How Jesus Crashed a Christmas Eve Mass by Stefan Emunds - HTML preview

June 21, 2012, An Ineffable Reality

My name is George Mykal Ferluci and I’m forty-five years old. I grew up as an orphan. I neither know where I’m from, nor who my parents are. At the tender age of six months, I was discovered one rainy night on the doorstep of an orphanage in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 

All I had was a brass necklace hanging from my neck. Fixed to it was a white pebble with my name carved into it. I think Ferluci is Italian - at least it sounds like it. I have found other people with that name, but theirs are usually spelled Ferlucci - double c. My middle name, Mykal, is definitely not Italian. Somebody once remarked that it sounds Eastern European, but I couldn’t find further clues.

I have started this diary because something strange happened to me yesterday. It wasn’t really an incident; rather, I have seen something alien and scary that has forced me to re-evaluate my entire life. 

It happened yesterday afternoon as I was sitting on my porch facing the front lawn. My porch serves as a bit of a refuge. My mind is sensitive and needs to relax regularly from the noises of everyday activities. After completing my morning duties, I usually have a peaceful moment or two there. I own a beautiful bench - simple, of thick fir wood, smoothened over the years by my holy butt. Somehow, the bench and I have grown together; it reminds me of a loyal pet, welcoming me happily when I sit down.

It was late afternoon and sunny. Although the sun was already descending, its glow could still warm my bones and brighten my nerves. The afternoon air was clear and colors brilliant. My eyes took comfort in the green grass, marveled at opulent white clouds crawling through the sky, nodded at the motley tints of cars parked along the alley, to finally settle on the street’s smooth grey that presented an impartial background for shadows displaying their fanciful shapes. Some elderly people were enjoying a stroll, smiles here and there, happy words bouncing from neighbor to neighbor, and children’s laughter delighting the scene - it was a beautiful day. 

I felt on top of the world – on my little porch - enjoying the splendid panorama, contentedly recapitulating my life, and wondering what was still to come. I love my life: it has been simple, safe, and orderly. But my vocation satisfied me the most. My profession has been meaningful and every extra effort visible and appreciated. 

My future seemed equally promising - like a smooth path winding down gently into a green valley. I didn’t worry about what is to come; maybe I would have to adjust my direction once in a while, jump a few more hurdles, dodge an attack or two, and that would be it. Life begins at forty and I was right in the middle of it - that’s how I thought, but - oh my God - how wrong was I.

I almost felt happy that afternoon, which is difficult for a man like me. My basic temperament is melancholic, and I tend to take things too seriously. On top of that I have to deal with human issues on a daily basis – the dark side of mankind, as I like to call it: compulsions, paranoia, addictions, psychoses, abuses and even crimes. You cannot imagine what people have confessed to me over the years. In the early days, my work kept me up at night, but I have learned to keep a distance from people, their flaws, and challenges. However, I still struggle to de-stress from the dreary side of my work, and that’s where my porch comes in.

As relaxing as my porch is, I never manage to unwind completely. My mind is always on the jump. People look at me and say that I think too much, and I have to agree - thinking is my second nature. I contemplate about everything - even about the French fries I eat. If I make an effort I can let go for half an hour or so, but then my mind inevitably returns to its reminiscences. Sometimes it feels like an addiction. 

Yesterday, my mind was mulling over a good dozen things at the same time, upsetting my afternoon recreation. At one point it got so bad that - for the first time in my life - I got tired of it. 

It occurred to me that my mind has never given me a break, as if it has been racing toward an unknown goal. An image grew in my mind in which I saw myself sitting on a train speeding through my life’s rapidly changing landscape. So far, the train hasn’t stopped anywhere, and it doesn’t seem to intend to any time soon. 

The lucidity of this image made my porch appear surreal. A strange uncertainty shivered through me: was I daydreaming the train or was I actually having a nap on the train dreaming myself on the porch? 

As I stumbled into confusion about what was real and what was not, the strangest thing happened: the world disintegrated. Reality collapsed - or rather, my perception of it. It ripped apart like a dry skin under pressure, giving way to something I can only describe as ineffable dimensions - depths upon depths. 

From within this fathomless vastness I felt something reaching out to me, calling me. As I heeded its invitation, a wave of brilliant light hit me, flooding and charging me with an incredible livingness. My eyes and ears flung open, and I became aware of a thousand things at the same time. I have never felt as alive as in this moment; I was brimming with livingness. And there I hovered, alone, utterly lucid, paralyzed in awe, staring at the splendor of interleaving worlds circling around me. 

Although I could see countless things at the same time, I couldn’t make out anything concrete or objects as I was used to them: everywhere I looked I saw rapidly moving energies of various shapes, colors, and velocities - whirling, mingling, and interlacing - spirals within spirals. 

Next, a particular complex of whirling forces caught my attention. Within an invisible boundary, various shades of lights moved in a slow, beautiful rhythm. As I focused on it, the energy took on a form, solidified, and then I recognized it as one of the trees in my garden. For a fraction of a second I saw the tree, but then again whirling colors moved into place to assemble the tree. This took place three times; then, I dropped out of this strange experience. 

Although all this had happened within the blink of an eye, my body reacted vehemently to this glimpse into the unfathomable by jumping to its feet. Stooped over, it panted heavily, and I had to keep my balance by grabbing onto my thighs. Heat waved up my spine into my head and shot out through my eyes. For a moment I was sure that I would go blind. I must have been standing there for ten minutes or so, gasping for air, until a long, merciful breeze brought me back to my senses. What on earth was that? And what a reaction! 

As I sat down to recapitulate and attempt to understand what had just taken place, my mind intervened, reasoning fervently that nothing had occurred at all. It pulled out all the stops of common sense trying to persuade me that the afternoon light had played tricks on me. But another, deeper part of me knew better: what I had witnessed was real - more real than the everyday world.

After my mind had exhausted its denial, it went blank, and I was left with the feeling that life is artificial, constructed - as if someone has made it up. And I don’t mean only civilization; I mean the whole thing - nature, everything visible. The world as I knew it turned out to be an illusion produced by invisible energetic processes endlessly adapting and improvising … nothing to hold on to. 

Yes, there is no doubt: my common perception of the world is man-made, although I have no idea who set this up - civilization, education, media, myself - knowingly or subconsciously. I accepted this perception when I was a child and, while growing up, have been busy learning how to maintain and improve it, so it never occurred to me to question it.  

I realized that most people are, like me, stuck on this fiercely racing train I envisioned earlier - rich or poor, literate or uneducated, strong or weak, famous or unrecognized. We are all caught in a natural and social framework, subject to an overwhelming abundance of challenges and enticements that prevent us from questioning reality. 

My God, what am I saying - questioning reality? Can reality be unreal? What is the meaning of life, then? As these questions flickered through my mind, I suddenly felt fatigued, almost exhausted. I dragged my body into my bedroom and dropped it onto the bed. Instantly, darkness embraced my frenzied mind, and I passed out. 

I slept through the remaining afternoon and night, waking up around six a.m. The long sleep has somewhat relaxed my mind, but the feeling that something is terribly wrong persists. 

What to do? How to get to the bottom of this? I can’t think of anyone I could ask for help. I’m worried people will call me crazy. I’m on my own. And that’s why I started this diary: to record what’s happening to me and all thoughts that will pop up in my mind, anything that may help. I have a hunch that this incident was just a prelude to a far-reaching and sweeping turn of events.

June 23, 2012, The Flammarion Engraving

I don’t think I was the only one who had such a vision of an ineffable reality. I stumbled upon the Flammarion Engraving that shows a missionary in the search for Heaven. He claimed to have reached the horizon where earth and sky meet and discovered a spot where he could slip through into Heaven.

The illustration of Heaven on the left side of the picture resembles what I have seen in my vision - whirling energies of various shapes and velocities. 

Did I stumble upon this gap between sky and earth by chance and enter Heaven? I don’t think this gap is a location - nobody can reach the horizon. It must be a figure of speech for a state of mind or heightened awareness or something like that. And why does Heaven look somewhat scary and impersonal? Where are the angels?

For some reason, I’m reminded of Tinker Bell, who said to Peter Pan: “You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you, Peter Pan. That’s where I’ll be waiting.” 

Can this ineffable state of mind be reproduced? How many people know about this? Why have I never heard about this in my religious circles?

June 24, 2012, A Look Inside

It is Sunday afternoon and another nice summer day. As usual, I’m relaxing on my porch, but this time it’s different. The pretty scenery around my house appears superficial and a peril seems to be sizzling below the surface. 

For the past two days I’ve been trying to brush it off, but my alienation from reality has been dishearteningly stubborn. The memory of the ineffable vision has turned into a mental virus that, initially, just caused some irritation, but then managed to grow into a full-blown reality crisis.

My increasing discomfort has made my mind jumpy. I hear a whisper in the air. I lean forward and look, but there is nobody around. It feels like one of those quiet moments in a horror movie, when something scary is about to jump out from a dark corner. I’m worried that the world might collapse again any time soon, but this time for real.

I have no choice: I need to understand what happened to me. I prepared for an experiment: a special way of praying. But not a usual devotion: thanking God for everything and asking for more; no, this time I want to try the mystical prayer. I learned about this from Christopher, a monk of the monastery associated with my parish. It’s known by various names, such as quiet prayer or prayer of the heart. It’s a fairly simple technique actually: I’m supposed to choose one of my favorite prayers – the words apparently don’t matter - recite it continuously and, at the same time, reach out with my heart to Jesus Christ or the Holy Ghost. Mystical Christians have used this technique for hundreds of years and rumor has it that it has helped some to meet Christ face to face. 

It strikes me that my mind doesn’t like the idea. I think it’s afraid of losing control, but I have no other idea how to attack my problem. 

I sit back and let my body take a few deep breaths. “God be with me!” I exclaim and begin to recite. After I’m through, I go again. Without break I recite, recite, and recite…

After fifteen minutes or so, my praying does something to my mind: it enters into a relaxed observation of the panorama around my house. Slowly, the scenery distances itself from me. It doesn’t really move away, but rather detaches itself or I detach – I cannot tell. I end up viewing my environment serenely and without involvement, as if I’m watching TV.

After more time, my awareness is suspended in this detached state of mind without the need to recite, and I can turn my full attention to what I’m looking at. I wonder if I’m in some kind of trance or self-hypnosis. I glimpse down at my good old bench. I observe its dark brown shades, its smoothness, and edginess. An emotion sweeps through my mind - it’s my appreciation of this bench. I hear a bird chirping in a tree close by, which causes another pleasant emotion to flutter through me.

My view proceeds to my body, clothed in black trousers and a white shirt, gently moved by my breath. My awareness implodes further leaving my body as a part of my environment. This is weird: I’m estranging from my body!

After my mind realizes that it has been separated from my surroundings and body, it desperately tries to re-attach itself. I observe how it struggles to associate memories with everything it looks at. When it becomes aware of something new it throws emotions and thoughts at it like labels. That’s a bit funny actually, and, for a while, I enjoy this odd tagging. 

Eventually, my eyelids become heavy and close. I’m staring into a darkness that slowly becomes alive. First, I make out flowing colors and shades; then, a memory crosses my mind. As it disappears, a tune starts playing - a song that I heard on the radio this morning. I try to push the music away to focus on Christ as I was told, but my mind doesn’t agree. Without warning, it enters into a monologue about my reality crisis, which takes a minute or two; thereafter, I see a scene in my church - another memory. I try harder to subdue my mind’s turbulences and aim at stopping to think for a few seconds, but it is to no avail: I cannot focus on the divine as I have hoped. 

Annoyed, I give up and open my eyes. It seems that my thoughts have a life of their own. I feel helpless - it has never occurred to me how little control I have over my mind.

But then, an idea blinks into awareness: all these images and memories are charged with emotions - they really do have a life of their own. Because of their emotional energy, they manage to trap my attention, I reason. Now, I know why my mentors insisted that I should subdue my feelings and desires. But they were wrong, suppression doesn’t do the job, there must be another way.

After more pondering, it dawns on me that I could treat my inner scenery like the panorama around my house - with detachment. I close my eyes again and try to distance myself from my inner dialogue. Yes, that’s much better, now Im making progress. Keep at it, George … just watch! I encourage myself. 

This works, and soon, I manage to enjoy my mind’s spectacle. Curiously, but impartially, I allow scenes to come and go. Some protagonists flash across my inner stage, others make a few turns before vacating it, others again linger in the background. But there is never a break - it’s like a movie or a stream of images. Some images make a big wave and swallow smaller ones. Sometimes, such a large wave is an important event in my life, a big problem, or something that has startled me for a long time. I engage in the larger thought-waves … I can surf on them.

A huge wave swells up in my mind … What’s this one all about? ... It’s a massive, dark wave … Something unknown … Is that the meaning of my vision? ... Will I have a revelation? … No, it is a question … Something I really want to know … I feel my whole being preparing to form a question … The mother of all questions … What on earth is it? ... Here it comes … A deep breath … And the question is…

“Who are you?” I hear a voice.

An Unusual Dialogue

“Who are you?” 

“What?” I respond dumbfounded - unsure if aloud or in my mind.

“Who are you?” the voice repeats for the third time. The voice seems to be somewhere in my head.

“My God, I’m hearing a voice in my head! Am I going crazy?”

“No, you’re not crazy,” the voice comments on my worry.

“It’s schizophrenic to hear voices. You’re scaring me!”

“Don’t worry, I am only one voice and I am not an illusion - at least not in the way you define illusion.”

“You claim that you’re real? Who are you, then?”

“It’s a bit too early for a formal introduction,” the voice keeps a distance.

“Are you the devil? Am I hearing the devil’s voice?” This gloomy hunch makes my hair stand on end. 

“No, I am not the devil,” it laughs. “For now, accept me as a voice in your head.” The voice’s cheerful laughter instantly relaxes me. 

“Why are you talking to me? Where do you come from?” My curiosity has taken over my discomfort.

“Actually, I have always been talking to you, but you have never listened.”

“What a strange thing to say,” I object. “I’m a good listener - that goes with my work. I’ve never heard you before. This is the first time.”

“You have heard me since early childhood, but you have mistaken me for your own thoughts and feelings,” the voice replies firmly.

“Hmm … really?”

“Yes, trust me on that.”

“OK … I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now. Why am I suddenly aware of you?”

“Because you turned your back to the outer world and your inner dialogue. You wanted to know what lies beyond your mind - et voilà - here I am.”

“And what do you want from me?” I ask, still a bit at sea.

“For now, I just want to ask my favorite question.”

“Which is?”

“Who are you?” the voice repeats patiently.

“What kind of question is that?” I complain. “You’re in my head, but you don’t know me?”

“I know who you are, but I doubt that you do,” it teases. 

“You’re kidding, right? OK, allow me to introduce myself: I’m George Mykal Ferluci. Ferluci with only one c.” 

“I don’t need to hear your name. You don’t even know its significance. I want to know who you are.”

“Well, there’s my name and … what else? I don’t know, I grew up in an orphanage, I don’t know my parents. What do you want to hear?”

“I don’t care from whom your body was born,” the voice persists. “You are not your body. Upon death, you will discard it like outworn clothes.”

“Hmm … I think you’re playing a game. Let’s see - I’m a priest!” 

“You’re not a profession - you have one and you can change it any time you wish. Who are you really?”

“All right, I’m human!”

“If you are referring to your species Homo sapiens, that’s your body again. You’re repeating yourself.”

“Wait - I’m my thoughts, feelings, ideas, memories … I know now: cogito ergo sum! Right?” 

“Your mind produces thoughts, feelings, and keeps memories,” the voice continues to frustrate me. “You witnessed earlier that they have a life on their own, coming and going as they please. And obviously, you can’t be your memory – in case of amnesia, would you cease to exist? Try again!”

“I really don’t know what you want from me. I told you everything I know about myself,” I blurt out after a vain attempt to come up with something else. 

“Well, that didn’t hit the spot, did it?” the voice seems to be amused.

“You’re right, I seem to know a lot about myself, but can’t tell who I am.”

“Do you give up?” the voice grins.

“No! Yes … fine! You can reveal the punchline now,” I respond with mixed feelings of anger, humbleness, but also curiosity. 

“I won’t tell you,” the voice refuses. “It’s essential that you find the answer on your own.” 

“I really don’t know. I don’t understand what you’re trying to get at. You brushed aside whatever I came up with and claimed that it’s not really me. I don’t know who I am. I was an orphan and after that I became a priest,” I mumble, fighting a feeling of hollowness spreading through my gut.

“There’s something you can tell about yourself with absolute certainty - think!”

“Come on, if I’m neither my name, body, parents, profession, thoughts, feelings, … fantasies – what’s left? Nothing is left!”

“There’s still something,” the voice insists.

“And what could that be? Give me a hint!”

“No, it’s too obvious.” 

“You mean I cannot see the wood for trees? Hmm … I cannot see … seeing … my God … I see … I see things, right?”

“That’s it! You are a conscious being, an observer, a witness of the world and one day you will be a witness of God,” the voice proclaims in a dramatic tone.

“God’s witness?” I’m baffled. 

“By the way, do you know the Greek word for witness?”

“Uhh … no idea.”

“Actually you do: it’s martyro,” the voice informs me and turns silent.

I’m dumbfounded. For the second time in four days, something really strange has happened to me. Not only have I been hearing a voice in my head, whoever has been talking to me is intelligent, literate, and teaches me things.

So, my whole existence boils down to being a witness? Strange term, sounds somewhat old-fashioned. Why did the voice use this term and why did it point out that I would one day become God’s witness? 

For a moment my mind takes comfort in the context of these thoughts, but then it revolts: this cannot be the whole truth. There must be more to my existence than just observing. I do a lot of things, I don’t just watch. And how about my reality crisis - does this witness thing help?

“Hello … can you hear me? Why did you stop talking?” I call out, but my words just echo through my mind’s vacated corridors. 

June 25, 2012, A Taste of Death

I’m dying!

I’m not dying-dying, but my old self-identification is slipping away. 

My old ego has received two deadly blows: the ineffable vision demonstrated that it has been deluded about reality and the voice argued to perfection that it knows nothing about its true identity.

I’m writing “I”, but what is “I” really?

After an initial phase of denial, my old self became very angry about the whole affair. I wasn’t surprised, since it has been in charge all these years and, naturally, refuses to give up its status. 

But I cannot allow it to continue as it used to. My old self has turned out to be a messy ravel of ideas, concepts, habits, and emotions. If I took it apart, nothing would remain - it’s an utter illusion. I have lived with a lie and been a stranger to myself.

After my wrong self surrendered to the truth, it entered into a phase of negotiation. It argued that it has a lot of experience running my personal show and advanced that, although it’s illusive, it could remain in charge. 

I almost fell for this, but then, it occurred to me that my old ego’s control is as illusive as its identity. Upon closer inspection there is utter chaos in my mind. Also, the life that my old self has fabricated for me over the years seems now somewhat fake and dull. The ineffable vision and this mysterious voice have hurled me into a new state of mind and I’m sensing a much more adventurous life transpiring.

After I denied my old self to return to its accustomed status, it became depressed and this accelerated its deterioration. The sense of dying is growing stronger by the day. I’m not ready for this. How can I stop this? I called the voice a few times, but it didn’t answer. 

I think I passed a point of no return. I need to look forward. I must find my true self!

June 26, 2012, My True Self

I want to know my real self!

The sense of dying has grown so strong that it is affecting my work and sleep. 

I reckon that for this purpose the mystical prayer could come in handy again. It’s early afternoon and I take a seat on my bench, relax my body, take a few deep breaths and begin to pray.

As per two days ago, my body and mind detach and recede into my environment. But this time, my meditation continues differently: without warning, I enter into a lucid daydream. I find myself standing in front of a river, but no ordinary river - it’s the river of my thoughts and feelings, the stream of my internal dialogue. 

The river is deep with strong currents. Crossing seems suicide. I almost give up, when Israel’s exodus from Egypt comes to my mind and the crossing of Jordan into the Promised Land. Is there a deeper, psychological meaning to this story? Then, it occurs to me that I have neither the Ark of the Covenant to herald me, nor the Living God by my side. How can I part these waters? 

“The original meaning of covenant is promise,” the voice whispers into my right ear, “I promise that you will find your true self on the other side. Go ahead and cross.”

I’m relieved to have the voice around. I wait for further instructions, but it remains silent. I pluck up my courage and step into the racing stream and - to my utter surprise - I enter a thick, swaddling darkness. 

I have never experienced such darkness in my life, even my thoughts are invisible. Almost instantly my mind panics.

“This darkness won’t eat you,” the voice comes to the rescue of my frazzled nerves. “Just move ahead.”

Encouraged by the voice’s assuring tone I slide ahead through the darkness. Soon, I reach its end and step into daylight again. I’m looking at a city of white houses covered with red roofs. The city is deserted and not a single soul is present. I wander through its empty streets until I run across a wide avenue leading to a round square at the city’s center. 

In the middle of the square I discover a small, simple house, built of hewn stones, framed with cedar, and decorated with alien, golden ornaments. It appears very old - thousands of years maybe. I hesitate in front of its door. For some reason I know that my true self is inside. I’m afraid to knock. What is waiting behind this door? Will I survive this? Awe is waving through my mind.

My left hand knocks on the door. My body takes three steps back and waits, breathing heavily. The door opens and something comes into view. It’s not a person - rather a being or presence. I try to behold its form, but I cannot see much - my senses are failing me. I can only make out an oval-shaped aura with centers of whirling energy - seven altogether, I think. 

Although I can hardly see it, I clearly feel the being’s luminous presence. It is overshadowing … like a sun, a living, conscious power smiling at me graciously. I step forward and touch it with my right hand. I can sense its vibes. It has a regular and harmonious rhythm, truly comforting and beautiful - like music. Its harmonies are contagious and capture me with grace and delight.