Our usually breezy mountain air was still and humid today, to a degree usually only experienced in what John Graves called the “damp, malarial windlessness” of the piney woods of East Texas. It’s been this way all week, Africa hot and Mississippi humid, with fast, violent thunderstorms boiling up twice or thrice daily, only to retreat and leave an occupying force of muggy mist every bit as pleasant as the Reverend Al Sharpton’s laundry hamper.
I went outside today for a very brief period. While hurrying back into the blissful mod-con of air conditioning, my attention was hooked by something glittery on the rocky ground. We have a small kitchen garden just out back, a modest fenced-in affair in which the last of the Mortgage Lifter tomatoes are sweltering on the vine. The recent rains have uncovered a child’s marble, and the relentless sun’s rays caught it just right and caused me to notice it. I went into the garden and picked it up and brought it inside and rinsed the dirt from its smooth surface. Holding the marble is a peaceful experience; its layers of glass just may contain vibrations from the spirit guiding the little pink hands that rolled it in play, years ago, in the shadow of this old farmhouse. It looks like a little planet with its cloudy swirls of red and crystal. It makes me want to look up into tonight’s sky and marvel again, and dream of what lies beyond this life for me and my kind.
Me and my kind. I’ve been silent on this blog for a couple of weeks because my attention and energies have been occupied elsewhere, occupied in a season of grief-streaked anticipation and preparation. My dear mother, the woman who raised me and protected me and taught me, the toughest woman I’ve ever known, the woman who taught me the truths that are denounced as hateful and bigoted by the bastards now running the show….my mother is now in hospice. Her lean yet noble life is running down now, funneling into the brutal hourglass predictability that accompanies the shutting down of the Adamic human body.
I know that after she passes from this life to the next, I will write something of a tribute to her. It’s in my blood to do such a thing. And there’s so much to say. The hilarious, heart-rending, terrifying, perplexing memories of a woman who lived a courageous life without the assistance of extended family or messianic government. But for now I will only continue to do what I have been doing of late: breathe prayers for the swift and peaceful death of this most precious of His saints, and ask for His grace in helping me to say good-bye.
Mrs.MacPherson attended the funeral of a friend recently. She was amused, horrified, and fascinated at the circus-like atmosphere in the church building. We sat up late that night after she returned home, and she described every obscene detail to me. We shook our heads and laughed and cussed. And then my beautiful, tender bride said something that meant the world to me. She looked at me and said, “Tonight I saw for the first time, and with full appreciation, the wisdom of your leading us out of the organized church. That’s a world I want nothing more to do with.”
It’s certainly a world to which I can never return. As we were discussing just today, if I just had to attend a church building out of a not-to-be-denied pull to meet together with others for theological rites and rituals, I would likely seek out a Tridentine (Latin) Mass in the Roman Catholic Church. Let’s be honest here. The traditional Catholics are not enslaved to any more error, delusion, or foolishness than your typical Presbyterians, Baptists, or Methodists are, PLUS the liturgy and music are beautiful and reverent. Hell, I like the statues and icons and incense and all the trappings. The Tridentine Catholics are the Marine Corps of Christendom. They know their history, and it dammit-to-hell means something to them. Yes, they’ve been taken over for a long time by fruits and freaks. But there’s a small, elite group of them that are deadly serious and frighteningly reverent. If I felt the pull to return to the pews, that’s where I’d be. It would beat the hell out of whatever Westminster wussy or Anabaptist asshole is packing ‘em in down at any of the other Church, Incs. Their praying to Mary would be no worse than Sproul’s licking the cold feet of Calvin.
I’m talking about church. So let’s really talk about church.
Organized churchianity is limited by our human understanding. Spiritual truth is as wide and broad as the mind of the Ever-Living God, and contrary to the squeals of the good churchmen, it is highly individualistic. Our Father has told us through the Scripture that the old covenant is passed away and the new covenant is now in effect. And an essential element of the new covenant is that He Himself teaches us, and that we have no need of anyone to say to another person, “Know Yahweh.” No human attempt to comprehend the reality and plan of God can be complete and final, because what He communicates to one of His children can never be fully communicated from that child to another child. He teaches each of His children as He will. There is always more to learn. And when one of us shares something with a brother or a sister, no matter how well-intentioned we are, no matter how true our message nor how pure our motives, we will communicate it imperfectly and incompletely. When we listen to our Father as He leads us by His Spirit, and when we do what He tells us to do, we are doing that which pleases Him. But when we try to convince others to follow us in the way revealed to us, we are preventing those divine children from listening for their Father’s voice. At such times, we are getting in His way.
My friend Roger Hathaway had many brilliant and revolutionary ideas that our Father taught him in long hours of study and meditation and thought. And out of his love for his brethren, Roger committed many of these concepts to written works and shared them free of charge in the massive collection maintained on his website. But none of us can be or should be a student of Roger. The revelations Roger received from his Father were his. The rest of us, try as we might, can never get exactly nor fully what Roger got from them, because there was no buffer, no intermediary between him and His Father. Likewise, when I set down my wrestling, night-sweat thoughts on the electronic pages of this blog, something is lost in translation. It never comes out as full and as rich as it was when the spirit of the Ancient of Days whispered it into my spirit while I watched a sunset or fed my chickens. And for any of you to look to me as a source of truth or as some guide or teacher for you is wrong and misguided. Someday, when you tire of journeying from teacher to teacher, from guru to guru, from church to church, from denomination to denomination, from internet discussion group to internet discussion group, from Facebook page to Facebook page…you will be so spiritually exhausted that you will collapse on the floor of your own Yahweh-given personality and moan in a feeble voice to Him, “Please help me. Please teach me. You and no other, my Father. You and no other.” And that will be a great day in your earthly life, loved one.
Organized churchianity is the grammar school of spirituality, the place where we learn the basics about our Father, Yahweh. But those lessons are couched in very elementary concepts. In the same way that we are intended to move beyond grammar school into ever higher levels of learning, so we must be willing to move beyond childhood concepts and embrace the larger truths that our Father continually offers us. The organized business called “church” has very effectively taught the children of Yahweh to mistrust their spiritual senses and instincts, and to look instead to wretched men (many of whom know less about Yahweh than my dog does) for guidance and permission to live their lives in a certain enslaved manner. The organized church has turned the role of the older man who teaches newly-awakened children of Yahweh (aka elders) into an office, a black-robed member of a catechized coterie who dictate the minutae of the lives of those tithing tit-suckers who are afraid to grow up and leave behind the principles of the doctrine of Christ and pass on into meat-masticating maturity (Hebrews 6:1ff). The organized church has turned a love-feast for family members into a funereal ritual, presided over by scowling popinjays who presume to tell their employers which of them may or may not have a mere morsel and a sip of the “sacramental elements” they display in precious metal containers and keep shrouded in linen more costly than the entire closet full of clothes belonging to some of those faithful ones in the pews.
For those of us who are the children of God, those of us who are the Elohim our Father tells us we are, we are spiritual beings that descend from our Father and, for a season, inhabit a physical body. For the Elohim children of our Father, the physical body will always be an Adamic (read: white) body. This body will eventually die (because flesh and blood do not inherit the kingdom of our Father). Also destined to die is our “soul,” which even donkeys and niggers possess…”the soul that sinneth, it will die,” no? But our spirit, which the Word of Yahweh divides asunder from the soul, will live forever because it was taken from Yahweh. As a result, we have two sets of senses, the five which connect us with the physical world and others that connect us with the spiritual world (intuition, dreams, visions, abilities which are heretofore unknown or misunderstood, etc.) Churchy religion is an expression of the physical side of our nature, while our true communion with our Father is connected to our divine nature. Our goal as divine children (see Psalm 82:6 and John 10:34) is to imitate our Father, learn our lessons here, and prepare to rule with Him one day after we are unveiled to the creation as who we truly are. We do this progressively as we turn away from human/intellectual images of Yahweh and seek a broader understanding of divine truth.
Churchianity is an attempt to convert a vision of the invisible, eternal world into symbols and practices which we can understand. Predictably, we tend to invest those symbols and practices with divine authority and eventually worship the traditions men have created. This is a sound definition of the term “idolatry.”
Churchianity is trapped in its own past. Over the years it has developed a point of view about God which it considers complete and final. As a result, it spends most of its time defending that vision and protecting itself against any new revelations which might upset its system of belief. That means that religious institutions deny the presence and voice of Yahweh Himself when He comes with new insights into divine truth. Thus, we have a choice between defending old human systems or being open to our Father’s spirit, which strongly desires to communicate with us every hour.
In John 16:12, not long before His death, Christ Jesus made the statement that He had much more to tell His followers that He hadn’t yet told them. But many who claim to be his followers are not interested in what he still has to say to us because they are afraid that any new idea will upset their neat little rhetorical, jargonish, and closed system. The 30,000-plus denominations of Christianity within the USA are not far removed from ancient pagan religions that scrambled piteously to stay in the good graces of their cruel, capricious deities. We see this sort of thinking in current religious practices — fear of punishment, sacrificial behavior to try to gain divine favor, sets of rules which define acceptable behavior, belonging to church, attending worship, observing certain celebrations, accepting the required disciplines. These are external and largely man-made rules. But the children of Yahweh, whose names were written in the Book of Life before the foundation of the world we see around us, must come to the point where we move from fear of punishment to love of our Father, Who loves us so much.
The so-called “church” cannot speak for God because it refuses to listen to the voice of God. It actually mistakes its traditional confessions of faith for the authentic will of God. The choice is between the voice of tradition and the voice of the Holy Spirit. If we believe that the Holy Spirit dictated the original documents on which the tradition is based, why do we not believe that the Holy Spirit is still fully capable of speaking to us today?
Religion is a metaphor for life lived in a vital connection with our Father, Yahweh. All the rituals of religious behavior count for nothing without a heart that yearns for Him. Organized churchianity leads people to believe that agreement with a creedal statement is what our Father requires. We must move beyond that misconception. Obedience to our Father, not to human tradition, is what ultimately pleases Him.
The concept of synchronicity is very interesting to me, mostly because I frequently see little examples of it around me. Consider today. Mrs. MacP and I were driving home from some errand-running (including a stop at the feed store where I agonized about whether to buy some bobwhite quail chicks to add to our menagerie), and we had the radio tuned to a classic rock channel. On came a tune that one usually doesn’t hear these days. It was Elvin Bishop’s “Fooled Around & Fell In Love.” I punched off the radio, muttering, “Bad memories.” My smiling wife asked me to retell the story behind that song.
When I was in high school, one of the very few nigger girls in my class had a huge crush on me, and in her typically African way, she was not, shall we say, subtle about demonstrating the extent of this crush. This girl, whose first name was Adrian, was attractive, in a teenaged sort of way. For a nigger. Which means that she had a fair amount of Caucasian blood in her, ugh. She was about two inches taller than yours truly, with an Afro the size of a beach ball. Wore those saucer-sized hoop earrings, and white eye shadow. She was in my Art Class in first period in my sophomore year. The teacher, who was a narrow-eyed bitch of the Fran Drescher variety, would let us listen to the radio in the classroom as we worked on our little clay or macrame or paint projects. One song that played at least two or three times a week during Art Class was the aforementioned Elvin Bishop track. Whenever this song would come on, the uninhibited Negress would come up to my desk and start swaying her hips, singing along with the song, looking right into my blue eyes, and making all those Motown push/pull gestures with her hands. It never failed to scare the shit out of me.
I was, what, sixteen? And what I knew of niggers, I didn’t like (some things never change). I was more terrified that the cute girls in the class in whom I was interested would write me off as a nigger-lover and ignore me in band class and whisper about me at the Pizza Inn on Friday nights after the football game. White kids had those sorts of reactions to race-mixing in my green years. But my obvious discomforture didn’t scan with Adrian. She would come up behind me and stroke my beyond-shoulder-length hair and coo, “Oooo, yo hair so pretty, Wheeluh. You a prince. You look like a prince. I’d like to lay wid you and jus’ stroke dat pretty hair. Mmm-HMM!”
As I said, scared the shit out of me. Because I knew even then that once you go black, you never get to host a racist blog.
So anyway, just now, as I was working on this little post, I flipped on the radio to NPR to see who Garrison Keillor’s musical guest would be on tonight’s “A Prairie Home Companion.” It was a replay of a show taped a couple of years ago. And the musical guest? One Elvin Bishop.
Mrs. MacP just now asked me if I want her to go put on her big hoop earrings. Cruelty, thy name is woman.
And while I’m in the music groove, let me just say this. Last night, I watched part of this year’s Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra Summer Concert. This one featured Chinese pianist Lang Lang.
M’kay. My lowbrow sense of humor compelled me to say the words “Chinese pianist Lang Lang” five times in rapid succession. It sounded for all the world like some gook pimp trying to entice a drunken sailor inside some tumbledown waterfront whorehouse in Macao.
Me love you long time.
Anyway, watching Lang Lang defile the stage alongside the VPO was a very depressing experience. I could only watch twenty minutes of his slant-eyed histrionics. Any reasonably intelligent white person of average perception knows that
Orientals Asians are not an original race. They are, however, superb imitators. And this wildhaired wok boy imitates the dog shit out of genuinely fine pianists. He grimaces. He throws that coarse hair around. He bares his teeth in a Steinway rictus. He bounces and jerks like a rickshaw ree-tard. He pounds the keys with his Ten Fingers of Death. But what he does not do is play the music. He imitates someone playing the piano. Yes, he’s a chink, but watching Lang Lang brings to mind the Japanese word karaoke, which literally means “empty orchestra.” He’s an empty piano stool.
But I’ll bet he has groupies. Miso honey. Miso veddy honey fo Lang Lang.
My dog likes to sit under my feet when I am in a chair. When I rub along her flank with my foot, she lifts her muzzle and exposes her lower teeth in a fashion that makes me laugh hard every single time. “Teeth dog!” we holler at her. Sometimes, at the end of a day in which I have thought much and dreamed much and talked to my beautiful wife much, I feel as if my back is being scrubbed by some large force, as if my own lower teeth are showing in an interior expression of delight and contentment. Right now is just such one of those times. I wish the same for all of you dear and faithful friends who regularly visit and read this blog. Eat a good supper and spend some time gratefully drinking in the presence of a loved one to whom you will one day soon, at least in this brief life, say good-bye.
And rest well under tonight’s canopy of stars. Summer is almost over, dear friends.