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God dies

Picture from LatinTimes ‘You’re so powerless, Pilate,’ Jesus thought as he stood in the praetorium.   The prefect of Caesar had washed his hands off his responsibility to uphold the truth.   ‘What is truth?’ he had asked. He did not wait for an answer.   Jesus was not going to answer him anyway.   He knew as well as Pilate that definitions were not what mattered to either of them.   ‘I am the truth,’ Jesus had said many times.   ‘You are the truth,’ he would have told Pilate, ‘if you wish to be.’   ‘Crucify him! Crucify him!’ The crowd outside the praetorium clamours louder and louder.   Being very religious, they have not entered the praetorium.   The praetorium is a pagan place and Yahweh’s chosen people should not enter pagan places on the Passover day lest they be defiled. The High Priests, Annas and Caiaphas, instigated the people by wielding their religious power.   Jesus had set the axe at the very root of their religion.   Their religion meant rubrics a

Good Friday

Painting by  Jean-Léon  Gérôme Yet another Good Friday is here and Jesus will be crucified yet again.  “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”  Jesus will lament yet again writhing on the crosses erected in churches whose architectural splendour will proudly proclaim the imperial glory of the religion founded in his name. The heroes of the Beatitudes will metamorphose into caricatures in the sermons delivered by impassioned priests from the fourteen stations of the Way of the Cross.  The Good Samaritan will withdraw to his hermitage and scribble in his diary, “History is not only the lies of the victors but also the self-delusions of the vanquished.” The seeds of the Kingdom of Heaven have been genetically modified in the capitalist laboratories.  They sprout truths for the new gospels.   And the truths metamorphose into crosses.  The crosses will mark Good Fridays. I salute you, Jesus.  Your destiny is to be crucified again and again.  Or else, be locked up in t

God’s Love Song

  I willed my being into an extension And the cosmos was born in a Bang: Every birth is a terror and a joy, Every creation an extension of a core. I live, move, and have my being In all that is, and that shall be, Much as in the core that sits here. Hypothesis is what the creation was When I let myself go in a bang: An overflow of love infinite. Experiment is what the creation is When I add patterns in the mosaic: A sporting game of love unremitting. Abel was I, much as Cain was. I am the turbulence of the rolling waters, The rage of blasting bombs and fleeting bullets, The hunger in the eyes of widows and babies, The roar of the clouds, and the grace of the rainbow. And the nailed wail on the crucifix. Evolution is what the creation is, of The hell and the heaven that I am. Afterword I wrote the above poem about 15 years ago.   It was a time when I wrote many poems of this type: apparently religious.   Psychologically I had hit th