Posted on 01/14/2002 8:14:36 PM PST by My Favorite Headache
After reading this article, keep in mind some of Jesus' and other biblical quotes (I do not have verses):
1. Genesis: God is Spirit and made man in his image. God made all that was made and it was good.
2. As you believe, so will it be unto you.
3. Jesus: do not worship me, worship the one who sent me
4. Jesus: you will do greater things than I
5. In him we live and move and have our being
If you believe the bible is Truth, how can you reconcile the appearance of this world with these quotes.
In the new testament, Jesus requests his followers to heal sickness more than he commands them to save sinners. In the Old Testament in Genesis, there are 2 creation stories: (1) one by the true God (i.e. Spirit) and (2) the other by the Lord God (i.e. a man-created God in a man-created universe).
Jesus did not come here to be worshipped like a King. He came to show the way, to show the reality of being. Which he did by overcoming sin, but even more so Sickness and Death. He showed they are not real and have no power, how can they be real and have power when God is all. This is not pantheism because, as Jesus showed, and as the article shows, the universe is a mental projection.
God is the hologram projector, and we are mini-hologram projectors (we were made in his image afterall). We are dreaming that we live in a universe of hardness, matter and natural laws, but it is only a dream.
Jesus walked on water and said also that we would do greater things than he. No one has come close to doing greater things than he. Why? Because there is an absolutely fundamental misunderstaing on why he came here and what he taught and on what the nature of reality (the universe) is.
It is so blantantly obvious to anyone who chooses to SEE what reality truly is. All of the mystics in all of the major religions say the same thing.
It is in a vacuum and THAT is all that matters (so to speak).
The universe (All That Is) is made of only ONE SINGLE PARTICLE. That's it. Just one. But this particle is moving FAST (I'm talking faster than the fastest possible idea of speed we can imagine, i.e. WAY beyond our comprehension). And that this SINGLE PARTICLE is moving so fast that it can BE everything in the universe at the same time, so that it seems the universe is made of uncountable particles. Why not? What is the limit of infinity? Food for thought for hungry thinkers.
Sufism is a philosophical and spiritual system of thought and ethics associated with Islamic mysticism. It is a tradition which has contributed indirectly and directly to many great spiritual, cultural and intellectual achievements in the history of humankind, not only within Islamic civilisation, but more widely. It is also found at the heart of or associated with: Sikhism, the Bahai religion, Freemasonry, Zoroastrianism, Paganism, Druidry etc. It is a tradition which has close parallels in the Jewish Kabbalah, and which has interpenetrated the Kabbalah almost to the extent that it is ultimately difficult to say where one tradition begins and the other ends.
It is a tradition which has interpenetrated with Christian mysticism to such an extent that it is impossible to say where in this world the living spirit of Jesus would be situated if not in some way in association with Sufism. It is the experience of perplexity and loss which is also at the heart of Classical philosophy, of the initiatic experience of the Classical mysteries, about which one cannot speak other than in poetry or riddles, or in true philosophy. It is the joy of homecoming to the beloved again and again and recognising her each time as both different and the same, as in a spiral of knowing and unknowing, as embodied in Celtic spiral forms and design.
It is a love which is at once transcendental and so human, spanning the full spectrum from our animal nature through to the inmost spark of the divine within us all. It is a word whose meaning is unknown, whose practices have become overextended and overformalised. It is a love song to God which can never be finished, and which can hardly be begun. It is that special and strange feeling that however hard one works, that one is always just starting. It is that feeling of not knowing which comes with true love. It is the balance point of knowing and loving, when both are in harmony, and sing together in a melody of praise and joy. It is that feeling of specialness which comes with true love, and with spiritual love, and the source of that specialness, and the ordinariness and universality of that specialness, as one sees it diffused also in the rays of sunlight, the greenness of grass, the blue of sky, the sounds of bird song at dawn and the hushed stillness of all nature.
It is the humour which comes flooding into the soul even after the worst pains, and it is the hard learning which comes when suffering has been assimilated and the mind's sanity restored. It is the purity of motivation which must accompany the seekers as they set off on an impossible journey with no hope of arriving. It is the love which unites enemies and which divides friends. It is a journey, a pilgrimage, which can never be begun, and which, once begun, can never be ended. It is the light behind all seeing, and also the darkness. It is the mediator between the West and the East. It is the cause of justice which arises out of the desert and out of the deserted soul when all hope seems gone. It is an impossible aspiration beyond the reach of any possible striving, a hunt with no quarry, except for the inmost spirit beyond the reach of self where the hunter becomes the catch, and the setting forth becomes the returning, empty handed.
It is a dream which restores memory beyond the realm of all possible awakening, to a deeper slumber, from which there is no awakening except the Real. It is all that can be said, yet in itself it can never be said. It is a false poverty which knows unbounded riches, and false riches which are worth less than dust in sunlight. It is an equation stretched out between unknowns, and the balance between them, in which all past and future states are held equally, created in the tension of love.
It is the fear and hope of the lover in equal measure, tortured by silence and distance. It is the love beyond love in which everything that has been lost is mysteriously returned by the moment of surrender to nothingness. It is the true voice which says nothing, a wind which holds the planet spinning on its axis, which blows through us each second, yet which can never be felt or heard, until we surrender. It is the moment of final reckoning in which one's debts are weighed and found uncountable, and it is the thankfulness of spirit which balances all this, and the flood subsides. It is nothing, a mystery, about which those who have some knowledge will deny it, and those who profess it remain excluded. It is a strange scattered network of light workers, beyond name and form and station, in which synchronicity governs their deeds, coincidence provides their daily bread, faith forms the air they breathe, and peace and justice their only craft and skill.
It is the betrayal of everything, in which the final loyalty is proved and tested. It is a loneliness in which only absence can provide comfort. It is to feel again the pain which Jesus felt when he realised the crucifixion was upon him. It is a feeling of inadequacy and powerlessness at the scale of suffering and abuse going on in the world. It is the strange ability to cancel out all one's past, and the burden of one's past achievements, and to reduce them to dust particles dancing in sunlight, and to let the spirit catch them and blow them where it will, to make new configurations, to make new patterns of meaning out of the fragments of our lives - it is the spirit stream of water without which it is indeed a miracle that the iceberg is seen and not seen. It is a dream which can never be quite remembered and yet which can never be quite forgotten.
It is the secret language of the Muses, and the secret language of the Angels, and the secret language whereby they speak to one another. It is the secret language of philosophers and the codes and signs whereby they communicate their deep perplexity and love to one another. It is a mystery school which has no borders, which one can never join, and yet which one can never retire from. It is a chance meeting with destiny, a flash of soul recognition, soul to soul, deep within the place the truest words come from. It is the Word within all words, the spirit of pure breathing and life, the spirit of the good, from whom all other words are partial out-breathings. It is the truth within the soul, the waer within the wer as the Anglo Saxon tongue put it, which carves and traces our destiny, our weird, and according to the purity and motivation and depth of our utterances, and the inner sound of our soul essence, so is our weird. It is a lover which we will always disappoint, which we will always leave, which we will always forget and turn away from, yet which will never leave us, even right deep down into the grave, even beyond the resurrection. It is also a lover which we will never betray or abandon. It is the frog which turns into the prince, and the wicked witch, who turns into the glorious Goddess of peace and joy. It is the secret language of Allat, the consort of Allah, the hidden goddess of Arabia and the Middle East, whose voice was misunderstood and misheard, and whose voice has never yet been properly heard, and without whose wisdom, and the wisdom of her servants, there can be no complete Islam, no complete surrender, only forced surrender, for without the divine mother and Goddess, under all her names, without the Beloved, how can man be tamed and civilised, how can our true stories be told, how the continuity of time with timelessness be restored? It is the heresy for which all heretics have always been persecuted - the witches, the cathars, the Gnostics, the freemasons, the sceptics, the Unitarians, the rationalists, the philosophers, and its name is Truth - the scattered fragments of truth.
It is the secret in the heart of Abd ar Rahman's library in Cordoba which the Spanish flames could not destroy. It is the secret of John Dee's library which even the rampage of the mob and their flames could not destroy. It is the secret of the library of Alexandria which even the flames of the Christians and the Muslims and all who helped fan them, could not destroy. It is the hiding place of the missing works of Aristotle, the esoteric teachings, delivered orally to his chosen students in the garden, in praise and honour of Apollo lyceus and all the Gods.
It is the secret of the possibility of peace between the USA and Iran and Europe and Russia, between the West and the Middle East, and between the souls of Ancient Greece and Ancient Persia. It is the secret which the Magi represented to the infant soul of Jesus. It is the sigh of the suppressed poetry of the world, and the dispossessed. It is love, and poetry, and dolphins, and starlight, and kisses, and wine, and it is the absence of all of these and yet their spiritual fulfilment. It is a teaching which has been forgotten, a way into a secret garden which has been lost, and a courage which few have retained. It is a courage which Gandhi knew, and Jesus. It is the secret source of the power of non-violence. It is a tradition which contains the inner knowledge of the power of cannabis as a sacred sacrament for the soul, which wings the consciousness back to its source, which welcomes the inflowing power of the plant world and nature spirits, the world of love and sensuality and mind combined, and which understands also the dangers and cautions needed for this work, and which can help teach the lost generations of youth who have overindulged in this vehicle, and still do. It is spiritual law beyond the world's outward law. It is the source of true justice as love.
It is the inner secret of peace and the most glorious Beloved to which all outer forms and paths of peace and religion would surrender to, be they Islamic, Bahai or Gnostic or Sikh or Druidic, or Freemasonic or Buddhist, or Theosophical, or Christian or Jewish or Hindu or Pagan or Humanist or Taoist or Confucian or Zoroastrian, did they only know the way. - and it is the way to that way, and the name of its true Country which cannot be spoken. It is an unnamed way which would disavow the name of Sufi should people come chasing it there. It is a path to a lost cave near the village of Pequin in Upper Galilee where the Zohar was communicated, and the search for that cave, and the knowledge of that cave, and the legend of that cave, and the losing of that cave.
It is one of the scatterings from the secret assemblies of the wise, from all times and all places and all traditions, gathered out from among us, whose notes and reports we have largely lost, save where summoned by Emperors, yet whose results are all present in the heart of every human, buried deep down inside their listening. It is the religion of the jester at the court of kings, the way of the fool watching the antics of the powerful and the lordly. It is the cup of poison Socrates drank, and the wine served at the symposium of love both, and it is the vine and the grape and the press and the long slow fermentation of beauty and wisdom . It is the fire which has burned all heretics throughout all ages, and it is the invisible fire of conscience which burns those who applied the visible light for their destruction, and it is the fire of loving forgiveness which burns from the heart of those wronged and who yet wish no vengeance save only wisdom and peace.
It is the silent cry for justice which escaped the lips of Ali as he realised he had been betrayed to his death, and the source of the heart of compassion which wished no ill to come to his murderer. It is the sigh from the lips of all those of light who have ever been killed, or tortured, or assassinated, or martyred, in the cause of love, and it is the love which inspired them. It is a ray and a series of rays and an occult text and the source of those rays and the invisible light and the source of that invisible light and the journey to that source and the love of that source and the love of that journey. It is the womb of all form and the lovemaking with that womb and the secret of that lovemaking, and the secret of conceiving and the moment of conception, and the fusion of male and female parts of the soul and body in an unutterable glory, and the form of the perfect child, who was, and is, and is to come. It is the substance of the secret teachings of the wise and foolish alike and the innocence of the dove and the wisdom of the serpent. It is the inner faith of the one who does nothing at all, unknowably, and who yet accomplishes the work, and then vanishes, as if (s)he had never been, and it is the tracks left of their vanishing, for those with eyes to see, and with the courage to follow.
It is the secret source of faith of he and she who accomplish everything without even knowing what is being accomplished. It is the secret rain of grace falling upon humanity at all times and in all places, without our realising it, and it the method of awakening to the constant service of that rain of grace, and the method of praising and giving thanks for its fertilising and cleansing beauty. It is all this and more, much more, and less, much less. It is both nothing and everything, and the source of everything and nothing. It is.....
Thomas Daffern
Who knows? Hoho. Only the mind knows. Hehe. 
I've always thought that what I believe to be true at any given point is probably at least half wrong. And I've found over time that that usually turns out to be true. It helps to keep my mind open and not take itself too seriously.
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.