We are experiencing an American Rapture. It’s no longer accurate to pretend this is about Democrat or Republican. Both parties have failed on purpose. Both said nothing about the truth of JFK. Neither stood up for the truth of 9/11. We have watched red and blue Manchurians bomb nations like the Pied Piper for refugees. Truth erodes without justice. I scroll through angry reactions to Kavanaugh’s confirmation and see a trauma army being armed and activated. Today’s siren is man-vs-woman. But the truth is always distorted. Equality is oppression wrapped in a rainbow. Hate is a trebuchet of flaming boulders. When you hate someone, you show them your power. When you love someone, you show them their own. This is a war now between self-hate and self-love; communism versus supremacy. We must tear down this wall. We must build up that wall.
Three brown boys named Jum, Muhammed and Khalil clung to the high ridge of a talon-shaped outcrop overlooking the Dead Sea. The boys boulder up like three Billy goats in Velcro crampons. Jum crouches like a crab and kicked his way into a cave with his heal. He tucks himself inside the stone blowhole down into nature’s bank vault. Three boys wrap six hands around seven clay jars. Inside was the Gospel of Thomas. His words scribed their spiraling secret curled up like a sleeping leaf of tobacco. Thomas wrote down the meaning of the Cross. Your shoulders and spine are your Christ. A church rampant with pedophilia hides a copy in a decrepit catacomb. They never want you to see it. A library burned and a library concealed are the same thing. Each turn wisdom into Molotov cocktails. Man’s ignorance becomes a hunger. We are gaping for knowledge like blind birds with our mouths open in the rain. The pious pretend there’s nothing they can do now but pray.
Thomas tells you your bones have always been the antenna. Thomas wants you to find the Christ in three unique dimensions. There is a trinity of strings inside you. Your mind, your heart and your stomach strike a chord in major, minor, augmented or diminished. Put down that telephone. Pick up this stethoscope. Place its chilly stainless disc with the puckered white pad against your bashful skin to listen. This is the sound of the universe. Be as God of this earful kingdom. You are the Baron of Body. Every cell is following your commandment. Your heart is the emperor’s drummer and his eyes watch for your cue. You are the maestro of intuition, morals, and reason. Your pelvis wants you seated. Your throne aches for the rule of someone just like you.
The definition of rapture is a rising in the air to be with Christ. We rapture ourselves in the glory of our posture. Be straight and deep as you plow through these sentences. Our bodies are antenna receiving a signal direct from God. He is the symphony conductor to a brass section of elephants and chest pounding gorillas. We are corrupted from black walkie-talkies squawking their static. But our trinity knows the difference. Your mind may be fooled by ideas. The body can be broken by trauma. The intuition can be neutered by shame. We are broken horses on the beach grazing in the hypnotic tide. It’s never too late to break free for our foals. Let’s run for them now. Every colt and filly needs the energy from our surge. Let’s bolt from the blinders covering our long skulls. We were slipped into metal caskets and trained for the gates to open. We could only race each other in the constant turn of one direction. A thoroughbred has no freedom. His balls are made for television. His mane is crimped, and his hooves are polished with wax made for a car. He grows weary of the trouble from his own muddy footprints as he pretends to not be pretending.
The glory of God is a human being fully alive. ~ St. Irenaeus
Why are we not avenging our fathers? Why do we insist it’s sufficient to only hoist up our own outrage? We are at the carnival with a big mallet. We are slamming it into the target and seeing whose anger scores the biggest animal. We get the blue bear but hoped for the pink tiger. The only solace is a bumper-car to ram each other into oblivion from electric rat-tails tied to the ceiling for nine tickets and eleven minutes. A theme park always has high walls and security. We are gelded at the neck as they seal our heads in shiny mason jars. Communism is a theme park for the spirit. Resistance is the tantrum of a spoiled child. He had too many fantasies before he got here. Spun cotton candy is stuck in his eyelashes. His belly is bloated from the syrup of sugar and promises. We will drag him by his heels kicking and screaming back to the car. We will not let them take another body. We will decentralize this cabal.
Make your body great again. Give supremacy its place on the altar. The zombies clawing at the door are trauma, fear and surrender. They are not our enemy; they are an obstacle. We run into the battlefield like a platoon of medics. Save as many as you can under triage. We only have so much time left. Shine your light into each eyeball and look for dilation of the pupils. Snap your fingers to test if they are listening. Place your firm hand gently on their shoulder. Tell them it’s time to wake up now. Tell them the rapture is coming. Wipe their foreheads with a wet sponge and tell each of them they are worthy. Tell them to stand up in their Cross or be eaten by this machine. Red October is the death of communism in the heart. Red wave is the rush and gush of life force pouring back into our vessels and sailing us back into supremacy. Raise your Cross like a standard and tell the machine we don’t want it anymore.
Original source: https://www.jtrue.com/blog/american-rapture