Each Face of the Inversion

After Jesus speaks to the "Daughters of Jerusalem" in Luke 23, he is led along with the two "malefactors" to Calvary and crucified.  It is at this point that Jesus says, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."  It is possible to contend that Jesus means this "forgive them" statement as applicable only to the soldiers under orders (though the text is quick to include the presence of "the people" and the "rulers," with their loud derision of Jesus), although the grim overall theme of the Roman soldiers in the Gospels shows them willing to embellish their mere task of crucifixion with elaborate and unnecessary cruelty.  Moreover, this very chapter of Luke has the centurion's concluding admission about Jesus ("Certainly this was a righteous man") to be taken along with the statement that the centurion "glorified God."  Certainly, if the "forgive them" utterance of Jesus was meant exclusively about the soldiers, it was within the means of the Lukan Gospel to explain that limited application as well.

There is an important underlying theme included in, and bracketed by, the space between "forgive them, for they know not what they do" and "Certainly this was a righteous man."  This is the theme of the crucial difference between guilt and shame, a difference not merely of definition, but of efficacy in determining the fate of us all--which is where this blog is going.  The difference between guilt and shame is the difference between proper and improper understanding of the plight of humanity since the instant of Creation.  Choose a "guilt" notion, and the story of existence goes one way.  Choose a "shame" notion, and the story goes another way.  It would be tempting to say that those two "ways" are opposites, but that directional duality would scarcely be the equal of the import of the distinction.

The distinction between guilt and shame is a distinction of totalities of moral existence.  It would seem unquestionable that guilt and shame must be attendant upon one another, but that notion of their closeness exists only because--in contravention of the ostensible focus of religion upon the troubled relationship of the human to the divine--religion tends instead to conjure entire universes of irrelevancies.  There is the heart that cries out in guilt, and there is the heart that cries out in shame--and there is a gigantic, warped world that cries out in neither, or--worse yet--pronounces loudly upon any number of religious ideas that are both unnecessary and harmful.  I will leave to the reader, or at least to the further development of this blog, to discern whether it is an emphasis on "guilt" that leads to more deleterious acts on the part of humanity, or an emphasis on "shame."

More important than discrete deleterious acts (or, worse yet, rationalization-frameworks institutionalizing such acts) is the estrangement of humanity in our most basic and simple aspects from the potential immediacy of the Creator.  We can reach out to God, but we can reach out in guilt, or we can reach out in shame--and in either event we must consider such attempted contacts as all-encompassing.  All else of our existence must fall away.  We must give up our lives, but when we reach out in guilt, we carry with ourselves our self-ratified appreciations--grim though they be--of the nature and severity of our transgressions.  When we reach out in shame, we drop all else but shame.

Guilt and shame are oppositional inversions--one against the other--in our existences, and the experience-realm of each face of the inversion is an experience-realm of totality.  The inversion is the totality.

To Hide Us Too Late

I am pursuing still my ambition to work through the Bible according to the mode of interpretation I think most apt.  It has not gone well--or at least smoothly--before.

Since my last post dealt with the notion that death-and-fruition is the proper overall theme of earthly existence, I will take the opportunity to apply this theme to a unique, particular part of Scripture that it brings to mind--and from there I will begin again.

In Luke 23, Jesus is followed on the Way of the Cross not merely by the cross-bar carrying Simon of Cyrene, but also by a crowd within which is mentioned particularly women lamenting and weeping over Jesus.  Jesus then confronts the women with this fantastic passage,

Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children.  For behold, the days are coming, in the which they shall say, Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the paps which never gave suck.  Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us; and to the hills, Cover us.  For if they do these things in a green tree, what shall be done in the dry?

Notably, the image of Jesus-incarnate suffering beyond human imagination is absent.  Absent also, of course, is any notion of Jesus offering the women "comfort."  I contend that the idea of Jesus as the divine Son of God suffering for his Creation is implicit in Jesus' invocation of the overarching green-to-dry imagery he presents--and against this backdrop is to be seen his representation to the women of how the fate of humanity is to be worked out.

The course of any person's life is played out against the twinned elements of fruition and death.  Little, of course, do any of us really produce in terms of fruit, but this lack of production (to say nothing of outright bearing evil fruit) is to be ascribed to us in the end as revealing shame.  We usually think of our lacks and of our proclivities for evil acts as "sinful," and of course that is true.  What is not true is humanity's fixation on the notion of "guilt"--the burden of unabsolved sin--as that which marks our estrangement from God.

God's ceaseless mercy--for which we return to him the easily-spoken adjective "ever-merciful"--is never in doubt.  Within a few ensuing sentences in Luke, Jesus is going to offer the unqualified intercession, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."  This was no small statement, considering the plenitude of mentionings in the Gospels of various ways in which the most informed and therefore culpable of powerful persons knew--at least as far as the mere prospect of condemning the innocent goes--exactly what they were doing.

Between the immediacy of the women's horror and grief for Jesus' sufferings, and the backdrop of a withering and dying Creation, is the arena of the challenge with which Jesus confronts the women.  All of us exist in the unceasing procession of Creation withering and dying--all of us must understand our lives as devolving, less-and-less-living resolutions of happenings that will pass away from us.  The fruition of child-bearing (to focus here on Jesus' words in this passage) will drop away from women, as will any possession they know of children as parts of themselves.  We must choose either to understand Jesus' words to them as unspeakably cruel, or to understand those "Daughters of Jerusalem" as unimaginably privileged figures so as to represent to humanity its communal fate.

The sorrowful imagery of the blessedness-of-barrenness is echoed in Matthew 24, in which a succession of future cataclysms is described by Jesus as especially hard on the pregnant or nursing.  That apocalyptic section of Matthew presents a particular problem for commentators who must contend that it begins and ends with the Time of the End and is parted unaccountably in the middle with supposed particular references to the first-century fall of Jerusalem, but we need not countenance such silliness.  

The "Woe unto them that are with child" and "Blessed are the barren" imageries refer, as I mentioned above, to the communal fate of humanity.  We are all to know the looming reality of death, and we are all to know the shrinking of every conceit we have about the fruitfulness of our lives.  Our lives will end with little enough to show for them, and we can expect very dismal showings of how little.  We can expect concomitant shame, and unfortunately--and no thanks to Christianity--we can expect our fixation on sin and guilt to be revealed to us as a psychological indulgence, as a playing-about in the face of our true responsibilities, a playing-about for which we ought to be ashamed.  We all are to know this, that our sins and guilt can be (or we can plead for them to be) forgiven, but our shame will abide.  Our shame is ours forever.

We go about our lives as our urges and our conceits bid us, for that riding-upon and being ridden by our states as elements of Creation are what we know from moment to moment.  If our true selves--or, rather, those contracted loci of truth-seeking that we would like to present to God as ourselves--concentrate themselves for any fleeting moments, they (that is, we) would do well to concentrate upon our shame.  We will say "Hills, cover us" either to hide us in our shame, or to hide us too late from God's wrath.

In the Throes of Our Demise

There is a certain silliness that the Western World is exposed to every year.  Clergy will celebrate the coming of spring with signs that say some version of "The flowers are blooming.  The birds are singing.  Spring is here.  God did it again."  One would hope, of course, that children attending such church schools, or passing by to attend others, would learn that the death and decay theme of the end of the preceding year was part and parcel of the cycle of the seasons.  One would hope, additionally, that such children would be taught that humanity's inescapable assessment--dictated by the realities of thermodynamics--is that death will win out in the end.  Such an end, of course (and its understanding of earthly death being asymmetrically superior to earthly life) is not entirely alien to most of those clergy, after all.

These notions present us, however, with other--more ponderous--considerations.  Christianity has wrestled through the ages with Jesus' demand that his followers give up their lives in order to attain eternal life.  The impact of this demand is, of course, contingent upon the prevailing idea of "life," and of how it relates to the forsaking thereof.  How are we to know what it is like to live while having given up life, for surely that is the type of phraseology that comes closest to the immediacy of Jesus' demand?

There might be innumerable approaches to the preceding question, but inescapably this observation is suspended (if we are to be honestly introspective) above the more fundamental problem of the definition of life itself.  Is it really "life" that Jesus requires us to abandon, or is it rather our conceit that we are "alive" in a definitive sense within the scope of God's sovereignty?  We are, after all, the "dead while living" offspring of the "dead while living" post-Eden Adam and Eve.  Is it not our attachments to our conceits of "life" (and our concomitant attachments to things we think our lives entail) that Jesus asks us to abandon?

We cannot proceed upon this score without stating a fundamental reality evident in Scripture.  Our existence does not consist, either in whole or in part, on a duality of life and death.  Ours is not a universe of life and death.  Our universe was born in the life-effulgence of Jesus as the Creator and the medium of Creation--and this entails the unimaginable consideration of Jesus' creative participation being, in part, the Sufferer of every searing permutation of every action-reaction cataclysm, as well as being the Sufferer of every subset-element of the universe's contortions that we can relate to creaturely pain.  To entertain the possibility of the preceding sentence, and--once having considered it--to discard it, would seem to me to be the height of impiety.

I have thought it reasonable--or at least I have written in my flaccid, passing conceits--that the "light" of original Creation might have emitted from water-submerged volcanic activity.  Or are there other, equally silly, "rational" explanations of the first words of Genesis?  What cannot be escaped, however, is the implication that a "formless and void" Earth is an unimaginable potentiality.  As I have also written before, the preface to John says--in an incredible potency--that the "life" of Jesus was the "light" of humanity, when the prating of the commentators hews almost exclusively to the notion that the "light" of Jesus' teaching gives "life" to human beings.  Did not Jesus impart life to the universe through its spectrum of potentialities, and did not Jesus experience the throes of suffering and death in each particle's resolution to some depleted energy state?

More particularly for our purposes, is it not really the case that the original life of the universe is tending toward its inevitable death, while yet we allow ourselves to be distracted by the fancied "cycles" of life and death, growth and decay?  Jesus, after all, assailed his followers with the challenge of seeing the world not as "four months and then the harvest," but as being, rather, "white" unto that very harvest.  And this leads us to where our train of thought must arrive--the universe is not an arena of life and death, but is rather an arena of fruition and death.  Fruition and death are the twin (though hardly equal or compatible) emanations of the life-impetus of Creation.

The world is autumn more and more.  The world is--by stages and by haltings and by distracting pulses of momentary growth--tending toward the harvest-paradigm of piling and twisting of dry and spent limbs bearing such fruit as presents itself.  The world is fruit nested in death, and the world is the result of the only life it has ever really known, the life of Jesus.

The bones of the ever-dying Earth are the rocks that coalesced from the churning, energy-laden "void," and the death embedded in those bones pre-dates and bears as only a small fraction that which the paleontologist scrapes up and calls "fossil."  The dry land emerging from the waters was dying and death-laden from the first, decaying into that substrate from which arose the creatures.  In our daily experiences, and in those of our predecessor generations, the cleansing of water and the refreshing of wind--each of those media being "life-giving" only insofar as they carry or are infused into the grimy reality of eventually-degrading biochemical reactions--are the abiding biblical metaphors of "life," a supreme though inescapable irony.

We must understand "life" not as something that happens or that can be properly possessed, but rather as something that surges still through all of Creation, something that presses upon us and that imbues us with the sensations and felt potentialities that give us at once the opportunity to do good things, and at the same time the unfortunate proclivity to attempt to enfold and thereby possess such surging energy, as though we were ourselves properly living things.  We are not living things--we are dying things exuding in the throes of our demise droplet-like, fragile, meagre fruit.

To Which We Lower Ourselves

On 8/20/2026 I wrote,

"No degree of rebellion or impiety or whatever can be possibly rendered into a necessary conceptuality of smallness really imaginable by humans, on the one hand, and really representative of truth on the other hand.  What we see in the story of the Fall, and in the story of Adam's misalignment with his Creator beforehand, is God's placement of form upon a pre-function, ineffable state--the state of humanity's possible alienation from God that is a state receding backwards in time to the inconceivable . . . . This regression has no end-point we can understand, for alienation from God has no smallness that can be ever reached or postulated . . . . The crucial nature of our sinfulness, and the pervasiveness of our sin-nature, ought to impose upon us the realization that our affinity for evil is not to be understood as a phenomenon, but as a state--and that state is as simple and as undeniable as the fact that We Are Not God.  We are not God--and all else is sequelae.  The story of those sequelae is understood by us as the expression of phenomena, but every phenomenon that we believe we can understand about God is something we always understand too late."

"State," of course, is a poor substitute for some type of word that might describe a condition that exists--in this case, as our conceptualizations "work backwards"--as a condition understood as disappearing into the infinite while yet we must attach to "existence" that time-and-place conceit-mode that entraps us.  We were created as Not God--and all else is sequelae.  And all such sequelae spill forth from still prior states, impossible for us to pursue to the source.

We were created as God-not-God.  In our conceit-frameworks, we are impossibilities fashioned by The Impossible.  The Genesis use of the ancient term we translate as "image" cannot be subdued and dissected by us so that the latent-or-more-so implications of us either as "imaged" by God or as "images" of God can be established.  That we would be "like" God is ridiculous, and that we would be "unlike" anything referenced originally to God is ridiculous.

The anger, for example, of God is real--but we must reference it to the "workings-out" of actions of God that we can never work out.  The God who "discovers" sinfulness on the earth is not like some apoplectic householder who--having thought to have dispensed orders and responsibilities in accordance with some free-floating, third-party-authored prescription of labor-management relations--is outraged to discover afresh miscreance among his underlings.  No, the God who comes down to Earth to discover the carryings-on at Babel is a God related to us in a literary convention--the story is not "true," rather it is real in that it is addressed to us in accordance with our real limitations at understanding that which in regard to God is true.

We are God-not-God.  We were created like God with the propensity to be not so--what followed was a story without plot or timeline or setting, if only because the moment-state of us becoming "not so" was a moment of unimaginably infinitesimal dimension.  The only story was us created as God-not-God, the story of us created in the image of God.  The Bible describes us as created by and through Jesus--the only end of the story can be Creation vanquished in all its injustices by Jesus and incarnated in all its sufferings by Jesus.  It is the grinding duty of every follower of Jesus to tread toward the consummation of that unplottable story, even as every inclination of humanity is to grasp toward the times and places and reasonings-out of a human-pronounced "world" that we cherish even in its manifold faults--that we cherish even as Adam cherished his.  As the story of humanity goes, we and Adam have God at hand, and we and Adam will (have we but time and means) put our hands to anything else.

If in our first moments of existence, or if in any other moments, we would do what Jesus asks of us, we would indeed exhibit the perfection that Jesus requires of us--even as our Heavenly Father is perfect.  Before we were in a state of sinfulness, we were in a sinless state in accordance with our being created in the image of God.  That this blessed state passed in an immeasurably small moment, and occurred across immeasurably small spaces, is merely to restate the very initial conundrum--that we are impossibilities created by The Impossible.  All else, in connection with our trying to understand our predicament, is consummate silliness.

In Christianity, the great starting-point of this silliness is the singular fascination with The Fall.  No more sublime comedy exists in literature than the story of the talking snake, and no story casts abroad with more vigor the farcical nature of its ironic point.  The man and his arranged bride have been fretting and tromping about on the terrain of their burgeoning appetites for days or decades or millennia beyond counting, and sooner or later (like all of us, lest anyone should boast) they were going to eat of the Forbidden Fruit.  Humanity's access to the omnipresent divine has never been enough for humanity, and to join conventional Christianity in pronouncing humanity irredeemably sinful, we cannot but conclude that every attachment to existence serves to sunder a human being's relationship not merely with God, but also with that human being's birthright as being like God--like God, that is, until the first impulse or sensation of "existence" intrudes.

We were created to be like God.  When we exist we are not like God.  One would almost think that we would have to give up our very existences to be saved.  Actually, it is inescapable that we have to give up our very existences to be saved--but we are not going to do that, even though in his insistence that we must "give up our lives," Jesus requires that very thing.  No, instead we are going to make metaphorical and ceremonial and humility-gilded expressions of being subsumed into the crucified person of Christ.  The process of being "subsumed" is proper, but inevitably every element of humanly-lived "process" attaches us to the existence that surrounds us.

I offer no original prescription for this--I am scarcely able to process the diagnosis, and then only because Jesus provides it.  The problem is not that we sin in our existences, but rather that we attach sinfulness to failures of operation within perceived "good" or at least "neutral" existences.  No, the very fact that we exist is what separates us from God.  Neither the enticements nor the goods of existence are our essential banes--that role is reserved for existence itself.  That is why Jesus requires the perfection that we cannot claim individually to have always lacked--for we were created in the "image of God," and we debase both ourselves and God to try to figure out--or delimit--the implications of that phrase.  We will never live up to the image of God, but neither will we understand the nature and extent of our lack if we do not reckon that the totality of our lived existences stands between us and our Maker.

Neither our duties, nor even our understanding of our duties, stand between us and what Jesus requires of us--only us as distracted by the temptations of existence to which we lower ourselves.  Jesus, after all, does not say that our lack of faith prevents us from being able to ask God to move mountains--our lack of faith prevents us from being able to order mountains about ourselves.  We should be able to do such things--we were made in the image of God.

And yet for us we know only the image of God through our existence-riddled selves.  Sundered from our intended selves--ourselves basking in the "this day you will be with me in Paradise" availability of God in every circumstance--we can scarcely wend our way through an onrushing procession of false images, false images presented to us and created by us.  In our existence, we are the image of God, our temptations are the image of God, our Tempter is the image of God.

Our comfort is in the Jesus who wept, and who cried out to his God.  There is no comfort else.

In This Supplanting

There is a certain jibe against conventional Christianity that--one would hope--is in most applications quite unfair.  This is the objection to Christian morality to the effect that the name "morality" is scarcely deserved by a system of rules that serves merely as an exchange of behaviors against future rewards (or punishments--though it is the "reward" aspect that receives the most scorn.)

How is it truly "moral," one might say, to forego pleasures in this finite life in order to gain (presumably greater) pleasures in a future, infinite life?  Of course, two millennia of Christian moral thought has been anything but neglectful on this point.  It is the transformation of the person, the realignment of the person so as to do the will of God for its own sake, that is held to be the core of Christian moral striving.

Yet no one will doubt that the purported transactional nature of Christian morality is seen in frequent cases to float to the surface of many of the morasses of human thought and behavior that seep throughout our experience-realms, religion included.  Often we do what we are "supposed" to do, yet it cannot be denied that nearly as often it is obvious that we are not feeling particularly attached to the possible elevated inspirations of our actions.  And then again, do we not possibly place ourselves in "daily grinds" of ethical frameworks that obviously we find taxing, while yet it might be imagined that original selfless motivations have led us to undertaken such larger enterprises?

And so, of course, such questions can wend on and on.  There are, to us humans, no really clean scenarios of moral behavior.  Largely, it is left to us to try to clean up any of these messy situations to the extent we are able--and the attempted removal of the most unnecessary accretions to moral behavior would be at the top of the list.  In terms of Christianity's aspiration to foster the realignment of persons so as to desire the will of God, it would be best that followers of Jesus renounce two of conventional Christianity's oft-cherished conceits--that true religion involves conceptualization of an anticipated afterlife, and that true religion brings relief from shame.

The first score is easiest to address.  The notion of a conceptualizable afterlife is ridiculous.  The broken nature of humanity--a concept rehearsed ceaselessly by Christianity--must be understood first (as I have written almost ceaselessly) as a breaking of communion between Creator and created from the conceptualizable first.  There is no "going back to Eden" or the like--the bliss of Adam and Eve blissing on each other and sharing late afternoon chats with their Maker is not a true conceit of our existence's broken linkage being fixed.  The anticipated place of "going back" to "how it ought to be" is properly an anticipation of communion with the divine that we cannot imagine.

It is for this reason, apparently, that Jesus dismisses out of hand conjectures about who will be married to whom in the afterlife.  Jesus does not declare simply that God by his sovereign will can assign properly marriages in disputed cases (taking humanity back to the realm of "help-meets), nor does Jesus say that humans will be understandably human though no longer having any use for marriage.  No, Jesus throws in even the essentially unassimilable notion that people (or the saved among people, at least) will be "like the angels," whatever that means.  Of all the things that make us human, we cannot even know what--if anything--will persist in the afterlife of our social affinities.

We will die, and we will be confronted with many things that we did not understand, and we will be confronted presumably with many things that we did not understand for no other reason that it did not please us to consider them.  We do not know ourselves, and in our (fascinating, really) predisposition to imagine ourselves willing to be surprised about ourselves after death, we prance through our daily lives with nary a thought for the (undeniable, really) fact that this postulating about our undiscovered selves emanates from our "selves" as we package them for our personal possession each.  It is intrinsically perverse for us to imagine that we will learn merely many things about the consciousnesses that frame our moment-by-moment self-conceptions--while yet we have no warrant to deny that our essential selves might be constellations of memories and forgettings and impulses and whatnot though which our mutable momentary conceits of "I am" are mere wanderers.

We can imagine ourselves saying to Jesus on that dreadful day, "When did we give you drink (or not), comfort (or not)?", but we cannot imagine the divine perception that will scour possible levels and extents of our persons--and rarely (we should presume) to our credit.  To say that we might understand the process of Final Judgment would be as ridiculous as for us to maintain that we can parse out the Story of the Sheep and the Goats.  Would a collection of bereft souls wailing to be spared punishment really call out to the King, "When did 'we' not give you something to eat?"  And would it really be profitable to assign anything more than a diffuse, multi-faceted, generalized warning to a story that--if taken literally--will dissolve itself, since Jesus has made sure the surprised "sheep" and "goats" know the punchline already?

A "diffuse, multi-faceted, generalized warning" would be appropriate for us pitiful humans, especially as we are understood properly to be deserving of that to which I alluded above--shame.  A religion that purports to take away shame, or that--worse still--contends that a proper earthly orientation to the Savior can take away shame, is a religion that accords to itself an understanding of human beings that only God can know.  What we do not know about ourselves ought ever to make us invite the propensity--rare enough as a commodity--for shame.  It is shame that can pervade us, can pervade even the selves that we do not know or only fitfully know, while that manipulatable and socially-bargainable notion of "guilt" can be assuaged by infinite means, even as "guilt" presents itself to us as something bounded and finite--even as we maintain that guilt can be seen in its defined qualities to spread to those defined boundaries of our self-conceptions.

Shame, when lived with, can serve to supplant (even if flaccidly) those self-conceptions we would rather live with.  And in this supplanting of the self is to be found the only joy that Jesus says we can have.  We give up our lives for the joy of giving up our lives for Jesus.  This is the moral equation of salvation--not doing things or forgoing things merely to gain the desired opposite in a bargained afterlife, but rather enjoying faint and partial subsuming of self in the present, in exchange for enjoying inestimable and unimaginable subsuming of self in eternity.

Of the Fruit and the Tree

There is yet something else to be said about trying to come to grips with the third kingdom I described in the previous post.  The third kingdom is that which we arrogated to ourselves when first we tried to make sense of our existences.  Of course, the absence of our trying to make sense of our existences is not something that can happen on our present plane.  We cannot merely repose in the comfort of a Creation bestowed upon us by a God who made everything to be beneficial, and who presented to us the means to assure both ourselves and our fortunes if we would but ask him.  We are human.  We are fallible.  We are not going to ask him--at least, not without interposing our own shameful inclinations.

Adam did not avail himself of God's proximity, and we are not going to do it either.  We even tell ourselves that God is far away--far away, that is, from the lungings of our urgings, when rarely we lunge for God rather than something less noble.

And so we surround ourselves with our own conceits.  Our conceits are what make sense of the worlds we think are around us, and out of our very conceits we construct those self-same worlds, and on and on it goes.  We exist on the brink of madness, and we are afraid that we will go mad if we let loose of that skein of little madnesses of which we each construct our lives.  I am no fan of apologetics that presume to tell people what they are thinking, but of necessity any adherent of Jesus' teachings must subscribe to Jesus' assertions about what goes on--or must go on--within people.

Jesus told people that they must eat his flesh and drink his blood.  John told people that all of Creation was created by and through Jesus.  This driving toward madness is the self-same striving toward understanding that, where the things of God are concerned, would take as the greatest application of Jesus' admonition to have people understand that Creation is identified with Jesus.  We see and touch and eat and drink Jesus--if only our eyes are open to the fact.

The above is not all that madness-inducing--in fact, it might seem rather trite.  Trite, that is, compared to the consternation among Jesus' hearers when first he presented them with the apparent prospect of actually eating his flesh and drinking his blood.  What might seem to be madness-inducing, however, is the understanding that holding Jesus to be the great permeating element of Creation, is simultaneously to hold Jesus to permeate the most intensely-wrought episodes of Scripture.

In particular, the Jesus who upbraided his followers by asking them why they could not themselves decide what is right from wrong, is the Jesus who is the one person to know in perfect detail precisely why people cannot decide right from wrong.  To decide right from wrong is to go about an absolute duty that one is bound--as against the judgments of God--to be wrong about.  The duty remains.  The inevitability of failure remains.

And yet this was always so "from the beginning," if we are to harken back to Jesus' derivation of human moral states from the shadows of Eden.  Adam and Eve reached for the fruit.  They were incapable of exercising the knowledge-capacity, and fulfilling the knowledge-requirement, that followed.  God's forbearance was exhausted, and innumerable regimens of punishment were to follow.

And Jesus bore the pain of all this.  Jesus bore the pain of Creation.  Jesus bore the pain of every distance of every created thing from the Creator.  Jesus bore the pain that Adam brought upon himself when first he looked for companionship elsewhere than his Creator.

Jesus bore the pain of humanity when he hung upon the Cross, and Jesus bore the pain of humanity when he hung upon the Forbidden Tree--for in the madness of striving in fitful throes to understand the majesty of God, we must reckon that our self-same Savior was in the very fruit plucked by the hand of Eve.

The eyes of Adam and Eve were opened, as the description goes, and the God-man Jesus of the fruit and the tree and the garden and the world has known--and yet knows, and always will know--every pain and failure and frustration of humanity's endless duty to but open our eyes.

The True Inheritors

There are conceptual kingdoms described in the scriptures that have to do with Jesus.  First, of course, there is God's overarching and all-consuming kingdom of sovereignty.  Then there is the kingdom of heaven to which Jesus refers, an idealization of proper alignment of Creation to its Maker.  At least, that seems to be what Jesus is getting at, though it is in the very expected nature of any realm incorporating the participation of human beings, that the intrinsic limitations of human character, thought, and communication be present.  We don't really know of what the kingdom of heaven consists.

What we do know is that the kingdom of heaven is a good thing, and that striving for the kingdom of heaven is a good thing.  There doesn't seem to be any profit in rehearsing for the billionth time the two-millennia-old squabble about whether "striving" is associated necessarily with "works," or with whether "letting go and letting God" or even "predestination" is what makes the difference--or even whether some assessment or relative assignment of this or that person of this or that time or place as being "in the kingdom" is to be equated with salvation.  What is undeniable is that conformance to the person-image of Jesus is the point.  Jesus is of the kingdom of heaven, or the phase "kingdom of heaven" means nothing.

Of course, the kingdom of heaven would be properly everywhere at every time.  All that was created was created with Jesus and through Jesus--and so here we run up against the persistent notion of pantheism.  Of course, if God is everything or Jesus is everything, then the notion of salvation's necessity would seem to be hollowed out.  It is at this point that the ancient echoes of Jesus' suffering become pertinent to the analysis.  The crux of Jesus' role as savior is reduced to a narrative shadow when it is understood as something that Jesus took on as bearing the punishment of the results of Creation's misdeeds.  Creation--whether appraised as merely "very good" or as seen in an Adam never in moral repose--has been by virtual definition (as far as we can understand things) always alienated from the God who made it.  Jesus' role as savior has been wedded ever to his suffering so that anything that was not God might ever exist in the impossible impudence of existing as Something Not God.

And therefore all of Creation, when viewed properly, is the kingdom of God.  The essential question is the viewing of it, the "having of one's eyes opened to it"--so that the human being can perceive of nothing as existing but as permeated by the essence of Jesus.  That evil might be present in any such perceived thing is the business of God, not of the believer, and the human being's refusal to accede to God's lordship over such matters, is in perfect relation to the human being's refusal to have his or her eyes opened to that which is properly to be perceived--God.

This is the kingdom of heaven, the kingdom of perception of God--which has been dispensed for us in the teachings of Jesus as the typification of Jesus as the God-man.  Even at the limits of our perceptions, of course--even at the limits of our ever having our "eyes opened"--we must have some sort of analog of our finite capacities upon which to focus our thoughts.  This, for us human beings, is the type-presentation of "Jesus" as a representation of the absolutely unimaginable nature of Jesus himself.  Even the gospels, with their descriptions of the fortune of eye-witnesses of Jesus as being blessed with seeing Jesus himself, do not stint to say that even a more select few are privy to the Transformation--with no contention present that even such an amazing display could ever be really "Jesus himself."

And so it should be scarcely surprising that the notion of Old and New Testament "types of Christ" is a contention that curls in upon itself.  Jesus as represented in the Gospels, Jesus in even the fulness of such revelation as we are given, is a "type of Christ"--if only because we can never assimilate anything but a representation of Jesus as Jesus or Jesus as Christ.  If our eyes were only to be opened, we would see that all that might be truly seen--all, that is, that might be scrutinized such that everything but the essential miracle of existing-while-not-God were blasted aside--is a "type of Christ."  Everything but the ineffable miracle of Creation presented perfectly to us, that is, everything that we perceive through our fallible and immoral lenses of perception--and assign through our perceptions the values that entwine our hearts--constitutes the substance of the faulty kingdom that commands our allegiance.

Only in the faintest of fleeting shadows do we perceive the kingdom of heaven--to say nothing of entering the kingdom of heaven.  Understanding, at least, the shrouds of sin-sodden faulty perception that surround us, we can understand as well why Jesus' descriptions of the path to the kingdom of heaven seem so anomalous.  And in a horrid and all-too-familiar, essentially organic way, our revulsion with the anomalous--that is, our great desire for apparent pattern and predictability--leads us to the third great kingdom understandable in the teachings of Jesus.  This is the kingdom of the Evil One.

This we might call the Kingdom of the Devil.  This we might call the fallen World that draws us in its seductive clutches, through the temptations of the Flesh, to the great abyss of damnation.  Or we might call this the realm of a slithering, dirty snake, or of a cringing accuser of a righteous Job, or of a sleazy tormentor of a starving Jesus.  The point is that Satan is scarcely the point, and Satan is dismissively described as an author of lies--all the while we are masters ourselves of authoring our own lies.  That which I referred to above--our desire for apparent pattern and predictability--is the fulcrum of our inclination to share the devil's predilection for casting judgments about.

This is the third kingdom--the kingdom in which we exist but for the excruciatingly rare, scarcely-to-be-expected glimmerings of mercy from Above.  It is bad enough that our base tendencies make it difficult for us to see the blessings of God all around us--on top of this we heap our judgments and our accusations and our endless, mindless pontifications about our own existences.  "Above" is the absolute realm of the Absolute God--the first kingdom.  All around us--had we but eyes to see--is the proper realm of our Savior as the Author and Bearer of Creation--the second kingdom.  This second kingdom is what was offered us from the beginning, and what we and Adam from the very first could not bear to abide.

And also all around us is the third kingdom.  This is the kingdom that we make a veritable hell--or make at best a dotting of islets of respite shared inequitably among creatures.  This is the kingdom of our human perceptions, of our human prescriptions, of our human plans and theories and justifications.  That we could not enjoy and share the second kingdom--that of simple Creation wrought by Jesus' suffering--is the mere state of our ungrateful and unreflective selves, Adam-like, from the first.  That we cannot make more than a ramshackle edifice of our morally-wrought Earth--this is the state of the third kingdom.  This, as will surprise no one, is what I will call the inevitable outworking of "the Fall"--the eating of the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.  That our eyes became "open," Adam-and-Eve-like, is scarcely the same as to say that our judgments became true, or that the convictions upon our hearts became reliable.

Adam and Eve could feel shame for the wrong things, and could fail to confess themselves to their Creator when they had done something shameful.  And they could entertain something shameful before they had done anything sinful--or was that sin itself?  Manifestly, the very same thing as postulating about such matters--rather than reposing in wholesome-because-deserved shame--is precisely what we ourselves do, and in so doing we are the true inheritors of The Fall.