Awakened

 

For the second or third time, I fear.  The mercies first came about seven years ago.  It was very clear to me then that I was being Awakened.  But it’s so unexpected.  Despite the fact that this is what I want more than anything, I couldn’t believe it.  I had done things and had experiences which I knew to be directed by Heaven.  But I have a history of bipolar-affective disorder, which was poorly medicated at the time.  Also, I had friends and family telling me in one way or another that God doesn’t talk to you.  And after a while, having had several visits to the loony bin, I came to believe them.  And the mercies, ignored by me, gradually faded away.  This happened about three times over the last eight years or so.

 

This time, though, the Call was unmistakeable, accompanied as it is by an internal current, like the gentle flow of electricityor water.This time, happily, I’m properly medicated and know that I’m in my right mind, that the mercies aren’t just some weird atmospheric anomaly.  And they arethe touch of a Personality, and I am becoming increasingly certainas to who that is. 

 

I’m not so gullible, that I immediately swallowed the Kool Aid.  When the mercies first came, there was a discussion about a certain cup I had purchased from Edge of the Circle Bookstore, an occult supply shop on Pike Street.  It’s a beautiful, ceramic coffee mug with a large pentacle on it.  I was strongly advised not to drink from it.  Well, I balked.  I’m not going to lay in bed in my own room in my mother’s house and have some ethereal goblin tell me what cups I can and can’t use.  So I said no deal.  You can take your AC current and your pretty mental pictures and get out.  I’ve long suspected that there is a minor demon or godling oppressing this house, and I thought this might be one of its little demands.  I’ve dealt with spirits, fairies and demons before and what they all have in common is that they want to tell you what to do. And they all pretend to be the Great Gazoo.  Well, despite the fact that such critters usually don’t supply you with internal current, I told the beastie to scram.  The beastie scrammed, all right, and the current went away with it.  I was a little sad, but if this was some little glamour I didn’t want any part of it anyway.

 

I went to sleep then, and when I woke up, the current had been restored.  So it was decided, I would converse with the Personality as if it were God, but keep a healthy dose of skepticism on hand, so as not to be bullied more later on.

 

But there was one issue besides the cup which was also discussed.  And that is the subject of prayer and miraculous healing.  Feeling the current in my arms and hands, I naturally placed my hands on my eyes and began to pray for the healing of my vision.  I was warned not to do this, and there was a sense that healing myself is not appropriate for me now.  Somehow, I found this convincing where the cup thing had been merely annoying.  It was the first discussion, an argument really, which lead me to think that I am in fact in communion with the Real Deal, not some demiurgical prankster.  I can only explain that there was a seriousness to it, something which spoke of prerogatives granted and prerogatives not granted.

There was a Voice there, and it had to be respected  --at the very least!

  

Since then, I have been in almost constant communion with that Presence, which I will refer to from now on as High G.  Why?  Because I feel abashed at the idea of saying the real Name.

 

And, too, I want to talk to Father Ryan about all of this.  Despite the fact that I just received a weeping mercy, as if to cry  “Oh ye of little faith!” it has become too large to keep under my hat.  This is something which belongs to my religious community as much as it belongs to me personally, and that community is the parish of Saint James Cathedra

Things are moving along quickly.  Through images and appropriate mercies, I am urged to do or read or consider certain things.  And I have to say that the general aura, after several days of this, doesn’t strike me as diabolical.  There is a mixture of moral authority and a respect for my basic temperament, history, foibles and even sense of humor.  For instance, when I stated aloud that I thought the house was haunted by some minor Demiurge, High G sent an image of Shaggy and Scooby Doo.  How do I know that I didn’tsummon up the image from my own consciousness, the way any schizophrenic might?  Because it’s very clear that I’m not dealing with some pathology here.  The image was sudden and unexpected and it arrived from Somewhere Else.

 

Finally, High G isn’t just making jokes and sending pretty pictures.  He is putting me through a constant examination of my behavior, motives and especially my failures.  When I found that I had some buried racist material in my consciousness, I was lead to write an email to a black friend to beg his forgiveness.  The following day, cowardly tendencies and behavior of mine were pointed out, not cruelly, but with an unielding force, as if to say:  pay attention to this, redress this, it could ruin you.

 

Even as I write this, High G, through his mercies, instructs me, guides me, reassures me.  It was High G who suggested that I use a blog for journal keeping, after I had spent part of the morning looking for accessible journal software. 

 

Christ is Here, Now.