Sunny Days in Heaven
Spiritual/Political/Philosophical Blog on the Nature of Truth and Falsehood and Heaven

Saturday, February 28, 2004  


Roman senators used to vie and jockey for position in order that they might best catch the arterial spray of the blood of sacrificed animals at religious events. It was good luck to be bathed in blood.

In the baptismal ceremony of Mithraism, the candidates stood under a grate over which a bull was sacrificed so that the blood could pour down on them, cleansing them of sin.

Moses slew a bull and strewed the blood over the crowd.

In Africa, a beloved bishop was beheaded during one Roman persecution. Christians fought to catch his head and blood on towels during the event as it occurred.

In The Passion movie, Mary sops up Jesus' blood, and a few critics laugh at the absurdity of such an action. All so loony Mel Gibsonian Catholic Mariolatry and bizarre female saint nonsense they say.

In actuality, Jesus' blood would have indeed been venerated even prior to his resurrection because of his status among his followers. Even today, you can go among Palestinian Arabs and see them venerate the blood of their "heroes" killed by Israelis or their own bombs.

The Oriental heart and mind is still close to what it was in Jesus' time. Blood was indeed worshipped. Hence, the body and blood of our Lord in the Mass of the Lord's Supper.

Today, our modern pagans worship at the altar of gore ridden movies (and increasingly - TV shows). Our TV news now broadcasts video of death, murder, bloody violence, mutilations, surgeries with nary a word of warning to the viewer.

Yeah, Mary sopping up Jesus' blood -- how silly can you get? People have never considered it sacred and precious a liquid, I suppose. (And the fingernail parings of saints were never put in reliquaries. That would be beyond belief, too.)


Imagine your child had been murdered in the kitchen of your home. There is much blood on the floor. After the police and forensics people had done their job, what would you do? Wash that precious blood away as if it were just another stain to be disposed of?

I think I might very well sop it all up in a towel as I mingled my tears in it, and I might very well place that towel in a hallowed place, in a drawer of a home altar. I would wish in my heart of hearts that I could drink that blood, absorb it all into myself, make it live in some merging with me as I lived in the deep sorrow of such cleavage from my child.

Abraham Lincoln had his dear boy exhumed three times in order to look on him and hold him again when he was President of the United States. Grief makes a lock of hair, a scab of blood, even a fingernail paring sacred.

posted by Mark Butterworth | 2:13 PM |