The moon hangs white, like a frosted ornament, out my window. The ocean, in ear shot, rumbles like the tummy of the world digesting our history. The human, the animal, the natural and the spiritual world all ride the waves of sound and light sensing each other in the blink of an eye. Our gift of consciousness swaddled under a tree, untested for lack of a name tag. The fall of man presumes we were once held high, but what if it’s a phallicy? Is creation any less miraculous if we crawled from mud rather than believing we are dust breathed?
As a writer I know the story has to start somewhere. I treasure the importance of the first line leading to conclusions. My take on Genesis is figurative. An amoeba splitting into two cells is enough to explain Adam and Eve to me. I don’t need the cosmos dumbed down to a comic book to be awestruck by the Hand of God. To me the original sin is pretending to know the mind of God, without bothering to know Him.
Jesus came to make Him known and to make His knowledge of us plain and purposed. Sin and death are real enough, and yet not. The choices we make can reflect that we are His choice even if He is a She Bearing Presence, presented to the world. The mystic dances in the torn veil between worlds and lends a hand to help elders cross at the light. The printed pages hold our place, deserve our attention, speaks to our needs and preserves wisdom, but unless we live as epistles the letters of the law are lost.
The arguments of scholars miss the point of the illiterate inheriting heaven. Salvation is not from, but toward. The end times fascinate a mind too timid to face the dawn. He, Who has begun a good work, will bring it to completion. To trust in God is to listen not enshrine. When He wakes you in the night the dream gains wings for the day. When we love, we are His saints, and the house divided reconciles.