As you began the conversation long ago, Divine, speak us into being once again, for the self-made gods have declared and said who can and who cannot speak in this world at this time and in this place. Amen.
To change daily space to brave space ensuring safety rather than comfort where young people, not interested in training but in knowing who controls the narrative, toil to reclaim stories stolen from human families and affirm the truth that we all stand on the shoulders of the great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us.
when the seeds of parables plant the first steps of a walk toward an answer
(For not renouncing eight statements, Bruno was burned at the stake on this day, February 17, in the year 1600 at the Campo de’ Fiori, Rome)
I refuse to renounce my writings. Words revolve around worlds. I refuse to renounce my beliefs. Each leans along the other. I refuse to renounce the work of my mind. My teachers lived and died to shape what I know. I affirm: the beautiful earth rounds the fiery sun. The light moved across my face this morning as I lay in my cell. I affirm: the world has a soul and all matter derives therefrom. My mother and I screamed together when my soul-full body arrived. I affirm: all reality is accompanied by a spirit and an intelligence. The breezes crossing the seven hills of Rome bring voices from Tuscany. I affirm: the bread and the wine are bread and wine. Sister Paolina’s slipper-shaped ciabatta tastes of heaven. I affirm: the earth moves. How many times have I injured the bare ground when falling? I affirm: the infinity of the stars and the infinite number of planets. Counting the lights in the endless night sky never ends. I affirm: the spirit and the body are one. Cut by a knife, I bleed. Cut by a word, I bleed. I affirm: the stars are messengers and interpreters of the ways of God. Just look up. “Perchance you - who pronounce my sentence - are in greater fear than I who receive it.” May the fire of my burning body in the Field of Flowers flare brighter than the sun on that day.
An experiment: put the face of the quarter moon on the rising sun to see if there really is a deck of cards inside a cutout Bible that the holy man after Sunday service pulls off his top shelf with news of a bottle of the good stuff to pass the deal and begin again the game contrived from birth to see who crosses the start line last running the wrong way with one hand raised waving to the crowd and in the other holding the queen of spaced.
How many trips to the outside to make peace in order to draw breath in the moment and hide from virulent virus strains with ends justifying the means and ideology trumping all thought and heart?
Maker of all things new, does finishing the work of creation on the seventh day mean nothing thereafter is new? Or, does the Teacher mean: though the spectacle changes, human's need for spectacle remains nothing new? Silly, hypothetical questions aside, some folks, creators of the wacky and the weird, give two and two together away as if the sum were five. Give us an abacus for truth. Amen.
O, Divine butcher, splitting our breastbones wide open to get to the guts of our heart, give us ears to hear the clean cut of the sharp edge of truth for fat of ugly lies lies heavy on us. Amen.