Everyone has a unique way of reaching out to me. I am not picky; I’ll make allowances for just about anybody whose heart is on the right side. Religious dogma is not my primary love language, contrary to what many religious dogmatics would have you believe.
Some folks can sense me on a breath of wind or on a fishing trip. Others find a catalyst in the faces of their family around the table at a holiday dinner. Most will feel the little white bird of my holy spirit descend at some point or another, whether it’s from a violin strain, a wedding, a childbirth, or an Amnesty International commercial.
But – a lot of people need religion. Nothing wrong with that. It’s one of my favourite things about people, a hallowed opportunity for connection. Humans enjoy stories, puppet plays, plots. Within the smaller context of drama and poetry, they inevitably find a lifeline to the absolute: Me.
I take advantage of these natural tendencies, which I did have some hand in creating, simply because I love all of you so much that I’m desperate to be near you. I created quite a few religions before I came up with my son Jesus. You folks kept putting me to the test, wanting more and more of a connection with me. It was inevitable that I’d develop the notion of actually making a personal visit.
Plus, I wanted to understand, from the inside, what humanity felt like. For so long I’d been sitting up here practically helpless, orchestrating, machinating, watching the frivolous interplay play of free will and chance – but never experientially in the know, so to speak. I wanted more than to sit and watch you; I wanted to be you.
Jesus is a good guy. Always has been. I remember thinking, at the beginning of time, how he could end up serving a special purpose. Maybe it was his face, so gentle yet cuttingly perceptive, or his long careful hands with their way of fixing others’ troubles. Whatever it was, I was attracted to him right from the start; in turn, he found many ways to be near me. We became friends, soulmates. He spent an eternity asking me questions about creation, evolution, and the cosmos before he finally asked the question that resulted in a new religion: Christianity. All he said was, “Is there any way I can help you?” And looked at me with his soft, clever eyes.
At that moment, I knew he wouldn’t mind letting me jump inside his body and ride it like a parachute down to earth. There was no nervousness in him at all; he just said, “Of course.”
It wasn’t a popular decision, though. He’d made friends with so many other souls up here, they were sad to see him leave. Everyone on this side is just as blind to life as humans on earth are blind to death. They threw him a farewell party, thinking he’d be gone forever. I rolled my eyes at them, certain as I was that we’d both be back. But maybe they were more right than I was.
I wasn’t sure what kind of sacrifice I was making when I used Jesus as a conduit to earth. I definitely hadn’t prepared for the degree to which we would be loved and reviled. At the end, it was bad enough being whipped, tortured, spat on, mocked, denied. I had to leave him completely when he was dying on the cross; I couldn’t bear it. I’d seen a lot of death and viciousness by now. I thought I would be able to handle anything, but not this. Not my child, hurt to the core of his being, for my sake.
I left, and he felt it immediately. He screamed out, asking me where I’d gone. And while the physical misery was unbearable, it was his self-doubt, his questioning of everything he’d ever said or believed, that broke me completely. I darkened the sky, growled in every direction, tore the curtain of the temple. They didn’t know, as they spent the next hours dividing up his rags and coming down from the high of killing, how close they all were to a sudden, agonizing end.
Then, when it was all over and he was lying in his tomb, lifeless as a stone, I came to him. Inside his body, it was as still and frigid as space. The grave was black, the air sour and close. He was all alone, wrapped, white, silent. I whispered through my invisible tears, Jesus. Blew my warm breath into his limbs, massaged his head with apologetic whispers. His heart coughed and thumped groggily. He stirred, mumbling, and his eyelids fluttered half-open. He knew I was back, and he wasn’t angry at me for deserting him. He said, “Hello again. I knew you’d come.”
Looking into his trusting face, I decided to give him the thing I’d denied him up until that moment. His will.
What do you want to do now? I asked breathlessly.
He pursed his lips as he thought it over. Almost in absentmindedness, he raised his two wounded hands and examined them. He was quiet.
I bent and kissed his hands.
He sighed.
I went to his feet and kissed them too. Then I touched the gash in his side.
All the wounds sealed into pale pink scars.
“I suppose it would be easier to come back to you,” he murmured, “but I’m going to stay. They need me.”
That little Bodhisattva. I should’ve known!
My heart broke. Somewhere inside, I’d been aware all along that he would desire to continue our mission of love and compassion, whether as holy fire or human being. Sure, there’s all that talk in the creed about how Jesus is seated at the right hand of God, et cetera. It’s all for appearances. We both knew well it was on earth, not in heaven, that he could do his best work.
It served me right. Now I’d be forced to live without him.
But only sort of. What he took away from me in the tomb, he returned to me in the scores of hearts he has touched since then. My holy spirit has been fluttering around since the beginning of time, whispering words of wisdom and gentle guidance – but it’s an ethereal, mystical voice. It has qualities of the fleeting and beyond.
Not Jesus. People flock to him, this warm, present Christ, light of life, fire of compassion. He moves from community to community, from mind to mind, from song to song, from heart to heart. People absorb the stories of how he gallivanted around with his confusing parables of peace and humility, turning everything in the natural hierarchy upside down. His blood, tears, thirst, hunger, guts, and bowels are real. They hear how silent and receptive he became to his fate of betrayal and crucifixion. They watch him die terrified and alone. They feel his presence.
Something inside kindles to Jesus’ burden of persecution; people surrender themselves into his scarred hands with their lives and their emotions, their whole beings. And through him, they come to me. They see me.
So it was with Ellen, the first time she was born again.
Just so you know, I didn’t make up that term – born again. As far as I’m concerned, I give you to the world once. After that, it’s up to you whether you fight me as long as you live, or surrender and know wisdom. No, it was Jesus who coined both saved and born again. I can see why; he knew those states from a personal vantage point.