“Unless the Golden Lady’s seed falls to the ground and dies,
she will not bear much fruit.” -Michelle 3:16
As Judas this was the inconvenient truth that I couldn’t accept.
So I hung myself from a tree and they buried my body in the Field of Blood.
My soul now agonizes in jazz purgatory waiting for the day of redemption.
I reflect on my own transgressions and emotional dissonance rings in my ears.
Insanity wraps my body as the consequences of my words and actions play over and over again in my head tormenting my immortal soul.
I cannot uncrucify her. My beloved Wambui is dead. It was my pain that nailed her to the cross and my hatred that pierced her back like a cat of nine tails.
I placed the crown of thorns on her processed head and I cast lots for her purple robe.
Oh that I had wings so that I could fly away.
But the damage has already been done, they let me go when they said they never would.
In the land of the living, the walking wounded are infectious and toxic.
The lacerations that my murder suicide left can only be healed by the Balm of Gilead.
The smoke of bridges burned by my gaping heart, choke the love out of the air, and the smell is as putrid as the sulfur that feed the fires of hell.
You see I sold Wambui to the jazz Pharisees for 30 pieces of silver and kissed on her cheek to deliver her like a sheep to slaughter. I thought that as a proud Aries, with the spirit Nzinga, she would be my Messiah, restore my Jerusalem and heal my holy temple. I was a jazz zealot waiting for the violent overthrow of the sexist system and the utter destruction of the RoMANS.
However, Wambui was a lover not a fighter. She was called to be a princess of peace walking in humility and love, not a warring zealot. She was being who God called her to be, not who I Judas wanted her to be. It was my pride and arrogance that caused me to conspire like a rat to destroy this gentle woman. I forgot how I watched with my own eyes her melodic medicine heal the broken hearted on the streets of Jerusalem and feed the spiritually down trodden. She wasn’t a pied piper leading suffers to their death, but an angel of music and a prophetess of love.
I even touched the hem of her own Baby Phat garment to heal the issues in my violated and dysfunctional blood. Like the pools of the Bethesda, I sought out her Purple Palace, so that her unconditional love could wash away the 30 years of pain left by too many. I cried Hosanna in the streets when she rode in, but like everyone else I yelled crucify her when she fell short of our high expectations.
If we who crucified her and used her as our healing space only knew the truth that could set us free. We were all her broken vessels that simply anesthetized our pain with lust, heroin and apple martinis while refusing to look at the condition of our hearts. We failed to understand that the human heart is like a desolate land that is never satisfied by the rain or the fire.
A barren soul only wants more and only knows two words “Give, Give”.
But we like sheep have all gone astray, no one is righteous no not one.
So I ask, despite my treachery what can separate me from the love of Wambui
if she has my Lord’s spirit in her ? Can her death ? Can my sin ? Can trouble, hardship, or persecution? Can misspoken words ? Can a broken marriage ? Can two unhappy kids ? Can tears ? Can hate ? Can resentment and unforgiveness ?
Like a hopeless romantic or an ignorant fool, I say Omnia Vincit Amor. For love covers a multitude of sin. Still, Wambui’s crucified body lays in a white washed tomb.
My soul in Sheol moans in agony like a ghost in a house of horrors littered by broken dreams. My only hope is that the one whose temple was destroyed in three days will resurrect us all.
For if God is truly with us, than Emmanuel is who we need. We cannot call Him, “Lord, Lord “and not do what He says. I have prophesied in His name and Wambui has truly cast out my demons. In our weakness His grace was made perfect. Though my sins are ever before me I know there is no condemnation in Him. He is The Way, the truth and life and his yoke is truly easy though I am a living sacrifice. I have hated my life, so I have gained it. Does Wambui love her’s too much that she will lose it ?
No. Though Wambui stumbles she shall never fall. Adonai allowed me to crucify her so that many might live. You see, Satan knows the price of a soul, but the living do not. He sent Delilah to the door of my heart to steal my love for Wambui and find the secret of my strength. Delilah twisted my mind, stole my vision, and turned me into a jazz Pharisee bent on the destruction of the Golden Lady’s seed. When Delilah rejected me I sought silver and crucified Wambui to win back her love.
But Delilah is her father’s child, who worships at the throne of Kali and like a Siren plays a song of seduction with undertones of destruction. She woes the innocent towards their own death and drinks their blood to satisfy her lust for power. It was she that bought the Field of Blood where my body is now buried. It was her lust that humbled me, so that I now work out my soul’s salvation from the grip of jazz purgatory.
Yet in my agony I can still laugh at her and her father. The strength that they stole for me is being restored and I can feel Wambui’s body stirring in that tomb. I stand on the promise that while my weeping may endure for a night, joy will soon come in the morning. So behold oh Evil one, the rebirth of Wambui is most certainly imminent. The Golden Lady’s seed has fallen to the ground and died. The fruit of her womb has shed many tears but they water dreams of others.
So I decree and declare that while I sacrificed Wambui on Mount Moriah when Adonai provided no ram in the bush, she will be born again as the Platinum Lady. We will all one day rejoice and ask “Oh death where is your sting, oh grave where is your victory.” For we all have been crucified with Christ, and Wambui will shine even brighter than before. Like a city upon a hill, men will see her good works and glorify our Father in Heaven. Because while Satan desired to shift her like wheat, I have prayed that she will overcome and when she does she will go and tell others and lead the exodus to Zion.
Until that time, I Judas wait for my deliverance. My flesh has finally given way to reason and my ankles are bent in submission to the creator. I am exiled in jazz purgatory, frustratingly celibate and playing nothing but the blues with Jamey Aebersold.
God has dealt oh so justly with me.
Yet while just as the death of Wambui brings forth the rise of Platinum Lady, the death Judas heralds the second coming of Lady Miles. So woe to you jazz sinners who have not been baptized in the Gospel. Make way for the coming of this trumpet lord. For once she is resurrected the real battle of Wambui will begin and there will be no prisoners of this great musical war.