With a gentle smile.
The smile reminds us that for all our detours into darkness, we have but to see.
To embrace that which embraces us.
To lift up our eyes, raise our voice, sing to the heavens the Song we have long heard in our heart...to see our brother without mistrust.
I am still. I hear surf crashing against rock, wind rush through timber, and somehow...somewhere, I hear snow falling.
Good morning. We can nearly hear the earth turn.
The Flow feels different...
You feel alive, but not in physical terms. You feel the door open wider. In your stillness, you see beyond appearances. You feel the scales falling from your eyes.
I feel a great patience.
The perfect patience of knowing. Its origin is Divine love.
That love for which we need not ask.
We are the result of love. "Everything else is commentary."
Then we are love, the truth beneath that which appears.
This is how we hold our world together. It is as if we were actors, somehow stuck in character, forgetting the whole thing is a play.
The roles we play keep us from knowing who we are.
We remain ever safe and whole. Close your eyes and see; shut off your ears and hear.
We're afraid to look, afraid of what we might find.
And no wonder. The world believes God to be angry, all too human, with love in one hand, and punishment in the other. Who would seek to go that deep, to risk such betrayal of their faith?
The world has been afraid too long.
We have too long ignored the presence of God in us. We attend services, perform rituals. But God remains unreal to us, an impossible ideal. We must recognize one another. Let us see at last the unreality of the veil.
To love my neighbor as myself.
And your Father, with all you heart, mind, and soul.
Easy to say...
Why? Who told you so? There is no one to tell you such lies. Who told you to be ashamed? Might as well stay in the shadows, conversing with serpents.
How could I have come so far, yet forgotten so much? How could I have forsaken my brother, thus myself?
Yes, how, you with unseeing eyes, unhearing ears. And yet, how are you able to write so? Where faith, where vision? From what part of the brain did these originate? From which place of tissue, blood and nerve-firing comes the still small voice? How glad are we that the patience of God knows no end.
I am still. I hear the language of silence, feel the touch of the Invisible, the flowing, endless waters.
Good morning. Yes, we hear the rush of that Divine river, running beneath our cries. How long before we stop and listen?
How long before we kneel at its bank and drink?
Perhaps one more class, one more lesson; one more bite of what that old snake has to offer.
What does God offer but no more fragile bodies, no more veiled eyes?
No more nightmares. Listen. Hear that voice. It does not matter by what name we call it, does not matter that we tell ourselves we cannot hear it, or that at times it seems absent.
Father, we do not care that we do not yet see you. We turn to you anyway, knowing our not seeing is illusion. We will never stop listening to your voice. We are whole by virtue of your love. Our faith is a rock. On this rock we still stand. Thank you, Father. Amen.
No matter what appears, Spirit comes through.
How else to heal?
God whispers through the cloud, the "real" world vanishes.
Calm so complete, we see in an instant that we were chasing mist. Take this joy, give it, wherever you go.
["Father", and "He" have nothing to do with gender here. I do not believe God is gender-specific.]
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