She looked like a suicide bomber

I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed.
But if it dies…

She looked like a suicide bomber. A terrorist.

Some around her, with sharper eyes than most, noticed her death wish.

They questioned her…

Are you carrying a bomb? Why are you here? Who sent you?

The disaster and crisis management team. The experts.

She allayed their fears.

I don’t carry bombs. I don’t wish to hurt others around me.

Au contraire, mon ami.

I am on a mission to die. Yes, that is true. Just me and my sharp knife.

But my methods are not the methods you fear, though the world fears death.

I die slowly…drop by drop.

The blood I shed is only my own.

They relaxed. Destruction minimization. The contagion contained.

That’s OK then. They replied. You can do what you want with yourself, as long as it does not impact others around you. You are free to do what you want. We are a liberal democratic country. We don’t like to mix religion with our constitution, but you are more than welcome to kill yourself in your despair and lack of direction. That is your right, we grant you that.

Just as long as it does not touch us.

Our apathy must not be threatened by your radical extremism. We don’t like passionate killers.

So she smiled. Her heart was crying, but she smiled, because that was what the world asked of her. And quietly, she killed. The body that was not hers, but her Master’s. She understood…unless the seed falls to the ground…but, in the death of the seed…

And as she took her own life, she was careful. As careful as she could be, in her limited capacity to care and love. She thought she did her very best not to splash or splatter her antiseptic environment with her blood.

But I’m sorry. My blood is messier than I expected. Maybe it is magnetic, seeking others with blood that attracts like to like. I don’t know. All I know is, when I die, my death seeps, and in the dying, the soil is nourished, and my last prayer, is for the seed of hope to grow. And that the lifeblood of my Master, the ultimate non-terrorist, will win. Perfect love casts out all fear. So, love your neighbour as yourself, mon petit Coeur.
“I die for you”… the servant King.

Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.