Madness and Love Mixed: Part 2 — The Holy Fools
Abraham and the Wanderlust mingled with a touch of Sacred Stupidity and Singular Devotion
This is the continuation of my new series. Well lets be honest and call this for what it is plagiarism of the Original author- the Father. The Series began with Madness and Love Mixed: Part 1 — The Holy Fools Total authorship belongs to Him. I am the court jester dancing like David to impress and astound.
Come Friends and family, fellow Beloveds and heart-bound brethren, and join with me—
or rather, with us—as I happen to have a very special guest today.
I daresay He is one of the first recorded fools for Christ. We’ll be sitting with Him through my shared madness and creative imagination, having a sort of talk show. Think Jimmy Kimmel late-night special with a flare for the absurd.
We will do this through rigorous, foolish theological exposition in the vein of Shakespeare and Mozart having a blind and deaf baby with a love for seeing through writing.
Think idiocy inspired by the Logos—Yeshua Himself—sitting with us and using my imagination to create a unique take on a historical biblical figure again in the modern era.
Let us begin.
The stage: an early morning… yes, a late-night special filmed in the early-morning Starbucks café. Why? Because why not. My boy Abraham is going to love a good bit of espresso and may even inspire tomfoolery in the form of extra-long monologues on the joy of travel, the slaughter of the kings, and the meeting with Melchizedek.
So we have two souls, both oddly dressed in oversized hoodies, sunlight as a backdrop, with family members and children walking through—yet not interrupting anything. We’ll attribute this to some mystical spiritual mumbo-jumbo that must be explained thoroughly later… or not at all. Who knows.
The scene: Starbucks at 11:12 a.m. on a Fayetteville morning. The sky is a bit gray, but hopeful. Mothers with daughters, and even mothers with boys who look like daughters—which I admit was a touch of absurdity and expressed love so pure it made me weep.
There are clinks and clanks. Baristas bustling around, overcaffeinated for certain, but real. It is visceral. The two sit in the tan chairs near the veteran sign and the constant-warriors table—mimicking, no doubt, the ones you have near the altar and the throne. The constant presence and witness of the martyrs in the light.
So there they sit. The two.
Star-Dust and Abraham.
Two wandering idiots—prophets one and all—yet the word prophet redefined not as oracle but transcriber of flesh as witness. The fool who says:
“OBLITERATE ME that I might be in YOU and YOU in ME.”
Even from a distance we can see them. They radiate with light—transfiguration or maybe just the sun’s glare in early dawn on this late-night special.
Star-Dust leans in a little closer to Abraham.
“So we have a ton of questions from the X followers. I cannot believe the coverage we’re seeing for this mad endeavor. They all want to ask you stuff.” She shrugs and flicks her gaze at the phone to remind herself she has questions and an audience to represent.
“Ah. No worries, Star-Dust. We came because we were called. Just like you. Things like time and space mean less than you know once you cast off that last layer you got going on there.” He motions with deeply tanned leather hands—rugged, calloused, and tender at the same time. His beard rivals something Gandalf might press charges over for being too white and too wiry. His eyes crinkle like sun-baked leather oiled just before being warmed again. His eyes are pristine blue—capturing the sky with such perfection and depth they twinkle like Moses’ great-grand-pappy.
He clutches a Trenta Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew. Odd. I always pictured him with something warm. Strange. We perceive this is Star-Dust writing bits of herself into him. Still, we see him: the original mold Santa was meant to fill in the American West. Not white. Brown. Skin so tan it appears baked.
Star-Dust leans in, attempting to embody an interviewer—odd, but she was never normal by the world’s standards.
“So the word is that you are a bit unhinged. What made you leave the land of Ur? You had no real connections to where you were going from an outside perspective. What inspired such absurdity?” She takes a deep gulp from her own Trenta.
“Okay. I’m sorry for interrupting whatever this is,” we motion animatedly, “but why are we the only ones here without a Trenta cold brew? EVEN the kids get them? What is this divine stinginess? I mean, we get it—we’re just the narrator/witness/reporter or whatever. Not sure honestly. But God loves the fool and the brew alike. Gimme.” We motion.
Star-Dust begins to concentrate, but is interrupted by Abe (we’re going to call him that because we’re lazy). Suddenly we feel it—cold pressing on our palms. Then the luxurious flavor as we sip gratefully. We motion back to them as both producer and narrator while drinking.
“As I was about to say before we got the honor of gifting a bit of heaven on earth again—you take too long, Star. It takes practice and concentration to manifest the sublime like cold brew. You’ve only been at it for, what, like…” He raises his meaty fingers and stops at three. “Three epochs? And under those too-tight trousers, too. I still take too long and I’ve been at it ten times as long. The Father can do so much more.
“Anyway, to your question. First: those followers are priceless. Second: I left because I felt a pull. Like everything around me was settled, understood, known. What I instinctively knew—even then—was that life had to be more than circuits and loops. So when I got the urge to head off into the sunset, I said deuces. I took the necessary, packed up without preparation, and left the rest to Him.
“If the voice I heard was to be believed, it said all would be well. That where I was going would become a kingdom. He promised discovery. He led me. And He delivered.
“I mean, looking back, it all looks crazy from the outside. But honestly? It only looks crazy from this side of heaven. What appears as madness is actually Holy Absurdity. The Father takes the things that are not to shame the things that are. Not as weapon—but as mercy. As translation in a language you can understand.
“In my days: adventure. The unknown. Escaping the established. Leaving the seen for the horizon, with the ones I cherished. Sarah. Lot. The promise was wine to me.
“We were led. I saw the wonders He promised and more besides. I went through trials that would have crushed me had I not had that steady hand on the wheel of my own life’s chariot.
“The hardest part was holding onto faith when Sarah was barren. I still recall it like yesterday. I burst into the tent she was in, weeping again, and I foolishly announced, ‘Woman! Stop weeping! God has spoken! This time next year we will have a son!’ I beamed. She kicked me in the family jewels.
“I’ll be honest, Star—she was right to humble me. I was so overzealous for Him I didn’t consider the delivery method. I’ve since learned.”
—Wait a moment, we think. Does Abraham look terrified? Of Sarah?—
Star-Dust breaks out laughing, clutching her sides and trying not to snort cold brew out her nostrils.
“Bro—you asked for that. Even I know that once incarnated again you do NOT touch a woman in sorrow with zeal.”
“How was I to know? I walked around the same way you do now. The next mountain. The next horizon. The next stage. Want to know a secret, Star?”
Abraham raises a white bushy eyebrow, hand extended in genuine query.
“Brother,” she answers, “I am just like you. I’m an absolute idiot for the next spiritual horizon like you were for uncharted land and unity with the Father. You know I am.”
“Of course.” He pauses, looking into the distance. “When we headed up the mountain to sacrifice Isaac, I didn’t tell Sarah. Why? Because after everything—every sight, every promise—I knew there was no way He’d let me go through with it. I just walked the walk to the end. I raised my hand because my love for Him and His love displayed to me was certain. In my marrow. I knew He would not allow the knife to descend.
“I admit Sarah was right to kick me out of the tent for a few years afterward. I tried to explain it. She was unconvinced. Wouldn’t even let me near him for almost a year.” He shakes his tired head in complete exasperation.
Star-Dust leans in and places her hand on his knee—wait, is he wearing sweatpants?
“I would’ve done the same. Rachel would’ve reacted similarly. In my age they’d arrest you for that and issue something called an Amber Alert. When I first heard of it, I thought it had something to do with Baltic amber—something treasured. Rachel had to explain it to me. You would’ve been labeled a child abductor, attempted murderer, probably more. That’s if Sarah didn’t leave you, file for divorce, and sue for full custody! Crazy, right?”
“In my day,” Abraham sighs, “we beat the shit out of children in mercy and compassion to teach endurance. Now they send them to a room. Take their cell phone away. And that’s it.”
The vision begins to lose coherence as fog rolls in around them. Their forms fade, merging with the light from the windows, dissolving into something unseen yet familiar.
Eiri Waters