It is Sunday, and although I will not be going to church today, I got to thinking about things sacred and unseen.
I’ve been wondering about what happens to the truly holy man (or woman) is our culture. By “our”, I mean the Euro-American one, dominant in the place I live. And by holy I do not mean religious, for example, ministers, who are for the most part good people, but not always holy.
No, what I mean by holy is talent above and beyond the ordinary. The ability to heal. The ability to move from place to place without (metal) wings. The ability to change shape and form, and being able speak without tongues—among other things. That kind of holy. Sacred. Able to move above day-to-day existence into another shade of being.
In traditional Native American cultures or East Indian cultures or even among the Original Peoples of Australia, being truly holy was to be respected and revered. Left alone. Or, when the need arose, consulted about important matters.
Here in our super rational, Anglo-European culture, on the other hand, I suspect that we may sometimes place them in mental hospitals because they see and hear things most people cannot. Or we relegate them to the fringe of society with terms like New Age and Crystal folks and strange.
We have all sorts of euphonisms for it of course: One card short of a deck. A screw loose. Minus some buttons. Three bricks shy of a load. These folks are not like us, and thus they are to be feared or made less than.
So I am wondering whether these people, if they do exist, might just go underground. To do the works they do, unbeknownst to us. To most of us.
So I am thinking, this quiet Sunday morning.