Jonathots … December 11th, 2018


Jonathots Daily Blog

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handbook for touching

The light of the body is the eye

If the eye is evil, then the whole body is filled with darkness. But if the eye is clear, then the whole being can be illuminated.

Honestly, these words can sound like a bunch of gibberish if they’re not understood. This is the trouble with a lot of deep philosophy and passages that insist they are “spiritual.”

Let me phrase it this way:

Your eyes belong to you, but what you see was programmed by others.

Even though you may insist that you are the master of your own thinking and the manipulator of your vision, there is so much programming that’s gone into you–from childhood, schooling, experiences, defeats, failures and pain–which clouds your vision and only presents the images that memory will offer.

We are very critical of prejudice, but the fact of the matter is, nearly all of our preconceived ideas are deeply ingrained within our consciousness long before we have a chance to vote on whether to accept them or not.

This affects our touch.

If we don’t like what we see, we don’t want to get near it. If we don’t want to get near it, we avoid it and fear it. And once we’ve decided that someone or some group is foreign, then it becomes necessary for us to rationalize our choice by attempting to prove that the forbidden topic, race, religion, gender or sexual orientation is hampered by evil.

Thus, white people who grow up in a bigoted environment really do think the black race looks a bit like monkeys. That’s how they were taught to see them. Therefore, that’s how they view them. The end result is, they decide not to be around them and the unity brought on by touch is forsaken.

Likewise, black parents who teach their children that Latinos are lazy and not to be trusted raise children that purposely avoid anyone with light brown skin, unless there’s enough pigment to welcome them as black brothers and sisters.

Also, the Latinos do it with the Asians, and within their own culture, assuming that Cubans are better than Dominicans, and Asians assuming that Chinese are superior to Japanese.

Once our eyes have been fitted with a pair of glasses by our upbringing, making us see the world in a certain way, then our bigotry becomes a spectacle.

Because once we’re afraid–once our “eyeballing” of other human beings promotes darkness in our minds, we are certainly not going to want to be near them, to shop with them, to go to church with them or to ever risk touching them.

Without touch there is no fellowship. Without fellowship there is no commonality, and without commonality, there is alienation.

Take some time during this Christmas season to consider the vision you have of life–the way you see those around you.

Are you controlling your own perception? Or do you have people you were taught were “untouchables?”

Because if you’re not willing to touch people with the tenderness of your hands, you will certainly end up fighting them with your fists.

 

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Day One, Part Three — Lighten Up … February 17, 2012

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Jubal hated his name.
 
Actually, he hated people’s reaction to his name. Everybody wanted to misspell it, mispronounce it and certainly, misinterpret it. He often wondered why his parents had made the choice, considering all the “John, Paul, Sam and Tom” possibilities available. When he asked them about it, their only response was, “Special people need special names.”
 
Jubal didn’t feel very special. Aside from the fact that every time he was introduced, some folks would crinkle their brow, trying to fathom the origin of his particular calling card, he felt completely normal, and really, without any outstanding uniqueness.
 
Well, he did have one talent. He enjoyed writing. Not scribbling and scrawling–just poetry and prose. He had even submitted some of his material to some publishers, and was unceremoniously informed that “there was no market for rhyme and verse.” He just smiled. So much like his whole life–there’s just no room in the world for a Jubal.
 
One day, in the midst of deep thought accompanied with a side of self-pity, he decided to stop complaining and create something. He took some of his poems, Xeroxed them and put them into a little booklet and entitled it Jubal’s Nation.  The volume wasn’t very attractive. It certainly lacked Madison Avenue appeal. But he decided it was his “meaningful mess.” It was a conglomeration of what he had learned, felt and discovered during his journey thus far. For Jubal had selected to allow his emotions to be honest, his spirit to seek and his brain to learn, while keeping his body as healthy as possible.
 
The process generated a product–him–and there was a natural light that beamed from that completed package that he felt was worth sharing. So he “published” his little work and passed it out to friends. He passed it out to enemies. He passed it out to everybody who was willing to hold out a hand and receive it. He had just enough funds to print two hundred copies of his little tome, and within three weeks he had dispersed all of them.
 
He sat back and waited. He realized that everything he could do was now complete. He had taken his time to discover the light within him and then had meticulously, through his pen and heart, released that light onto paper. He realized that none of us can offer any more than what we really are. It reminded him of a scripture in the Bible, where God looked on a world He had created and said, “‘Let there be light.’ And there was light.” There wasn’t light because God spoke it into existence. There was light because God WAS light. He might as well have said, “Let there be Me.” Jubal recognized, and even reveled in the fact that when you work on your internal light, you have the right and authority to speak that light into existence. Otherwise, your time on earth is a series of wishes and hopes instead of beams of enlightenment.
 
It took a while. Some time passed before people responded to Jubal about his new little book. He was itching to ask them, but intelligently passed, figuring that it was much too pushy and much too predictable. After a few weeks he received some emails. One lady said that the words arrived in her life right after the death of her husband and took away some of the sense of desperation. Another young gentleman said that he was actually contemplating suicide but had giggled at Jubal’s self-deprecating poems and realized that nothing was quite as bad as it seemed. Some folks actually wanted additional copies, although they suggested an improvement in the printing and the appearance of the work.
 
Jubal was ecstatic. He wasn’t going to be famous–but he never really wanted that. He just wanted to make a meaningful mess, while sharing the honesty of his heart, the seeking of his spirit, the learning of his brain, propelled by the health of his body. He wanted to bring the light that he was into being. He knew, deep in his soul, that no one can shed illumination if they do not already possess the spark. He knew that, just  like God, he was allowed to say, “Let there be light” if he had actually produced some light inside himself.
 
He still wasn’t sure he was thrilled with his name, but Jubal was an excellent name for a poet, if not for a dude. He printed off some more of his stories and circulated them. And that pretty well culminated the lifespan of Jubal’s Nation. But it produced enough light to brighten up his future.
 
Jubal would be more than just an unusual name for an unusual guy. He would always be a poet who was trying to create a meaningful mess through the honesty of his emotions, the seeking of his soul and the discoveries of his brain. From that point forward, he would be that poet who happened to have the really cool name: Jubal.
 
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Below is the first chapter of Jonathan Richard Cring’s stunning novel entitled Preparing a Place for Myself—the story of a journey after death. It is a delicious blend of theology and science fiction that will inspire and entertain. I thought you might enjoy reading it. After you do, if you would like to read the book in its entirety, please click on the link below and go to our tour store. The book is being offered at the special price of $4.99 plus $3.99 shipping–a total of $8.98. Enjoy.

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Sitting One

 I died today. 

I didn’t expect it to happen.  Then again, I did—well, not really.

No, I certainly didn’t expect it.

I’ve had moments of clarity in my life.  Amazingly enough, many of them were in the midst of a dream. For a brief second I would know the meaning of life or the missing treatment to cure cancer.  And then as quickly as it popped into my mind it was gone. I really don’t recollect dying.  Just this unbelievable sense of clear headedness—like walking into a room newly painted and knowing by the odor and brightness that the color on the wall is so splattering new that you should be careful not to touch it for fear of smearing the design. The greatest revelation of all? 

Twenty-five miles in the sky time ceases to exist.

The planet Pluto takes two hundred and forty-eight years to circle the sun. It doesn’t give a damn. 

The day of my death was the day I became free of the only burden I really ever had.  TIME.

Useless.

Time is fussy.  Time is worry. 

Time is fear.  Time is the culprit causing human-types to recoil from pending generosity. 

There just was never enough time. 

Time would not allow it.  Remember—“if time permits …”

Why if time permits?  Why not if I permit?  Why not if I dream?  Why not if I want?  Why does time get to dictate to me my passage? 

It was time that robbed me of my soulful nature.    It was time that convinced me that my selfishness was needed. 

I didn’t die. The clock in me died, leaving spirit to tick on.  

So why don’t we see the farce of time?  Why do we allow ourselves to fall under the power of the cruel despot?  Yes, time is a relentless master—very little wage for much demand.

I died today. 

Actually … a piece of time named after me was cast away.

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