Last Exit Before Oblivion

Ah, what is it like, hanging one's feet out there on the edge? How did St John of the Cross explain himself to others? Did he even bother? At least then people had some basic assumptions of spirits in the world; our secular age denies all such contact and laughs at those to claim to talk with God.

Talking is just the first step home. Secular senses meet the Holy Spirit and reel away in shock. Then it gets more confusing. How does one judge a path in the spiritual world by using secular learning?

How much do I trust God? Do I really think he's interested in me? Oh, I'd like to believe that. He'd be about the only one. It seems too good to be true, the God of the Universe caring for me, caring what happens, guiding me to some destination that's his plan, my far dream.

Any follower of Jesus has a foot in each world. Physical here, spiritual in an unimaginable place but very imaginative. Jesus is imaginative enough to figure out how to live with us. My guess is that real sanity derives from contact with God. It's quite an experiment. Headed in the direction of becoming incompetent in this world, seemingly anyway, who knows where I'll end up? I have to trust God that it will be a place that I'm interested in, a life I care about. Beyond statistics, beyond the repeated assumptions, away beyond stultifying beliefs.

I know what Jesus means about dying to self. Turning loose of my rational guidance is the hardest thing I've ever done, which is why I'm very tired right now. Having chosen for the last several months to fight God's guidance, I've come ever closer to familiar oblivion. Care or die. God gets a grip on things, proves his care, and I run, fight, kick, scratch, demand to be left alone. He complies. Sort of. He waits as I thrash, inserting brushes with sanity when opportunity comes. The windows are small and open only briefly.

This may be changing. Never can tell. The heart is pretty desperately committed to its own ways, and the mind too. God has his work cut out for him, but it scares him not at all. He doesn't even think about the work on the way, seeing the glorious conclusion. I guess. I, at the bottom of the trench, see no such thing. Well, maybe that's as it should be. I don't do well with the future.

So, bit by bit, control goes to God. Or something. It's hard to put into words, this state of an independent human being, made independent, becoming more dependent upon God. He wraps my poor overheated mind in his cooling hands. As long as I care things go OK. Perhaps caring is the great key to guidance. What I care about comes to pass? I don't know but will probably find out.