The forest, the garden, and God consciousness

taken from ANARCHY OF SPIRIT: an epistle for ridiculous times,  from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book

page 10




"...once you rise to a level of God consciousness you will understand that you are not responsible for any other human soul, and that while it is commendable to wish every soul to live in comfort, each soul must choose- is choosing- its own destiny this instant. ...

You call a life of complete freedom 'spiritual anarchy'. I call it God's great promise.

It is only within the context of this promise that God's great plan can be completed....

If there were such a thing as sin, this would be it: to allow yourself to become what you are because of the experience of others."

God (Conversations with God)



When you fall, as we all have fallen, you are instantly captured, judged, incarcerated, whipped, starved, indoctrinated, degraded and isolated. It's as if you are dropped into the sea, dragged helplessly under until you run out of breath, and only then do you thrash with enough wild frenzy to break free. But even if you do break away, you still have to swim an incredible distance back to the surface with nothing left in you but exhaustion and pain. It is desperate, let me tell you, to rise up from the bottom of hell, without a breath to relieve you, nor a strong hand to tug you along. Such is the trial of freedom. So you see the predicament we're in then. They get you quickly, and the relentless horrors multiply unceasingly.

This makes it much harder to fulfill your mission. And yet fulfill it you must, for you have been sent to this forgotten, lawless, absurd place for a specific reason, which is yours and yours alone to fulfill. And you must wake up, remember who you are, where you came from, and what odd and singular purpose that you came to complete in this mutant land of madness.

Intent will lead you through the forest to the Garden. But you must have intent. Sedulous, uncompromising, and pure. You must have it like an arrow whistling unstoppably towards its mark. If you falter or step aside for just an instant, you are lost and damned again, and only mercy shall see you through the night. You are your only hope of getting out alive. No one wanders endlessly in the darkness searching for you. If you do not seek with all your might for yourself, or truth, or love, or God, by whatever name you would call it, your life is but a slow decline to death. To death, as the self falls away from its anchor, and the spirit flies from its ground, so shall you wither without desire to fight, to dream, and to fly.

Indeed, you may look exactly like them, you may talk like them, eat like them, suffer like them, laugh like them, and die like them, but you are not like them- know that for a certainty. No matter what they say- and they will say a lot of things, because they do not want you to know that you are different, very different- this land is not your land, this home is not your home, this world is not your world.

If you get tangled in their cares, if you fall victim to their pleasures and desires, you will certainly fail your mission.

As you would drive a foreign car, on foreign streets, in a foreign country, so must you inhabit this foreign body, in this foreign world. But you are neither the body nor the car, only an invisible driver, stealthily making their way through the roadblocks, alleys, and highways of this planet called earth.

Our greatest war is against inertia. It is a constant battle; if you let up for a single moment you lose ground, and when you lose ground you get frustrated, and when you get frustrated you have lost the war.

The world will do everything it can to stand in your way, everything it can to hold you back, to convince you out of your passion, out of yourself, out of life, and so you can depend on nothing and nobody. You must believe only in yourself. It is up to you. Your sole, unbending intent must be to return to God- to find you own Godself- for without such intent the world will only distract, derail, dissuade, and destroy you.

If you blame others for your station, you give away your power. If you seek others for your salvation, you give away your spirit. If you need others to cure your sorrow, you give away your force. It is your life, and it is nobody else's.

If you deny yourself for another, your spirit will not grow, and if your spirit does not grow you will be incapable of completing your destiny and you will be forced to return again and again as a lowly worm to this pile of festering stool. You will not be able to assist others to grow and you will do a greater disservice to them than if you had hurt, offended, or forsaken them. By all means offend them, I say. Let them writhe. Let their petty little egos crumble out beneath them. Let them fall down weeping and broken, or storm off in rage and indignation. Make a game of it if you must. Laugh yourself silly; better it is for them to have the lie ripped ruthlessly from their breast than to let it grow and devour them.

Vigilance. No word is more pertinent to the struggle against the gravity of the mind. We are like baby birds which must break out of the shell not once, but always. The conveyor-belt of humanity runs in the wrong direction, against the stream of life, and we lose ground by just standing still, or sleeping, or looking away for the briefest of moments. A single thoughtless moment of distraction and you wake up years later, a long, long way back, and there are no shortcuts by which to return, no backdoors, no jet airplanes. You have to walk the same trail again, past the same markers, through the same barrierss, carrying the same burdens, in order to return simply to where you already have been. Only vigilance will keep you from backsliding. Only uncompromising intent.

The moment another stands in your way, it is because they are terribly lost from their own path. Nothing to do then but walk around or right through them, but for God's sake stop for nothing and no man, or you will die there along with them, right where they stagnate and stand.






Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.










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