The Final Note Of Bach's St. Matthew Passion

Our nature is both human and divine. This is not a theological construct. Only an embodied human life could demonstrate the truth. Strike the flint of grief against your ancient rage stone. Let that spark start an inferno of love. When opposites kiss at the center of the cross, resurrection happens. The singularity where time begins, where time ends, where Jesus meets Magdalene in the garden of blood-stained flowers.

 

Yes, I know you are a light worker. Now be a shadow worker. Transmute dark energy into fire. Glory be the color of silence, womb of song, last terrible note of Bach's St. Matthew Passion. The sweet binaural dissonance of pain and beauty can never be merely One, yet it is Not Two.

 
The veil of the temple is rent by a Mystery unknowable to conceptual thought. Only by surrender to the sound of the final dissonance is the Mystery known, the tremor of B Natural in the key of C Minor, among the three dark notes, dark nights in the tomb. It is a high frequency oscillation, the way wine spurts out of a wound. 

The wound is right here, clean through your body, this portal of ayin soph leading inward and outward, upward and downward at once, the dot of astonishment right between your nipples. 

Through this infinitesimal stab that never heals, you breathe a new earth, not made from spirit or matter, spittle or dust, right or wrong ideas; but molded from the gristle of God, the hipbone of Christ's mother pulverized into a healing poultice.

Surely, this fifth element is the stuff that poured from Mohammad's gaze, the cloud around Moses, the golden ether that burnished the face of the Friend when his head fell upon his shoulder. 

How can the mist of reason comprehend the living tree, planted on the solid ground of paradox? Stop clinging to fire, grasping water, writing your name in air. Be the silence around the battle, distilled into a burning tear. A tear of pain and beauty, which can never merely One, yet Not Two.

Image: by Sandre Botticelli