Saturday, October 24, 2009

Prophets and Angels

In the summer of 2000 angels became a part of my life. Stepping out of giant golden teardrops of light these graceful, powerful, and at times intimidating glowing beings filled my home and kept me company at work. Any doubts I entertained that they were not real were gently shifted when I felt their warm hands touching me. They bumped into me, nudged me playfully, and we brushed past each other in the hallway.

At the same time the sound of running feet against the hardwood floors in my home heralded the arrival of the ghosts of children. I’d not seen a ghost in my lifetime, but I couldn’t deny what was occurring around me. With meditation I had connected with my angelic guide, Gegu, a Buddhist monk, and he introduced me to prophets and healers.

Everything happened so quickly. Whether I was meditating or laying pipe-work plumbing, flashes of light were turning into indigenous elders, healers, shamans, scholars, and prophets, from all cultures and times. Jesus and His family became constant companions. Moses, Job, Abraham, John the Baptist, and many others introduced themselves, and Jesus asked me to tell His story.

I didn’t have the time or the will to question, or make sense of the experience. I had been a farmer and I was now a plumber. I was born in New Zealand, the son of a carpenter who became a school teacher, and a housekeeper who became an alcoholic, and I only visited churches for weddings and funerals.

Why was He here? How was this possible?

As a teenager I watched my mother do séances with friends, and I wondered why spirits chose to speak to smoking, drinking, lonely divorcees, and marvelled at the turned upside down glass as it glided from letter to letter. The least drunk posed the questions and the glass answered. “Is anybody there?” There was always somebody, but Jesus never visited.

He’s here now, one hand on my shoulder, curious and amused as I think about what to write. My hands are warm and a glowing heart has formed on my right palm. The shape intrigues me and I know it is where the nail was driven into Jesus’ hand. He sighs, and I feel like crying. At times there’s the shape of an angel on my hand, but it’s the heart that glows the brightest.

The prophet Mohammed and the young prince who became Buddha have frequented my healing room. All cultures are represented; it’s the NATO that gets the job done. Politics and race are replaced with truth and love. I work from home, the classic quarter acre, tattooed, separated, broken, determined, in love, lonely, regular, and still they come. Are they real? In my world they are. Seen or unseen they walk beside us.

Pope John Paul is watching Jesus and me; he too is curious, and enlightened. He thinks about Jesus differently now and he has asked me to be gentle with his church. He has a great smile, and I exhale the butterflies he has filled me with. My old farm dog nudges my knee and my uncle Harry pulls up a chair. My step daughter, she’s alive, pushes me out of the way and quickly types, you’re a loser.

Jesus, unnoticed by alive and cheeky, dissolves into golden mist and reappears sitting with the aboriginal elders behind me. A dusty Indian boy is sitting cross legged beside me and Tip, my old dog, drops down beside him.

I think about healing and the gift that has been awakened within me.

“It’s your gift, my son.” Gegu encourages.

Jesus smells good, like sandal wood and fresh damper. He has just enough body hair to be a fireman, Mr December, and his lean stomach doesn’t need improving with photo shop. He could be a sports star on a billboard, selling Calvin Klein, Gillette; He’s the best a man can get.

He’s not what you might imagine. He didn’t want to build a church, or to tell people how to live. He hoped and rallied for a community that shared wealth and harvest equally, for leadership not rule, for tolerance not judgement. He wants to be remembered as being someone’s son and not His Son.

For many years now moments like these have enriched my life. I’m blessed and humbled, and I confess to not understanding why. Why me?

My healing room is filled with angels when I’m working, and they’ve taught me to believe we are the angels. They look at us with wonderment. We are the creators. We created the Christ. Jesus was only a man with an incredible gift and a desire to bring change for his family and community.

Speak to you soon. Cheers, Simon.

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