Christian

The Miraculous Draught of Fishes. Raphael Cartoons for tapestries for the Sistine Chapel. 1515.

I dreamt of singing a song to celebrate Christians, becoming Christian - and oh the glee of it - in the London underground - swinging on bars, much to the amusement of my companion.

This extension of all that I am in worship. My mother called me a worshipper through her wet eyes - had seen a part of me alive in the maddening throng of a pentecostal experience - had in some way brought me up to be a spiritual warrior - casting out the Viking demon of our town as a small boy surrounded by mothers in babbling speech. Shooing away that they felt held the evil.

But it was not completely off. Though the evil resides - it hides out in structure we have made for it. It is the edifice, the gold calf that takes the place of the creator is where things go awry. Bowing down to something we have made with our own hands - tower of Babel stuff.

Or we play with dark matter - no matter what it is - is an open pandora’s box of energy that is not for us - like mining in the Amazon - it putrefies and toxifies the surrounding land and creatures though it’s extraction. Some parts of our universe were made to be contained by forces as strong as mountains and deep seas - so energies are not for mere trifling and without the creator’s gaze - so we were sent out of the garden and are ever longing to return.