In an effort to open something up, I am abandoning my longstanding way of writing.
I am considering what it means to be a being aware of Time outside of time, immortality outside of mortality, and yet be hopelessly stuck inside a mortal frame and world.
What, if any of this material stuff is susceptible to be manipulated by the mind or Mind?
Would it be in my best interest to inquire into texts of books without any real rule, rhyme or reason?
I can’t help but feel almost every single day as if I am the recipient of a supercomputer that I am using like a handheld calculator, that I own a Ferrari with which I only use to drive a few blocks to the grocery store and back.
My supercomputer has been conditioned to be this way by all of the other supercomputers that are stuck in the same, woeful state.
I don’t know exactly what, if anything, I expect to happen–an out of body experience, or some other means of leaping outside of my skull into or onto a higher plane where my mind can now expand like a gas in ways that it always felt made it constricted by being stuck inside a bony old skull.
Daily, there is a quest. A quest to look inside someone else’s skull and find the kind of landscape I’ve been looking for. Am I living in a comfortable fantasy perpetuated by the certain knowledge that I am really just a bag of bones, or have I tapped into a greater world that others are willing to only halfheartedly share, if they wish to share at all?
Seminary is a strange and perfect place for me to be at the age of 41. There is a fellow here who is about my age, and he seems to have had a few of the same hard knocks of life, no more and no less. Then, there is another guy who is almost my age, but carries the sacrosanct clarity of a man who’s lived his life in duty to country, knowing he is untouchable, without reproach for his service, staking his claim on the great treasures of eternal virtue by way of unflinchingly, nay joyously, serving his country when called to serve. There are those who are perfectly diverse in every way that men and women (and new beings who have yet to claim their collection of pronouns they will use for the rest of their lives) can be virtuous in diversity if they chose not to serve their country. There are those who are lifelong members of the denomination that sponsors the seminary, and have holding baby, baptismal pitcher, bread, cup, Bible, etc. in their muscle memories, in their blood.
This is all to say that there are those who are in every way better than me if you wish to apply some sort of definitive: “who is the most…” — there are those who have more spectacularly loved Jesus, abandonded the church and returned. There are those who are more full of doubt, brains, looks, youth, age, wisdom, ignorance, hope, despair, patriotism, cynicism…you name a thing that you might assign to me, and you will find someone here who has more of it. I mean, no one has an awesome little son quite like my own, except for my wife. Though, there are plenty who believe they have the most awesome child or children under their wings. No one has the exact same name as me, though there are some who have my first, middle or last name somewhere in their names.
Seminary is a place where my ego has come to die, and all of the little, would-be kingly superlatives associated with my ego are here to die with it. My ego is so untameable that it happily wills to be the most of something negative–the most sinful, angry, bitter, unhappy, ignorant, etc. But, do I have the biggest ego of anyone here? Far from it, I fail at this superlative as well.