The Jewish religions, that is, Christianity and Islam, both of which, it cannot be denied, sprang from Jewish teachings, postulate a paradisical afterlife where the faithful, long-suffering disciple or servant will spend a blissful, supernal eternity. Krishna tells us, in the Bhagavad Gita, obliquely, of “spiritual planets” that can be ascended to upon death, if one meditates upon him at the hour of death. I have heard from Mahayana Buddhists that, like the Deists, they do not believe in a personal God-i.e. a God that actually cares. Gnostics and mystics similarly seem to agree upon the wretched, fallen nature of a material world that True Divinity cannot have any part of; hence, this world was crafted by a demonic, schizophrenic alter-ego; and this was identified by the Gnostics as the Yahweh God of the ancient Israelites. The Nag Hammadi scrolls reference the Archons, the stark, demonic entities that are also called Djinn by the Sufi mystics of Islam; and also demons in other tongues, as the purveyors of the “illusion” of this world. Noting that “they cannot create,” but only manipulate reality, they must, indeed, have a special fascination with a divinely-enlightened monkey, who voids his bowels in a most unseemly fashion, who sweats, stinks, sickens and dies, whatever beauty he possessing having faded, long ago, at the hour of his death; a being whose major accomplishment is the creation of thermonuclear warheads to annihilate himself and his wretched “civilization”; a being who can always justify its own actions to itself, no matter how, pointless, hypocritical, self-destructive or absurd. A curious state of affairs.
There is a school of thought, I believe it’s called Gnosticism, wherein the God of this decaying, dying material plane is seen as mad, and we, the individuated conscious monads are trapped, as it were, in his nightmare. The True God, being perfect, CANNOT have any intercession with the material plane, as that God is in a state of perfection beyond the material. Until we find the enlightenment of transcendent knowingness, we cannot, as it were, “Go Back to Godhead.” Until then, we continue, as Buddha said, “to reenter the womb,” to stay mired in physical reality, which is the stuff that, cyclically. always sickens, decays and dies. The world of Maya, the Illusion.
There is a story told of Lord Krishna. When he was a toddler at Brindavan, he liked to steal butter and cream. He was roundly scorned for this, and his mother told him he should take care never to do it again.
So, the next time the little Lord set about playing at the homes of his young friends, instead of making off with the butter, he grabbed a baby fistful of mud, ramming it into his mouth. His young friends, seeing what the baby had done, were offended, and went to tell his mother, Yashoda.
When he returned home, Lord Krishna’s mother said to him, “You awful, unthinking child! I will teach you never to put filthy mud into your mouth again!”
And she started to enact his punishment. Perhaps she was going to make him suck on a sour lemon, or even a cake of soap. We are not told. Whatever the case, though, when Lord Krishna opened his mouth, his mother was treated to an astounding sight:
She saw hills and valleys, trees and fields, rushing rivers, and vast craggy peaks. She saw mountainous rises and shallow dips, the twinkling, starlit array of diamonds in the black, vaulted firmament of heaven. She saw the planets, each with its own life, and the suns burning brightly in wonder, and the forgotten depths of the ocean floors, and even the raging waters of other worlds.
She, indeed, beheld the universe in the suckling infant’s mouth.
Lord Krishna’s mother fell to weeping, as she realized that Vishnu had come to earth in the form of her son.
(We imagine that, after that, he was treated to all the butter and cream he liked.)
Purchase the “Bhagavad Gita: Large Print Edition” at AMAZON:
Keeping it real, homies.
(Probably my most candid, honest interview to date.)
Special thanks to Laura and especially Rob M. from Undressing Underground Podcast.
So here I am sitting in church.
“Wait, didn’t you say you had a dream about God last night?”
Someone to my left asks me this. In point of fact, I had a dream I died. Went through the whole tunnel of light thing. A space-alien voice, like a prerecorded robot female telephone operator says, “And I started moving faster and faster.” And right away, I make that God has everyone on a string, like the Krishnas believe, and when he pulls up…that’s death.
But I don’t tell the guy any of this.
In front of the church, on either side of the altar, the pastor and some other rube is sitting, and I make I should get up out of the pew, and so I go up to them and the pastor smiles at me, great, awesome gape of a grin…
“Hey, don’t you remember your instructions?”
He smiles. Secretly, I hate and fear the man, as his withering contempt is somehow frightening to me. But, it looks like his church has fallen on hard times. The decor is the same, but this business with two tables set up for communion…I don’t understand.
He hands me a sprig of grapes. I suppose this is the untrammeled body of Christ. Or maybe, like the ancient hymn, He is trampling out the vintage.
(“In the lilies of the valley, Christ was born across the sea, with a splendor in his bosom that transfigured you and me…”
I wake up with this in my head. Something about these lyrics…
“As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free…”
Our God is marching on. )
I look at them, rather nonplussed. He is sitting in what looks like a lawn chair. It’s all very casual. This is communion?
My grandfather is leaning over the table on the right. I walk up behind him, and he hands over a clear plastic Dixie cup spilling over with wafers. The Body of Christ? I think to myself, disgustedly.
“Don’t you remember your instructions?” His question kept reverberating inside my skull. I had dreamed, the night before, that God had everyone on an invisible cord, like the silver cord spiritualists claim connects the astral body and the physical body to keep them from separating on the earth plane. And when we die? He simply pulls the cord, like pulling the plug.
We go up, up, up…through the tunnel of light. “Faster and faster,” claimed the cyborg-like voice.
Faster and faster.
But, I couldn’t, at any rate, remember whatever it was my instructions were supposed to be.
And I was separated from God.
And maybe we explode like a burning flame, flicker out like a dying star. And maybe we are trampled like the vintage, like the grapes of wrath…
And maybe, and maybe, and maybe so…
Psychic medium and subject of obscure book “Telephone Between Worlds,” which was presented to me, one night, when something told me to go downstairs at my building and look for a special present. Upon seeing this photo, I realized I had had a vision of this face before. The “Walt Disney Man” I had called him then.