Archive for the ‘Tribal Compassion’ Category

When, where, why, and how did it happen?

When did God put down the mantle of motherhood to replace it with exclusive fatherhood? Does it matter as long as the story of the motherhood reemerges?

What does it mean for us to have lost, and what will it mean for us to rediscover the motherhood of God?

I am a father and I can’t think of anything my children could do that would cause me to stop loving them.

Is God, in fatherhood, the same? Is God, in motherhood, the same?

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And when the sword of the enemy is seeking our heart, religion, now a heifer says:
You are alone. Alone.

And when the sword of the enemy is seeking our heart, religion, now an eel, says:
You are without love. Alone.

And when the sword of the enemy is seeking our heart, religion, now a wolf, says:
You are without hope. Alone.

And then, thirsty from the battle, religion, now an old lady milking a cow, offers us milk.

And in our gratitude, we say:
May this be to the good of the giver.

Oh the boldness of that. Oh the wonder of that. The wounds caused by us, to us, now heal, one by one as we are reconciled to the true nature through our blessing of the milk-bearer.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of the boldness of it all:
Rejecting the gifts and despite the threats of a Goddess, Cuchulain decided to do battle alone.

I  wonder, what would I do if faced with that? A goddess in the form of a human telling me she would help me. Would my ego allow it? Would my ego allow me to accept help from anyone or anything? Has my upbringing made me think I am self sufficient, that I am capable of anything?

Rejecting the gifts, and despite the threats of an endangered environment, we decided to separate our story from that of the earth, and do battle alone. We decided to do battle against ourselves.

First as a heifer, then as an eel, and finally as a wolf, the Morrigan kept her promise to Cuchulain and went to him in the midst of battle, and every time she did, he was wounded – heifer wounded, eel wounded, wolf wounded.

We don’t need the help of a goddess to destroy ourselves, all we need to do is to reject the gifts. All we need to do is reject the gifts of each other and bash on in our ego driven blindness to do battle with our instinctual insecurity. And in the heat of battle, we will be heifer wounded, eel wounded, wolf wounded. We wound ourselves.

That would be bad enough, but the real trouble is that not only do we wound ourselves, we also lash out at the goddess, at the earth, at each other. The fear of being wounded lets us know we need to be rid of the heifer, rid of the eel, rid of the wolf. As we lash out to be free of the attacks of the goddess to be able to do battle, we engage in deicide. We wound the heifer and the eel and the wolf to free ourselves, but in this, we are freedom-wounded ourselves.

And in our depression, we say:
We are tired of fighting with none of our people to help.

And the old woman, silent, offers us milk.

And we say:
The full blessing of the gods, and of the people of the plough, on you.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of the boldness of it all, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the Morrigan wanted, desperately wanted Cuchulainn to reject her offer.

I wonder if it would be possible, in this late hour, to redefine the word religion. There are those who would say it is not necessary, that religion is in the proper box, where it belongs and needs no new definition, but I think it does.

Caging them in threats of eternal damnation or salvation, religion has stolen the story of mythology, the story of science, our human freedom. I think we need a new definition of religion that includes the mysticism of mythology and the understanding of science; one that embraces them within the arms of the natural process of becoming. This, rather than painting it as do or die and decorating it with sin and dogma and stiff ceremony, will be my definition of religion divorced from any denomination or dogma.

Or perhaps rather than a new definition of religion, it would be more appropriate to say that we need a better way of describing and engaging the process of maturation from a guided childish religion into a responsible and natural human way of being in the world.

That is where I take issue with the stigmatisms of religion. It doesn’t allow us to grow out of the spoon fed way of being a child religious and in to the spiritual responsibility and obligation of adulthood. Religion may well be in the proper pedantic box, but it is a box that few ever can break out of.

So let us now reject that form of being of religious and open the door to becoming Human.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of the boldness of it all. The boldness of deconstruction. The boldness of the void. The boldness of reconstruction. The boldness of healing of our enemy, religion.

It starts when we are born into this age, into the inherited ways of being, the historically determined meaning of religion.
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Imagine the Dagda and Lugh and Ogma journeying across Ireland to find the oak of two blossoms. To regain their sovereignty. The harp. The music of the land.

They had no insurance. There was no store. They could not just make a new one. They had to regain their sovereignty. The music of the land.

High stakes. Life or death.

We  are on that same journey.

Journeying through time. Through our souls, we are journeying to recapture the harp, the music of the land from the Fomorians. We are journeying to recapture our sovereignty from ourselves.

High stakes.
Life or death.
Up to you.

Sometimes, in my mind, the gift of voice and word of Ogma are still powerful. Sometimes, he tells me the story:

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Renowned for his wisdom, Solomon had spent half his life pursuing wealth, and another large chunk pursuing wisdom, and when asked which was better, he replied:

“The fear of God.”

I think Solomon might have had it wrong.

Bold words I know, but when you think about it, he could have at least articulated himself a bit better.

I think he got it wrong.

Neither wealth, nor wisdom, nor fear of God is better.

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Is there a way to talk about it? Can we talk about it without the language of guilt and shame? Without the language of sin and salvation? Is there a way to talk about it without the language of giddy missionaries?

Can you tell me the story separated from Sunday morning finery and lies? The story that happens every day and every night, every minute and every second; the story that never closes, the story that is not created but creates? Can you tell me that one? Have you heard it?

Can you tell me the story of the earthy Christ? The radical? The wild? Yes, the astonishing.

When I thought about it – this earthy, wild Christianity that isn’t Christianity – when I thought about it, the ambitions of the many through the millennia to live as the Christ became incredibly absurd.

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