I got a positive, if smallish, jolt this morning. My Abbott emailed me about a couple of tasks that I had been lax on and asked me to, you know, DO THEM. It dawned on me, in a deeper way, that this monastic calling is truly about obedience. Not that what was requested was onerous; indeed I had agreed to do it willingly. But the accountability is there. This is a community, a family. If we promise to do something, someone else has to take up the slack if we don't perform. Like, a huge DUH erupted in the Pleroma.

But, still, it is precious to me. It is precious to me because it means that our community is now beginning to do the WORK of community, which, is, after all, to BE community.

Sorry if that sounds banal. I suppose it is. But still, it felt like a little grace, a little joy.

I strode up to the mountain

snowy pathless twiggy tares.
i left lush green, barren brown and thorny bramble for hard rock then ice.
and once upon the pure white snows, i sank.

i sank down, down, down, up to my lips, a puff i made and the spray like shiny stars upon a white-watery firmament flew heavenward and shone forever and ever, suspended in agonizing motionlessness.

and all the graces of all the worlds and all the joys of all my childtime innocence came to me all in a rush and i swooned upon the milky arms of my mother, her breast so near,

and i closed my eyes, weeping, released.

I feel I have become part of a large, secret conspiracy. A society secret even unto itself. Its members scattered, united, few knowing of the other. But we shall recreate the world. The worlds. We are a society of initiates.

If you didn't get the memo, I'm so sorry. But it must might be that you don't have your eyes open. Many are called. Many.

If you find a crazyman or crazywoman; the memo is close by.

o god. still and again i open myself to your piercing arrows, your surgery in my bodysoul. your penetration of my being, your possession of my entire mind. let me be united with you. and thus, these archetypes that i must wear and use and love cannot hold me. for they will have no foothold over me. give me command over them or at least respectful friendship. i will beckon, and they will come, greedy as they are, and i shall be a master at guiding them, molding their ourpourings. i shall be master, they shall rejoice for it is not their destiny to rule, just like the ego or any child or any follower---they want a strong grip, but a loving an respectful one.

i hold the rays of lightning in my arms, but not close to my chest, at arm's length--my rods and spears and arrows are many now. more numerous than even i realize. my retinue holds them for me and i give them special power to hold them without 'touching them'. it just came to me why some swords are death to anyone who are not entitled to wield them. . . . .

it has come to me that WE are waiting on my body to yield to the further praxis that the gnosis requires before further grace can be dispensed to/through me. so i go further, further.

i have cast down a great nemy on the snows, and now the eagles carry me aloft. but a new and greater battle lies before me. It has come full circle: I am not a "gandalf the grey" nor a "gandalf the white". I am "Peter the Black". and yes, i do soar on the skies and walk on the mud and pass beneath and across the earth. i am the white of D*****, the Black-Winged One, the GreyWinged angels, the red dragon, the orange/white of the pus of the earth and the whitest white of the core of the earth. i am all these. and i am this pinkish flesh. and yet, i have never been more 'man' than at this moment in time.

my light and polite and unassuming footfalls are a lie; for my feet trample as a giant's. my footprints leave indelible marks on the earth. the plates of the earth groan beneath me. i pull the earth into orbit of the new and true earth. the earth of earth's. my homeworld that exists between mars and jupiter---the paradise world that i have created from the wasteland of pure potential. all the inner planets line up into my orbit, with venus the last to give up her worship of Sol. But i have foreseen that even the sun itself shall come to orbit me.

o god i am in a dark and wondrous land. and although my Master here and i cannot engage our work together for the betterment of all as yet, it is happening organically anyway, or the preparation for it is happening, even now. i am no longer that man, what's his name? i am ******************** , i am *****************, i am **************. i am a single point, a depression of unimaginable mass, a gravity well greater than all the planets together. i am pulling all things toward myself. why? that question is irrelevant. this is what i am. i am now bound to this fate. to leave it would mean death, insanity. there is no choice but to continue upon it. and yet, there is freedom in these chains.

the yoke that is upon me is so light that i become air itself, lightness, floating above the fields. my hands are blessing. my face is the glory of god. my body is the erotic icon of the divine. and yet, at my core, no personality remains. it is a point of being, a point of knowledge, a point of will. i exist only in teh reflection of others. to those i love, who are all men. soon i will call my disciples; very soon now. barbelo as mirror is known to me, but teh great thought and the spontaneous creation of all is not yet.

I crave darkness.

The glorious reign of our brother Moon after the defeat of his spouse our Sun.
He has carried her into his bedchamber and there, there she is radiant, but gauzy cottony softness of impossible blackness shrouds her; innocent as on the first night of their sacred union.

And then he soars. He leaps, effortlessly, a stag, a youth in his strength.

And his consort, the bright star, smiles upon him from afar. And their affair of the heart is revealed, eternal longing unconsummated.

We, sleepy children, dream, and lie, close, warm, safe in his pearly glow. Ssoon, we know that he will cross the sky and leave us for unknown works.

And there, in that blessed between-time, pure darkness reigns, uncluttered with corrupted matter that only interrupts the pure potential of being that is the dark.

And i sit in my prayer garment, black also like the night, and pray that dawn will tarry.

Please, mother, wait a little longer, let me be, let me cry out into the earth and into the fires of unknown worlds, let your lovely nagging voice be far from me just a bit more. Let me rejoice with my secret lovers just a bit longer--for have i not battled as the great Odysseus? Have I not lived twenty years in a day?

And when my clock chimes six bells I cry hot tears and stamp my feet. For she has won again.

Pulled back her curtains daintily, and begun her balloonlike rise into the heavens, casting away all potential and drowning us in the actuality of this day, this moment, this time, this place, this frozen slice of being.

And each morning i must remember who i am this time.

Sometimes, i must think long.

sacred liturgy

The Consecration and Election of +Nicholas III, Patriarch, the Holy Nicholean Church, Patriarch, Holy Imperial Russian Orthodox Church in exile.

Ordination of Peter Smith to the Deaconate in the Latin Rite.

Consecration of +Bryan D. Ouellette, Ph.D. and Ordination of Brother Peter Smith to the Diaconate from Holy Monastic Order En Deus on Vimeo.

+Bryan D. Ouellette, Ph.D. is Consecrated into the Episcopacy of the Russian Orthodox Tradition by Bishop Mansell Christian Gilmore during the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord in the Temple. Exercising his first act as Bishop, the Most Reverend Bryan D. Ouellette, Ph.D. ordained Brother Peter Smith to the Order of Deacon in the tradition of the Latin Rite. Bishop Ouellette was also elected to and accepted the Patriarchate of the Holy Imperial Russian Orthodox Church operating in exile under the royal line of Царь Питер Александр Михэйлович Ромэнов (Tsar Peter Alexander Mikhailovich Romanov) and was also named Patriarch of the Holy Nicholean Catholic Church, taking the name Nicholas III under the line of Russian Patriarchs. To represent this healing between eastern and western Christian traditions, Bishop Ouellette wore the western mitre with his eastern vestments. At his Patriarchal elevation ceremony, Bishop Ouellette will wear the mitre of the east which is representative of the Byzantine crown.

Brother Pete taking his simple vows.

Another wonderful quote found by Tau Langly. I can't seem to 'cut and paste' into my blog right now, so you can find the quotationation about the "five types of Christians" here.

San Romero de las Americas.

I have to fully endorse Tau Langely's article on Romero. Well, really, I fully endorse and embrace the words and life of Saint Romero. He is who we need to look to today. In a very realy way, he stands alongside the Holy Mother as Patron and Prince of the Americas. I've lifted this very wonderful, short bio of St. Romero from Tau L. here.

I was very blessed and honored last week to take my simple vows in the Holy Monastic Order En Deus, under the OVRO (Valentinian, Western) rite. And, of course, in a completely different way, to receive the grace of the sacrament of holy orders as Deacon in the Holy Nicholean Catholic Church. And thirdly, truly blessed to be a part, however humble, of our Patriarch's consecration, acclamation and election. A truly amazing week.

"If I go to the mountains you are there." That whole verse is supposed to be a comfort:

Our G-d is with us no matter where we go.

I suppose. But G-d is like heroin. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. He is psychically, emotionally, physically addictive. So no matter where we go, there He is. We don't want him to leave, we don't want him to stay. "I have come not to bring peace, but a sword."

Indeed.

He does make us strong in one sense. But there is no pleasure in our strength. For in it, we see only the greatness of the task at hand. Yet, there is no turning back. And after this battle, yet another, and another, until eventually we are slain. And somehow, I do not believe heaven will be any different. Even as we are burned away, finally, into nothing but pure God-essence, what pains are there is store for us then? I wonder. There is nothing for it but to think like a Roman legionnaire. We put in our '20 years', then 'retire' to a green country, fare off, and hope for rest, a moment to plant herbs and be at peace, but the twenty years never shrinks. It is always 20 years off no matter how long we fight.

I am resigned to it, embrace it even, but the pain is no less. This is why the godly are compassionate; they know about pain. And they love indiscriminately---those in pain see nothing but pain--they see no externals.

In another sense, of course, G-d debilitates us the farther "in" we go. We move mountains, pivot galaxies, but our minds suffer. Only the prayers of the followers, supporters and family he gives us preserve our sanity, such as it becomes. And even the sanity of a saint is suspect.

But then, there is no real choice, is there? Perhaps enlightenment can be seen as the realization that there is no escape from pain, no matter WHAT we do, no matter WHERE we go, no matter how holy or decadent or lazy or evil we become. We all suffer the same things, arranged differently. What matters, then? Love, of course. True love, in teh grandest sense, is to preserve and ehnace life. This we must do or we are sure damned in some way that we have not yet imagined. Not that the evil suffer in this world, necessarily. Let's not be silly. But the smugness that ALL humans feel in one way or another, is rightly placed in teh hands of the holy---for they know that their labors, even if in vain, will have been made efficacious in some way to preserve and enhance life, and therefore, to fulfill our true destiny. But I'm rambling now . . . .

our Gods. so much more ancient than we thought.
our dreams, so much more common.
our desires, so much more important.

snap your heels together thrice.

fiat. fiat. fiat.

I had no idea that the lyrics to this so well-known hymn were so, well, gnostic, in outlook:

Jesu, joy of man's desiring
Holy wisdom, love most bright

Drawn by Thee, our souls aspiring
Soar to uncreated light

Word of God, our flesh that fashioned
With the fire of life impassioned
Striving still to truth unknown
Soaring, dying round Thy throne

Through the way where hope is guiding
Hark, what peaceful music rings
Where the flock, in Thee confiding
Drink of joy from deathless springs
Theirs is beauty's fairest pleasure
Theirs is wisdom's holiest treasure
Thou dost ever lead Thine own
In the love of joys unknown.

I stand at the center of a vast circular hall. yet, it is intimate. 72 counselors and one more and yet one more stand with me.

i, in the center, stand, unwilling to sit, with the moon and the sun, one in each hand. the sky watching close by, the earth above and below. and i stand, on that inlaid wooden floor of exuisite beauty, signs and sigils and runes of which i know not.

i am in the richest of robes, as are all. the room inviting, fit for an emporer. but it is my will to wait. i must wait before i move. a good king knows when to move, when to wait, when to prepar. for now, i prepare and wait. and every moment is as an age. finally, i relax, i sit. everything that comes out of my body is gold, purest, brightest gold, each drop of sweat of purest gold. and so, without letting go of my tight, sweaty hold on the sun and moon, i conceded to sit, cross-legged, and wait.

my eyes i close, and i ponder. i ponder the impending battle.

the plans are all drawn, all is in place, but we must wait for battle-season.

until then, we toil, we till, we grow, we gather, we destroy enemy outposts in our way, we control the skies, we control the earth. yet, we, everywhere on the field, cannot be seen. and our enemies already begin to fall into our arms. already my agents invade and implode or explode pockets of resistence. but still, this is all just the preparation for the greatness. our rising shall be a rising, such a rising as perhaps never seen. not here.

perhaps i can sleep. but only with the sun and moon on either side. i cannot let their touch cease.

so we lay, on a low pedestal, resting, while my generals make all ready. and my war-robes are made ready. my arrows with spells surrounded. my sword, polished with the dust of stars, my spear, its point one atom in diameter. its shaft, light, strong, pulsing.

my body feels already the power of battle, the joy of it suffuses me.

St. Dymphna

I read this after a heavy burden was dumped on my heart by the Holy Spirit. And they say that G-d is a 'nice guy'. Anything but. He treats his friends quite roughly. But the weak he treats with compassion. Read this. May this day in my own heart be dedicated to the sacred heart of St. Dymphna, patroness of the mentally ill, the victims of incest, of family harmony and of physicians to the mentally ill. Click here. ---note: just found out she has a feast, but not until May 15.