The Return

It seems the old religious axiom " You can petition the Lord with prayer ", actually had validity. Deep within the confines of what we call heaven someone was listening. The spirit we Christians knew as Jesus, that others knew as Budda or Krishna, was attentive to the millions of vibrations that funneled His way. Through the veil of memory, passing the various levels of attainment and soul consciousness, these earnest pleas for help reached Him.

This planet had always seen upheaval, whether by natural or man made means. Wars and injustices were but a part of the blueprint of reality. Not that the heavens wished this upon us; no, on the contrary, our cosmic elders had high hopes for mankind. Yet, they instilled in us the power of free will; thus the battle within each and every one of us between the ego and the spirit. Ego was winning, once again.

He appeared, suddenly, as if through magic ( wasn't He called the " Great Magician " by many?), standing in front of the most important building on the planet. In His hand he held the same cord that He had used in the great Temple over 2000 linear years before. Before the guards could even recognize Him, He was already standing in the lobby of the Great House. At that moment a group was exiting a meeting room. The Second in Command ( or perhaps the true leader ) caught sight of Him. On his flanks were the Secretary of Attack, the Secretary of Mistakes, and a few of the mouthpieces for this coup de' tat. They all stopped dead in their tracks as He approached, cord swinging at His side. Trickles of blood began to flow from His brow, dripping like some leaky faucet of battle. His chest , like some surreal movie screen, now revealed the pain and suffering of the many, those with missing limbs or torn apart faces- all the victims of the lies and the machinations of this group. Tears began to flow from His eyes, as He took upon all that needless suffering and extreme trauma into His being. The Second in Command stood there for a moment, in shock and in awe of this scene. The Secretary of Attack attempted to rationalize for the group - the slashing cord stopped him in mid sentence. The Secretary of Mistakes was about to tell another lie when she too was cut off. They all turned and ran, like thieves in the night! He chased them down the steps of the Great House, slashing and shouting at them! The guards, those still loyal to these false leaders, attempted to shoot Him down, to no avail. The bullets went through His cloak like raindrops through a screen.

He turned towards the entrance, mumbled a few words, and now was standing outside the funny shaped office. Using His powers of a great magician, He was able to walk right in unnoticed. There He stood, facing the desk of the ( seemingly ) most important man of this world. He allowed Himself to be visible once again, and shouted for the Commander in Chief to get up from his hiding place behind the giant swivel chair. Slowly the fellow did just that. They faced on another, for the first time. " Why do you tell the world that you speak to me? We never spoke until this moment!" The Commander in Chief looked down as he answered, not having summoned up the courage to eyeball his inquisitor. He could not answer- the words would not find a way out of his mouth. There was no Rove now to prompt him.... he was truly lost. Once again the visions appeared on His chest, near to His heart. This time there were countless visions, not only of the victims of war, but of hurricanes, and of poverty, and of the suffering of those who get up each morning and work for the handout wages that frequent society. Visions of unnecessary illness and early death due to pollution and unregulated poisoned foods. The Commander in Chief stood there, for seemingly an eternity, forced to watch the grotesque images he helped to create or at least to sustain. Finally, before the cord could be raised, the Commander in Chief turned from his desk and began to exit the room. His face was sullen and shame red. As he reached the doorway, he turned one last time. " But..... you were my role model!"

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Philip A Farruggio is a free lance columnist, small business owner and activist leader. The son of a Brooklyn, N. Y longshoreman, he is blue collar through and through. Since 2000, he has had 60 columns and op-ed posted online in various sites, most notably Op-ed News, After downingstreet .org and counterpunch.com. He can be reached at paf1222@bellsouth.net