God's transgressions, the Fall, love, and truth
taken from ANARCHY OF SPIRIT: an epistle for ridiculous times, from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book
It seemed to me that somewhere long ago a horrible separation had indeed occurred- a division of what was not intended to be divided, caused by our own folly and greed, and by God's thoughtless transgressions. We were alone, separate, dying, and damned.
To remember the Fall is to remember when we could fly. To taste freedom just makes unfreedom that much more punishing. Life is a torture for anyone who has the remembrance of heaven, however subtle or obscure. If others only knew what we have lost, they would not grovel and fight over what pathetically little remains.
Why we lose ourselves at every moment to the lie, and do not flow in laughing rhythm to the eternal tune cascading through all of life and all of time is not a mystery to me anymore. If we would only open up to feel it, we would feel it. But that is not the way of mankind. I have seen clearly what the brotherhood of men have wasted in their useless, spiritless, and abject pursuits. I have seen without distortion how ninety-nine percent of life is but a tragic interruption from the moments of ecstasy and freedom which are our birthrights, our privilege, our true life.
And so I staggered about aimlessly for years, lost and alone and mad from the treason of it all; because, among the futility, folly, and losses of the day, love and truth as I thought I knew them were no where to be found, and god himself had seemingly, benevolently betrayed me. There was no reason, no need, no meaning. To take a step forward of backward, to sit, to eat, to talk, to weep- none of it mattered.
No one could solve for me the type of estrangement I found, because to exist haphazardly upon this earth, brave in the falseness of hope, is to hide without shelter, and flee without foes.
In the pit of life's blinding aporia, I could do little but sit hunched over, gripping my head in my hands, and wondering how I would make it through to the next minute, because even if I did make it, there would be another to follow, and then another, and from that I saw the hours and days of waiting and strain piled up upon themselves, and all I could do was to sit hunched over with my head buried in my hands. That's all I could do.
Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.