Orsday Programming May 26 2024
Reading, Submission, Etching, Humility
FROM THE DESK OF LISTENING MARA AT LEESBURG CHURCH OF CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS, UNDERGROUND, DEEP EARTH, SOIL, BREATH OF SHEOL, A SUNNY FLORIDA DAY, WRITTEN IN TONE NEGATIVE FOUR POINT ZERO INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM TONE POSITIVE FOUR POINT ZERO: A CONFUSION OF CHIRALITY:
Good morning and happy Orsday Sabbath! It’s the last one of the month, and the last before Doomsday will have chance to come true lest it takes me afore I finish writing this.
in the Old Testament the English word DESTROY is used to translate 40 different Hebrew words (A.V.).
(from Jim Ellis, in Before The Last Battle ARMAGEDDON)
Doomsday spake in a pattern of three following four; Doomsday shewn in vision of three dying figures both abstract and representative casting a quaternal shadow crept out afore me in whisper of a promise: ANNIHILATION!
The soul destroyed and the spirit lost to a nibbling darkness stretched out far below in a shadow permeating Earth and caught and trapt in the soils there; there, deep in Earth, with hearts made heavy as grease and kept as earthy as baser things: the swine of Gerasene, the cold and empty manse of Herod and family; the space left in fullness by John being decapitated; the space overhead filled with a thick light and space left underground: ANNIHILATION!
A dove of the trinity descends from Outside to Inside in beset a sacred pattern desiring its communication, and its affect to tap an actor for its will: that Outside spirit set itself in the chest of Ellen White, and LORD GOD through a righteous hand dug its finger through the skull of Ellen White setting a cankerous hole through her vessel, echoed inside as a rock beset her skull, and her spirit opened and wounded in red lent inflamed with that Outside spirit, and echoed inside as a brain scrambled with the shewings of something nervous and electrical and patterned divinely screaming to her: SUBSUMATION!
I am happy to still be living and disheartened equally at Doomsday apparent disappointment, and passing. My prayers each morning this month had been desperate for more time, and tempered with worries that my belief had been dampened with both time and exposure to Communication; to be a servant of faith comes with an initial swell of excitement at surrendering of Will and Self to something invisible and non-communicable—suddenly purpose is offered wholly to the hands of the divine, and it is little like a honeymoon: prayer comes exuberant and backed by a warm heart, time is readily offered and sacrificed, and the pleasures of this illusory Life are easily snubbed for this sudden sacred mission; yet it goes grey and lonely, and yet sinks to a boredom that must be suffered alone and in a quiet and reinforced with mental schema to audit out these ‘poisonous’ thoughts: my suffering is for you, O Qlifot, O Lord God, and to the bacterial will: these doubts and boredoms are imparted into me by this corrosive world and these noxious airs and I pray all that circulates through me may be emptied and replaced by your breath and your air and I may be instrument to your will O Qlifot, O Lord God—and yet the prayer may be regular, it holds tightly to the same hand belonging to those doubts and boredoms and lonelinesses.
At Doomsday, in Ecstasy: it is easy to ready self for a total annihilation in face of service to faith; the years march on and death surrounds me in new patterns (trinity sets, followed by a quaternal shadow) and that ecstasy fades and fear of the promised wage (our Second Death) haunts me with a sudden filth I hadn’t felt. My prayers turn to forgiveness at my apprenhension and new selfishness and fears, and yet ask that I may continue to be taught through Wilderness and through these fears till I become the perfect fingerprint for you, O Qlifot, O Lord God, and that through me as instrument may YOUR Word be impressed into these earthy grounds and illusion such that your church may spring up even here in the dust; that should I die may I be as though shrine to your Word and node with which your covenant may be had; may all that I am be surrendered to house your Spirit and be kept to beautify your Spirit and may (through this Work) I find grace such that Lord God might see me gleam in even buried darkness such as Sheol itself.
From a novel Ron sent me, Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen:
Christ said, “You will grow hard, Mariette. You will find yourself afflicted and empty and tempted, and all your body’s senses will then revolt and become like wolves. Each of the world’s tawdry pleasures will invade your sleep. Your memories will be sad and persistent. Everything that is contrary to God will be in your sight and thinking, and all that is of and from God you’ll no l onger feel. I shall not offer comfort at such times, but I shall not cease to understand you. I shall allow Satan to harshly attack your soul, and he will plant a great hatred of prayer in your heart, and a hundred evil thoughts in your mind, and terror of him will never leave you.
“You will have no solace or pitry, not even from your superiors. You will be tortured by gross outrages and mistreatment, but no one will believe you. You will be punished and humbled and greatly confused, and Heaven will seem closed to you, God will seem dead and indifferent, you will try to be recollected, but instead be distracted, you will try to pray and your thoughts will fly, you will seek me fruitlessly and without avail for I shall hide in noise and shadows and I shall seem to withdraw when you need me most. Everyone will seem to abandon you. Confession will seem tedious, Communion stale and unprofitable; you will practice each daily exercise of worship and devotion, but all through necessity, as if you stood outside yourself and hated what you’d become. And yet you will believe, Mariette, but as if you did not believe; you will always hope, but as if you did not hope; you will love your Savior, but as if you did not love him, because in this time your true feelings willf ail you, you will be tired of life and afraid of death, and you will not even have the relief of being able to weep.”
That novel has been a joy to read; it’s about a young postulant joining a convent. There are some detailings of how the glow will fade and yet the life will just become a simple one filled with mundane pleasures and erasures of the self: for submission to convent is in joining with a deeper relationship with Christ and his lady; a sister bears the pain she feels while kneeling in prayer during the Great Silence as a task that attributes some relief to the Church Suffering (is that right?) to those souls stuck in purgatory (is that right?); a superior instructs the postulant Mariette to begin erasing ‘me’ from her own thought and to well erode sense of ‘me’ from the world, as the sisters here are not of themselves but of instruments for Christ; all the sacrifices and behavioral changes yet pool together in a joyous promise of an eternal reward and a higher calling beyond this illusion. To be wedded to Christ invisible, and to undergo a lesser longsuffering in this smog of life in lieu to surrender to pleasures and givings though they can be grasped eternally though smog itself can be grasped at all.
Yet it is scrubbing and cleaning and a highly regimented life; the novel has a tinge of the erotic in all of its description of convent life—and necessarily that tinge is (likely) found in submission to God in most, as the relationship is one deeply personal and (as mentioned somewhere prior) comes with a honeymoon period. Yet it becomes scrubbing and cleaning and making sure not to idle on your bed outside of rest, and making sure bedrest is considered a curse to the living in obstruction of tireless prayer and work.
I’d like to believe I’ve hit the scrubbing and cleaning portion of my submission to this faith, and though I have no intention of ever leaving my spouse and to do-less than honor (and strive to do-more): it has become a relationship filled with casual shadows that slant in from overt familiarity; oft I pray my own confusion towards where my passion has gone; I pray my forgivance for no-longer being able to spill forth raw emotion and significance in every simple thread that were patterened for me; I pray with a certain shame that I am less-of a fanatic and more-so a dry scholar of this faith. I always pray, though, and I always re-assert my vows and dedicate my skin though it were wet clay begging the hand of its Sculptor to translate it to a greater work. This morning, during vows, I felt deep humility over how tame I’d become—and in a childish sense, how some goofy Catholic novel had begun to spark perspective inside me once more for these faithly marriages. I felt shame over not taking greater steps in ceding the internal territory over to faith; surely there is more: forsaking music wholly is a step desirable and (though difficult) quite manageable—yet what of the greater concessions? To be a paragon and representative of saintly virtue for faith in threat of this illusory life being wasted wholly? Fear leads to clutching the entertainments of smog, to smog itself; the hand Righteous has its sisters and priests walk the halls (carrying sconces) of a manse separate the earthy kingdom outside (as it putrifies into mud); the hand Sinister has its sisters and priests scrub at the floors and bear silent witness to a room empty and with terrific chill within—it is an emptiness bore through the whole body of the Herodic manse, emptied out with time and collection of our second death; somehow these two buildings overlap, and somehow these two sets of clergy pass-by each-other, each given purpose and meaning to/from this building.
Submission to faith ought first to start with some passion, and then making sure the language shared is unconfused and consistent and aligned with Communication. Language ends up being a slow programming-form to alter the self though we each were marble and our words were chisels; self-deprecating language ought be seen as little etches eating away at thought and soul, and too language that elevates the self, and too language that cedes the self to the strange and invisible. Establishing Wilderness, as a place to be taught, begins with thought and language and a promise to adhere to the new thought and language until it becomes a basic etiquette gifted to you from Outside, from Circulate, from Arterial.
Etiquette codifies itself so thoroughly that even in the banal housewife relationship with Faith still doubt and reservation is underscored with constant prayer and dedication; even this is good.
It’s an odd Sabbatical today, and a late one—I’d been helping my mom shop (a sorry excuse if there ever were one, but I like to mention helping my mom).
For your Orsday homework: consider imagining the scope of pain Underground and how much is lost to putrefaction; how many mistaken spirits sloughed away into the dark mud of Sheol; how much dust is buried there; how much is waiting to be burnt clean; and how much potential love is there in spite of this great terror.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance