In his dream, the Pope was again seated in a ballroom where the Divine Comic was performing. Funny God. But this time no one else was present in the room except the Pope and the Divine Comic. No holy hordes were there, no clerics, ministers, ecclesiastics, prophets, preachers, priests, monks, mystics, lamas, nuns, rishis, rabbis, holy men, holy women; no feathered angelic clown with drum kit and cymbal (no bada bing).
A spotlight sat in a perfect halo around the celestial performer, who stood upon a stage that was staged upon a buried ancient Etruscan altar. Then the Divine Comic spoke to the Pope quietly, gently, and with kind eyes:
God has possessed you rotten, kid. So forget God! I’ll let you in on a secret: God does not mind not to be in mind. Here’s another secret: the only REAL spirituality is in the mundane, in the ordinary activity of life: doing homework with an eight-year-old child: spelling ‘company’ and ‘giant’ in a brightly lit den. Listen up! There’s a girl in Saint Anne’s city you must adopt and raise as your own.
With a jolt the Pope awoke, scales falling from his eyes, eyes widening into perfect circles, mind released into flawless clarity, recognizing with immaculate precision, sensing, understanding, knowing what must be done:
A b d i c a t i o n
Then the Pope collapsed back into his pillows and sheets, sleeping a deep, deep, peaceful, dreamless sleep.
Featured image ‘Canonization 2014’ by Aleteia Image Department via Flickr