The Mind of Division

[Guest guest]

Perhaps it can be observed that the religious fundamentalist, the

fanatical zealot, and the "true believer" all seem to share one

curious and common trait – a fixation of identity on a sense of self

mired in division. It is an attachment to an interpretation, or

story, in which they somehow believe themselves to be the

exclusive "keepers of the flame" of truth, or devotion, or

righteousness, and thus of necessity born of fear separate themselves

into camps in order to preserve and defend their image of reality.

On the macro level, we need look no further for the results of this

orientation than at the current world turmoil playing out in places

like Israel/Palestine, where the escalation of competing ideologies

and belief systems has led to the senseless spilling of rivers of

blood.

On the micro level, it can be observed that this clinging to belief

inevitably disposes one to a perpetual inner conflict, where

resistances are accentuated in mind's struggle to hold on to

identity, even though all identities are random, arbitrary, and empty

modifications of consciousness itself.

To let this in requires a great courage, because it looms as a death

knell to the sense of self that can only perceive and define itself

in opposition.

So-called "spiritual" seekers are some of the most violent people for

this very reason – they have placed all their eggs in the one basket

of an identity based upon their own acquired belief, and blindly

cling to that narrative for dear life, despite the fact that the very

spiritual authorities on whom they found their beliefs are more than

likely to offer a message based upon reconciliation and unity and

submission to Love.

It is always an ironic and poignant paradox, and certainly a sobering

recognition, that the very thing we pray will liberate us turns out

to be that which binds us.

 

 

Moses heard a shepherd on the road praying,

"God,

where are you? I want to help you, to fix your shoes

and comb your hair. I want to wash your clothes

and pick the lice off. I want to bring you milk and

kiss your little hands and feet when it's time

to go to bed. I want to sweep your room

and keep it neat. God, my sheep and goats

are yours. All I can say, remembering you,

is AYYYY and AHHHH."

 

Moses could stand it no longer.

"Who are you talking to?"

 

"The one who made us,

and made the earth and made the sky."

 

"Don't talk about shoes

and socks with God! And what's with this 'your little hands

and feet'? Such blasphemous familiarity sounds like

you're chatting with your uncles.

 

Only something that grows

needs milk. Only someone with feet needs shoes. Not God!

Even if you meant God's human representatives,

as when God said 'I was sick, and you did not visit me,'

even then this tone would be foolish and irreverent.

 

Use appropriate terms. Fatima is a fine name

for a woman, but if you call a man Fatima,

it's an insult. Body-and-birth language

are right for us on this side of the river,

but not for addressing the origin,

not for Allah."

 

The shepherd repented and tore his clothes and sighed

and wandered out into the desert.

A sudden revelation came then

to Moses. God's voice:

"You have separated me

from one of my own. Did you come as a Prophet to unite,

or to sever?

I have given each being a separate and unique way

of seeing and knowing and saying that knowledge.

 

What seems wrong to you is right for him.

What is poison to one is honey to someone else.

 

Purity and impurity, sloth and diligence in worship,

these mean nothing to me.

I am apart from all that.

Ways of worshipping are not to be ranked as better

or worse than one another.

Hindus do Hindu things.

Muslims do what they do.

It's all praise, and it's all right.

 

It's not me that's glorified in acts of worship.

It's the worshippers! I don't hear the words

they say. I look inside at the humility.

 

That broken-open lowliness is the reality,

not the language! Forget phraseology.

I want burning, BURNING.

 

Be friends

with your burning. Burn up your thinking

and your forms of expression!

Moses,

those who pay attention to ways of behaving

and speaking are one sort.

Lovers who burn are another.

Don't impose a property tax

on a burned-out village. Don't scold the lover.

The 'wrong' way he talks is better than a hundred

'right' ways of others.

Inside the Kaaba

it doesn't matter which direction you point

your prayer rug!

The ocean diver doesn't need snowshoes!

The love-religion has no code or doctrine.

Only God.

So the ruby has nothing engraved on it!

It doesn't need markings.

God began speaking deeper mysteries to Moses.

Visions and words,

which cannot be recorded here, poured into

and through him. He left himself and came back.

He went to Eternity and came back here.

Many times this happened.

 

It's foolish of me

to try and say this. If I did say it,

it would uproot our human intelligences.

It would shatter all writing pens.

 

Moses ran after the shepherd.

He followed the bewildered footprints,

in one place moving straight like a castle

across a chessboard. In another, sideways,

like a bishop.

Now surging like a wave cresting,

now sliding down like a fish,

with always his feet

making geomancy symbols in the sand,

recording his wandering state.

 

Moses finally caught up

with him.

"I was wrong. God has revealed to me

that there are no rules for worship.

Say whatever

and however your loving tells you to.

Your sweet blasphemy is the truest devotion.

Through you a whole world is freed.

Loosen your tongue and don't worry what comes out.

It's all in the light of the spirit."

 

"Moses, Moses,

I've gone beyond even that.

You applied the whip and my horse shied and jumped

out of itself. The divine nature and my

human nature came together.

Bless your scolding hand and your arm.

I can't say what has happened.

What I'm saying now

is not my real condition. It can't be said."

 

The shepherd grew quiet.

 

When you look in a mirror,

you see yourself, not the state of the mirror.

The flute player puts breath into a flute,

and who makes the music? Not the flute.

The flute player!

Whenever you speak praise

or thanksgiving to God, it's always like

this dear shepherd's simplicity.

When you eventually see

through the veils to how things really are,

you will keep saying again

and again,

"This is certainly not like

we though it was!"

 

 

~ Rumi

 

 

 

LoveAlways,

 

b