We are experiencing an American Rapture. It’s no longer accurate to pretend this is about Democrat or Republican. Both parties have failed on purpose. Both said nothing about the truth of JFK. Neither stood up for the truth of 9/11. We have watched red and blue Manchurians bomb nations like a Pied Piper for refugees. Truth erodes without justice. I scroll through angry reactions to Kavanaugh’s confirmation and see a trauma army being armed and activated. Today’s siren is man-vs-woman. But the truth is always distorted. Equality is oppression wrapped in a rainbow. Hate is a trebuchet of flaming boulders. When you hate someone, you show them your power. When you love someone, you show them their own. This is a war now between self-hate and self-love; communism versus supremacy. We must tear down this wall. We must build up that wall.
Three brown boys named Jum, Muhammed and Khalil clung to the high ridge of a talon-shaped outcrop overlooking the Dead Sea. The boys boulder up like Billy goats in Velcro crampons. Jum crouches like a crab and kicked his way into a cave with his heal. He tucks himself inside the stone blowhole down into nature’s bank vault. Three boys wrap six hands around seven clay jars. Inside was the Gospel According to Thomas. His words scribed their spiraling secret curled up like a sleeping leaf of tobacco. Thomas wrote down a different meaning to the Cross. Your shoulders and spine are the Christ. A church rampant with pedophilia hides his words in a decrepit catacomb. The church never wants you to see the truth. A library burned and a library concealed are the same thing. Each turn wisdom into Molotov cocktails. Man’s ignorance becomes a hunger. We are gaping for knowledge like blind birds with our mouths open. The pious pretend there’s nothing they can do now but prey.
Thomas tells you your bones have always been the antenna. Thomas wants you to find the Christ in three dimensions. There is a trinity of strings inside you. Your mind, your heart and your gut strike chords in major, minor, augmented or diminished. Put down the phone and pick up the stethoscope. Place its chilly stainless steel disc against your bashful skin and listen. This is the sound of a universe. Be as God to your earful kingdom. You are Lord of your body. Every cell is following your commandments. Your heart is an emperor’s drummer with his eyes watching for your cue. You are the maestro of intuition, morals, and reason. Your pelvis wants you seated. Your throne aches for the rule of someone just like you.
The definition of rapture is a rising in the air to be with Christ. And so we may rapture ourselves in the glory of our own posture. Be straight, tall and deep as you plow through the soil. Our bodies are antenna receiving a signal. God is the symphony conductor to a brass section of elephants and chest pounding gorillas. We are corrupted from the static of black walkie-talkies squawking in the trees. Inside our trinity we may know the difference. Your mind may be fooled by ideas. The body can be broken by trauma. The intuition can be neutered by shame. We are broken horses on the beach grazing in hypnotic tide. It’s never too late to break free for our children. Let’s run for them now. Every colt and filly receives the energy from our surge. Let’s bolt from the blinders covering our long skulls. We were slipped into metal caskets and trained for the gates to open. We race each other around the track in a constant endless turn. A thoroughbred has no freedom. His balls are made for television. His mane is crimped, and his hooves are polished with wax made for a car. He grows weary of the trouble from his own muddy footprints as he pretends to not be pretending. Untie yourself. Place your center inside your body’s pyramid and activate its crystal.
“The glory of God is a human being fully alive.” ~ St. Irenaeus
Men. Why do we not avenge our fathers? Why do we insist it’s sufficient to hoist up a flag of outrage? We are at the carnival with a heavy mallet. We are slamming it into the target and seeing whose beef scores the biggest stuffed animal. We got the blue bear but hoped for the pink tiger. The only solace is a bumper-car to ram each other into oblivion from electric rat-tails sparking from the ceiling. A theme park always has high walls and security. We are gelded at the neck as they seal our heads in mason jars. Communism is a theme park for the spirit. This resistance is the tantrum of a spoiled child. He had too many fantasies before he got here and the spun cotton candy is stuck in his eyelids. His belly is bloated as we drag him by his kicking heels back to the car. We will not let this place take another body. We will destroy this cabal.
Make your body great again. Give supremacy its place on the altar. The angry zombies clawing at the door are trauma, fear, and surrender. They are not our enemy; they are an obstacle. We run into the battlefield like a platoon of medics. Save as many as you can in triage. We only have so much time left. Shine your light into each eyeball and look for dilation in the pupils. Snap your fingers to test if their listening. Place your firm hand gently on their shoulder. Tell them it’s time to wake up now. Tell them the rapture is here. Wipe their foreheads with a wet sponge and let them know they are worthy. Tell them to stand up in their Cross or be eaten by a machine. Red October is the death of communism. Red wave is the rush and gush of liquid blood pouring back into our vessels and sailing us into our supremacy.