Jesus, a brown-skinned man, was arrested by armed men in the middle of the night, put up for auction with Barabbas, and lost. His radical message, the message of anarchy, was simply too much for the establishment to allow as they shouted, ‘Kill him and bury him deep.’
What was his crime? Living as love, doing what love does, caring for the disenfranchised, speaking with women, dining with tax collectors, being compassionate to the sick, laying his healing hands on his beloveds, beckoning little children, all little children, to come to him.
He was the original author of DEI. His message was clear. Love all people, black, brown, white, male, female, regardless. Never once did he mention anything about homosexuality. Had it been important, he would have. All were welcome. His words, mostly misunderstood, thirsted for the fairness and justice so lacking in the world. Adamantly inclusive he said. ‘You are all gods.’ He denied no one.
And yet, or because of it, the people set Barabbas free and chose to crucify Jesus.
Religion tells the story that it had to happen, that it was necessary for the gift to unfold, his brutal death required to buy the salvation of those who would believe. They also say he was God’s only begotten son, the One, a God far removed from you and I.
Those are handy stories. They soften his message until it is nothing but invisible supposition to all but those maniacally intent on finding it. They turn his life into something unreachable, and seemingly unteachable. The take the anarchist, the radical lover of all life and give him a makeover, turning his wondrous love, his absolute compassion, his undying embrace into a symbol of control. Believe or spend eternity in hell. It’s blasphemy to attain to his state of grace for you are not God.
Were he here, he’d probably smile as he flipped the agreed upon story end over end. He’d hug us all, regardless of how far we had fallen. He’d remind us that we need to learn to love ourselves, that we can’t love others when we can’t even love ourselves. He’d show us his face in the politician, in those who have risen far above. He would invite us to recall his words and find compassion for those we find it hard to love. ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.’
There is a reason we care for the least of them, the immigrants, those imprisoned whether behind concrete walls, or the prisons of their minds. We are denied love to the exact degree that we deny love to anyone, to anything, not as punishment, not by God, but by the very act of our denial.
Jesus had only one message, just one. Love. It’s why he is still celebrated today, not lost in the dusty pages of a book, stashed away, rarely to be seen. His message is often lost in twisted minds and egos, dogma and pageantry, misunderstandings both unintentional and with purpose, and yet it will endure through all attempts to water it down, to weaponize his words and meaning, to turn it into something it never was.
That is the true resurrection, the remembrance of our Holy Name. Love is what we are; it is who we are. That needs no lie, no power to sustain it. It stands on its own regardless of what happens. Love is. It cannot be killed. It cannot be harmed. It cannot be distorted, for under all the fallacies, love still remains.
There is no appropriate bio for Amaya Gayle. She doesn’t exist other than as an expression of Consciousness Itself. Talking about her in biographical terms is a disservice to the truth and to anyone who might be led to believe in such nonsense. None of us exist, not in the way we think. Ideas spring into words. Words flow onto paper and yet no one writes them. They simply appear fully formed. Looking at her you would swear this is a lie. She’s there after all, but honestly, she’s not. Bios normally wax on about accomplishments and beliefs, happenings in time and space. She has never accomplished anything, has no beliefs and like you was never born and will never die. Engage with Amaya at your own risk. Amaya Gayle is the author of Actuality; infinity at play, published by New Saram Press. https://amzn.to/3Rd4CTY
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1 Comment
it is unlikely that any human actually has a blanket compassion or love for all, it could be possible, but who knows.
people are often restricted to loving their own, making excuses for their own and showing compassion on their own.
for the people in the sunken place, who are totally helpless, maybe of their doing or not, that is where they really find that life can abandon, even at instances where doing may not cost much, to others nearby,
love could be remote, out in space for many in this world,