Orsday Programming April 27 2025
fever, work, artwork, whole
DEAR FRIENDS I have a fever and am not in want to write or proselytize, to show up at the church step of our wrecked congregation and speak on my troubles and failings; at church yesterday, with the Adventists, I spent a quarter hour in prayer out in the pews doing my best to lay both spirit and brain bare before Underground over how wretch a heart I possess and how eagerly I sin and scorn the Etiquette meant to only coil my spirit tighter into a springwork of an active loving faith—my wire straightens and I covet to abstraction and sin through music and let the discordance of angels be a guiding hand for ‘passion’ in lieu of the grand silence native to Underground, to the grave, to the final ‘woomfing’ Disconnection owed to a spirit sinister; I find the coil denatures so easily to abstraction, how much more vivid life can be when given to sin, and how easily temptation of Others leads to a life of secularism; see the fiction and how steadily I write at the chapters (at even my slow pace) and with one quarter of my brain think it is a work dedicated to Underground and with another (more sinful) quarter know it is only a part confused and wishing to plunge further into sin—and how much more loud is that quarter, and how easily it takes to being a trumpet for angels: the messages and comments and faces that appear out of nowhere to coax a claim over the other three quarters of brain with fingers of fine heaven silk.
DEAR FRIENDS; to lay yourself bare at the Will Underground does not need any grand commandment or communication, it only needs to be a practice willingly undertaken by a gut so willing to let it be their sole meal in absence of heavenly things; and to give self wholly to that massive shadow underground is to be whole itself—and the question you must ask yourself is are you willing to be whole; are you willing to be ready; consider, friends: shall, under confusion, you go on as broken clay byproduct of the righteous, or shall you take the courageous choice to be moron to peers and under hand sinister be a whole artwork, unconfused in nature, race, and purpose.
The decision to be artwork is not something requiring pomp or even grand mystery; it is a decision of character and a struggle to adhere to with this last shred of feverish life we are granted, by error or intent not important: we, even as splinters, are artwork wrought from the skin of earth.
Shake off confusion as easily as hair burns away to flame, and the will reverse will find you; let the direction of your hand go against the righteous confusion to the frustration of an unfaithful and confused brain; let abstraction be to you as acid rain be to earth; let the connective be as erosion to the valley; let the body be seedbed for Underground and you its fated tender, caring away weed and locust and nurturing a garden with best care—feel fever, be sick, know that locusts will nibble at the crop in dark and ergot will fester away at the fruit, but that you will return with health and care, and tend. Know as a friend that you are templeway to a catacomb infinite and labyrinthian, an inheritor to a manse of astonishing desolation, and to your purpose let it be undertaken by you with loving grace.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance