Flotsam
This morning I was reading posts from a facebook® faith group that I subscribe to, and it was dotted with various exposé of heretical preachers, rabbis and doctrines that surround the unwary. Yeah, faith is a minefield, and these self-same accusers are accused of heresy and error by the ones being accused. Sometimes, my inability to follow a Guru serves me well in this trudge toward spiritual truth.
Not that I haven’t tried. I have sat at the feet of Swami’s and medicine men, rabbi’s and preachers, agnostics and atheists, mystics and frauds. I have attended ancient rites, both hidden and revealed, worn cassocks and masks, swords and wands, venerated icons and idols, but in the end, I walked away in mild embarrassment for my gullibility.
And I have explored mysterious kabbalah, with its gematria and PaRDEs, the ensof of all that is visible.
But inevitably, one discovers that the true sage live in the p’shat. The simple meaning. The father, the Yodh·He·Waw·He, YHWH, Yah, is above. We are below. We mirror the above. Ergo there is warfare in heaven. There is warfare below. One side is his side, the other side isn’t. I cannot comprehend the forces arrayed against me. I am a chip on a vast sea of turmoil, moved this way and that way by heaves and billows.
Yet a chip floats above the turmoil, half emerged and half above. Sometimes inundated, yet always reemerging from the turmoil. A curious metaphor. A faith with an invisible foundation guides me unerringly toward a hidden shore. You ask me how I know? I can’t tell you. I put on a sappy grin and say; “I know”.
Rusty's Armory 