Life is a mystery.
That’s what it is.
Crazy, wild, mean.
Stomach-tumbling.
Churning.
Burning.
Does anyone really know what it is?
I don’t think so.
That’s why we have religion.
It tries to tame the wild beast.
Give it some meaning.
Point the way and say it’s ok.
Is that what Jesus did?
And so they killed him.
His meaning wasn’t their meaning.
They meant money and power.
Temples and tables.
Full of money and meanness.
Dead lambs and throat-slit bulls.
All for a price, of course.
That’s what they meant.
To tame the beast.
The wild mystery.
We call life.
They thought in terms of conquest.
Who’s in and who’s out.
Who’s naughty and who’s nice.
Jesus tried to tame the beast.
With tiny words of kindness.
A welcome to little children.
And the lady at the well.
And Mary who wanted to be a disciple.
And sit at the feet of the Master.
There’ll be none of that, they said.
That’s not how the beast is tamed.
Our way or the highway.
Make your choice.
The crown of gold.
Or the cross of misery
So they tamed him.
And we’ve been scratching our heads ever since.
Their way, or his.
Their way is money and power and glory and war.
His way, hmmm … different.
Frightening is his way.
Terrible and true.
Unsure and not so safe.
How do we tame the beast?
Ride the mystery?
Talk to the storm?
We call life?
The crown of gold.
Or the cross of misery.
Today you’ll be with me in paradise.
Balderdash.
Or is it?
Can there be something here?
To tame the beast?
Ride the mystery?
Go to the source and drink?
Cool water …
On a hot day?
