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Sacred/Profane…Profane/Sacred This started as…

Sacred/Profane…Profane/Sacred

This started as a comment on Cliff’s blog, but it got to be too long.

I know the journey I am on, and through that have come to the conclusions I have come to. The journey I am taking is a search for, I guess, pureness. Pureness, not in the clean, white as snow, pureness, but pureness as true, raw, and honesty is what I mean. This journey has led me to my belief that one should “live the faith”, but how that is done is totally different. I believe in action and have a fascination with the sacred and profane…rather the sacred in the profane. That is why you can find me in a bar at 11:30 on a weeknight. Does the make me unfaithful?

Talking to Del Toro who went to Woodstock in ë68 over a couple of beers, M-1 telling me about his latest female conquest, Bar Tender D telling me he wants a nose job, Hobos and Hookers across the street, used condoms and broken paraphernalia in the alley, Rachel who wants to be Cinderella in Into The Woods, Fish, up on Broadway, who has my back because I gave him a dime once 2 years ago, the gang-bangers who made sure I was safe leaving their hood after closing a store that helped out the hood, and their babies. These are the people I love. [Note: it is 4 hours since I started this, and well, as I tend to do, I have completely shifted focusÖoh well.] How can they not be loved? They may scare you, make you cry, break your heart, but they are the most pure people I can think of. Nothing is in the way. They donít look down on people. They donít look up to people. They just look to people. They are scraping to get by. So am I. So do my friends. But I know my ego gets in the way.

This quest for pureness is the closest I think one can get to God on this earth. Let the old blue-hair teach you how to make the sign of the cross. Enjoy the immediacy and intimacy of that moment. Look to the woman with the eyes of a child. Look to the hooker through the eyes of a child and see what she sees. It is painful. Really. ìCome back here, you mother fucking PuntoÖ.Iíll smash your God-damned window in.î As tears come down her cheeks and a bruised is developing under her eye. Pure. What can I do? I pray. Does that work? I donít know. It is what I have. I share her tears.

Purity. Wholeness. Dirt. Blood. Tears. Sweat. Grief. Pain. Redemption.

Like the junkie on the corner, blistered and bleeding. Needing the sweet nectar that is holding him hostage. Seeing the world through the haze of an altered state. Feeling the heat of disease entering the vein. Loosing the last vestiages of whatever the last meal he ate. The pain. He is doing what he must to survive the moment. He is living in the now. It is us who must help him. Take him and clean him. It is us who must move to his now, see what he sees and show him the love.

If this is throwing the pearls to the swine (I know you were not saying that, Cliff, but to use a common metaphor) then I want nothing to do with it. I really believe that to bring the Kingdom to earth we must find the pureness of the downtrodden, accept that they are wise, and then share our love with them.

Grace and Peace

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