On Scribes and Pharisees

Thus do I speak unto you of the Scribes and Pharisees, you lovers of truth. If you would venture into orders and groups, needs must you arm yourself with these reflections and words.

Or do you seek to enter Gnostic groups, without armaments and reflection? While divine symphonies emerge from the orchestra, know you not that even many a criminal has learned to play an honest tune?

Or do you expect the angels to be present with their harmonies? To forgive and to bless with their knowledge?

Instead what is common is friction and contradiction; for even upon beautiful buildings are much weeds and corruption.

The worst villain I always found to be one of knowledge, for such souls should know not to kill. While not killing with a hammer, one kills with a smile, which deals much worse than a hammer.

The worst villain I always found to be one of knowledge, for with knowledge comes power, and contradiction. One’s knowledge generally contradicts one’s being. Most only have too much knowledge, and very little understanding of their knowledge.

And on the same note, it is not bad that they know little of the truth, but that what little they know they know badly. The Pharisees have always known too little of the truth, and when you demonstrate the sun of your knowledge to them, you anger them that they know it badly.

If this clown had the choice to live between sheep and goats, he would prefer goats, for at least their coarseness proclaims itself honestly.

Who can condemn these goats when they are innocent in their babbling? But the sheep, stuffed with too much knowledge, always declare, "We are bah-bah-better than you."

These sheep with their meekness hide razor wool, and many would feign humility so that they may sheer with their razor humility.

Such meekness would cut the face of a god, for in its pretension, it thinks itself a god. Thus do I speak about the Scribes and Pharisees, who are filled with too much knowledge.

At least the ignorant are honest in their dishonesty. Their dishonesty announces itself clearly like sounding brass. But the silence of the sanctimonious kills in its irony, for their very doctrine unveils their shrouds.

The silence of the sanctimonious is louder than words. I almost cannot bear that beautiful tunes would come from such bagpipes.

Tiring is this wailing, which calls itself divine. Such beautiful screeching is only fit for funerals, and truly, it has not been the first time that someone died from such noxious tones.

“Knowledgeable and kind am I,” speak the sanctimonious, "and just. That which does not conform to my justice is shame and guilt.”

But do you want to be limited and defined by these hypocrites, you lovers of truth? Painful it is to be placed between a “yes” and “no,” as if one does not understand “yes” or “no"!

Stuffed with knowledge and sanctimony are these erudites, who curse with their blessings. When light shines upon these dusty tomes, they do not look upon their own pages for their guilt.

A dictionary are these bookworms, crammed with too much knowledge. And yet they do not have the knowledge to revise their own lexicon, and for true humility lack a definition.

No, I do not like these Scribes and Pharisees, who condemn with their sanctimony, and bless with their maledictions. To those who invent their own virtue, such priests only offer the fire and the stake.

Is it not shameful that they want to fit your ocean within a bottle? Or that they pollute your fountainhead of wisdom with the inkwell of reasoning? But they are not worthy of your knowledge, which you have wrought from too much pain and solitude.

The wisdom of my folly will always mock the folly of their wisdom. Whenever they strut, I always hear the creaking of floorboards and musty windowpanes. Allergic am I to the dust of such ancient maledictions. Their coffins speak of putrefaction, not holiness.

While affirming themselves mature, many remain yet children, but without innocence. Under beds of pretension hide many monsters, and yet these children ignore that they are their own monsters.

So if you venture into such spiritual company, be warned of these sanctimonious ones. Many of the strong have swooned from the stings of such gadflies, and for their honor suffered terrible injustice.

But let your justice shine freely and with strength. There is more honor in confessing to such executioners that one is guilty, even when one is not. However, one must have much courage, and a fearlessness of death.

But are you willing to die in both your pride and your shame... your poverty and your riches? Can you become a sacrificial offering unto the sun?

Can you live amongst sheep as amongst wolves, when you yourself rage as a wolf and are dying of hunger and thirst?

Can you admit before the council that you are a heretic, even though your justice shines through open eyes? But my brother, these hypocrites do not understand your justice, and so they always seek to put you to shame...

You have heard it said of old: two wrongs do not make a right. But verily I say unto you: a wrong shared is half right. He who has ears to hear, let him hear!

And better to be wrong in one's right than right in one's wrong. But the Pharisees do not comprehend you...

O divine paradox! Do you not see that the very hand which beats you offers you your eucharist? If you would prove the temper of your justice, you must accept both sides of their hand, with equal and honest fervour.

But if it is comfort you seek for in groups, it is better that you remain in your cave. There at least one has the solitude of one's eagle and one's serpent. Upon high mountains with strong air does one remain far away from the rabble and unclean.

Whether in the marketplace or in the temple, do not look for comfort save but from the sun. The sun will always shine upon your happiness without malice. But amongst the hypocrites, you will only have enemies who turn green with envy.

With the Scribes and Pharisees, who squeeze the mosquito and swallow a camel, there is only sacrifice and the dagger. But beware lest you become weak from the loss of too much blood. You cannot absolve them through the innocence they shed from you; therefore, flee into your solitude, where the air is raw and strong.

Tempered and strong is the honor of the just, which bears even the heaviest malediction. But remember that even tempered and strong blades have become cracked and worn from too much malediction. Do not attempt to whet your scythe upon such dull stones. How could you expect to reap a harvest of wheat from such a garden of thorns?

Although every thorn has its rose, such flowers of virtue are exotic and rare in such Pharisees. Too often when they speak of their virtue do they praise their vanity and weeds...

Poor are these gardeners of the spirit, who lack cultivation. If it is repentance and happiness you seek, you must search for it far away from such ravenous jungles. If you let yourself be dazed by their heat, in delirium you will easily mistake their crooked branches for shelter.

Instead, work within your blessed solitude, which does not ask overbearing questions. Your solitude knows how to keep a dignified silence with you. Be like the rebel eagle with the wings of the spirit, which soars upon the cold air of high mountains.

But while you remain in the depths, amongst poverty and crowds and much affliction, you must become anonymous, for the hypocrites love others to be unseen. I love those clowns who hide their beauty in ugliness, in order not to put the king to shame. Meanwhile, such clowns are those truly fit to rule vast kingdoms.

If you would be a king, you must accept the role of beggar, and to learn how to live in humiliation as with honor. I love he who hides his wealth from the covetous, but gives his poverty to the poor, so that he may be truly rich and free from hypocrisy.

Thus speaks Ding Dong.