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“Let’s have a look,” said the serviceman from Arenz Pest Management as he knelt down, flipped on his flashlight, and poked through the dark stubble massed in the corner of my back porch. I looked over his shoulder, eager to have expert eyes analyze this disorder that had reappeared since last week’s vacuuming.Text Box: “I don’t see this very often,” he said squinting, adjusting his uniform cap. “You’ve got lots of spiders in your attic—having a bash. What you see on the floor are the remains of dead insects they spit out. See that opening in the joint, above the windows? That’s where they’re having the bash. In time, the spiders will die off, and so will your problem. Keep vacuuming in the meantime.” 

As I reflected upon this experience, a metaphor surfaced. The spiders are likened to covert spin-doctors, propagandist experts, and masters of media distortion; they take a truth, chew through it, and spit out what is foreign to their ideologies. What remains is deadly and creates havoc within the populace, asleep with their eyes wide open. In no way can societies live in harmony. The sickness even permeates those in leadership roles.

On the other hand, “the clean of heart,” simple, humble folks, often poor, are like trained servicemen and women who adhere to the whole truth in their psyches, name the half-truths in our maniacal culture spinning around us, and find solidarity with the like-minded.

There is a way out, but it requires consciousness and work. In the meantime, as counseled by the Arenz tech, “Keep vacuuming!”

isolated red vacuum cleaner.3d render.See also:

At 5:45 A.M., I was jolted awake by this dream:

For over one year I’ve been preparing to join a study tour abroad. Hours of research, procuring special clothing, and a suitcase have filled my free time. The morning of my departure arrives. I’m excited as I lock my suitcase and hurry outdoors to meet the cab that will drop me off at the airport. My tickets are all in order. As we near the airport, my heart plummets: I’ve forgotten my passport, still sitting in the bottom drawer of my desk. I’m frantic.

This glimpse within my psyche reveals considerable activity. The over one year corresponds to the length of time I’ve spent in hospice, blogging new learning processed through Hours of research: significant authors, dreams, and discoveries outside my study windows and during short walks in the neighborhood. 

The buzz is all about the study tour abroad, a faraway place I’ve never experienced. Nor has anyone else, save for glimpses mystics have experienced, in all times, around the world. Travel to this realm calls for meticulous preparation.

Special clothing alludes to my persona, made comely, through continuous Twelve-Step work that ferrets out the unacceptable in my psyche and disposes of them. The suitcase, a container for the feminine, one that I could manage, would hold these garments.  

I’m excited denotes turbulence in my psyche, of such severity as to splinter much-needed focus at this critical time of departure. Among my airline tickets, there is no passport. I’mnot going anywhere.

And this is true today, despite past blogs referencing my eventual demise and the imminence of Eternal Life. This hasn’t happened—such expressions are veiled expressions of my willfulness. I’ve much to learn about patience and humility.

“Who is that by the side of the road, astride a colt covered with dingy cloaks, his followers chanting and waving palm branches stripped from nearby trees? —Another scruffy messiah coming to preach at the Passover feast in Jerusalem, I bet. We’ve had so many, and all came to naught. Violence still abounds under those Romans. Besides, it’s hot; the crowds, tumultuous; the fleas, merciless.”

Such may have been experienced as strains of “Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is he that comes in the name of the Lord!” faded into the morning’s excitement—It’s first-century Palestine, bristling with intrigue.

Yes, we’re talking about Jesus of Nazareth, a critical story, proclaiming his mission as Messiah, “according to the Scriptures,” and enjoying every minute of it, despite repeated denials of such a title during years of preaching in Galilee and Judea. Such is the picture portrayed in the four Gospels written in Greek, with slight differences, understandably, because of the differing times and places in which they were written and the differing audiences toward whom the story of Jesus was aimed.

That toot-toot parade that hot morning also placed Jesus in a favorable light, in the center of Judaism, and cleaned up his miserable messiah experience—he, too, was crucified. This Jesus of Nazareth was more than another would-be messiah. His mission was unique.

Whether or not the story of Jesus of Nazareth, seated upon a colt’s ass, occurred does not matter. But he did lose his Jewishness when Roman legions destroyed Jerusalem and its Temple in 70 C.E.; then, in my perception, he morphed into a Hellenistic demi-god, estranged from physical creation. 

Yet, Jesus of Nazareth is always available in heart-prayer. He still welcomes the humble.

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