sunday was the feast of corpus christi.

until becoming a priest i never thought of the day at all. or, if at all, that it was a pious sentiment.

but as a priest, it is an entirely different event.

what is our purpose as priests? it is NOT to 'be kind' 'do good works' even 'clothe the naked' or 'visit those in prison'. Of course these things flow naturally out of our hearts, or rather the heart of the Divine One because His mark is indellibly on us and in us. But ANYONE can and must do these things.

what is our purpose but to make heaven and earth meet in the eucharist? all the other sacraments are but a distant second to this.

so, once a priest properly understands his place: WHICH IS BEFORE THE ALTAR OF GOD-and nowhere else. And a footnote: those who denigrate or misunderstand this central message are fools and in peril. Forgive me, but I have seen it so often it sickens me. at any rate, once understood that this is our place, this is our raison d'être , then, think:

this SOLEMNITY--equal in stature to Christmas, Easter, etc., this solemnity is the emphatic re-affirmation of our role and the centrality of the role of the eucharist in the life of the Christian. Then, this solemnity comes into true focus. And it may leave the priest speechless.

at any rate, i found it extremely moving to celebrate it and found myself taking my time. even more than usual. loving every word. the longing and yearning of my heart and all my love pouring forth. it was a wonderful Mass; I cannot think of words to describe it. But it was very . .. deepening . . . full of the primordial darkness that is the light for the contemplative . . . it was a star in the night of my soul, empty, waiting only for him. . . it was the divine power-over-the-elements. This is the true power that magick, sorcery and all manner of esoteric practices can only mimic, and poorly. this simple thing; this is the unfathomable power of the Divine in the world. It cannot help but open hearts, and open wider those that have let Him in.

But I digress. At any rate, my wife later asked me if I was alright. She could not understand why I kept slowing down, kept pausing. I assured her that all was well.

But I took my sweet time in 'concealing' the sanctuary (putting my mobile sanctuary away). It was the way for me to be able to bring my thin shroud of worldy consciousness back on. To cover what was fully uncovered.

I only know one person who knows what I mean. Perhaps there are others. If so, peace be with you. If not, peace be with you.

Even as I wrote this, my physical body was gripped with an uncontrollable spasm. Perhaps one day my physical body will be able to experience these things without resistance. Until then, perhaps, there is more 'unbeing' to realize.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

read these lyrics: a FAR better poem, and far more suggestive of divine truth, than anything I'VE ever written:

So close, no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
and nothing else matters

Never opened myself this way
Life is ours, we live it our way
All these words I don't just say
and nothing else matters

Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
but I know

So close, no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
but I know

Never opened myself this way
Life is ours, we live it our way
All these words I don't just say

Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us, something new
Open mind for a different view
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they say
never cared for games they play
never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
and I know

So close, no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
No, nothing else matters

On pastor's leaves

in willow's dean

a spottl'd man

in shielded sun.

an arm atop a knarl-ed sheen

a hat, a cloak, and boots agleem

unruly white and white again

hairs like twigs and silver spun.

the shepherd lean

a face that teamed

with worries, sorrows, pleasures and

one smile nine hundred races won.

eyes blue then dun then mottled green

they pierce the forest and county mean

bright shore afar made this world bland

search'd richer heav'n he'd just begun.

i fear him not for i am keen

to hold his pearly hands between

my breast and face heart-heaving sad

exquisite frame youth's tender plunge.

for my face too ablaze alight

my footfalls ne'er by dullards seen

the god's compelling glorious brand

upon my heart, the fateful course I run, I run.

Whenever I put on my habit I pray: "Hodei, si vocem ejus audieritis, nolite obdurare corda vestra." I believe that prayer is a powerful one if prayed in sincerity: indeed it is my monastic motto.

Yesterday the voice was different that it has been for many, many months. I felt the dark, inexorably unrelenting of the pull down into darkness, into non-being, into undivided diversity, into the waters of black all-potential, all-life.

And I ran to my prayer-closet and put on my old, old chadri, one of white and the black on top of it. And I sat. And I was instantly transported to that heavenly court to which I had not been for so long. And my long absence was acknowledged with profesional, soldierly-like nods. And I was given an update on the world beyond seeing.

I was pulled into a trance deeper than I had ever felt, yet did not sleep to my knowledge. Many things i saw and many things were said, but not in a language I can recite to you. And I perceived much, spoken of in terms of battle. With millions working with me, and reports on the progress of contrary forces. And much is being done whether I look or not.

I still ponder this in my heart. And am left guessing as to what this all applies. I suppose it applies to itself and may or may not have anything to do with my current, mundane concerns.

i murmur my devotion to the Lady as I walk. And I look up, to see if yet the black folds of her garment fill the sky above me.

And they do. she does not look back, however, her face, white as alabaster, hair raven black, eyes blazing. she looks only forward, to the west.

but west is to the ocean and beyond, but first the Baghdad of the West.

she has not moved, although the billowing suggests flying at a great speed. still she is above me, huge, but not filling the entire horizon. but more perhaps than I can bear; no, i can bear it, but it is greater than all my plans together.

She tells me under her breathe, "yes! i hear your prayer. fret not! I am doing what I must do. What you must do will be revealed."

And so I trudge doggedly, climbing so slowly the staircase behind the mountain. no one sees my hands, callused, tired, or hears my breath short and gasping. my habit torn, mud and filth and my own excretions staining.

there is no time for stopping. although sometimes, i rest, my hands gripping the cold, sharp, black stone. my feet unsteady but sure for now. and after my wearying dreams of torment, i begin again up. to what destiny i know not.

or perhaps i do. but i dare not dream of ecstasy or rest.

yesterday. i saw the power of G-d and the futile anger of satan. I went to prison to pray with and console a 16 year old prisoner---innocent, terrified, a good boy. I had resolved to pray the simple exorcism of Leo XIII---it is not what you think: it is simply a prayer to thwart the power of the evil one, not to exorcise anything from this poor boy. When I arrived, the ward was silent. After saying the prayer to Michael the Archangel and beginning the Leo XIII prayer proper, the entire ward erupted into a clamorous din I have never heard before: and I was in a private side room with my charge--no one should have been able to hear us. It continued until the prayer was over and then abruptly ceased.

that place is so full of hatred and fear. I tried to explain to my charge that I have come to provide spiritual guidance and protection, but that I cannot guarantee what the Judge will say at his (then upcoming) hearing (which is today). But I looked him straight in the eye and said: right now you think the world is this moment--but this moment, however terrible, is but one moment: God wants to alleviate your suffering, yes, but the greater truth: God. Wants. You.

I hope this had an impact. For I know that God had chosen this boy, this young man, to be one of his servants. At any rate, through me he claimed him. And nothing happens except by the will or permission of God.

I won't list all of the many circumstances that feebly attempted to thrwart me. Before, I have entered that prison with no problems at all. This time, I had been shunted from one unit to another, finally told to leave because the ward in which my charge was confined had had 'incidents'---FOUR fights had broken out that day, and pepper spray had been used. After calling to ensure the 'coast was clear', I was still told to go away. I refused. I was finally allowed to wait inside the prison. There, I was assured I would be allowed to visit my charge soon. I was abandoned. Finally, after I confronted (politely) the guards, I was allowed to enter. The guards, whom I know, who had previously been polite, were insulting to my charge as he was called down to meet me. My God. it was amazing.

But all this was nothing but the lashing about of uncontrolled energy: it is no match for the overwhelming, serene and controlled power of our Lord. Tears come to my eyes now as I think of it. But at the time, I was dry-eyed, clear, direct and intense. I've never prayed such a powerful prayer over anyone before. My alb touched to my charge's body in protection, my other hand pressed on his head. My voice commanding.

Sweet Jesus, I do not know where this is all leading. Let it lead to the greater glory of God and let it lead to the remaking of the earth: one child at a time.

May Almighty God make of me a tower of guard, a force of good will, a pillar of strength, a conduit for his grace--this grace which is 14 trillion times greater than any power on this earth.

it seems there is no end to the number of analogies to the married life you can make to the priesthood.

so. i have just finished a month of relative 'spiritual seclusion'. During this time, I have been saying mass (almost) every day at home; getting more fluid, more confident. Mostly, getting used to this new world. This new 'deep magic of the earth' (using a 'Narnia' analogy) is so strange and so wonderful. The Mass is simple, complex, benign, terrible. It is a raging lion, a lamb. I don't know. Thank G-d I am only the conduit. Although, as the prayers say "for ourselves too we ask some measure" of the grace of G-d. And, of course, as the conduit, some of the God-substance sticks to me, an unworthy vessel. Yet he covers over my foolishness and warts and holes and infections with his Motherly love and grace. I am like a child rocked to sleep, so safe.

In fact, the only thing 'wrong' about Eucharist, is having to be done. I have sat after Mass, especially when offered alone, so unwilling to snuff out the candles, to put away the beautiful linens, to strip off my vestments. Oh G-d! Why must the Eucharist end? Yet, as a good Father, he finally guides me, helps me out of His clothes, puts on my own small shoes after carefully stowing his large, manly ones, and I go back to my insignificant and silly life. At least I am grateful for each moment in which I can love someone else. It is like a drop of cold pure water on my parched tongue. Surely, we live on an earthly hell, in which glimpses of the beatific vision descend sporadically--for most, rarely and almost not at all. G-d grant that no soul go from this world without at least a single drop of that cold clear water.

May the whole earth rejoice in a gentle rain that covers all her children; that fills and cleans all cisterns. That washes away the putrefaction of evil in all of us--and especially, drowns our spiritual foes. Drive back our constant enemy o Lord! And set us, once again, on your Rock. This time, let's put in a guardrail so we don't slip off so easily . . . . .

perhaps another language can describe the terrible lightness of my body. the delicate forcefulness that i must employ even to press these keys.

perhaps another tongue has words and declensions to express the sense of being elsewhere and yet completely present. of loving more intently than ever each person i meet, and yet caring little and almost nothing for this life.

in another land there are idioms that talk of fire and ice and cold and terrors subterranean. in that blessed place, a man can say to another the fragilities and the paper-thin tissue of his soul to another, and at the same time demonstrate his yellow-green roots of unyielding resiliency in love. and the other man, he will understand.

in that place, i could sip tea and arch my eyebrow and fold my legs in a certain way, and others would know that this is a time for non-being, non-talking, for silence hushed like woods 10,000 years old, woods where sunlight dapples young leaves high above. and the hard earth reveals no secrets.

there, perhaps, i could rest.

"There are two tragedies in life, not getting what you want . . . and getting it."

I've finally realized that I am, perhaps all of us are, living in a Greek tragedy. We are raised high and then brought low by our own gifts, which also turn out to be our greatest faults.

Only in 'real' life the 'up and down process' plays out over and over and over again. Wearisome.

Reminds me of the final episode of the final season of "The Sopranos."

Yet, here we all are. We are left to play our assigned roles, inescapable.

Being around people is so LOUD to me right now. I can barely call my clients back at work. Even emailing feels like touching hot coals. For an extrovert, this is a very new sensation. Even in my own home, where I crave the presence of my family, still I simultaneously want them far away. I just want to hide under a blanket on my sofa and contemplate/sleep until this is over.

It is like living in the middle of an extremely slow-motion thunder storm, with the 'mute' button pushed.

The sun rises. Glorious and beautiful, and only the tiniest flicker of wonder is left. At least there is that.

journey.

a man reclines in a palanquin. next to him his lover lays, beautiful, the skin of a perfect back to him. the drapes of the palanquin are open on the sides, revealing a crushing vista.

mountains rise tens of thousands of feet into the air. their summits ruthlessly ravage and tear the skies and reach greedily into the heavens, impossible high, yet still unsatisfied.

below them lay the red rock roots reaching up. they touch only just the torso of these brothers of stone. these gods of their own making. and below them, beneath the bottom of their feet, the thinnest sliver-white blue strand of a stream winds in and out again, nearer then farther away from its neighbors.

the man watches, as the road upon which his bearers traverse brings him down, slowly, into the valley. for he too clutches the side of the mirror images of the mountains across from him

yet, the valley below is utterly flat, utterly green, utterly fertile. as pungently prolific and yielding as the rock above is sterile and rigid; as orderly and fragile as the mountains are all chaos and permanence.

the man looks away, back to his lover--still asleep. he reaches across into the intricately inlaid wood of his private library cabinet, and pulls out the scroll of the day. he opens it to the 48th day of Ailool, the 169th season of Common Time, the prayers for the hour of Mars. And he recites the coded runes in their gold and silver script under his breathe, while the crimson of his robes fall in folds, yet majestic in the cramped carriage. his silhouette reflecting the mountains parallel to him.

Wow. Ordination is now behind me. Of course, that's like saying 'my wedding is behind me.' It feels just a disorienting and full and wonderful and bizarre as getting married (gollly, it's been 22 years since then!).

At any rate, I was going to write something 'spiritual-sounding', but right now, I don't know. I'm too 'full' right now to express anything coherently. As soon as i have digested some of this 9-pound steak that is sitting in my stomach, I'll be back.

Almost there. Ordination is now six days away. What else is there to say?

The PRIEST has gently absorbed and broken down as much of the interior of the 'teapot' of my existence to have room to move. So the 'emptiness' 'blackness', which is in reality awesome potentiality and non-being and fullness, is sufficiently 'large' enough to permit ordination. It is amazing. The funny thing is that It still seems like I have an individual personality. I feel like I am God looking out at the world through theis small segment of a stained glass window that is the illusion and lie of 'me'.

Also, a very great consolation for me running up to ordination has been reading daily before communion the 'song of songs' from scripture. My Bishop assigned it to me. What an amazing book! Yes, of course I've read it before. But now, it is more and more wonderful.

Sorry, nothing 'interesting' to say today. But as I've been hiding from all cyber-interaction lately, I thought I'd just slap something up so that everyone knew i was still 'alive'. In a way.

What is really amazing is that whenever the spirit moves me in a 'ministerial' capacity: hard to describe that, i am still myself, but I feel the spirit of god flowing through me so amazingly, so brightly, and so gently. I keep wondering why no one can see the glow. actually, maybe they can.

Yet, of course, 'after the ecstasy, the laundry.'

speaking of which . . . .

Ah!!!! The Woman! Her Eye. It see me. All of me. I am nude before her, and her eye gorges itself on me. Yet she smiles her strange smile and I am abashed. She blinks not, but always looks, undying knowledge, unyielding perception of all she desires. And she desires me. Yet, not yet. She is waiting on me to understand first . . . . and then . . . .