Liberation and The Return: a tale of redemption and accountability

SMJ, circa 2002, Philadelphia PA 

Chapter One: The Prize 

The Catskills were breathtaking at this time of year. He stood atop the hill, leaning against a massive oak tree, gratefully accepting what shelter it offered against the passing storm. From beneath his hood, he looked out across the valley he had so grown to love these past 50 odd years. His old Scottish Mac challenged the rain, keeping him warm and dry. It seemed like just yesterday he had come to this place, penniless, armed with only hope and a dream. 

Lingering briefly, the storm crossed over his beautiful mountain and then moved on. He watched as the sun broke through the remnants of twilight clouds, offering the last rays of the day, in a stunning cascade of spectacular color.  Serenity washed over him. He closed his eyes and drank in a long, deep, sweet mountain breath. The early evening air was filled with the blended scents of upstate New York in autumn: of musky leaves, chestnuts, apple cider and home. The earth was again cleansed andrejuvenated, as it prepared for another long winter nap. Losing himself in the moment, he watched the moon rise over the lake. The first stars of the evening glittered and accompanied the rising silver crescent. Long undulating moon beams rippled across the lake, as waves lapped melodically yet gently at the shoreline below. A lone shooting star swept across the now clear night sky; “starlight, star bright. First star I see tonight…” he found himself pondering silently, all the while smiling. Everything was as it should be. And, it was all so very, very good. How many times he’d climbed this mountain and found solace, often for hours on end. This was his place, a place to rest the mind and to comfort and rejuvenate the soul. And how he’dgrown to love and treasure it so. 

Tonight, however, something was different. Not odd or disconcerting, just, different. There was perfect calm about the moment, a peaceful feeling that he had not known for many, many years. A nostalgic, almost holiday feeling of wondrous anticipation; feelings like those invoked by memories of Mom’s kitchen early Thanksgiving morning; of homemade pumpkin pies, heavy on the ginger and cloves, still warm from the oven, and awaiting a dollop of real whipped cream; of Turkeyroasting in the oven since midnight, permeating the house with that glorious aroma of a pending feast, and knowing that family and friends would all be arriving soon; the raucous yet beloved insanity of a family coming together once again to remember all that is good, and to love one another; to feast together, and give thanks for another sacred year of life. Then, later that night, of falling asleep in a bed wrapped in clean, crisp cotton sheets under a fluffed goose down comforter; of watching a light snow fall on the windowsill, as ice angels magically formed on the inside of old Victorian windowpane. The simple pleasures of youth that in these late twilight years render such romance, nostalgia and longing for simpler and gentler times... 

He pondered such things and feasted on what seemed to be a thousand glorious memories. At the same time, he felt a growing sense of rejuvenation and relief, like the weight of a thousand worlds and even more cares being miraculously lifted off of his timeworn shoulders. A combination of appeasement and redemption, the ceaseless tides of time and life’s anxieties and efforts suddenly gone quiet, and ever so still. And his hands, what?  He stared at his upturned palms, turning them over and back again. There was an odd and growing luminescent translucence about them. Even though the temperature and breeze should have offered a chill, he felt a comfortable and growing warmth deep from within; like the sensation of leaning back in a favorite old rocking chair, drawing a sip of Benedictine Brandy from the snifter, while staring into the glowing embers of a dying fire; of losing one's self in quiet contemplation of the Divine...And he felt so what, light? The effect was growing in intensity and familiarity, a sort of, what, spiritual comfort? His thoughts were precise, almost crystalline in their beauty - yet simultaneously expansive and free, unencumbered by doubt, fear or time. And he felt clean, that deep down pure type of clean, soul clean; like diving into a cool, clean mountain lake after a dusty and humid day plowing the August fields of South-Central Pennsylvania. Feelings of euphoria, exoneration even sanctification all rolled into one. He was at peace with himself, his life, the world around him, and as was becoming increasingly apparent, much, much more; with God – God? Yes God - this felt great... 

Taking it all in, he felt a subtle urge to turn and look over his left shoulder. Exhaling, he slowly opened his eyes. Confusion gave way to astonishment, then wonder. He instinctively held his hands to his eyes to avoid the blinding light. Squinting, he longed to see what was behind him, yet something told him not to look directly into the light. Then, as in almost to an answer to a question in his mind he found himself asking ‘Jeez, could someone please turn down the lights?’, the radiance slowly began to subside.  

He stood transfixed, gazing upon perhaps the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes upon. The being emanated with an awesome physical, spiritual, and emotional presence; warmth that was, put simply, beyond comparison, as well as an amazing sense of physical security. In its left hand The Being held what appeared to be a snow-white dove around whose neck was a chain of gold, to which was affixed a crest of diamonds and light, offering their own eternity of positive, powerful and luminescent suppositions. The dove cooed gently. In the Being’s other hand was an awesome sword of light; the thing was at once fearsome beyond imagination, offering complete vengeance and justice, while also promising eternal liberation. How these thoughts coalesced in Emory’s mind, he did not know. He was however slowly recognizing that some serendipities can indeed be, well, intuitive. 

If angels existed, surely, this is what one would look like. The being was about seven feet tall and was, in the truest sense of the word, awesome.  Standing within its own magnificence, it seemed to be able to control the pure white-gold radiance emanating from what seemed to be the very core of its being. Emory instinctively knew the being was being kind, holding back its raw essence as not to overwhelm and possibly, vaporize him instantly with unfathomable bliss and grace. There was also the deep and abiding love within the aura of the being. Not in the romantic sense, ratther, in the all-encompassing and completely pure and Greek Agape sense of the word. And through Emory imagined he could look through the being, still, he was looking at and into the being. The sensation was sublime, much like laying on the hood of a 1979 Pontiac Trans Am, in the New Mexico desert in late summer, as warm night desert breezes washed over you, viewing the crystal clear night sky in all of its360 degree panoramic glory; where the heavens hold millions of twinkling thoughts, and at the same time, millions of profound and sparkling explanations, at once comprehensible and yet completely unfathomable. “This must be why the ancient Hebrews warned against “looking directly at the face of God”, Emory found himself pondering, as he struggled to regain emotional balance. 

“We are the Sons of The Brightness, Defenders of the Eternal Light”…the thought gently yet willfully washed over Emmory like a gentle summer breeze... 

After what seemed and eternity, yet doubtless was only a millisecond, The Being spoke, though not with words. Rather, with the quiet, gentle, awesome compassion of divine thought. Soothing, mind to mind. As he attempted to digest the simultaneous complexity and magnitude of the moment, a sudden urge compelled Emmory to abandon rational thought. He chuckled to himself: “Toto, bottom line here: I’m not sure where this is, but it ain’t Kansas”. The angel grinned, if it could be called a grin, and noted “True. That time has passed. You’ve worked hard and have remained true. Your paths were seldom strait, but you always tried to take the higher road. Your lessons have been hard fought, and equally hard won. And Emory, you’ve earned the right to advance. I’ve come to help you through this transition. Are you ready?” A humble and affirmative nod was all Emory could muster. “But, before we go, one question: my daughters. Will they be o.k.?”, queried Emory. “Yes, they will be fine,” answered the Angel. “Their lives are and will remain a reflection of your selfless work and caring. Their paths are strait, and your love for them, as theirs for you, is very strong - and will remain a binding tie across time and space; heaven has sanctified and will seal these bonds between you. All has come to pass, based on your decisions and actions, and as it was hoped for by your spiritual guides and earthly mentors.” He nodded again in agreement and then, simply let go. “Heaven?” heasked. “Heaven” nodded the angel, again in divine affirmation. The growing light and music was without a doubt the most beautiful Emmory had ever experienced. His clothes began the transfiguration, into brilliant and divine bluish/white. “Oh My”was the only thought that came to mind. Then came the wind, the light, the music. Then, with a simple act of acceptance and gratitude, he let go… 

Slowly, as if Heaven was offering a prelude, he gratefully relished the moment. Emmory began to rise, feeling ever lighter. Rising up, up, through a sea of brilliant white, leaving the earth, drawn headlong into a light, so totally encompassing, so ecstatic that it simply defied explanation. Headlong he flew, into a greater and more deliberate love, compassion and glory than he had ever known. He smiled, as tears of joy and peace streamed across his cheeks. An ecstasy beyond human comprehension completely embraced him. He was going home… 

Chapter 2: The Reconning

The forest was burning, a wildfire out of control. The flames rose high into the night, in a futile effort to consume and seemingly mock The Heavens while offering only grotesque images of demonic thoughts and hellish delusions, juxtaposing themselves against a theatrical backdrop of storm clouds that only teased at hope; but ultimately offered no rain of relief to the growing conflagration below.  

The acrid smell of charred life was pervasive and clearly not lost on her, as her nostrils drank in an unadulterated and putrid smell of death. The screams born of an eternity of suffering surrounded her, filling her mind with hopelessness and all-encompassing fear; nightmarish in the most absolute, complete sense possible; totally pervasive was her sense of helplessness. Though she could not see them, she could sense the hundreds of millions of lost souls who were watching, crying, screaming, wreathing in agony and hoping against hope with prayers that would remain forever unanswered. “Abandon hope all ye to enter” Why would she now, of all things and time, remember her college ‘Dante’? With what little remained of her cognitive senses, she noted that the fires around her seemed almost eternal, and though the forest burned, it was not consumed in the endless conflagration. “It’s so cold. This can’t be”, she thought. Instinctively she knew that these frozen fires were perpetual and eternal - yet the flames emanated zero light, nor offered any less warmth. 

Looking out from atop the mountain, she realized for the first time that she was naked. And cold, so cold. And alone. And so very, very thirsty. She had never known such thirst. The wind whipped the tempest around her, feeding the maelstrom and consuming her in its wake. Ash and cinder struck her naked body with a full gale force, stinging her eyes and tearing at her flesh. Tears came as a wellspring from deep, deep within. Then in a torrent, what was left of reality hit her: “Why, God why?”she screamed. “Why?” “Free will”, answered The Creature. “The decisions and their subsequent outcomes were dictated by you and you alone.” “You held the Sacred Grail of Truth and Hope in your hands so many, many times, and instead of partaking of The Cup of Glory, you dashed it onto the rocks of lust, deceit and betrayal. Redemption was yours for the taking; liberation freely to be had. Instead, you chose the lower road. And, you chose poorly.” 

Beside her stood the most fearsome creature she had ever laid eyes on. If hatred were a flame, surely, none burned hotter. Standing in its mere presence, its wake seared straight into the very core of what remained of her soul. Closing her eyes while instinctively raising her hands in a futile attempt to shield herself against the onslaught of radiant, pervasive death, nothing she did offered solace. Then, almost mockingly, the being de-attenuated, offering momentary relief from its scorching malevolent essence. As she peered through her fingers, she noticed the being held in its left hand what appeared to be an aborted fetus; bloody, and covered with festering, writhing maggots. The fetus opened it mouth, attempting scream; the cry of hundreds of millions of helpless souls ripped from wombs of possibility before their times. The fetus stared at her through lucid, horrified eyes, which dripped with the tear-soaked blood of a millions lifetimes of innocent death; a blatant, grotesque representation of the literal and metaphorical death of all potentiality which this poor tjomg did represent. And as the thing screamed, the screams echoed in her mind, resonating again “Abandon hope, all ye who enter.” In its right hand, the Being held a sword. If light could be black, the weapon appeared to draw and devour all light and energy into itself; and Sadie intuitively knew that this Creature was The Instrument of pestilence, plague, war and death. Black, awesome and wholly complete; the absolute and complete nullification of Life. 

We are Nephilim, sons of the Lucifarian Morning Star, Princes of the Dark; the horrible thought repeatedly raped her, over and over again, in her now disintegrating mind, in a fashion similar a hand being after being forced against one’s will to grasp a white-hot poker out of a fire; seared, seared and seared again... 

If demons existed, truly, this was indeed a demon. Standing 7 feet tall, its thin iridescent red skin seemed to shimmer while emanating a smoldering red/white heat from deep within It’s Being. The skin was tightly stretched over a massive and muscular frame.  Pervasive were hints of sulfur, excrement, pain and death. There were protrusions on the creature’s back, which if left to the imagination could have been… “What? Wings?” she thought, holding on to the final remnants of her sanity. “Opaque flesh stretched taunt over a framework of incredible muscle and bone?” Her thought’s totally ominous; her dread concerning the creature was completey eclipsed by an omnipresent sense of absolute consumption. The Creature’s awesome presence drew from her every ounce of dignity, life force and whatever remained of fleeting spiritual peace from her; she felt as if it was actually feeding on her. She tried to look away, but the thing held her tightly in the grasp of its all-mighty will. She had the sensation of being a sponge, and the Being was wringing her dry, sapping every remaining ounce of life force from within her, draining her very soul of its life's essence. “You will be going back, again. A rather kind fate, all things considered”, TheCreature spat out the words with incredulity. “And, you can thank the prayers of a man whom for reasons far beyond our understanding, offered help, much less such love and ceaseless compassion, to a vile wretch such as yourself. Actually, many bet against him, considering the odds that were placed on and against him. Still, I’m told his candles, rosaries, prayers, communion offerings and final thoughts of forgiveness for you have given you this one last chance. Why did they choose me for this job I’ll never know. I know what I’d like to see happen to you; he raised the black sword of death. Instantly, the conflagration around her grew, as the screams of the damned were again unmistakable and overwhelming; such boundless and eternal pain and suffering. “Oh, and in the for what it’s worth category, sending $18 a month to the Christian Children’s Fund doesn’t make you a Christian, just pathetic. And, whether it's paid for by money, power or real estate, when you trade your body, mind and soul for anything, much less power and a career, its still prostitution, Bitch. Why He has given humans the potential gift of eternal life and re-life, offering repeated sanctification is utterly beyond me. I am a condemned jailer, bound by neither time nor space, knowing neither life nor death, my only sin was to ask why and to refuse to bow down to you and your kind.” The Creature sighed the sigh of eternal damnation and futility, and then said: “Let’s get this over with.”  

The Creature then produced a scroll, contemptuously slapped the sealed roll in the palm of its left hand. Finally breaking the seal and unrolling the scroll, The Demon began reading aloud Sadie’s life history, a virtual non-stop litany of her life’s transgressions. Shame washed over her, like a tsunami crashing against the shores of what remained of her battered and emaciated soul. For seemingly days on end, perhaps weeks, the creature read, nonstop. Sadie felt as if she was being whipped from the inside out. Finally, The Creature cocked back its head, and exhaled a long, loud acrid breath from its flared nostrils, re-rolled and then re-sealed the scroll. As its breathe washed over her, she for the first time felt and then understood the pain of a million betrayals; of never knowing redemption; of failed opportunities; the utterly futile sensation of unending torture due to many lifetimes totally lived in complete self-serving narcissism. Suddenly, a golden chalice filled with cold, clear, shimmeringwater materialized right in front of her, water droplets condensing on its diamond and jewel speckled surface. Frantically and in vain Sadie reached out to grab at it, hoping to salvage but a droplet of moisture to relieve her completely unquenchable thirst. But as she grasped the grail, it exploded, showering her with bit of charred and rotting flesh, urine and excrement. She vomited and fell to her knees, sobbing. At long last, she was beginning to understand… 

Calcutta, India. A lone flickering 40-watt bulb hangs suspended, offers marginal light while suspended over a hospital bed in a dilapidated hospital on the outskirts of Calcutta, India.  A tired and severely overworked doctor in his late 50’s holds a stethoscope to the belly of a pregnant 22-year-old woman. Checking her dilatation, he then calls for a nurse. Within the hour the young mother is holding a beautiful newborn baby girl. The mother cries tears of joy and relief, counting toes and fingers all the while uttering prayers of praise and thanks to Vishnu. With eyes wide open, and attempting to cling to quickly fading memories of hellish, smoldering, demonic thoughts, the baby draws its first carnet breath. Then slowly, the infant also begins to cry. But these tears are for very, very different reasons…. 

Chapter 3: Recompense

“…over the years the anger, confusion and self-blame gave way to a sort of pitiful contempt for the wrenched creature they had know for years as only “Mom”.  It had been many years since the reading of their father’s diary; so many reflections of the early years; of all of his efforts to remain in their lives, remain engaged, to neutralize and concoct antidotes to offset generations of poisons; to fight a relentless, uphill battle against a brilliant, beautiful psychopath; repeatedly falling on his sword of Damocles’, while continually attempting to shield them from the inevitable caustic fallout produced when the wills of angels and demons collide. Still, they cried at her funeral, for many reasons, and so many seasons lost; there in the rain, along with the few mourners in attendance. Mostly new acquaintances and business associates; a life of lies and bridge burning does not in the end yield much fruit. Yet they cried the purging cry; a cry of collective catharsis for a life of so much accumulated Karmic baggage and countless Machiavellian machinations, all come full circle; of so many lifetimes of webs woven with the threads of treachery and ultimately, ending this incarnation with perhaps the single greatest demarcation of a failed life: the worldsvirtual apathy and disregard for her passing. 

As had been her custom throughout life, she constantly sought new relationships, many sexual in nature to fill a vast yet contemptible void, that virtual wasteland within her soul; that feeling of being needed, that magic elixir and balm that would soothe and mollify the ever-present sensation of complete worthlessness. She made it a life practice to replace older relationships with newer ‘friendships’ because she consistently and thoroughly consumed lives and decency much as sunset ultimately consumes the day.  

And there they stood, the smattering of obligatory distant relatives, children and unwitting, remaining siblings, standing in that late autumn afternoon, so typical of upstate New York in late September. A light breeze blew, and a passing shower illuminated the early fall afternoon, as perhaps 13 or so mourners listening respectfully, as a lone priest uttered “ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”, dropping a handful of wet earth on the casket, which fell from their hands like lead karma, hitting the lid with a sullen ‘thud’. And, even though a man of the cloth, still in his heart, even he muttered in his heart ‘Forgive me Father, but we’re all better for her passing’. The irony and metaphor of dirty hands for a life lived thusly was not lost on the old Monsignor, who after all, was saying the service not so much as a memorial to the mother, rather, at the request of the two daughters.  Standing arm and arm, the sisters rose from their chairs and stepped forward, each dropping a lone yellow tulip ontothe casket lid. Uttering lone, sympathetic prayers, each then turned and quietly walked away... 

To be continued...