By the shore of Galilee Jesus liked to share a story with his neighbors from down the road, tales of wonder and struggle and dreams. On Saturday mornings he jammed on the front porch with friends, picked a few smoky rhythms. Sometimes they hit sublime passages, and the sick would come from miles around to be healed. Some who were blind could see. Some who were crippled could move again. Some who were dead became alive. It went like that, a golden age of childlike genesis and re-genesis, a pause in the cluttered script. By the shore. Picking smoky rhythms by the shore.
There were problems of course. The Romans looked over your shoulder. Now that was a proper empire, Rome. What does North America have? A couple-hundred years? Anyway, according to official records even the Romans couldn’t figure why Jesus came to deserve the death penalty (he didn’t). Pilate washed his hands of the spectacle. Or wrung them. Or perhaps incited the uproar in the first place. Come to think of it, why does the Empire get such a free pass in this story? People debate the truth of thirty years ago; how do we look back two thousand years? History is peculiar. You need to account for translation glitches, memos lost inside the institutions.
You were raised in a religious family. In the seventies you trundled up the hill every Sunday with Mom and Dad and your sister to your sprawling neighborhood church, one of the first “megachurches” on the suburban landscape, with two-story Sunday school wings branching out from a soaring main sanctuary. Start of a postmodern trend. They don’t have “sanctuaries” now, they have auditoriums. Anyway, you did Sunday school in the morning and church toward noon. Missing Sunday school was forbidden, though sometimes you could skip church. When you got a driver license Dad let you drive the ’67 Mustang to church. Independence at last! No complaints, really. Jesus the intermediary made sense, but oh the doctrine.
Pastor Paul spent years of his youth and yours convincing you that a transfigured savior, the one Rome saw fit to kill, would return, and he tied it all together with Isaiah, Ezekiel and other old timers who chronicled the holiest deserts, foretold things. And he fixated on “numerology.” Maddening fixation. Six days of creation. Seven seals of Revelation. Twelve tribes and apostles. Forty days and forty nights. The trinity on one end, triple six at the other. He couldn’t let the numbers be. And he dipped his head a little when he told us the big war must come before it gets better. Your ticket, one way or another. Hurry along this bizarre little sermon shall we? You’re a sixteen-year-old kid with keys to a ’67 Stang.
Of course you don’t think for a second that Jesus jammed with friends and neighbors on his porch beside Galilee. Nonsense. Some sort of hippie folk tale. Yet Jesus hung out with common folk, riffraff, people rejected by society proper, and he was never keen on hierarchy and wealth. So it is entirely natural to ask a few questions. Entirely natural.
The Jesus Chapter (revised)
The Jesus Chapter (revised)
Last edited by mnaz on April 26th, 2010, 1:00 pm, edited 2 times in total.
I can see it so vividly, like it was last week, sitting in religion class, third grade, St. Dominics catholic school, and the words still stand out from my catechism in bold print, and so in my clumsy 8 year old way, I got up the courage to ask Sister Eleanor the Enforcer what these words meant, ...THE FEAR OF GOD.....so I told her, "sister I don't understand how we are supposed to love this guy we are afraid of"...
she was furious for the blasphemous behavior and I was permanently put on the shit list and never got any explanation, and so it was there in 3rd grade, that I decided this wasn't going to work for me....thru the years i have reconsidered and investigated and read, studied, reconsidered again, and have not been able to get past that single encounter...go figure.....I like your musings here, they brought back all the questions....the questions are important.....so are the answers....
she was furious for the blasphemous behavior and I was permanently put on the shit list and never got any explanation, and so it was there in 3rd grade, that I decided this wasn't going to work for me....thru the years i have reconsidered and investigated and read, studied, reconsidered again, and have not been able to get past that single encounter...go figure.....I like your musings here, they brought back all the questions....the questions are important.....so are the answers....
If you do not change your direction
you may end up where you are heading
you may end up where you are heading
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stilltrucking
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I did add the bit about the Romans inciting things. I don't know how others see this bit of history, but I see Rome as Jesus' killer more than anything else. The Empire crushing its outspoken "dissidents." A story repeated all through history.
I'm going to write more about the Megachurches. Maybe not this chapter, but still. . . Might actually have to go sit in one of those giant auditoriums. . . yeesh. Maybe not.
Thanks Steve. (your question seemed perfectly reasonable to me!). Thanks Jack.
I'm going to write more about the Megachurches. Maybe not this chapter, but still. . . Might actually have to go sit in one of those giant auditoriums. . . yeesh. Maybe not.
Thanks Steve. (your question seemed perfectly reasonable to me!). Thanks Jack.
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hester_prynne
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That picture of Jesus nailed on the cross always just scared the shit out of me. From when I was really little. I used to put up a huge fuss and not have to go to church because I was afraid of the picture.
When I grew out of being small enough for that excuse I just concentrated on keeping everything really funny in church, my brother and I made lots of fart noises and and would laugh so hard we almost threw up.
Such great memories you brought back!
And yes indeed, how can they worship someone they hated and murdered?
It doesn't make sense in my dream.
H
When I grew out of being small enough for that excuse I just concentrated on keeping everything really funny in church, my brother and I made lots of fart noises and and would laugh so hard we almost threw up.
Such great memories you brought back!
And yes indeed, how can they worship someone they hated and murdered?
It doesn't make sense in my dream.
H
"I am a victim of society, and, an entertainer"........DW
Thanks Hest. Yeah, a lot of it never made much sense to me, until I started to separate the "the Christ" from the institution and doctrines piled atop. I guess my "turning point" was that whole "accept Jesus (or else)" moment when I was five or six, in Sunday School, with several adults staring down at me intently, although really it was a long process.
still messin' with this one. haven't even gotten to the Dionysian stuff yet . . .
. . . By the shore Jesus liked to share a story with his neighbors from down the road, tales of wonder and struggle and dreams. On Saturday mornings he jammed on the front porch with friends, picked a few smoky rhythms. Sometimes they hit sublime passages, and the sick would come from miles around to be healed. Some who were blind could see. Some who were crippled could move again. Some who were dead became alive. It went like that, a golden age of childlike genesis and re-genesis, a pause in the cluttered script. Picking smoky rhythms by the Galilee shore.
But it wasn’t all jamrock poetry. The Romans looked over your shoulder. Now there was a proper empire, Rome. What does North America have? Couple-hundred years? Anyway, we’re told the Romans couldn’t figure why Jesus deserved the death penalty. Pilate “washed his hands” of it. Or wrung them. Or incited the uproar to begin with. Why does the Empire get a free pass here? We fiercely argue the truth of thirty years ago; how do we look back two thousand years? How do you account for glitches of interpretation, or memos lost within the walls?
How did you pick up the story? Every Sunday from 1967 to 1979 AD or so you trundled up the hill with Mom and Dad and your sister to the sprawling neighborhood church, one of the first “megachurches” to grace the suburbs, with two-story Sunday school wings branching from a soaring main sanctuary. Many more have been built since then, most of them much bigger, not with “sanctuaries” but auditoriums. Anyway, you did Sunday school in the morning and church toward noon. Missing Sunday school was not allowed, though sometimes you could skip the service. Dad was never too sure about Pastor Paul. When you got a license he let you drive the ’67 Mustang to church. Sweet independence!
No complaints, really. Maybe a nitpick or two. Jesus as intermediary made sense, but oh the choking vines doctrine, the complexity. You remember Pastor Paul. He spent years in his large church convincing you that a messiah, the one Rome killed, would come back eventually. He tied it with Isaiah, Ezekiel and other old timers who chronicled the holy deserts and saw things. And he fixated on numerology. Six days of creation. Seven seals of Revelation. Twelve tribes and apostles. Forty days and forty nights. Trinity on one end, triple six at the other. God, the numbers. He couldn’t leave them be. And he dipped his head a little when he said the big war will come before it gets better, one way or another. Hurry along this bizarre little sermon; you’re a sixteen-year-old kid with keys to a ’67 Stang, trapped on a pew.
You don’t think for a second that Jesus jammed with his friends on his porch beside Galilee. Some sort of nonsense hippie folk tale. Yet he hung with some of the riffraff, and by most accounts was not keen on hierarchy, a little suspicious of wealth. So the imagining is natural and your questions reasonable, as far as that goes. When Jesus became Christ the institution began to change, subject to buyout. History is scarred with it. But he was always the Christ, the journey, whatever he was or wasn’t. Oh sure a few rough edges turn up in the book of Mark: Jesus got perturbed, into a little brimstone speech, and he reportedly called a Phoenician woman a “dog.” Mark’s author was a little rough-edged to begin with.
still messin' with this one. haven't even gotten to the Dionysian stuff yet . . .
. . . By the shore Jesus liked to share a story with his neighbors from down the road, tales of wonder and struggle and dreams. On Saturday mornings he jammed on the front porch with friends, picked a few smoky rhythms. Sometimes they hit sublime passages, and the sick would come from miles around to be healed. Some who were blind could see. Some who were crippled could move again. Some who were dead became alive. It went like that, a golden age of childlike genesis and re-genesis, a pause in the cluttered script. Picking smoky rhythms by the Galilee shore.
But it wasn’t all jamrock poetry. The Romans looked over your shoulder. Now there was a proper empire, Rome. What does North America have? Couple-hundred years? Anyway, we’re told the Romans couldn’t figure why Jesus deserved the death penalty. Pilate “washed his hands” of it. Or wrung them. Or incited the uproar to begin with. Why does the Empire get a free pass here? We fiercely argue the truth of thirty years ago; how do we look back two thousand years? How do you account for glitches of interpretation, or memos lost within the walls?
How did you pick up the story? Every Sunday from 1967 to 1979 AD or so you trundled up the hill with Mom and Dad and your sister to the sprawling neighborhood church, one of the first “megachurches” to grace the suburbs, with two-story Sunday school wings branching from a soaring main sanctuary. Many more have been built since then, most of them much bigger, not with “sanctuaries” but auditoriums. Anyway, you did Sunday school in the morning and church toward noon. Missing Sunday school was not allowed, though sometimes you could skip the service. Dad was never too sure about Pastor Paul. When you got a license he let you drive the ’67 Mustang to church. Sweet independence!
No complaints, really. Maybe a nitpick or two. Jesus as intermediary made sense, but oh the choking vines doctrine, the complexity. You remember Pastor Paul. He spent years in his large church convincing you that a messiah, the one Rome killed, would come back eventually. He tied it with Isaiah, Ezekiel and other old timers who chronicled the holy deserts and saw things. And he fixated on numerology. Six days of creation. Seven seals of Revelation. Twelve tribes and apostles. Forty days and forty nights. Trinity on one end, triple six at the other. God, the numbers. He couldn’t leave them be. And he dipped his head a little when he said the big war will come before it gets better, one way or another. Hurry along this bizarre little sermon; you’re a sixteen-year-old kid with keys to a ’67 Stang, trapped on a pew.
You don’t think for a second that Jesus jammed with his friends on his porch beside Galilee. Some sort of nonsense hippie folk tale. Yet he hung with some of the riffraff, and by most accounts was not keen on hierarchy, a little suspicious of wealth. So the imagining is natural and your questions reasonable, as far as that goes. When Jesus became Christ the institution began to change, subject to buyout. History is scarred with it. But he was always the Christ, the journey, whatever he was or wasn’t. Oh sure a few rough edges turn up in the book of Mark: Jesus got perturbed, into a little brimstone speech, and he reportedly called a Phoenician woman a “dog.” Mark’s author was a little rough-edged to begin with.
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revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
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dealing with the religion thing forever, it seems . .
wrote a little more. pretty close . .
Jesus will make a comeback, so when did he leave? And which one? Jesus born in humble poverty? Workingman Jesus? The teacher-healer? The Almighty Himself? The warrior Jesus? Prince of Peace? Walk on water, water to wine Jesus? Dionysian Jesus? What? Oh, the wine symbolism. Some scholars argue that Christianity grew from a cult of Dionysus. Not making this up. And a mushroom cult at that. Amanita muscaria, or “ambrosia,” food of the gods, deep red with white spots, matching the heralds of Dionysus, spotted red lynx and white-dappled red fawn, attributed to the Indo-Aryan god Soma as well, who was god, man and plant. Linguist John Allegro, who worked to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls, wrote volumes on pagan connections. Madness! So which Jesus? All, or none of the above?
Nietzsche, always entertaining, favored “Jesus, the idiot,” as in naïve protagonist in Dostoevsky’s book, at home in a world undisturbed by reality, the “eternal, or inner” world, a redeemer type, marked by intolerance of pain, avoidance of world and anti-realism. (What is real?) What did Nietzsche look like? To you he’ll always be jack-booted Kevin Cline in that flick A Fish called Wanda. Took some notes at a computer fifty miles back: “The God that Paul created is mortally hostile to the wisdom of this world, science . . . a conspiracy against life itself . . . there is an end to priests and gods if man becomes scientific. Priests use ‘sin’ to oppose knowledge and science.” Classic raving Nietzsche. He went right at the core: a true, if misguided Jesus, and powerful corruptions built thereupon. Jesus gospel is a kingdom of God within, return to a garden of no opposites, a simple, childish gospel.
He said it was a life lived in love, simply. Sail beyond cities to the long flats and you hear yourself. Complexity is the devil there, banished from everything except rock itself. Childish notion. Infantile spirituality. Zen rolled it all in a ball, simple with complex at all times, in balance. Go with the child for now. The golden rule and all. Something about a child’s eye.
wrote a little more. pretty close . .
Jesus will make a comeback, so when did he leave? And which one? Jesus born in humble poverty? Workingman Jesus? The teacher-healer? The Almighty Himself? The warrior Jesus? Prince of Peace? Walk on water, water to wine Jesus? Dionysian Jesus? What? Oh, the wine symbolism. Some scholars argue that Christianity grew from a cult of Dionysus. Not making this up. And a mushroom cult at that. Amanita muscaria, or “ambrosia,” food of the gods, deep red with white spots, matching the heralds of Dionysus, spotted red lynx and white-dappled red fawn, attributed to the Indo-Aryan god Soma as well, who was god, man and plant. Linguist John Allegro, who worked to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls, wrote volumes on pagan connections. Madness! So which Jesus? All, or none of the above?
Nietzsche, always entertaining, favored “Jesus, the idiot,” as in naïve protagonist in Dostoevsky’s book, at home in a world undisturbed by reality, the “eternal, or inner” world, a redeemer type, marked by intolerance of pain, avoidance of world and anti-realism. (What is real?) What did Nietzsche look like? To you he’ll always be jack-booted Kevin Cline in that flick A Fish called Wanda. Took some notes at a computer fifty miles back: “The God that Paul created is mortally hostile to the wisdom of this world, science . . . a conspiracy against life itself . . . there is an end to priests and gods if man becomes scientific. Priests use ‘sin’ to oppose knowledge and science.” Classic raving Nietzsche. He went right at the core: a true, if misguided Jesus, and powerful corruptions built thereupon. Jesus gospel is a kingdom of God within, return to a garden of no opposites, a simple, childish gospel.
He said it was a life lived in love, simply. Sail beyond cities to the long flats and you hear yourself. Complexity is the devil there, banished from everything except rock itself. Childish notion. Infantile spirituality. Zen rolled it all in a ball, simple with complex at all times, in balance. Go with the child for now. The golden rule and all. Something about a child’s eye.
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revolutionrabbit
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great stuff, you really ought to read my novel, it really has elements of the Nietzschean original jesus idiot, that is what i call the novel within the novel.It's not like i talk about Jesus, or Buddha, directly, what i do speak about is that innocent wild moment that happened between 67, 69 69.When a lot of child's gods eyes were opened through the psychedelic lens, a kind of suspended belief, where a thousand dances and reflections happened in a whirl of colors and mind candy.A breaking down of social constructs, and a deep need to experiment and question authority, and beyond good and evil.A time with in time where the flower children walked on the land and water, surrounded with all times and inner movements of history, the pure natural healing alchemy of a real counter-cultural-clockwise crossing from east to west, from beat to meditation, from hep to happening.Sexual awakening from the bondage of true believer taboo, a moment to just be wild and exciting, to take that action to dare ride the Gone Hallucinogen freeway.I would say that this is a more breaking down action of Jesus stereotypes, as if he only to know Jesus is to become the opposite, or become open to the possibility, that the word means something that has remained hidden and dormant, since the more complex religious dogmas have taken the forefront of our attention.The mass confusion that acts as a smoke screen to any real transformation, that as we enter the sphere of some kind of miracle of acts that are buried in Biblical scripture and mistranslations, and interpretations.There is a scene in my novel where i take a huge dose of LSD in a bottle of apple juice at a Love-in on Easter Sunday, I did not know that the LSD was in the bottle, but I should have, anyway, before all heaven and hell chemical change breaks lose, I see a picture of a young Meher Baba laying on the ground, and I take off, it could just as well been a picture of Jesus, but this picture was more natural.
Very interesting M.
I think your tale is as good as any other because you are exactly 'write'. All we know of Jesus and his glorious tales are scripts from people that lived way after him. (As you said) A simple sentence can't even go around a room of ten people without alterations so that's my take.
You did bring back memories for me also. Raised in a benign atmosphere of Protestant Methodists where everyone like to party and sing and dance, I have no horror stories or bloody Jesus'es to stain my innocent slate. My mother felt we should be exposed to religion (small 'r') but didn't feel particularly driven to make it stick.
Baptism for me was a few sprinkles on the head as a babe. No memory there but I am sure if I had to go through some total immersion or face a group of adults and those hard stares it would have scared the hell into me for sure. But my fond memory is vacation Bible school where I made plaster of paris wall art (One of which still hangs in my Mom's bathroom) and glazed donuts and juice in the basement after Church where all our friends and families met and laughed.
I liked Church, the ceremony of it, the rituals most especially and what we called 'fellowship'. Catholics fascinated me and those incense burners and Latin (then) chants so I visited my friends churches to witness the spectacle occasionally.
No church or religion drilled into me, luckily. My father felt that you could experience god (or whatever it was) by walking out the door and looking at a tree or the sky or feel the rain on your face or see a meteor shower...
Angels tho, are another thing. I don't know what those are as I have never really had a so called guardian angel but both my Dad and Nate talk of them and have (had) them and those are two people that have always told it straight. My mind is open but I tend towards skepticism towards most things, being careful where I place my trust.
So sorry for the ramble but you obviously opened a door and I just walked right in... Great writing as usual my dear.
I think your tale is as good as any other because you are exactly 'write'. All we know of Jesus and his glorious tales are scripts from people that lived way after him. (As you said) A simple sentence can't even go around a room of ten people without alterations so that's my take.
You did bring back memories for me also. Raised in a benign atmosphere of Protestant Methodists where everyone like to party and sing and dance, I have no horror stories or bloody Jesus'es to stain my innocent slate. My mother felt we should be exposed to religion (small 'r') but didn't feel particularly driven to make it stick.
Baptism for me was a few sprinkles on the head as a babe. No memory there but I am sure if I had to go through some total immersion or face a group of adults and those hard stares it would have scared the hell into me for sure. But my fond memory is vacation Bible school where I made plaster of paris wall art (One of which still hangs in my Mom's bathroom) and glazed donuts and juice in the basement after Church where all our friends and families met and laughed.
I liked Church, the ceremony of it, the rituals most especially and what we called 'fellowship'. Catholics fascinated me and those incense burners and Latin (then) chants so I visited my friends churches to witness the spectacle occasionally.
No church or religion drilled into me, luckily. My father felt that you could experience god (or whatever it was) by walking out the door and looking at a tree or the sky or feel the rain on your face or see a meteor shower...
Angels tho, are another thing. I don't know what those are as I have never really had a so called guardian angel but both my Dad and Nate talk of them and have (had) them and those are two people that have always told it straight. My mind is open but I tend towards skepticism towards most things, being careful where I place my trust.
So sorry for the ramble but you obviously opened a door and I just walked right in... Great writing as usual my dear.
Freedom's just another word...
http://soozen.livejournal.com/
http://soozen.livejournal.com/
Thanks SooZ, revolution . .
first, a note of thanks (and credit) to dino for his research on the amanita . . I borrowed a few notes here.
Looking back, my Church was pretty imposing, very structured, almost "corporate," and some of its doctrines to me were disturbing, the End of Days stuff especially. (profoundly disturbing to me to find out some of this stuff penetrated White House foreign policy under our last President) . . .
The Church, the built-up Institution, and its aspects of 'sin' and 'guilt' over life, dogma over love, complexity over simplicity, etc. is why Jesus is such a target of animosity at times. Always seemed "unfair." It seems Jesus was much more "eastern" in his outlook-- eternity as a dimension of here/now, the "kingdom within," as many of the desert monks and gnostics also related. Nietzsche, if I recall correctly, called Jesus "the one true Christian," and regarded Paul's Church built from Jesus' legacy as "a conspiracy against life," among many other unflattering appraisals...
revolution . . . in talking with Hester and Cec a while back, we all agree that the late '60s period was an extraordinary one, some sort of awakening, or at least prelude to such, or a "singularity" breakthrough on the human timeline of some sort. Also marked the point in time of a real acceleration of the population and techno booms. You've just had this feeling like "something's gotta give"... the sort of thing McKenna was always getting at . .
first, a note of thanks (and credit) to dino for his research on the amanita . . I borrowed a few notes here.
Looking back, my Church was pretty imposing, very structured, almost "corporate," and some of its doctrines to me were disturbing, the End of Days stuff especially. (profoundly disturbing to me to find out some of this stuff penetrated White House foreign policy under our last President) . . .
The Church, the built-up Institution, and its aspects of 'sin' and 'guilt' over life, dogma over love, complexity over simplicity, etc. is why Jesus is such a target of animosity at times. Always seemed "unfair." It seems Jesus was much more "eastern" in his outlook-- eternity as a dimension of here/now, the "kingdom within," as many of the desert monks and gnostics also related. Nietzsche, if I recall correctly, called Jesus "the one true Christian," and regarded Paul's Church built from Jesus' legacy as "a conspiracy against life," among many other unflattering appraisals...
revolution . . . in talking with Hester and Cec a while back, we all agree that the late '60s period was an extraordinary one, some sort of awakening, or at least prelude to such, or a "singularity" breakthrough on the human timeline of some sort. Also marked the point in time of a real acceleration of the population and techno booms. You've just had this feeling like "something's gotta give"... the sort of thing McKenna was always getting at . .
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