The Death of the Church

“The birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus means that one day everything sad will come untrue…”
– J.R.R. Tolkien


My Lord was kind to me this morning.

He let me linger in that state of blissful soul suspension, halfway between what I call the “golden realm” of dreams and visions (that I sometimes can’t remember when awake) and the world of current existence, which is sometimes not so nice, and occasionally cruel.

Next to my bed sits an end table upon which I have placed a picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, who holds the Creator of the world in her arms.

Mary gazes upon me serenely, as if compelling my own eyes to explore the face of her Son. As I do this in my half asleep state,  I hear the continuation of silent conversation in my head:

removing staples that are not there
[Your Father] left steps that are illegal
for you to drown in
Why do professionals have to say

She and I
we have serenaded a village
Now it was a bad part of a town

I’m emotionally [Hamilton] (?)
See red (blood?)
Tell me what you see
(I see Mary, kind, loving, holding my Lord)
There was no despair in her face

The blessed come across as miracles
of God’s Grace
Amazing how you like it
in fragments of time
See the book
is not written yet
Soliloquies [not withstanding]
“An order has to be established”
“their position on the pope”
(but they really)
[have to chose between God and man]

The chair’s not filled

(Are You talking about masons now?)

“Water under the bridge”
“Don’t be left behind
in the rain”
“The bank’s closed”

(This is what Pope Francis said to the masons.. Then to whom were you referring, my Lord?)

When I’m in prison
let Me out

I shift in my bed.

Full consciousness beckons.

It is getting hard to hear (I am concerned I might not be getting something right. Ah – my poor mere humanity)  hard not to awaken fully, each time I scribble down what I have just heard.  I gaze at my picture of Jesus and Mary again, and find them still close to me, speaking.

I’ll just trust, and write.

sweaty eyes know no pain
Distant drummers will shoot him dead
his horse

We’ve reached a breach in the system
It’s always in the breach
It’s always in the rain
Her blouse (Mary’s?)
was not made out of gold, or fine silk threads
I can assure you that’s right, My child

Run it in the press
A column of light
hurts like ice
shrapnels under the skin
in December

My joy is not of this world
but you have it in your heart
you possess Him there
understand like Black Jack
It takes  two
(I understand this to refer to the man I love)
Now, run

(Were her hands soft?)
As always
(May I have her too?)
You may
your desire among the ruins
maternal love
Now go

And as I will myself to awaken fully,  knowing sadly this will severe for the time being, this intimacy – I hear:

Clerics don’t remember the time I died either.

I get up, and out of bed.

I like my french press.

It is my morning indulgence, a consolation self-granted, before embracing daily crosses I find particularly distasteful.

But this morning as I patter through my lonely (save for the dogs, flanking my side) kitchen,  my thoughts still swim deeply, somewhere in that other realm.  I ponder it: “Clerics don’t remember the time I died either.”

As usual, what I heard in the night (or in the early morning) makes even more sense in the broad light of day.

The meanings are not always what I first assumed. “Distant drummers” may not mean musical drummers, or prophesize a literal, pending assassination.  But the words I hear inevitably confirm what I have always thought, or sensed in analogy format running through the back of my mind, as if from eternity. Safety is in the breach, that gush of water, or blood, which like grace, escapes in torrents only through a divided gorge.

Christ died, to end death. Thus His church would also have to do,  in time.

The bride is not greater than the bridegroom.