YeKengalé

I am equally moved by the stories of Frederick K Price and Stephen Hawking. Contextual differences (the first a Black Preacher from LA who builds the world’s largest church at a time when blacks and builders were believed to be incongruous; the latter a genius that encounters the universe’s truths about time who was given none, expected to die before being able to bring his gift to the world) are lost on me. Both are fantastic … and totally true stories.

The Majesty of Heaven shines through to me in human stories of all types, whether of ancient Israel’s King David, or ancient Egypt’s Imhotep or the contemporary South African Alph Lukau. Personally, I do not need to wait on some sanctioning body to tell me what’s credible or not, whether it be the Nicene Council or the Review Board at Hawking’s defense of his doctoral thesis. Neither am I an iconoclast. I greatly value the opinion of experts, be they ecclesiastic or scientific, or whatever field of human discipline or endeavor. I am acutely aware however that such sometimes get it wrong at first and then jump on the bandwagon later.

Whether John the Baptist or Hawking, throughout creation and human society, there is evidence of that Divine signature – using the foolish and despised to confound the wise and great. I’ve learned to look for God in all kinds of places, but his favorite hideout is with those with an ‘ugly-mirror’, (the opposite of the one which tells the gazer that he/she is the ‘fairest of them all’.

Why does He do it? Personally, I think if you had asked God as a child what He wanted to be when He grew up, He would’ve said, ‘An Interrupter’. Nothing like change to keep it moving.

At this stage, I don’t need police to protect my mind, just direct the traffic. But that was not always the case, and I respect wherever one is at in their journey. So those offended by my pen or mind can tolerate my excesses by dismissing me as a fiction writer if they want. I don’t mind. Unrestrained Imagination has always been the savior of regimental intellect. That’s why we go to sleep and dream. To flee reality addiction….and perchance discover the true non-material source of both sensation and senses – Living God.

There are some words my God gave me early in my spiritual walk which have transcended the pages of the times of my life, just as potent today as then. They stood out because of the power of His perspective to shift my mindset, trapped in the cultural bubble that gave it formation. Born on a little island, unaccustomed to see the massive and diverse crowds in the Western Metropoles, I remember the sensation of anonymity engulfing me as I watched a sea of faces in one of Toronto’s public spaces. Then my God spoke to me.

“You see all those faces?”

“Yes sir”.

“Behind each face, there is a story. I am interested in that story:”

What makes our story sacred is not its human-interest value, but its Divine interest. I’ve inherited a bit of that human fascination from my God. Spend an hour with me. I have stories to tell, from now till next November….and beyond. Stories that will thrill, delight, amaze and move you. The human being really is the representation of God. God is in our stories ….   all our stories….if we can locate Him, if we can interpret its true meaning. Of course, our narrow mindsets and constrictive views of the world, designed though they may be to protect us, or protect the interest some may have in us, short circuit just that very objective. Truly as the scriptures say, only the pure in heart will see God. But He is always present. The whole earth is filled with his Glory.

I wrote the first story of snippets of my life in a book called Natural Mystic. Like almost every other fascinating story I know, it seemed incredible, even to me at first, so before completing, I sent the pertinent portions where names were mentioned to every source referenced for corroboration, review and authentication. The one misrepresentation pointed out was omitted in the final manuscript. I had gotten the name of a dog wrong. (My memory wasn’t faulty, but I had misconstrued the name from the very beginning). May not be much, or may be seen as too much, but its mine – my story, and as best as I remember and as far as I could check, every word of it is true.

It seems to me however, that we have a two-fold problem in our culture. First, we’re not telling our stories, and if we do, we’re not telling the whole story, but secondly, and equally frustrating, we tend to be skeptical in general and dismissive about the stories that get told. That probably makes sense in a culture that values deception and depreciates truth….in all kinds of human relations – commercial, political, interpersonal, ecclesiastic (so unfortunate) , familial, intimate (devastating)- you name it. As a culture, we clearly believe more in lies than truth. If you’re not ready to own that yet, then I’ll take it alone. I am constantly amazed on how my mental wiring (program) prepares me to present (project) rather than to BE Present.

And so we miss the majesty of the PRESENCE in our stories, embroiled as we are in keeping the project (our cultural assumptions and innate conditioning….a record of fears past, rather than fights fought and victories gained) alive.

I am filled to overflow with fascinating stories. I want to tell them all. I hope each is accepted and understood because there is precious meaning and truth in them all. But I’ve barely begun. Earth is such a fascinating place, and people are so full of Glory (unrecognized, unacknowledged, un-honored, unfelt, unfinished).

I remember this people-fascination being in me from my youth. When someone gave me a modern translation of the Bible as a gift, I locked myself in my room for days, reading it from cover to cover. The Old Testament stories of the Judges, Kings and Prophets, their deeds and exploits riveted my attention. I’ve had the same thirst and same thrill reading the life and times of more contemporary ‘judges, kings and prophets’. When I came across Hugh Thomas’ biography of Fidel Castro, I locked myself in the library without food or sleep for days till I devoured its pages. Nothing else mattered. For me, I was reading the portions of the scroll Nice and Chalcedon missed, the gavel of its chairman coming down prematurely; Fidel and Che as vivid in my imagination as Samson or Moses in spite the difference of language, lineage and legacy.

For me, it was the same God, the same themes, and the same creative signature interpreting human life and its meaning. I was in the Holy Presence of the God that is our Habitation from generation to generation, the whole earth is filled with His glory. Amen.

The second and more egregious deficiency – our tendency to depreciate or discount those stories we do hear hampers us from encountering God incarnate, whether Jesus from Galilee or the market lady downtown (and if you think one matters more to God than the other you never truly believed John 3:16 in the first place). Read how often in scripture the Divine Voice expressing itself to the community of Saints appears to be begging for attention and recognition. “That they might Know me” “Then they will know that I am God” “That they may know that I alone am God.” God sounds like a spurned child. Who else dispatches emissaries throughout the earth literally begging for acknowledgment and acceptance?

Perhaps we should listen? ….. and believe? I stand at the door and knock.

In as much as you have done ‘it’ to (recognized and received) the least of these, you have done ‘it’ unto (recognized and received) Me.