Good Friday

I speared another chunk of omelet with my fork as Brad said, “We should nuke ‘em all.”

Brad looks like he was a linebacker in high school – large, heavyset, and immovable. A former member of my parent’s Episcopal church, he’d left when the denomination elected its first openly-gay Bishop.

He’d shown up unexpectedly that morning, we’d invited him to share our breakfast, and he launched into a conversation with dad on the Somali pirates.

I moved into my heart as my dad said, “Remember Christ’s compassion in forgiving the men who arrested him and in replacing Malchus’ ear after Peter cut it off.”*

Brad frowned in incomprehension as he stared at dad. He did not get the point at all. The idea of compassion to those who would do you harm seemed beyond his understanding.

I aligned outward from the Heart to Brad’s aura, and found it dark and murky – full of sticky old patterns of thought and feeling. It was little wonder that the light of compassion could not penetrate.

There was, of course, another light that would be there. If I could find it, I’d have a place to start.

I aligned upward from the heart, with the Light of Christ, and holding that alignment, silently sounded the OM.

A tiny point of purplish brown glowed within his heart – blue veiled by murky reds – the Light of Christ within.

I aligned that Light upward, directly to its source, and sounded another OM invoking the compassion of Christ, the World Teacher.

Holding that note, I continued my breakfast as Dad and Brad talked.

Namaste,

Glen

*See: John 18:10-11