My spirits have fallen and they can’t get up. Daunting is the only word that comes to mind. Flights of golden angels cascading in their descent, Like winged droplets of fury,
A kamikaze dive-bomb of futility. So strong, so mighty yet even they can’t seem to lift it.
Ignatius’ boulder is my paradoxical heart. I step back, I take a breath, I try to lie as still as possible, While standing. The gracious God of my forefathers speaks in ways that I’m too deaf to hear, Years of amplified sound pushing the air and feeding back have given birth to ringing and comically misheard phrasings of others. Why should the utterances of a deity be any different? Yet in reticent differential reference to reverence I rise and raise my ears towards Israel, just to hear the shard-like cries of razor wire sadness from my people as well as those that would be thought of by most as enemies. In Canaanite candor, lost to the ages, I know what so many others do that you can’t choose one side over the other and still stay human(e). You can’t cry stop the occupation, because that is like saying, “please continue the suicide bombings.” You can’t simply stand behind this so-called bastion of democracy because that is negating the fact that they have innocent blood on their hands as well. If you need someone to blame then blame the British and for that matter then blame the Romans, the Germans, the Babylonians and the Spanish. The question is begged and pleaded with, is progress built on the backs of those who suffer? If I told you, well then I’d have to kill you. Those who can’t cope with the answer need somewhere to turn, enter a Shepard of sorts. Your God and my God are just filtration points to the same end. Different mailboxes that deliver to the same sorting center and are sent to the same place in the end. Same, same, same. The best metaphor for a heavenly creator is the ocean, who shows no deference to the millions of organisms living inside of its murky depths or even better, you are the most fit for parallelism. You don’t think of every cell in your body and yet you “contain multitudes.” We are but dead skin on an astral heel, waiting for the eternal bliss of a pumice stone called death to wipe us clean for the arrival of brand new flesh to cover and shield the internal, the vulnerable. Until of course they die off and eventually the heel has to die too, right? That’s the rub.
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