Raym’s client is looking to recall her past life skills expecting a beautiful experience. She gets far more than she bargained for and has difficulty coming to terms with who she has been.
It is a clear, warm, fresh morning; the pink blossom on the almond trees emits a subtle, sweet and exquisite aroma. I am time travelling in the distant past, walking next to my client Fran, who is one of a group walking through an ancient town. Which one she is, unusually, is not clear to me yet. I watch, invisible to the crowd, as a lean man, near exhaustion, struggles up a dry, stone street dragging a heavy burden surrounded by spectators.
The yelling crowd around him embodies the weirdest mixture of emotions: hysterical anger, incandescent rage mixed with deep grief, profound sadness and despair. Amongst the locals are a few Greeks moving with a small group who are in a state of shock and desolation.
He is almost naked; parts of his beard have been pulled out and he is drenched in sweat and blood. In fact he actually seems to be sweating blood, a phenomenon I have heard of but never actually seen. The cruel headgear he wears cuts deeper into his flesh with each painful step he takes towards the outskirts of the city. Yet behind the intense pain there is a surreal inner calm.
Men in uniform follow the victim as he struggles resolutely on. One brute, their leader, carries a whip with fragments of bone braided into the end of each strand. Instantly recognisable in any time or culture as a pathological sadist, he enjoys making his prisoner suffer.
“Where is your father now? He’s left you well and truly in the shit hasn’t he?”, the brute hisses, as he viscously smashes the butt end of the whip into the staggering man’s spiky headgear.
The throng witnessing the spectacle pushes through narrow streets past people trying to carry out their daily business. Some bystanders care little for the drama unfolding before them – for some the whole spectacle is an annoyance. The procession passes a place of worship festively decorated with flowers and greenery, which creates a bizarrely gay backdrop to the theatrical tragedy rolling by. I am in the crowd now, heading up a stony slope towards a small hill which in the soft morning light looks eerily like a skull.
As we reach the top of the hill I feel an unexpected coolness in the air; what was a typically warm spring day has become atypically cool. The prisoner drops his heavy load on the ground and falls to his knees next to it. He is laid face up on top of it, arms spread wide, as large nails are driven by the sadist in command, through his wrists into the large timber crucifix he has been dragging through the town.
A few look away; most give a hearty cheer. The man on the cross is not well loved.
“Heretic! Blasphemer!” Men with thick, long, black beards are working themselves into a frenzy of hatred for the young rebel who has challenged their dominant paradigm. This is going to be a tough one for Fran to deal with, once I figure out which person she is.
The cross is lifted vertically, slotted into a hole and the man wearing the crown of thorns has his feet nailed in place. Dark grey thunder clouds are forming above us. The cool damp air that they propel towards me is refreshing. I feel an occasional large heavy spot of rain.
There are now three crosses in place with two other men being executed either side of the man with the thorny crown. The dying takes some time, each man resists the inevitable asphyxiation as the lungs fatigue by lifting themselves for a moment, using their legs. Over the next few hours most of the crowd lose interest and melt away, knowing that no one can possibly survive.
Eventually all that remain are some angry old rabbis determined to see the young subversive take his last breath, a handful of bored soldiers and a dozen or so shamefaced friends. Three women kneel quietly before the central cross. He remains very still; the two others groan in agony as the afternoon wears on.
“Break their legs!”, the brute orders, yawning – he has had enough. An act of mercy rather than cruelty, it hastens the inevitable suffocation as the legs can no longer be used to bring relief. Soldiers break the legs of the two man either side of the crowned one. Approaching the central cross one calls out, “This idiot is dead already”.
The man in charge is disgruntled. He stands up grabbing a spear and pushes it into the rebel’s side, to see if he lives.
The crucified one opens his eyes and gazes down at the three women before him. Although in agony he tries to smile at them; as tears well up in his eyes he whispers, “Forgive them”.
This insolence is too much for the brute who immediately pushes his spear deep into the left side of the rebel on the cross.
“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”, the dying one moans as pain tears through every part of his being.
Blood splashes down on the neat red tunic of his Roman tormentor as the spear is removed. There is an explosion of thunder with lightning and the ground shakes as wind and rain tear through the small crowd scattering everyone, apart from the women who remain, still crying.
I must intercede now. I understand what is happening. It is time to collect Fran before she becomes very confused.
As the spirit of the dying man on the central cross leaves his body and becomes one with everything I collect the part of Fran’s consciousness that is there and pull it to one side.
She is bewildered and crying.
It’s OK. I am here, I telepath.
What the f…
Remember we are on a shamanic journey together. You wanted to find out more about who you were in a past life.
This cannot be true. I can’t be HIM. I can’t walk on water and perform miracles… I work in an office! I can’t possibly be who I think I was. I’m making this all up. This is bullshit.
It is true. But it is not that simple. I call on the Master Yodheshinwa, whom we call Jesus, please come close to us now.
We are immediately enveloped by complete and utter unconditional love and we both start crying. I ask the Master to explain what has happened and why we were called here. He does so far more eloquently than I, using holographic diagrams and soft words.
Fran, along with thousands of other souls, entered a pre-birth agreement with this Master that, providing all her karma was cleared during this lifetime, they would soul braid. Their consciousness would be braided together but remain separate, enabling the Master to incarnate (incognito) in many thousands of places simultaneously, continuing his service to the planet, without any interruption. This revelation creates the opportunity for her to achieve great things. She could be come a great teacher herself, a guru, a global peace worker or healer.
It is all a bit much for Fran but I can see the level of ecstasy she is experiencing is overriding logical thought.
The Master departs, explaining that Fran has free will and that she might like to take some time to consider her future. Together they may be of great service to humanity – it is entirely up to her. I have witnessed this revelation before, it can change people’s lives profoundly, if they allow it. Some do; some don’t.
We accept his blessing and return to this time and place. I am gentle with her – it’s a lot to take on board. We chat for a while as she slowly comes down to earth.
“The three women in front – one was his mother, Mary, right?”
“Yes, in fact they were all called Mary”.
A thoughtful pause.
“Who was the beautiful pregnant woman with long red hair? What was his relationship with her?”
I smile at the totally perplexed look on her face. “I’ll leave you to figure that one out.”
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