The stars are not what they seem. Prepare, for they too have teeth.

What awaits at the altar? A wedding.

You hear the bells, you walk the streets, you find the church, you walk inside, and an old friend is there to accompany you down the aisle. The altar awaits beckons to you. "Come here," it says. "Come here, you who are heartsick and heavy laden, for I will give you rest."

What awaits you at the end of the aisle? A sacrament? An ethical obligation? A meaningless ritual? An old man wearing robes with a chalice in hand? Some mystical and fleeting experience, ecstatically felt and all too quickly forgotten? A small god who is nothing more to you than the liege lord of your tribe? An aloof being too distant to know?

No, at the end of the aisle is a wedding.

Whose? Yours.

To whom? The object of all the longing in your life, whether you were able to put it into words or not. She is the whither of your every thought, the "kuss mich" in the quiet moments, the whisper beyond whispering. She is there, always was there, and always will be there. "The Word became flesh and she chose to dwell with you." She loves you that much. She awaits you at the end of the aisle, and she will have no other. She is the mystery, the invitation, the horizon.

Consider carefully, and then say "I do."

Humanity is a Tumor

Only when the last tree has been cut down, the last fish caught and the last stream poisoned will we realize that we cannot eat money.

I didn't write these words. I saw them. But truer words have never been spoken. Industry and greed have the same goal as the virus, as the tumor, to grow and take and take and grow with no forethought to the destruction of the host tissue. A virus takes advantage of its surroundings to violently destroy others while propagating itself. It creates the world in its own image. It doesn't play nice. It takes. It kills. It's selfish.

That sounds familiar.

Humanity is a virus. Humanity is a tumor. We have the power of self reflection, we are more than a virus, it is possible for us to change our ways. But our greed is too strong, just like the all consuming greed of a virus, the greed of a tumor. We will remake this world in our image, and it will die.

The True Intelligence of Humanity

We usually define a life form's intelligence in terms of how much that life form resembles us. Does it think like we do? Does it share our behavioral patterns? Does it craft tools? The anthropocentrist bias of this astounds me. How arrogant to think that we are the standard of all things when we are so base and vile to one another.

"Man is an animal too," Dr. Doolittle once said. But we are unique in that we are the animal most capable of facilitating increased understanding, kindness, and peace between other kinds of animals. That's our gift. That's our intelligence. We are the elder siblings, the moderators of a community larger than us.

And that having been said, I think there are only a handful of intelligent people in the world.

Steve Irwin first and foremost among them.

A bitter prayer

Dear God,

I want to rant and rail against the injustices and evils of my own life, those evils done to me, and those I have done to others.

I am filled with loathing, both for myself and for the circumstances that caused me so much pain.

I no longer care if only I am flogged, or if only those who hurt me are flogged; I want the whole rotten business to be swept away in a flood of justice, a never ending torrent of your power. As you did for Amos, send me a vision of righteous destruction. Send me a dream of a sinful world swept clean by water.

I want the whole of my life to be cleaned and sterilized. I want an end to my own depravity. I want an end to the scum-filled infrastructure of our world. I want an end to the pain and the perversion. I want absolution. I want judgment. I want the punishment of oblivion. I want to be so distanced from the sheer existential weight of my life that I fade into nothing. If I cannot have joy, if the structure of my brain is so organized that I will forever struggle with these same age old tendencies, these ancient temptations, then I'd rather have the whole thing blown open by a bullet, or choked dry by a noose. Better that than to see constant reminders, left and right, of every mistake I've ever made, every person I've let down, every shake of the head, every tear shed, every wrong done to me, every injustice I have suffered, every evil I have perpetrated as a consequence of those injustices. Better to rot and burn away. Better to end this churning and unending nightmare of filth. Better to awaken to the clean state of nothingness.

You'd better hear me.

You'd better see me.

You'd better take pity on me.

You'd better help me.

You owe me that much. And if you will not listen, fuck you.

Amen.

We are finite and embodied beings. There seems to be something in built into us in our finitude that cannot resist the use of metaphors to describe God. In every moment we speak or think of God, we desire to make God, the object of all our infinite longing, appear before us. One of the great tragedies of our existence is that we cannot do this; we cannot summon God. Not amount of wishing and hoping makes the lover magically appear.

Just like everyone else, I have metaphors for God. They are currently undergoing some changes, and I think this is for the best. As a Christian, I have lived my life adopting Jesus' metaphor for God, God as Father. Truly, God is my Father. But God's infinite and mysterious depth opens up possibilities for us as human beings to employ a wide range of metaphors. Some think of God as healer, as warrior, as protector, as husband. Father seems to be the most predominant among Christian circles.

But I have something to confess. The pains of my childhood, my adolescence, and my adulthood all bear scars inflicted upon me by my father, Glenn. The pain runs too deep, and the loss is real. The metaphor of God as Father is broken for me, and it holds no power. It incites images of a God who is small in his pettiness, judgmental, aloof, sparing in his love. I have struggled all my life to realize God's love for me, to know it in my soul that I am loved by God. God as Lord and Father has never been able to do this for me. But God as Lady and Lover has.

Recent events made it clear to me that one of the underlying sins of my life has been idolatry. For reasons that remain elusive to me, yet which seem to be rooted in a deep and burning desire placed in me by God, the prospect of a loving, romantic relationship has been the object of my desire. But as I am learning, a romantic relationship cannot bear the weight of being the ultimate in my life. It cannot withstand the intense pressures of being my all in all. No human being, however wonderful and God-sent, can be the ultimate in my life. That position, by virtue of the ontological structures in place that govern and facilitate my being, is reserved for God alone. I was made to love and be loved by God. The taint of God as Father has kept me from accepting God as the ultimate.

I've come to learn in explosions of passion and tears that God is not merely an abstraction or an impersonal force; God is infinitely beyond either of these things. And yet, God has chosen to give of the divine self, to give it freely to me, out of love. That love is not mere affection. It is not paternal or even maternal. It is deeper than that. It is axiomatic, fundamental, burning with primordial fire. The desire for love placed in my heart, which throughout my life has threatened to become the object of my inordinate passion to disastrous effect, this desire was God breathed; it was placed in me to give me a sense of who God is, who God has revealed herself to me. God is the Lady that has lurked behind every dream and yearning thought. God's love for me is romantic, fiercely so. It took me many years of reflection and struggle to admit this. And in my admission, I have learned the truth, and it is in the process of setting me free. I am at last free to love God as I ought to, however imperfectly.

I cannot impress upon you the depth and ferocity of this love God has for me. She desires me intensely. Within the realm of my own narrow sliver of being, she wants me above all else. I am desired by God. But as she has revealed herself, she is also tender. She is no brusque Amazonian. She is graceful and brimming with power, and in all things, she is queen. But there is also tenderness in her gestures. She has given herself to me, tremulously and anxiously.

Words fail to convey what I mean, but my time wasted in online dating affords me a useful analogy. I am usually not inclined to take the initial step in contacting someone. I have in the past, but I always desire to have some assurance that there is no risk of rejection, some assurance that the person in question will be interested to speak to me. God has taken that first step, prompting me, giving me glimpses of herself that provide me every assurance that she longs for me as much as I long for her. She draws me in, waiting for me to say those precious words that will break boundaries and open up my being to endless possibilities of joy. I say hello, having contemplated long and hard what I ought to say, how I ought to regard her, how I ought to behave, how I will proceed. I am currently in the process of correspondence with God. We are trading letters, getting to know one another in light of this blossoming relationship. All I have to work with is her profile, which was written for me in her words. Her images, though still and lifeless, are enough to set my heart ablaze. The mere thought of her makes my eyes wet. Every day is spent in ceaseless pacing before my computer, waiting for her reply. Every faculty of my thought is bent towards deciphering the wit and elegance of her every word. As time goes on, our designs for each other mesh and merge. She wants to see me. She says there will be a time and a place, but she playfully deigns to keep me in the dark. She assures me that the day will come, and sooner than I think. She says she can't wait to see me in person. She wants me all to herself.

Do you see now? My whole mortal life, so long as I live, will play out in the span of time between the moment I saw her profile and the moment I see her face to face. There is veil between she and I, but it will be lifted. One day I will take my Lady's hand, and I will at last give in to every passionate thought and impulse, taking her as she gives herself. We will walk together forever. My loves and desires for relationship will at last be ordinate and not inordinate. My Lady will give herself to me, and I will take her, as I was always meant to. There is no fear in love; humanity and divinity are meant for one another. I will at last know perfect union. The two, while remaining themselves, shall paradoxically become one.

I am aware that this metaphor for God, however helpful to me, is in many ways untenable. As an embodied being with loves and desires, God cannot be the object of my desire. I cannot hold her hand before the time of our first date. I must live as I can for the moment. In all things, I must be true to my Lady, observing her wishes and doing as she asks, never failing to reply to her when she sends me a message.

It's all so imperfect. Even this metaphor falls short. But I at last know that God is a person and that God desires me with all the passion of infinity, more than I could ever know.

The burden of guilt

I bet lots of people would agree with the following proposition: if God does not exist, and you're a bad person, then you've got nothing to fear. Eat, drink, be merry, revel in the delights of wrongdoing, because there is no retribution. Life is brief, so do what makes you happy, regardless of the consequences to others.

But I see it differently. How terrible to realize you are a bad person in a godless universe! When death eventually comes, all you will be able to claim is the content of a bad life. What joy is there in hurting people and getting away with it? None, because you will live with the nagging, cutting burden of guilt; even if you could convince everyone else of your innocence, that lie could convince you. It would ring hollow, and you would live out your days condemned by the truth. You would slowly die, living only to numb the aching inside with transient, ashen pleasures, knowing that you brought surplus pain into a world already overflowing with it. Better to be hanged and be done with it.

I say this, over and against the desires of my sinful heart, in the hope that there will be retribution, and that I will be hanged. Because only when I die will the guilt and shame go away.

But then maybe, just maybe, when I've drifted into the void and am no more, perhaps there will be something resembling our conception of a God waiting for me there. Perhaps I will meet those lips that produced divine whispers, the same whispers that have permeated the world from the beginning. Perhaps that God will pluck me out of nonbeing and back into being, and perhaps, retribution for my crimes being satisfied, I will also be reformed, and allowed to delight in good without the specter of guilt digging its claws into my skin. Perhaps there is hope.

But until then, the burden of sin is mine to bear. None may take it from me. Not even Christ.

The Prayer of Infinite Renunciation

Would that I were born a tempest, a gust of wind, a drop of rain, a ray of sunshine. Would that I were a prayer uttered from pious lips and broken hearts, that I may drift upwards to the object of all longing, heartless and tearless.

A prayer

God, to myself give me thyself.

See me, know me, feel me.
See, know, feel my pain and loss.

To myself, give me thyself.

Nothing less will satisfy.

I wait in bitter and demanding silence.

There is a small part of God in every sweet little cookie.

There is God in goodness.

In goodness, God is given.

Where there is good, God is given.

God is in goodness.

Where I am good, God is in and with me.

Where good is done, God is breathed.

In goodness, God is given.

Of thyself, give me. Give me thyself in goodness. May all the days of my life be awash in goodness, not by the strength of my own will, but in your burning, eldritch presence in my heart.

Amen.

A prayer in the dark of winter

Sometimes all I can determine about God is that she exists, and nothing else. But even so, that can be enough.

In my darkest hour, I cried out to God. I told her that I couldn't stomach the idea of experiencing her love or presence as embodied by other people. I told her that I needed nothing less than direct intervention, direct contact with God. If another person were to come along and embody God's love and presence, that would not be enough. I needed God directly. When I called out for God to speak to me now, immediately, or else I would simply go limp until I died...my tears ended, my mind cleared, and this thought suddenly occurred to me:

Be with me.

Be with me.

Be with me.

Be, as I am.

Join me in be-ing.

Be with me.

Sit beside me. Look out upon this valley. It is green and verdant. Life is breathed into it, I am breathed into it. I am here. I am in this valley. I am in life. I am life. Sit with me. Be with me.

And I replied:

I am with you.

I am with you.

I am with you.

I am as you are.

I am alongside you.

I have my being in you.

I have my being with you.

We parallel one another; you are, and I am. We exist together.

I delight in this valley. In my present darkness, the trees are bare and the days are dark and cold. But I know the bursting forth of life is not far away. Only another month, and the trees with bloom, the valley will turn from grey to green, and you will be there. I will sit in that valley, and I will be alongside you, as you are.

In the painful days when all I know is that you exist, I quiet myself and simply let myself be, as you yourself are.

I will struggle with the question of whether or not there are any tangible signs that you love me another day.

For now, it is enough to know that you are, and that I am, and that we are together in the valley that you made.

Amen.