Jesus Claps His Hands

It saddens me to see a Crazy Good Luck Bodhisattva  capitalizing on his Gift, his Wonder-spark, taking enlightenment public on the Dow-Jones, marketing awareness, as if the pure white light of the Void were a commodity, or an SAT score.

Enlightenment is the sister of Spontaneity, and cannot be cultivated. God is unprogrammed. The Grace-happening will not be systematized. It is like selling the sea in bottles. In a bottle, it is not the sea.

Absurd and gawky as a dandelion, Buddha blossoms from the ground of Silence, fertilized by the dung of bliss-energy deposited by an untamed Presence who wanders up and down the food chain like a hungry lion.

No effort of intellect can capture the Tathagata. Names and labels only cage the past, but the foolishness of Now is wild. When the mind attempts to understand suchness, Love evaporates. All that remains is the authority of thought.

But all authority is illusion, and thought is a ghost. There is only God's crazy amazement, the sky miraged in a shiver of Self-reflection.

Thus does Jesus clap his hands, and the storm ceases. Thus does the Son of Man smear spittle and mud on the blind man's eye, restoring sight. Thus the Avatar of Loss and Unknowing distributes a little basket of bread, feeding thousands of hungry bellies.

Ask the Lord to teach you these techniques and he will say, "I have no idea what I am doing, or why. Existence compels me to play and take delightful risks. Why don't you come wandering with me? Wandering is love without destination.”

Upon hearing this, his followers demand an accounting. They insist upon a doctrine, a ritual, a Church. He refuses. They crucify him.

Then, in his name, they invent their own religion of insatiable desire.