The Spirit Moves in the Sound
The Spirit Moves in the sound of answering the call to compassion for All suffering and response of doing the right thing in Awe of HaShem, not in the words. For a long time, I’ve wondered how the spirit wil move in some churches and not in others. And the older I get, the more so is it true that I can’t go into a church, not because I’m tempted, but because I’ll get deathly ill. So while the words of the Trinitarian Pauline addendum are impossible for me to ignore as I could as a time, I’ve decided that the difference is in the sound and not the words. For those who hear the Trinitarian addendum with less emphasis on the materialistic Pauline sublimated may not appreciate the gravity of the idea of a man as if. Most probably don’t ‘think’ about it at all.
There’s a distinct timbre of some people I call Tears in Their Voices. A residua of my spiritual exercises is in what I call listening to the souls in the voice. I made it up from Nothing that I can hear the voices of the family in the voices of the children. That we can listen to the soul in the voice, and that we carry voices of assimilation in our own. Since at least a child, I can almost instantly place myself in what I call listening with the soul mode. In an immediate I-Thou, in the Voice. There’s an understanding of the Soul in the voice that isn’t dependent on the language, much less the words. I can hear these tears in some groups more than others. Tears of compassion.
So while I can’t get pass their words so that I can’t go into a church, I also understand that for the Souls of yetzer haTov that are there, the words aren’t the issue, as with the A.M.E. church that said the seminary trained preacher was ‘bringing the devil in,‘ may have been more the sound than the words. The spirit moves in the sing-song, not in the words.
Can’t Go to Church
When my mother’s caregiver was away on vacation, my sister and nephew wouldn’t help her, banished in place, though living in Momma’s house paying no bills. Momma had to call the neighbor across the street. When that neighbor died, I gave myself a heter, understanding that even with that I’d pay a price. I sat around the corner by the far back door during the service, and came up to the front as they were filing out to express my condolences. I was willing to take that beating to prevent disrespect and her family being beaten for no reason, to do the right thing.
My musical training was classical. I took piano lessons from pre-school and then in orchestra and band. The conductor with the baton leads everybody to play the right note at the same time in the right way. Through all formative years, my saxophone playing was a religious experience. I took lessons for a long time, and as you get into training for solo contests, the metronome becomes a part of the circuits in your head.
A quarter note is this…long. I’d always been interested in jazz, but my saxophone teacher was talking about syncopation with the same subdivisions of the quarter note – it still had no feeling; don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing. With that metronome stuck to the side of my head, the quarter note always stayed this…long.
In college, I played with some other groups, went to an Archie Shepp course at U. Mass. I could read anything and play it, but it was bereft of soulfulness because the quarter note was stuck to this…long. My solos were variants of Mozart concertos. Then, one of my roommates was a kind of mixed-Music hippie.
Strangely, I was finally able to get off the beat of the metronome by playing in the freedom of rock, and through that could finally play the blues. Affettuoso.
In an ensemble, unlike the conductor with the baton, musicians listen to each other, while still sticking to the business of key, score, change-ups and tempo. Playing rock was liberating, from the metronome to going with the flow of the blues. Freed from the classical metronome, I finally arrived at the promised land of straight-ahead jazz. I’m a Wall head-banger in my old age.
My objection to their dogma is partly intellectual, but I was alienated by the stultified sit on your hands and feel nothing long before my departure. I’d open my window to listen to the sound of the Pentecostal church across the cornfield from our house. Late at night, I’d listen to the skip from the PPP prayer hour out of Jackson, Mississippi on the radio I built, for the sound.
Dry and Sterile
Beside the benefits of Platonic stoicism to deal with being beaten randomly, apparently that’s part of the Lutheran cum Catholic ethos – dry and sterile that permeates Western religious practices as a cultural norm that impacts what the practice of any religion is, controlled for any other factor.
While living in Washington D. C., I’d go undercover to Negro churches for the sound and ignore what they were saying to feel the spirit move every once in a while. When they noticed, and started trying to talk to me, I didn’t go back. I was good at tuning out their talk, but couldn’t take any questions. Until the plantation where lying is enforced as part of the job, I refused to lie.
While in Houston, I decided to start going to a Negro church instead of paying two therapists at the same time to try to get out of my do the right thing addiction, one an ex-priest who showed his honor by giving my confidential information to a consultant who stole my best employee.
There wasn’t any spirit moving in Brentwood any more than the Lutheran church, but they didn’t ask any questions. I was a bit late for the early service one day, so I decided to stay through the second. A guy I call ‘Skippy’ ‘got happy’ on queue in both.
Paid to Skip
Paying better attention, Skippy was the bourgeois implementation of ‘in the spirit‘ paid to skip the same course in the same way up and down pretending to feel the spirit, right before collections, reminding what my parents told me about why they left being Baptists, some all about Putting Food on the Table. It’s the original old-South Negro entrepreneurship, a great show, long before street corners and various other entertainments.
Shaming by Name
I’ve been in some where they keep collecting extorting embarrassing and calling people out, shaming by name, until they get their number, Mercedes payment due. At least Brentwood had the honor to have only three collections. When it dawned on me that the show was WWF fake, the thrill was gone. The spirit did move at Wheeler, but getting in was a serious problem, they needed answers I couldn’t give.
In some Negro churches, the fat lady that gets happy every time, like the fat girl in the band that fainted at the end of every half-time show, is histrionic attention seeking.
Only visitors who don’t know better will sit next to her to get punched out before they get to minister to her routine swoon while dazed if she didn’t manage to knock them out.
She’s in control, as reliable as Old Faithful, faking. Uncontrolled displays of emotion are as anathema in the pomp and pageantry of their petty bourgeois modernity as the Methodist church that asked the Africans who couldn’t control themselves to leave. To go to Wheeler Avenue.
Sick from Being There
In those contacts, I tried to ignore what they’re saying, and just feel the spirit move in the sound. Then, they’d say something that I’m allergic to and I’m sick from being there. The older I get, the more allergic I’ve become. As I escaped from that gravity at thirteen, I’m in another universe today. As a habitual analyzer, I’ve wondered how the spirit never moves in Lutheran cum Catholic mass, is only faked at Brentwood, and could be counted on at Wheeler.
Call and Response
I’ve decided this is what they meant by bringing the devil in – taking the movement of the spirit out, talking, telling should and ought from a cold void of space, intellectual dialectics.
My made up from Nothing is that in churches like Wheeler, where the spirit does move, not parsing terminology in dialectical analysis, the sing-song of the preacher is the spiritual call for the congregation response – being called in the spirit, a sort of Ring Shout in modernity, not a one-way delivery like the handing over of the Catholic wafer.
Or the conductor waving a baton as a human metronome. Comedians applaud a good audience for just cause.
My reverence is such that I won’t get in range of hearing those sounds, as I made sure at my neighbor’s funeral. Change channels with the sound off, just in case. But the Western talking at the podium to a necessarily mute platonic feel-nothing audience keeps the quarter note this…long.
Handing out sterilized wafers and wine in exchange for collections to Put Food on the Table is counterproductive to the movement of the spirit, brings the devil in.
The operative word is uncontrolled.
The times that I’ve experienced the Spirit Moving are not planned, nothing I can reproduce, have dominion over.
The spirit moves after I’ve done an unexpected mitzvah. Not out of expectation of reward, but compelled against interest regardless of consequences standing in doing His right thing. My made up from Not a Thing as a yes! from my angels.
I know the Torah is divine, by the the Shekhinah, that is the movement of the spirit.
The Shekhinah, the Spirit Moves to Tell
In long shekhinahs that have lasted for days or weeks, my soul is seeing and hearing outside my self. There’s no way telling makes someone else’s soul know the truth of any duality, or His Absolute-Unity beyond our being of things, unless the Shekhinah tells them, as told me so.
When a child, I heard about fearing HaShem like the conductor stands there with the man-as deific nun’s ruler to threaten mortal souls if heretically seeing anything different than their ought to see the way their should says to see it.
His light reduced to existentially incoherent ‘thoughts’ in Greek Aristotelian cerebration with human words, rather than the foundation of the three ‘loves’ toward other things, the search for the Good in yetzer haTov by the uncontrolled displays of doing His right things as taught by our references for movement of the spirit to HaShem.
Souls See and Hear
Our souls see and hear, distinct from our ears and eyes. The dry droning of the Judeo-Hari Krishna convert was just something people had to suffer through to get to the food, the drums.
In the real Hindu temples, there isn’t this Western teller of should and ought to ruler-intimidated tellees. An honored speaker or head of a family may give a brief talk, but that wasn’t the meat, but an appetizer before the getting down to the business of moving the spirit.
With the paradigm of metareligions being the treatment of Them, contacts outside of the group, the self-actualizing motive of yetzer haTov is the Shekhinah, the spirit moving. More powerful than any should and ought, the movement of the spirit is a soul-fulfilling experience. Not something that can be explained or told, your soul has to see – hear it to believe.
In my short sojourn as a catechism teacher, I didn’t like being in the role of telling people what to think and how to feel. I wanted them to be able to read it for themselves and make up their own minds. In order for me to tell someone what to think and feel, I have to assume the mantle of infallibility that I object to so vehemently, especially because whatever I’m saying is from my fallible talking head.
Bringing the Devil In
The risk to my soul of judging the souls of haters is bringing the devil in to become the hate I Hate by damning them forever. I Amen; Judge not lest ye be judged. that some have twisted around as their only capability, to decide who to Hate.
I Hate haters so much I try not to be one.
I make declarative statements: haters are fixed through time in their born role of the soul with their Spartan stones, praying for their Cain’s murder of Native American genocide, reminding here and now that it ain’t necessarily so in that as long as there’s life, the door remains open to look only to HaShem.
There aren’t really any words to persuade someone of that the Spirit Will Move. My vehement objection to words descriptions and characterizations is an irreconcilable incompatibility with a humanly constructed thing as if. Addenda.
Why I believe I’d pop as if I’d been landed in the vacuum of space from my chair if I go into a church, or don’t get away quickly enough from their talking. Telling. Or surrender to worshiping, looking to things.
Not a Thing
But, as most Hindus are henotheistic, I can appreciate that some addendum enthusiasts don’t see it that way. In pheromonal decerebration, an anaphylactic allergy to me may well be another’s opening to the Spirit Moving. I can understand a Christopher Hitchens or Bertrand Russel saying HaShem doesn’t exist because existentially that’s true as Not a Thing.
He created this existence of things. That beam in my eye is a vitreous floater that’s as accustomed to them as southern flavor that would lay me in bed, at least. Imagining slander of interpretation, when I forced myself to actually read the addendum, it made me sick unto death, physically.
As with the early A.M.E. Negroes talking about bringing the devil in without articulation beyond calling of the spirit, churches where the spirit moves aren’t the same religion as those where it doesn’t, though seemingly the same ethnicity race culture words and dogma.
As music without the swing don’t mean a thing, religion without spirit won’t get it, the spirit to move.
Whatever religious endeavor that discourages the movement of the spirit to stand purely in talking, telling without listening, is bringing the devil in by taking His spirit out.
Distinct and Separate
The movement of the spirit in the Shekhinah is distinct and separate from the loves toward things. Like a horse with blinders, the way to control, have dominion over the self, is to control what’s seen, and definitely don’t feel anything, including the movement of the spirit.
Blinders are also used to cherry-pick to operate the Man-as deity should and ought metareligion to control the ‘them’ within ‘us.’ Men have given themselves a heter to see women in a reductive sexual context while doctors as holy priests of healthcare in modern cultures, except rare perverts, don’t allow themselves a sexual context in seeing undressed women.
Without an inner motive from yetzer tov, seeing eyebrows that should be under burqas is an invitation to the animistic yetzer hara drives of men, the heter set by cultural conventions. A sexualization premise of platonic monotheistic thinking is that a lack of control leads to lewd idolatry. That our good is of control rather than the pure motives of His yetzer haTov.
Dominion Over the Self
From Victorian Freudian All or Nothing at All deification of sexuality and its dominion over the self acquisition with power money might, compartmentalization of yetzer haTov allowed to Filial and Platonic love reduces Eros to animistic yetzer hara as a deity, sinful. Loss of control for these is seen as necessarily leading to evil, a bringing the devil in by the only strong feelings possible being animistic, sexual.
Leaders show the way by how they’re being, not by what they don’t allow to be seen. I’m horrified by righteous people who believe in telling people what they ought to think feel and believe.
As Amherst College teaches how to think not what, as with my catechism students, as with enrollees of the Jungian adult training, as with my interpretations of the Shekhinah, I’m still cautious of being that person assuming infallibility by telling from must or ought.
Only Awe in His sight expressed as an allergy to Idolatry draws me back from a brink of self-righteousness to remember that interpretations can’t be absolute because we’re, they’re of things, dualities.
Incredible Absolutely Infallible Man: Deific
Fixing what any duality, Zionism for example, must mean, and how that ought to be seen as a deific infallible absolute usurps into .
I read with Trembling and Fear the pronouncements, papal bulls of another pro-life advocacy that parrots talking points in a borderline personality disorder of black and white, All or Nothing at All, thumbs preset to in. Lemmings. The only possibility of truth in agreement. Vicious.
Without compassion for suffering, or Mercy.
I object to worshipping any created thing as if it’s an absolute, including my own. As I explained to my parents in 1973, my beliefs aren’t adopted; preceded hearing somebody else saying them.
Our souls tell us what to believe, even if that’s to believe in taking somebody else’s words of should and ought, as Loyalists.
My monotheism isn’t with blinders. I’m surrounded. If a picture is a thousand words, I want my hat and coat back for a library that I can’t abide irreverent idolatries. Partly to connect to generations of before still with me today, and partly for my own comfort of not creating temptations to lie by omission in go along to get along undercover to nowhere. Fear is a thin vapid word to describe, for a thing.
Deific Presumptions of Assumption
Damning from their man-as deific presumptions of assumption. I don’t fear their nun’s ruler of eternal damnation for my allergy to a man as if thing, or to deification of things; I’m in inexplicable Awe, compelled, thrown on my face by His light beyond my capacity to bear, speechless.
With Perfect Faith
My will can’t be broken because it isn’t mine. I’m not certain of any words, including mine. My only certainty is of HaShem, and from that, the revelations of His prophets. I know beyond faith, to Perfect Faith that the Torah is Divine, because my listening soul tells me so. I know the Rebbes of Blessed Memory by my soul.
HaShem has created the absolutely perfect monotheistic certainty within me that the uncontrolled display of doing His right thing; The Mitzvah for movement of the spirit to Unity motivated by yetzer haTov will bring the World to Come by His Shekhinah.