Walkin' With Joshua

 Another dream about my favourite not-my-savior.

There's a lot for him to worry about here on the Earthly plane, and he likes to have someone to hash things out with from time to time.  You know, he never gets snarky - and if anyone has the right to a little snark, I would think he does!

So we had another little get-together, he and I, a few nights ago, and I figured I'd share it because I'm a little shy of blog-fodder right now, and why not put my delusions up in The Blue Nowhere for everyone else to laugh at?

"Hey, J, how's it hangin'?"
"Now, K, do you really think that's appropriate to ask me, of all people?"
"Why not?  You got 'em.  And I bet no one pays much attention to 'em.  Good grief, most of the people who claim they're your adherents refuse to acknowledge that you're a man in every sense of the word.  That must make weekends a bummer."
"Yes, well, I have other concerns."
"I know you do.  But I don't think it hurts to remind you that you may embody your father, but you are also human, the link between mortal and divine."
He gives me the look, you know, the one that says a body's getting a little sassy but making a good point?  Yeah, that look.
I offer him a cinnamon roll.
"Thanks.  Can we take these to-go?  I feel restless."
Sometimes he can't sit still. I think when he has a lot on his mind, he needs to move around, work the thoughts out physically.  We go for a walk.
"K, why are you Pagan?"
"You really have to ask?"
"I don't mind that you don't worship me or anything, I'm just wondering."
"Why?"
"It seems like so many people say they follow me and worship my father because that's what they're told to do."
"Uh-huh."
"Well...you were told the same things growing up, right?"
"Yup."
"So why didn't you listen?"
"I have this annoying need to think and make decisions for myself."
"Bothersome."
"You have no idea.  Oh, wait...maybe you do.  Although it seems to me that ultimately you were deprived of the very thing the rest of us have in spades - free will."
"I can see where you'd think that, but I had a choice."
"If you say so."
"I do.  So you decided that my father's house wasn't for you?"
"Pretty much.  Many of the things done in your name?  Not okay.  The abuses sanctioned by the church, or covered up by the church?  Not cool.  I'm not into judgement or anger or hate, and those things seem to be rampant in the places people say they worship you."
"I wish we had more people who came to my father's house because they chose to.  I like knowing someone follows me because they want to and not because they think they have to."
"Well...you know...that's the trouble with dogma, JC.  No room for thought with all that rote."
"I wish your Karma would run over my dogma."
"Lame."
"Sorry."
"So why don't you speak up about some of these things going on down here?  You know...gay marriage?  Health care?  Oooh...or a really hot one, reproductive rights?"
"What am I, crazy?  You think anyone's listening?"

I have to stop a minute and give him a hug, because he's damn near tears and I feel sorry for him.  All he wants is for people to be kind and to live decent lives, maybe help each other out once in a while, even love one another without judging.  It can't be easy.  Imagine if you had all those people asking you to smite, punish, hurt others because they think that's what you do, when really you're just kind of a Buddhist-Hippy-Free-Spirit who wants to drink a little wine, eat a nice non-fish dinner, and maybe sit by a fire and talk about everything and nothing with people who have no expectations beyond the next drink.

"J, I don't think you're going to find any resolution on this Earth.  I think too many people have abused your name and spirit for there to be an easy answer.  I think you're going to have to come back, roll up your robes, and start smacking people upside the head with the figurative mallet (or, you know, the real one if you prefer) to get your point across, and that's kind of contrary to the message, dontcha think?  If they'd even believe that you were you in the first place."

He sighs and sits down on a swing hanging from the branch of a tree that isn't there.  I go behind and give him a push, then another, and one more, sending him arching high up over the nothing in which we dwell.

He give a whoop and a "Whee!" and we're both laughing because how can we not?

I love this boy so much.  As with my own children, I want him to be happy, to not have to carry his burdens, to make sure he knows that I am a safe person, a safe space...because, as with my own kids, I cannot protect him from his choices, from himself, from the demands of Life, the Universe, and Everything.  I can only give him these tiny moments and the compassionate honesty he so craves, and maybe the tools to help him navigate rough waters - the ones he can't just calm himself, I mean.

"You're not wrong." He says when he climb off the swing.  He offers it to me but I'm not really into it at the moment.  I'm more interested in not getting sticky fingers from carrying an imaginary plate of cinnamon rolls.  "I should go, let you get back to whatever you were doing before I interrupted."

"I don't even remember.  Dreams, such ephemeral things.  Go on, then, and take the rest of these with you.  I just know I'm going to wake up and feel the need to wash my hands."  I shove the plate of cinnamon rolls at him.  The frosting has gotten everywhere, including my hands.

Another sweet smile, another joint-popping hug, and he's gone.  He'll be back.  Maybe next time I'll make cardamom thumbprint cookies with orange marmalade and vanilla/clove drizzle...and make him carry the dang plate.

Also, I was right - as soon as I woke up I just had to wash my hands.

Joshua Is Bleeding

 On a night when many celebrate love, he comes.  Into my dreams he slips.  I see him just as I am swinging a sledgehammer at a copy of the Liberty Bell in order to crack it.

He waits for me to clear the room, until it’s only the two of us.

He is love, the depth of which cannot be measured.  He is compassion, kindness, and hope, given freely and on an unimaginable scale.

He is bloody, this time.  Holes right through him.  He trembles and sobs, and goddess help me, I. Am. Enraged.

Please, he says.  Please help me.  It hurts.

Not the bullet holes.  He doesn’t even notice them, really, not physically. 

But his heart?  His heart is shattered.  

Please stop killing my children.

And I feel…murderous.  

So we breathe.

So we are still.

So we find the center.

So I hold him until he is mended in body, if not soul.  What else can I do?  For as long as more people are afraid of losing their guns than they are of these shootings;

As long as more people scream about how their right to bear arms is greater than another’s right to exist;

As long as anyone thinks that the solution to their problem is to use violence on others;

As long as hatred is armed and free to act as it pleases; 

As long as mental health care is un/under funded and mental health is a joke, an excuse to marginalize, and then used as an excuse for why someone should not be held accountable for the horror of their choices;

As long as all these reasons and more hold sway?

He will come to me in dreams, torn asunder and wretched, and I will find anger blooming in my heart even as I seek to make his heart whole.

My dear boy, I cannot make them stop.  Their fear is greater than my paltry love, greater even than yours, and they will not listen.

Poor Joshua.  This time…this time I can offer only my arms to hold him, a song to soothe him, and whatever peace he can find with me in this world apart from worlds.

Time after time his own children will wound themselves and each other using his name as an excuse.  Time after time he will visit me, in tatters, and I will pour heart and soul into him, as any mother would her child because that’s how I love him, the way he loves them.  Time after time I will give him a place of respite.  

Time after time, he will bleed.

He clings tonight, a desperate embrace.  We inhale, hold, exhale together, synchronized.  Slowly, he stops shaking, relaxes, falls asleep as I rock him gently.  

Eventually he rises.  There is no sweet smile, this time, only a look of brave determination as he slowly fades from this dreaming into the world.

I wake still hearing him whisper…

Please.  Please stop killing my children…

A Visit From Joshua

I’m between dreams, mind processing in bits and pieces my recent experiences.  It is the liminal space.  I hear him, sandal scraping lightly on stone that isn’t there.

“Hello, Joshua.” 

“Is it ok to be here?”

I turn from the dough I’m suddenly kneading.

“You’ve never asked, before.”

“I’ve never been so uncertain of being welcome”

“Dear boy, I will always keep a place for you, here.”

I open my arms and he walks into the embrace like coming home.  We’re like that.  The love I have for this benighted man is deep and abiding.  I may not worship him, but I weep for him all the same.

“I was worried.  You’re angry, and hurt…”

“Dearheart, I don’t blame you for what those fools do in your name.  I know you too well.  Come and have a cup of tea and some toast with honey.”

“I can’t stay long - there’s so much to do, so much to make right, so much wrong done in my name…”

He falters, distressed.

“Joshua, there’s no time, here.  There’s only now.”

“Is that Irish butter?”

“Of course.  And honey from a friend’s hives.”

He sits next to me on the padded window seat that just became, and I pour him tea and give him toast with butter and honey.  He leans on me with a sigh.

“Why won’t my people listen to me?  How did they stray so far from my message?“

“Oh, honey…” I wrap an arm around him - it never hurts or is frozen when he’s near - and give a squeeze “I don’t think they ever heard you in the first place.”

“Cynic.”

“Look at how they behave and tell me I’m wrong.”

He can’t meet my eyes.  He knows.  They’ve taken the beautiful gifts he’s given them and twisted everything around until it is thorny and slicing, and they’re trying to wrap the world in this perversion of his grace and call it love.

“I think maybe it’s going to get ugly out there in the world, Joshua.  You come here whenever you want.  Never fear - this Witch will always welcome you.”

Eventually we stand up.  One more hug, and I kiss his brow just like a mama kisses her child, offering comfort and benediction.  He gives me that sweet smile and fades away with a sigh.  I notice he took the rest of the toast with honey and grin as I slip into my next dream.

Jesus Wept

For this post to mak sense, maybe go read the old blog post, first.

He came for a visit last night.  The only dream I had, or at least that I can recall.  He didn’t want tea or cookies or banana bread or cinnamon rolls.  He looked...I dunno...shattered, maybe...?

He wanted comfort.  He never said a word, just leaned on me.  I held him as he wept, absorbed his tears in my shirt and let his sobs shake me.  I suppose even he needs a safe space to decompress.  In all the dreams over all the years, I’ve never seen him like this.  I patted and rubbed his back, cupped the back of his head like a mother does when comforting her child, and quietly let him know that I’ve got him, that he can let it all out, let it all go.

Near broke my heart.

After a long while, he straightened, sighed, gave me a brave, watery smile, and turned to go.

“I’ll be here”, I told him.

He looked back, smile a little steadier, then walked away into the darkness all around us.

Oh, how I wish I could heal his hurt.

He Only Loves Me For My Baked Goods

He hasn't been around much, lately.  On the rare occasions He pops in, He looks tired and sad.  I don't like to mention it, because I would rather He view this place as a peculiar kind of sanctuary where He may simply rest and be Himself.

I can't help, it though, I worry, and so I speak up.

"You look tired and sad, JC.  What's up?"

"I could say the same for you, dear Witch."

"Well, I'm human and have a whole mess of terribly human concerns.  You, on the other hand, are half deity at least and shouldn't be worrying about mortal concerns."

"Well, I'm responsible for all of the wrong done in my name, or done and then repented.  They say that's why I was nailed up by the Romans."

"And here I thought it was because you were considered a criminal."

"Is that why you welcome me?"

"Yeah, I always did like the bad boys."  That gets a wan smile.  "So, come on, spill it.  You know whatever you tell me is between you, me, and The Blue Nowhere."

"You've seen what's going on in the world lately?"

"Well, a bit.  I don't watch TV, take the paper or most magazines, and try to avoid all the anger and hatred bubbling up on the Internet, so I am not always exactly current."

"I wish I could avoid all of that, but the things people do in my name..."  He falters, sighs, stares into the distance.  "How is it so unclear, my word?  When did I say to hate or hurt for my sake?  When did I say I only loved a few souls who followed a very narrow and particular set of rules written by men hundreds of years after my death?  Did I not say to love one another?  Did I not say to forgive?  Did I not encourage compassion and discourage judgment?  Did I not say that what is done to the least is done to me?  Did I not heal without asking who the afflicted loved, worshiped, or voted for?  Did I not strive to help all who asked without demanding they qualify for my help?"

He is agitated, now, up and pacing in the room in my mind, the room that always smells faintly of incense and cinnamon and tea but never quite looks the same twice.

"JC, you can't help what people do.  We're such ridiculous critters.  Folks are afraid, and they turn fear into anger and anger into hatred, and they turn that hatred on anyone who makes them feel uncomfortable.  You offer peace, but humans want more than forgiveness and peace.  They want to feel stronger, better, right.  Your Daddy laid down some crazy rules before he had you and mellowed, and some folks like those rules because those rules tell them who to judge, that it's okay to judge, that by following those rules they are better,more favored.  Those weird, ridiculous rules that should have been negated by YOUR words and actions (what with them being the more recent and clearly sanctioned by your Pops) let people feel powerful.  Those rules let people feel powerful and superior, and right now?  Oh, JC, there's hunger and hurt and fear, so much fear, and people need something to hold onto."

"So why can't they hold onto each other?"

"Way less satisfying to hold out a hand and pull someone up than to stomp them down, I guess.  The righteous can't stand the idea that anyone less righteous should be equal in your eyes, equal in your love."

"That's horrible."

"That's humanity."

"It doesn't have to be so."

"It isn't, always.  Plenty of people all over the world acting in your name, and not in your name, are doing incalculable good.  People feeding the hungry, healing the sick, striving to help those who need help without judgment or reserve.  Lots of people who, even when they don't worship or even believe in you, embody the same ideals you were created to embody.  Like you, they give unstintingly of themselves and seek nothing more in return than that those they help show the same love to others when they can."

"Why do you understand this?  Why do they?  How is it that so many who claim to be MY children have turned so far away from me?"

"Maybe because they ARE children, children in a world full of shadows and monsters, and they need to believe in a supernatural hero who can save them all from the ugliness because the realization that we, and we alone, can fix all this is too damned much for them."

"Language!"

"Pfft.  Damned.  Dammit.  Jesusmotherfuckingchristonamotherfucking cracker!"

He grins.  He can't help it.  He knows I love him, even in my irreverence, even though I don't worship him or his father and don't hold myself to their printed standards.  "But still, it's not as if I was unclear..."

"No, but self-reliance and accountability are difficult and unpleasant.  We like the easy path.  Judgment, disdain, superiority...they're so much easier."

"It hurts to know that people are considered less than, in my name...that they are denied their love, their freedom, basic human rights...because of me."

He needs a big old hug and I oblige.  "Sweetie, they aren't doing it because of you, not really.  They are doing it because of the illusion of you made by a church run by very human men (for the most part) who have very human desires to have power and control others and force the world to behave in a way that pleases them.  If people who claim you could really know you, really follow your example, really understand what kind of pure, unadulterated joy and love you embody...they might burst into flames from it, or they might simply drop dead from the shame of who they've been and what they've done, or maybe...maybe...maybe they'd shake themselves a little and get right with you, reconcile themselves, move forward and be their Very Best Selves, do right by you.

I suspect, though, that as long as you keep showing up in MY dreams and nomming imaginary sweets (Snickerdoodles this time), talking to me, and not smiting me with lightning or plagues or whatever the going smite-y thing is, people will continue to be angry and smug and superior and all judg-y.  Of course you'll forgive them, it's what you do,and of course they will continue on and wonder how come I get to blog about these things and all they have are troubled, restless dreams that tell them something is missing but they don't know what or why.  And they aren't all bad, your people - I kind of like that new Pope of yours."

"Hmph.  Look how he's marginalized by his own church and followers!  I bet he knows how I feel, a little.  Maybe I'll go see him later, bring him a Snickerdoodle.  Pass me the cookies."

He doesn't want to talk about it any more.  He's worn to the woof, disappointed, and as dispirited as a spirit can be.  He'll keep striving, because he can't NOT, and he'll keep hoping, because he IS hope, and he'll keep haunting my dreams and asking for baked goods from time to time because even a Messsiah needs a break once in a while, and maybe I'll keep blogging about it and maybe it'll make a difference.

I hand him a bag of cookies to take with him.  Sometimes one can bear up a little better when there are cookies.  I hope the Pope like 'em.

Me 'n' Jesus Have a Chat

I had one of my semi-recurring dreams last night.  I say "semi recurring" because the dreams happen fairly often, but they aren't always exactly the same.

In them, I am chatting with Jesus.

No, not the Jesus who hangs out in the Home Depot parking lot waiting for an offer for work - although he's worth chatting with because he's got an incredible work ethic, a really solid family foundation, and a keen sense of humor.

I mean the Jesus that so many people SAY they follow, but so often fall short of.

Oddly, me being pagan and all, he and I converse on a regular basis.  I think I amuse him.

So, last night we were chatting over tea and cinnamon rolls - he likes my cinnamon rolls - and he was a little...melancholy...

I asked him what was wrong...because I can be sympathetic once in a while if I make an effort.

"What's up, J?"  He lets me call him that because he knows I'm just teasing him.  So few people are playful with him.
"Oh, you know..."
"Maybe, but tell me anyway."
"Well...people kill in my name, and it makes me sad."
"Yeah...I don't understand why they do that."
"And they're fighting wars in my name.  That hurts."
"I bet, you being so peaceful and all."
"And they make laws in my name denying people equality!"
"Mm-hmm...guess they forgot the Samaritan."
"And they attack others, good people, just because those people don't go to my Father's house to worship."
"Uh-huh...and after you warned 'em not to cast the first stone..."
"Exactly!  I mean, all I asked was that people be compassionate, kind, and loving, that they leave the judging and all that to my Father and try to live decent lives."
"Sucks.  'Nother cinnamon roll?"
"Yeah, thanks...they're sinfully good."  He laughs at himself.
"Pfft.  So you wanna come hang out at a gathering some time?  I have a spare tent and you can borrow my drum as long as you don't pop the rings - they're a little warped.  And there's a place at my table for you if you want to sit with me..."
He smiles that sweet smile.  "Are you paraphrasing...?"
"Well, duh.  Anyway, you're always welcome to hang, you know.  I won't kill anyone in your name or start any wars or attack someone just because they don't worship you the right way (or at all), and I won't deny anyone food, clothing, medicine, education, or shelter just because they don't worship you."
"Sounds nice.  No fish, though...I'm kinda over fish..."
"'Kay.  Hey, Jesus, I need a favor..."
"You know how to make your own wine..."
"Heh...Cygnus does, anyway...but no, I wonder if you could maybe go visit the people who are shooting at, firebombing, and harassing a friend of mine...maybe show them how much she does for the community (more than THEY do, you can bet), maybe remind them about that whole judging and stone throwing thing?"
"Well...I can try...but you know how difficult it is for me to get anyone to really listen."
"Hey, thanks...I appreciate the effort."
"May I grab some of these to go?"  He indicates the cinnamon rolls, which are now back to their original numbers.
"Silly, of course.  Sure wish I knew that trick...could use it on a pile of twenties..."

He smiled his enigmatic smile and faded away, and I felt sorry for him.  Everything he endured in his father's name, for the sake of love and compassion, for the sake of people who didn't want him and repudiated him, for the sake of people who hadn't been born and might never follow his path...and the folks who claim to live and act in his name?  They ignore his teachings and use his name like a club to bludgeon the world into the shape they demand it take.

I think he comes and visits me in my dreams because there's no pressure.  I have no expectations, and I don't need him for anything.  We are, in a sense, equals - I contain the goddess within me, and he embodies his god on earth.

I wonder what the world would be like if more of HIS people acted like they truly followed HIS teachings...

I bet he'd smile more in my dreams...

His People

I was listening to some country music a few days ago (hush), and one of the songs provoked a few thoughts.

The song?



I've had this conversation lately, about Jesus and the nature of his life, his purpose, and what he'd think if he popped in for a visit right now. Yeah, I'm still pagan...but some of us don't entirely pooh-pooh the idea of a man name Jesus who was an extraordinary man, a teacher, a healer, and an all-around decent guy. We just don't view him as the one and only son of a particular God, sent to earth to redeem us.

I don't think he'd like what he sees being done in his name. He didn't seem to be the sort of fellow who'd give a fig about who one slept with, or how often, or for what purpose. He didn't seem awfully concerned with marriage, or money, or status symbols. Temples weren't his sort of thing. He hung out with his generation's version of hippies, bums, and prostitutes. He didn't care who you worshiped - if you were hungry, hurting, in need...he answered. He embodied loving compassion and enacted it constantly.

If Jesus came back today, I think he'd be hanging out with us pagans. Yep. I think he'd be bangin' a drum at the fire, hangin' in the woods, eating, drinking, and smoking whatever's being passed around, howling and singing to the moon and stars. He'd share what he had and take what is freely given. He'd join in our potlucks, our community meals, our tent cities. If he needed shelter, it would be there. Shoes, no worries. Pants, socks, a toothbrush? Someone will have a spare to lend or give (I don't care if he is some God's son, once he uses the toothbrush, socks, or undies, they're his to keep...although the market on eBay would be incredible..).

We're not perfect...we squabble, flake, and judge as much as any group...but even when we don't particularly like someone, we won't let 'em do without.

I think Jesus would dig that.

I'm not saying there aren't any Christians who fit the bill...I know a few truly good people who happen to believe in Jesus as their redeemer. They may not always understand my paganism, but they don't throw rocks at my head, either. It's sad, though, that so many more members of his father's church, supposed followers of his path, are anything but Christian.

They judge harshly, seek to punish all who do not believe as they do, turn their backs on their fellow humans, and mistake wealth and its trappings for godliness. They scorn the natural beauty of the world they've been given, raze trees and hilltops to build monuments to the god to whom they pay lip service, edifices of brick and mortar that resemble nothing as much as prisons for the soul. They pour money, time, and other resources in these churches rather than using them to help build their community. They are focused on appearance, not substance.

I don't think they're his people.

Honestly, sometimes I think the folks who claim him as their own would lock him in the booby-hatch if he came back today as he was his first time through. You can perform miracles? Sure, sure...here's a nice room for you, and some pills that'll help with that...

Yeah, I think if Jesus should happen to return, he'd be camping in the woods, dancing at an old, reclaimed strip mine in Ohio or out in the desert in California or leaping the fire at an African bush camp. He'd be losing himself in the silence of the Never-Never, surfing the wild waves of the Pacific, climbing an ancient tree to bend with it in the wind. He'd sleep beneath an overpass, on a steam grate, in a shelter, and he'd eat at a soup kitchen, out of a dumpster, at a stranger's table where an extra place is set.

He wouldn't look at what church one claims, or what name one gives their god/s...he'd see us for who we are, down deep, where labels can't stick...his people...