I am the Great Sun
A poem from a Normandy crucifix of 1632
I am the great sun but you do not see me.
I am your husband but you turn away
I am the captive but you do not free me.
I am the captain; you will not obey
I am the truth but you will not believe me.
I am the city where you will not stay.
I am your wife, your child but you will leave me.
I am that God to whom you will not pray.
I am your counsel but you do not hear me.
I am the lover whom you will betray.
I am the victor but you do not cheer me.
I am the holy dove, whom you will slay.
I am your life but if you will not name me [acknowledge me]
seal up your soul with tears and never blame me.
At this moment, next to you on left and right, behind you and in front of you, sits the divine mother. Sit Shiva, Krishna, Christ, the Buddha, Allah, Yahweh. Everybody you know, you see, you remember, and everyone you will meet is another face of God. Every person is another doorway through. It’s another way that God has come to you to awaken your attachment and your clingings, to bring them to the forefront and allow you to see through them.
And so be as Sri Radha. Be so in love that the love prevents the veil from coming between you and the beloved. When this journey has wended its way, you finally become like Hanuman, who kneels at the foot of Ram. And Ram, in love of Hanuman, tries to raise Hanuman to sit beside him, at which point Hanuman would merge into Ram. But Hanuman makes himself so hard and heavy that Ram cannot lift him. He wants to stay separate in order to remain with the beloved.
Finally, we play right at the fine line between becoming the beloved and standing back one pace, one breath…. And then the breath changes and we merge once again, and then, in the next breath, here we are. It’s the two and the one in a delicate play of love. It’s the whispering of pillow talk between lover and beloved.