Peter’s feet found the sea bottom. His water logged pants made it hard to walk and he wanted to run.
There is a place far beyond human connection and if you can reach it, the games of social positioning and play acting are gone. There is mutual vulnerability and comfort. You can explore every facet of the human condition, the tricks and triggers of the mind and flesh, but you’re exploring these things from a distance and without fear. The differences and details of others are appreciated, not envied or looked down on. Life is understood and learned from. Silence is pregnant with thought. Thought is fresh and full of life that is otherwise completely missed.
When you spend most of your time in this place then the ‘regular’ life–the going to the mall life, the small talk life, the ‘be seen’ life–is an energy zapper, thought suppressor, …little fire ants nipping at your intellect. Jesus was a beckoning index finger through a heavy curtain between the layers. In all the pockets of thought and philosophy, Jesus added a much freer possibility. Freer because the potential for life entered the realm of eternity or infinity. Jesus was someone who didn’t have as much trouble forgetting the possibilities. Conversations with him send you hiking with backpacks and lanterns through territories your brain isn’t used to traveling. He can keep going, dying to show you more, but you need to rest. Bonfires crackle, bodies sleep on a bed of earth and minds continue to spin through the mysteries of life while you dream.
That’s what being His friend is like. Inspiring is too translucent a word, but He stirs something deep within, yet far, far outside. He uncovers buried treasure in your spirit, but takes you away from your natural self and lets you escape the heavy shoes of naturalism, the shoulder shrugging of agnosticism and the back patting of conformism.
People who live on that level are hard to find. There’s an immediate connection and bond when you do find one. Jesus was the ultimate find. He opened eyes people didn’t know they had. He’s yoga for the brain. If you could follow him in a conversation, his excitement grew until he brought you to your barrier of understanding, then he got quiet, went off on his own and thought by himself.
Seeing Him on the beach, tending a fire, grinning from knowing, was a brand new territory for Peter. Jesus brought thought into physical and acted like nothing while the men gathered around. Speechless.
Peter pulled his drooping pants up and pushed his soaked hair away from his eyes. Jesus was poking the fire with a stick while flames danced in His eyes. It’s almost like He thinks He’s funny, transcending levels of consciousness like this. Effortlessly moving from eternity to time, from time to eternity. This was the third time He’d done it so far. What would today be? Peter was so lost in life without Him. Being here seemed pointless after all he had learned and he didn’t know what to do with his life now that Jesus was gone. He just wanted to go with Him, wherever He was now, he wanted to go…now.
But, Jesus wanted to eat.
“Bring some of the fish you’ve just caught.”-John 21:10
Peter wanted to talk to him. His heart was on fire while he forced himself to wait until the right time. He didn’t feel like eating. He didn’t feel like talking. He didn’t feel like sitting there. He wanted out of this world. He wanted to eat the meal with Jesus wherever Jesus was eating these days. He wanted to sleep on a bed of dirt with a pillow of rock and talk about the mysteries again. He wanted to be able to shut both his eyes when Jesus was around, not afraid that He would slip away when he fell asleep. Then he could relax, then he could eat and sleep and feel secure. Peter was fidgety. Agitated. His spirit was on fire while his eyebrows furrowed.
“Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” -John 21:15
Simon, son of John… Peter’s heart ached. The phrase ’son of John’ tied him to earth. An uncut umbilical cord tying him down like a grounded kite.
Peter’s heart ached. Here he was with precious few moments with his friend and he couldn’t get himself together. Jesus must have noticed his distance and had to ask the most horrible question ever. ‘Do you love me?’
“Yes, Master, you know I love you.” -John 21:15
Take me with you. Please, get me out of here. That’s what he wanted to say, but he didn’t.
“Feed my lambs.”-John 21:15
No, don’t give me something to do here! Peter’s eyes stung. He swallowed hard. He didn’t speak because his heart was quaking and his voice would have shaken. He looked down and focused on Jesus’ feet. Feet he’s watched kick up dust on a road in the middle of nowhere. Feet he’s watched climb steps to houses He never should have been in. Feet he’s seen the bottom of when Jesus was kneeling across the room washing the feet of everyone else.
“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”-John 21:16
Peter drew in a long breath that shuddered in his chest. He blinked the tears away and looked Jesus square in the eye.
“Yes, Master, you know I love you.”-John 21:16
Peter knew that Jesus knew. What is this? Why is He doing this?
“Shepherd my sheep.” -John 21:16
Peter clenched his jaw and felt his abdomen tighten.
“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
“Master, you know everything there is to know. You’ve got to know that I love you.”
“Feed my sheep.”-John 21:17
Peter brought his fist to his mouth to pinch his lips between his thumb and teeth, trying to squeeze the pain from watering his eyes. He raised his eyebrows, took a deep breath and nodded.
Jesus started something that Peter had to maintain. Jesus taught him how to live on that other level and sent His Spirit to draw him even further. Peter had to keep camping out, keep building fires, keep kicking up dust because that’s the way Jesus said he could show his love.
“I’m telling you the very truth now: When you were young you dressed yourself and went wherever you wished, but when you get old you’ll have to stretch out your hands while someone else dresses you and takes you where you don’t want to go.”-John 21:18
Following Jesus, really following, is the hardest thing to do. You have to learn to despise your own name. You have to trust while you go through the things that make it possible to despise your own name. You have to walk down paths you would never walk had you been given the choice.
We’re still travelers on the train and He’s gone to ‘prepare a place’ for us. We can sit and ache or we can try to find the others. Some of them don’t know who they are yet and they need to be found.
If you’re out there, do you get it? Are you found?
You trust God, don’t you? Trust me. There is plenty of room for you in my Father’s home. If that weren’t so, would I have told you that I’m on my way to get a room ready for you? And if I’m on my way to get your room ready, I’ll come back and get you so you can live where I live.-John 14:2-3
The sun peeked over the liquid horizon and reminded Peter that he had to go on with life. After all he’s seen and heard, he knew he’d never be the same. The rhythm of the sea pulsed through his boat and they all stood in silence while they headed back to the shore.
The sun was an ill fit for this morning. So heartless the way it pierces your senses with life, when you feel nothing but death.
His best friend was dead. An out of place murder, yet the perfect contrast between the etherial aura of his friend and the overbearing grunt of the people around him.
The morning glimmered like liquid fire across the water. His muscles hurt from fishing all night. He reached across his chest, burying his face in the crook of his arm as he massaged his upper back. Exhaustion played movie clips of his friend’s life and the fight against burning tears was getting harder.
His friend operated on a different level than everybody else. He could see through the thick and distracting surface and always find them on that spiritual level. It was unnerving and comforting at the same time. There was something peaceful and knowing about him. He sparked the consciousness of life on a level that was entirely untouchable by everything we knew and called ‘life’ before him. It was inspiring to the point of bursting at the seems of natural reality.
Thinking about them dragging his body along the rocks of the superficial layer of life was a horrible insult to everything he represented. They killed him on a level where he never lived.
The boat was getting closer to shore. His thoughts were tearing him to pieces and he wanted to hit something…someone. He needed a release and crying was not an option.
There was a sun-drenched silhouette on the shore ahead of them. The silhouette was saying something.
‘Good morning!’ -John 21:5
They ignored him.
‘Did you catch anything for breakfast?’ -John 21:5
We’re not in the mood, dude.
Someone from the boat indulged the silhouette.
“No.” -John 21:5
They had been fishing all night and caught nothing. They weren’t fishing to fish, but it would have been nice to catch something. For something to go right. But,…nothing.
“Throw the net off the right side of the boat and see what happens.” -John 21:6
Who is this guy?
Maybe it was the need to throw something, maybe it was something else. They threw the net over and it immediately filled with fish. And more fish. The men were laughing and panicking at the same time. They were going to go down with the biggest catch of their lives.
All of this activity of yelling, splashing, rocking and Peter just stood there and stared at the silhouette. Something was whispering into his depths. Something was welling up inside him. Something shoved his legs into his pants and propelled him over the side of his boat. His heart was pounding, arms were aching, legs were dragging, as he made his way through the water to the sun drenched silhouette on shore.
There are some who are sorry because they got caught. There are some who are sorry after they see the damage their selfishness caused. My sorry came later.
Nobody ever dreams of becoming a thief. I didn’t ask for this life, I just sort of fell into it. I suppose, if I had the means, I wouldn’t have had to steal, but this is real life and I had needs. I only stole from the rich and haughty and if you ask me, they deserved it. I resented their superior attitude and I never felt bad about the things I did.
I pulled off some great heists. I wasn’t selfish with my loot. I shared with my fellow poverty stricken comrades. I considered myself a Robin Hood of sorts and I wouldn’t have been surprised if I got some sort of standing ovation while I received my Nobel Peace Prize.
When I got caught, it was over something stupid. For someone with my natural skill, the occasion to kick myself for such careless stupidity was consuming. I’m a believer in fate and I knew my time was coming. I had grandiose dreams of how I’d be caught, though, and as I mourned my due spotlight, I bowed to fate and took its apron of service with humility.
My chamber was modest. The ‘Soldiers of Doom’, as I like to call them, were preoccupied with some guy down the corridor. I listened for my name from the crowd outside. I imagined immaculately decorated signs for my honor. There was quite a mass gathered and all I could make out were the one’s gathered for the other guy. This isn’t at all what I imagined. Death for such a mediocre crime was the fashion of the Romans, but it would have been so much easier had my fans turned out like I thought they would.
My confident courage was waining and the time was ticking in audible seconds. I was scheduled to be hung on the same day as another thief, but I didn’t exactly know what the deal was with the other guy. I’ve heard ‘treason’ and ‘blasphemy’, but the way they were tearing him apart, I couldn’t imagine mere words on the part of a lunatic would trump my great feats of stealth and deception. I’m not a bad guy, mind you. I’m merely an opportunist. An opportunist whose grandeur was fading.
The beating that echoed through the halls was amplified by the stone. The thing that stuck out to me most was the fact that I couldn’t hear him fight back. He never begged for mercy, he never proclaimed his innocence. He didn’t say anything. He just took it.
Maybe that’s why they kept hitting him. Maybe they wanted him to break, so they kept torturing him. I hate admitting this, but in my own reduced state, I cried. I sat in my cell and felt the blows that the Silent Strength took. I call him the ‘Silent Strength’ because that’s what he became to me in those minutes (hours?) of hearing them beat him.
I could feel myself changing into…something. I was at a more guttural level of my humanity and I was being transformed into a nothing when all of my ’something’ faded in obscurity.
The guards came to unlock my cell and lead me out to slaughter. I kept looking around for the Silent Strength but couldn’t spot him. I could just hear the crowd in the distance ahead of me and followed his trail of blood as I walked the path he just took. I found a sense of peace as I placed my feet in his footsteps. Not really footsteps, I couldn’t make them out, but in my imagination, I was following the Silent Strength, step by step, with a sobering sense of purpose.
I gleaned from him. Wrong or right, I fed off his courage to walk when I don’t know how a man could walk after what he’d just been through.
When I got to the hill, I saw the other thief spitting and spewing his ugliness as he took his cross. The contrast between he and the Silent Strength was staggering. That man looked at the sky as though he were looking for someone to meet his gaze. I don’t think he ever found it because he cried to the sky, “Why have you forsaken me?”
I waited for him to notice me, my heart caught in my chest with his words and though I was confused, I still felt like I was witnessing something so much greater than anything I’ve ever witnessed in my life.
When the nails were in place and the ropes were tied, the Soldiers of Doom made our cross placement count. We slammed in the ground with a horrific thud and I heard the Silent Strength cry out.
He said something that sent me over the edge. He looked to the sky and cried, ‘Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they’re doing.’
I couldn’t take it.
I watched them make fun of him. ‘King of the Jews,’ they cried, ’save yourself!’
Women were wailing and he held them up with words. “Don’t cry for me. If they do this when times are good, think of what they’ll do when times are bad.’
I looked at the crowd and found, what I think was, his mother. Her frail frame was supported by a younger man as she cried out his name. Jesus. Then, I heard him separate himself from them.
‘Behold your mother,’ he said. ‘Behold your son.’
They fell into each other as I was losing consciousness.
If only I could sleep until I’m dead, but breathing was nearly impossible in that position. I could feel my life grow weary as I gasped for air. Crucifixion is an effective form of death by slow torture. If they get sick of us holding on to life, they break our ankles so we can’t stand up for air. I could see their mallets in the dirt under me and I wanted to not fight, but my survival instinct was more powerful than my will for death.
I was watching the Silent Strength, Jesus, from the corner of my eye. I heard the other thief join in the mocking. It seemed he was half spitting-half hoping when he said, ‘Are you not the Christ?! Save yourself and us!’
My heart wailed and I screamed words I barely recognized as my own, ‘Have you no fear of God?! We’re getting what we deserve, but this man hasn’t done anything wrong!’
My head was spinning. Somewhere between my ego-centric god complex, I discovered the Truth. I know I deserve my death, but everyone knew that this other man didn’t. They all knew it and still they strung him up like a cursed piece of meat. A sacrifice to the fabricated god of religious politics.
I knew he was fading. I knew my time was short. I felt a sense of desperation when I spoke to him.
‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your Kingdom.’
I was His first. My glory was not in my valiant feats of thievery, though I never would have met Him if I had not done wrong. I’m thankful for my own failures because I never would have heard Him say:
‘Believe me when I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’
Posted: April 2nd, 2009 |
Author:Serena Woods |
Filed under:God, life |
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Remembering who we are is one of the hardest things to do.
The experiences we have in flesh and blood distract us from the experiences that take place in the spirit, the ‘wind hovering over the water’ life.
It’s hard to rip the flesh out of the equation. Needs make us aware of the ability in our hands. Passion makes us aware of the energy in our shapes. Dreams make us aware of the potential in our time. Pain makes us aware of the energy in our tears. Anger makes us sense the power of our fists. We use God like a shovel. We wear God like cheap perfume. We use oils and chants as though God were a genie. Our sense of entitlement thinks God wouldn’t want us to cry. Our so called righteous indignation uses God like brass knuckles.
When will we see that the flesh is separate from the spirit? We have the freedom to move about the world and all of its experiences without being bound to them. Things in this life do not sustain us because their loss cannot break us. We navigate our lives choosing liberation or capture.
It’s not about choosing right for the sake of choosing right. You’re choosing freedom. Not freedom from pain, failure, consequences or punishment. These are all things that have to do with the flesh. Flesh is relative and based on perspective.
Freedom has to do with the spirit. Nothing in the here and now should be used to navigate you. Only distract you. You have a force working against your freedom. An enemy who wants you to feel not only pain, guilt and uncertainty, but also relief, success and security. We are distracted by all of those things. We are tied to all of those things. We are held captive by our flesh in more ways than we know.
The power of the wind. An invisible force gentle enough to make chimes sing. Sturdy enough for birds to rest their wings. Strong enough to put a farmer’s tractor in the trees. The power of the wind hints at a terrifying and awesome invisible made visible by the effects it has on what we can actually see.
Flesh is only a whisper, not an infallible entity. Don’t submit to things that die with passing time. It’ll never be fascinating enough to hold you and it will never be simple enough to make you understand.
“You’re not listening. Let me say it again. Unless a person submits to this original creation—the ‘wind-hovering-over-the-water’ creation, the invisible moving the visible, a baptism into a new life—it’s not possible to enter God’s kingdom. When you look at a baby, it’s just that: a body you can look at and touch. But the person who takes shape within is formed by something you can’t see and touch—the Spirit—and becomes a living spirit.”
Posted: March 25th, 2009 |
Author:Serena Woods |
Filed under:God, life |
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The whisper came to her while she slept. The riddle unravelled while she prayed. The knot untied and the loose ends ran like ribbons through empty halls, like the tape of a cassette with white noise and expectant waiting.
The story made its way, moment by moment into her consciousness. Moment by moment, her physical actions joined with the story written like a blurred picture coming in to focus.
‘In this world….,’ rang the echo. The fingerprint in her mind had its own heartbeat and seemed ready to take over. ‘…you will experience hardship.’ Faint and exhilarated together, she looks around to see if anyone else knows this, too.
Automatons. Human robots putting shovels to ground and building towers to admire. Robot moms straightening parts one minute and comparing estrogen the next. The robots scatter when blood steps on the scene. When something real comes spilling out of the mouth of a once inconspicuous member of society. Society doesn’t care who you really are as long as you can fit in and keep up.
Tears are so awkward. So ill fitting in a world where teeth are florescent white and the skin is pulled tight, plumped up and decorated orange.
‘You will deny me….,’ pulses the whisper. Can you hear it? She must not show signs of life or she’ll lose her social position. She must not make eye contact or they’ll know she’s real. She slips into a covered alley to pull on her hair, to slap her cheeks. My gosh. The whisper is revealing the riddle of the future and there is no one she can tell. The preacher will put it up as an example of irreverence. Her boss will make her take leave. Her mother will cry. Her husband will send her to a therapist. The therapist will medicate her. ‘…you will make a run for it and abandon me.’
She asks her best friend. A moment of trust, which of course, is always weakness. Her friend doesn’t know this voice. Her friend doesn’t know who she could be ‘abandoning’ and as long as she plays by the rules, she will not experience ‘hardship.’ Per say.
Fake your laugh. Let it go. Proof is found floating in the cereal. What ‘will be abandoned’ has, in fact, been abandoned. To the devastating extent that most don’t even know that there was something to be abandoned.
The life that she feels is hard to continually ignore. She feels more and more detached from the clammy skin, perfume and pink cheeks.
Prayers to make sense turn into answers and answers take her into a crushing transition between what was and what will be. She enters the knowing from eating the fruit. Fruit makes her sick and when she heals she’s on the outside. No longer a member of the society inside the bubble.
Fear starts to creep when the whisper echos in, “I told you all that so that you would believe. Belief leaves you unshaken, assured and deeply at peace.”
She started her travels, putting secrets on pages. He said one more thing that she rolls in her head. Something that she never understood before she got sick, but now hangs on to whenever she doubts.
A friendly face from a fellow outcast sprinkles her walk.
Onward she goes, through territory new, thinking about the words that were whispered in sleep.
‘In this godless world, you will continue to experience difficulties. But take heart! I have conquered the world.’
