed. Only then may we return to the place where we can desire for ourselves.
You, Who suffered on the cross - some say for our sakes, for my sake - and died. Tell me how the point of a nail through the wrist compares to my demon's daily grind and grinding of this present time which followed the grind in the present time of a moment ago and, if all Hell doesn't break loose, will be followed by the grind in the next moment in time? A comparison with future glory is necessary to keep considering the sufferings of this present time. Amen.