Whom Do Men Say That I Am?

Negotiable substances exchanged as a type of currency. Accepted by our areas of comfort, areas which have served to diminish anxiety and provide us with values of identity, identities which we draw comfort from.

Public Image

Yes, there will always be the Public image, a conglomerate consensus, an opinion arrived at by the masses. And then there will always be that conclusion derived from contact. From proximity. In the case of Jesus, there being no truer and sincere being there was no complexity, no indecision, no perplexing of the soul who would come in contact with Him. So much honesty. Simplicity. Brusque appearing even when compared to our customs, our protocols. For He knew why we manufactured our protocols, for they gave us substance where we all lacked.

As for me, I could not breathe. I was suffocating. Yes, suffocated by the Myth I had had to erect of self. No matter if you had stayed and lived with me in the same room day and night, you would not see, even come close to the real me, who I was in truth. Circumstances had created me, but little did I know that those circumstances themselves came out of the impress which man’s fallen nature was subject to. An innate brokenness which crowded each and every one of us. There was a mirroring of this innate monster and that mirroring was incest. Sexual abuse in the house. Great and taxing tolls would emerge from that to swallow all of us up.

“That’s Mickey from the Turbans from the Bronx Zoo Chapter” “Yeah the President of the Young Turbans.” I’d catch a drift of this at an outlying set somewhere in the fringes, where instead I might expect a challenge there was some kind of acceptance out of respect for rep. And this was “Public Image”, an altar of worship built to far remove me from the horror that lay within.

I lived in fear. In fear that someone would become privy to the conflict, my Soul was riddled with. The Anxiety I endured. Yes, prop up the infrastructure, the fiction, the legend. And what? Pay the price, pay the piper in the end?

Blow hot air into the balloon. Have others to envy me. While I too served the unseen, served the Void within to take others with me into oblivion, into the Void, into nothingness. Have them waste eternity also. If I have to endure it why should they not endure it also, huh?

Yes, I was a lie. Living a lie. Prompted by death, death ruling in my household. By contrast, it became expedient that I portray this fearless young man, this envy of all manhood. The negotiable substance purveyed by the denizens of the City, in this case, New York. 

Don’t fool yourself, no.

Even if you live a moderate life, not so exciting, ho hum, you too have been forged by contrast extant in the viewpoint of your loved ones, yes what is accepted as negotiable. You too are propping up the canvas tent for the next performance.

Whom do men say that I am?

They (men, public opinion) said everything which was of a religious type of service, separate man from God. Yes, they named prophets but never came close to God Himself finally, yes, finally taking a hand in man’s passage through life, through reality.

And so it was; But whom do you say that I am? In the privacy of your heart, of your room, of your thoughts “Whom do you say that I am?”

Naturally, the streets of New York did not know my pain. The legend suited them. But now that I live with the Son of God, I know that He is the Christ, the Messiah, the redeemer. Has redeemed me from the chaos of my home suffering under the impress, the death of the Void Innate. I can breathe. I have peace. Being near Him I can say above the voice of public opinion, Thou art the Christ, the Messiah, and I have redemption through you. I can breathe.

Allow me a moment to cry tears of deliverance, of joy, of peace, of love. 

I can be reached at turbans713@kingrat1397@gmail.com, and at Facebook as Miguel Angel Oquendo (of Huachuca City, Az)
Or you can contact these folk; Rev. Bob Schembre (Missouri), or Ministerio APG (Pastor Angel L. Oquendo, Spanish, and English, Florida) both on Facebook



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