Thanks, too

“If you talk to God, you are praying. If God talks to you, you have schizophrenia.” So said Thomas Szasz. I wonder if such tongue still belongs in chic now, post publication of Neale Donald Walsch’s conversations.

Well, be that as it may, I was speaking with someone the other day. I hesitate to identify my source. Not that it is top secret. Nor I am afraid of breaching confidentiality. My fear is that you will begin to quibble with me. Yes, quibble.

Evade the point of the argument by caviling about words. Raise frivolous, trivial objections. I swim into this every day. And I assure you, it is quite alien to the workings of this pirate mind. After all, what’s in a name?

After all, Isis has 10,000 names. The so-called last Renaissance man, Athanasius Kircher, diagrammed the myriad names of God in his pre- Enlightenment era depiction of Egyptian hieroglyphs. And Islam traditionally identifies 99 names of God known here, with one other name given to those who enter heaven. The Shemhamphorisch is a 216-letter name of God generated by the medieval kabbalists from the book of Exodus. It consists of 72 groups of three letters, each of which is the name of an angel. Satanists use this name in an inverted form to desecrate it. Hildegard of Bingen in her specially created language of lingua ignote known only to herself gave God the name Aigonz. In Judaism G*d’s name is not said or erased, but is represented in the tetragrammaton. Christians are forbidden to use the name of God in vain, and they identify the Christ as the Word of God, enfleshed name. Even the pirates can lay claim to Nori.

So this naming has been over vast time and space. We say God, god, Allah, yidam, diety, spirit, ancestor, archetype, father, mother, avatar, murti, dharmakaya. Without end. And we quibble. And I, for one, am tired of it all.

Yes, I am.

Enough analysis, I was saying to my friend. There is only one thing that is important to me now. I must ask it, for it is eating a hole in my mind, burning an etching of its limitless importance into my fragile vulnerability. I don’t care about anything else. I am sick at heart with fear in the naming of my query.

My friend was quite calm in the face of all this, and just looked at me. I had crossed the Rubicon. Now I had to ask.

Tell me, do you love me in every moment, madly, without control or constraint, no matter what I do, unconditionally? Am I present in your mind with infinite tenderness and possibility, tirelessly, passionately? Am I a sine qua non for you?

My friend did not hesitate, but gave an immediate and clear answer that was body language and sound beyond hearing, that both wrapped me in a blanket and set me on fire. Yes.

A moment later I was the inquiry receiver.

But you: Do you love me? In my every guise? In every moment? Do you recognize me as I am loving you? In every god? In every dog? In slain and slayer? In Nidal Malik Hasan shouting “Allahu Akbar” and in Kimberly Munley returning his fire? In the distressing disguise of those who peddle dullness, rigidness, and confusion? In John Allen Muhammad and in legal executioners? And in sacred circles and labyrinths and feasts like those in Plymouth and St. Augustine? In the mereness of rainbows?

What could I say? Only a small utterance emerged: thank you.

Our word thank comes from the Old English for thought, from the Latin tongere, meaning “to know.”

To know the absolute piracy of love, to know with confidence that I am its mark, in every emerging game with nothing to lose, I am full of thanks. So full and so empty, ready to give and to take, for every naming, thanks, too.

In this our personal encounter, I am. Slain in the spirit, grateful beyond naming, I am.

— Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse who hopes to inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx ma y be wearing a pir ate cloak of in visibility, but emanating fr om within this shado w is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who kno ws: You may e ven inspir e the muse. Make contact if you dare.