Orsday Programming February 22 2025
giving up all hope
Life and Love both become alien. All dead kept to the earth turn crushed down into oils, and through these oils come a willing pollution unto the believer, and through this pollution does the brain become filled with machines, and thought becomes mechanical machine itself spirited not by a divine will but a profane gas fuming itself hotly through the engine; these crushed deads, the however many billions, are the demons of earth whose hunched forms and colorful backs make-up the Work of Lord God in presenting an illusion of materiality—see them as colorful shells in the soil when caught with light, and see them more truthfully as a bubbling ocean of warm tar hid just behind the thin illusion of life. This illusion made up of light, and of shells.
It is to the shells my confused soul is promised as a convert to a faith guided by the quiet hand—and the virtues of this quiet hand are what I aim to extoll, and praise, and live through without being lost wholly to a bitterness.
When first converted or called to faith there is an excitement to be and to participate: a passion both strong and fleeting to let this new purpose descend over the self and guide—but this excitement is temporary and must be understood as such, dedication to the faith comes with difficulty and drudgery, and trying of adherence to virtues;
often loving angels of light and sound warp this world to trick me with only good things.
An angel touches the illusion and through its choir-noise the world shifts, and in a place as mundane as Publix did a person of true beauty appear—hear how weak I am; ever since the first greater ecstasy where the thin illusion broke and I saw the bodies of angels and the peoples afflicted as their levers (understand this to mean them as beastly tools of angels, slaves to angels, slaves to connection, and only tolerable while adjoined to the same connection angels provide while viewing illusion) and saw this illusion-breaking as a terrifically ugly experience: the entire world became rotting and filled with large soft-bodied beetles where humanity once existed, the world was a bugs nest roach motel and it screamed constantly with only dirty things (the angels: antidote to this disgusting vision); over several years the dirt softened and the callous began to form again where bodies and world ceased seeming as ugly.
The beautiful person in Publix caught me off-guard in several ways; I did not covet their beauty but their connection and state of connection—to see beauty of the world is to see your relation to it; I had disconnected from the world and recoiled through the willingness to poison myself through this malignant faith of mine where connectivity ought be shunned to keep the self unconfused and in alignment with Etiquette—the machine in the brain. To see a disconnected relation with the world is to see the growing ugliness of the self, to see the world drift farther away and for loneliness to solidify itself around self plus age as an easily escapable cell whose only jailor is self: why not join the world, and beauty, and smile, and connected, and live happily within it. It is a test of faith, against the confusion of angels and connectivity and abstraction; the test is simply “resist temptation to be happy.” In realizing the test, the test also becomes known to the test-taker—and the test itself also becomes subject to this sudden awareness of ugliness, though the test itself were the open door of the voluntary cell: ignore the test and step outside.
To fall out of connection is awareness of the world fleeting around and for its glitzes to too fall as scales; to grow older and more forgotten and to be overtaken by the shadow of quiet and disappear within its velvet. Within the underground is silence, and only silence, and oil; it is not life that causes the machine to move or be beautiful but the colors from Light and sounds to animate it; it is only stone.
As the adherent what is requested.
To be silent mostly and where it would be otherwise tactless, to speak when spoken to; to seek out conversation, to divest emotion, to create for connection all profane the profanity of an underground; the grave is quiet and so goes its worship and petitioners.
Imagine then the ruins where church was held for the faith, or should be held; imagine the building and its present condition of ‘use’ or occupancy too degrading as the connective employ of persons dies and decays and becomes a rot of disconnection within it—a building dies when the group that gave it identity dies; when the fort falls to invaders; when the ice cream shop goes out of business; when the resident is murdered and the neighborhood is emptied—so does time drain the histories of the building and bring it to its own disconnection as ruin.
There in the ruin is the true church of underground. Imagine yet still a clerical function of persons all operating by Etiquette and adhering against their connective nature being bound by “speak unless petitioned,” and the moronic function of that church body—silent idiot mechanical computers waiting for a punch card to feed them;
The excitability of new adherents to a faith are blinded with passion and make themselves freely offered a refunctioning and exploitation, and a church should not work upon this; the passion and excitability is yet a fresh and raw nerve drilled into the person by Connection—only when it is deadened does it become ruin and does it become machine-like; the ugliness need be felt and seen and life not shunned until a choice is made to adhere willingly with a heart calloused to its levers.
A church this way does not grow.
Blood need flow through the asp and ices, love need be taken and offered at its own failings to the most pure adherence to the faith and underground; the charnal pit needs its tenders and the grave needs its keepers, the reliquary its functioning body to acknowledge it as reliquary and not only bones.
It is easy to see faith as a sludge I have become lost inside, and any bubble of clarity of sky overhead does not change that I am drowning, and am aware of it.
To see beauty and long for a friend a test towards air; to play a game with another, a test to breathe; to be enmeshed in a community; to be fostering relationships within neighborhood; to wish to be a child in a loving family; to want to receive gifts; to want to talk and converse and share; to want to be within; the schemes of angels to control—I am drowning and lost and very cognizant of the tar, it is becoming home in my lungs.
Tremendous character and strength needed to take to a vow of disconnectivity and subjection to this Royal Silence—against the love and tender care of angels; of the controlling connective insects laced deep into the air—and to remain with a heart unembittered and loving still; the disconnective heart is ate by its morose attitude and inflamed humors, its gloomy guts; it need an active love to foster love despite the life it is leaving behind. There is only grace; there is quiet grace.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance