messenger

Shaken, I am not prepared for the next insight I will be shown. I am led to stand in front of the raised area that supports the great stone table and to look above it. Hanging high above the head of the robed man, I see the realistically carved figure of a naked man, a vicious butcher’s meat hook pierced through each of its shoulders. Its face is blue and swollen, its tongue forced from its mouth by rigor, its body bloated with death. The artist has taken great pains to paint in the all-too-real representation of dripping blood from each terrible wound. There are gashes, bruising, and whip marks painted expertly all over the grime-smeared skin and as a final touch, the artist has attached, by barely visible wires, the flies that swarm decomposing bodies. I understand that the hanging sculpture is an image of the rotting, tortured corpse I so dearly wish to free and I am shown that this man has been made a human sacrifice by other men, and then by theology, an eternal human sacrifice, for the god of this religion demands such things as appeasement from its followers. Bile rises in my throat. I turn away in revulsion, my hands to my face, my scream of horror filling my ears and echoing through the cavernous vault.

But the dreadful sights come relentlessly. I lower my hands and now, facing the attending crowd, I am confronted by what had, a moment ago, been a gathering of languid, kneeling people, to see that it has been transformed into a throng of panting mangy dogs, all sitting on their haunches, whining with expectation, as if impatiently awaiting a release command from their master. They drool in anticipation of what, I cannot even imagine, their master, the robed man, is preparing for them. I follow their greedy unified gaze and am confronted by a sight that no soul should ever witness. The robed man is clutching a cleaver and with the skill of a butcher, is chopping at the worm-ridden corpse upon the table. I am riveted by disbelief and terror as the pack of animals behind me begin to move purposefully toward the table. The robed man uses a golden cup to catch the corpse’s putrefied blood as it oozes from the body and it, along with the slabs and chunks of rotting flesh are offered to the begging dogs who greedily gorge upon them. I look at the ravaged corpse. It moans with grief and exhaustion. I run up the steps to stand by its side and holding its shrunken hand in mine, I soothe it as it dies. I fall to my knees and weep and weep. I rage at the blood-splattered robed man and his sated mongrels which gather now at his feet to receive some kind of blessing from him. They cannot hear me. Or at least they pretend not to hear. I look back at the table. The worms and maggots seem to be resting, yet they still inhabit the form there. But then as if silent command was uttered, the snakes, once removed and put aside by the robed man to do his wicked handiwork, now slither back to their toil of imprisoning and re-creating the tortured body of the poor human sacrifice I so dearly wanted to release from eternal torment. And then, like a wraith, a black and smokey form gathers itself above the dead man and then as a swarm of bees, descends upon him. With a jolt the corpse is revived and its scream of terror echoes from stone wall to stone wall. The robed man lifts it from the table and returns it to the golden chest, its tomb. As he kisses a key and then turns it in the lock of the chest, the screams and banging recommence from within it. The robed man turns back toward me with a contented smile on his face, humming a hymn to himself. He walks to the top of the stairs and collects the baskets of coins left behind by his pack of hungry dogs as payment for his services. This I have been shown.

Hear me, really listen: I have been shown these things to save you from real damnation. For real damnation is not distance from the corpse of Jesus or estrangement from His supposed Father who is reported to have required His sacrifice. “Damnation” is a state of being lost on your way to understanding why you are here and it is distance from Love that will “damn” your soul to Oblivion, Oblivion being the state of Purposelessness you find yourselves in when you consistently ignore the gift of Life and live a life estranged from Love. Only acts of Love will save you from the torment of meaninglessness, for Hell is not some fantastical, demon-ridden, Otherworldly place where you will be sent after you die to pay for your sins against the Doctrine. Guilt for Man’s sacrificing of Jesus, as the god of The Dead Anthology is reported to men by the authors of The Doctrine to have required, is a concept not consistent with service to Love. Therefore, the REAL God, Who is Love, would never ask such a thing from Man. The idea that God demanded human sacrifice at any time in history, is a wicked devise, used by the Authors and Keepers of The Doctrine to cajole men into taking part in their vile rituals thus adding their names to the crime and making them equally culpable. Consuming Christ’s flesh and blood is not an act of Love. It is an act of blind obedience, a method of indoctrination, by way of collusion, used by ancient and aboriginal tribes and modern cults. Bending your knee in front of men in impressive robes of office, called Priests, who insist that they are the mediators between you and God is not an act of Love. Fear of angering God and causing estrangement between you and He by disobeying other men, is not an act of Love. And truly, it is not possible to anger God, for He is Love and Love does not choose anger. Love always chooses understanding and reconciliation. AH, MEN!