Making molehills out of Mountains

In the cartoon, an army of woodsmen furiously wield their axes, wood chips flying left and right, scattering the pieces that mean the death of a giant. They dance and celebrate as it begins its final fall. Loaded onto a train, transported to the mill, it enters one end of the long building. The wine and burr of saws and great blasts of steam and smoke reveal the energy expended in processing the behemoth. Finally, a baby carriage exits. Someone bends tenderly, peeling back the coverlet to show the face of a brand new baby—toothpick. It wails its entry into the world-the product of hundreds of years of growth and great gouts of energy. Created in the 1930s, when the forests of the Northwest seemed endless, the trees large enough to build a house in and man’s ingenuity seeming to stretch into the future forever. It was an allegory worth tending. I was probably eight when I saw it, having snuck away to my friend’s house-the one who owned a TV. A couple of years before my father’s death, I told him about the cartoon. He remembered it from his own childhood in which it was shown between movies in his local theater. I don’t know why the simple images of that cartoon stuck in both our minds, but it meshed recently in my mind, with something which, I believe, is one of the viruses weakening the body of Christ, His universal, across-all-boundaries church, His Ecclesia, His betrothed Bride-to be. Let me explain. For most of my life, I belonged to a denomination who held 27 doctrines to be the essence of Christian life and which were sacred to them as the portal of everlasting life. In the last couple of years, they have added a 28th—not quite sure how they missed it when they were formulating the original 27… A person convinced of the “Truth” would confirm their belief in all 27 (28) doctrines read with great solemnity by the pastor and then would undergo water immersion in a tank of water in the front of the congregation. This signified joining “The Remnant” church-the last gasp of humankind to be ready for Christ’s Second Coming. Whatever communion you hail from has some similar list of doctrines in whose belief or rejection, opens or closes the doors of admission and to salvation itself. Now, just how does one go about making a molehill out of a mountain? The aphorism from which I have inverted the title for this essayist, “making a mountain out of a molehill “putting into a pithy saying, someone’s actions or thinking which attaches to a small event or task a much larger significance. The reverse, as in the cartoon, takes great energy, many person-hours of study, and reflection; many days spent in selecting just the right text to create a chain of logical proofs to pare down the glories of god’s grace into a few rules of belief. For example, the Seventh-day Sabbath is one “testing” belief for my former denomination. Here’s how they put it on their web site (www.adventist.org): The seventh day (Saturday) is an extra-special part of the relationship. The Bible, from Genesis through Revelation, describes the seventh day as the one day God has set aside for focused fellowship with His people. God has named that day "Sabbath" and asked us to spend it with Him. "Remember the sabbath day," He says, "to keep it holy." The Sabbath is a whole day to deepen our friendship with the Creator of the universe! A day when we're together, Jesus with us and us with Jesus. As an aside, when reading this web page, I found that the doctrines have been completely rewritten into language that is very friendly and inviting. No more barebones statements of legal fact, but an inviting language of family, friendship and love. They have also not mentioned a few doctrines which are a bit less easily put into a family-friendly format, such as leaving pork, shellfish and buzzards off the dining room table. Another is the insistence that Ellen White be recognized as a recent-history inspired-of-God prophetess whose writing interpret correctly the Holy Scriptures. Interesting. Anyway, back to mountains and molehills. The concept of spending time establishing a relationship with God is condensed into a “day of worship” required by God as an entrance test into the denomination and into His Kingdom. The wonder and awe of coming to know Him, is compressed into a day. He who invites our worship in spirit and in truth is sandwiched between sundown Friday and sundown Saturday-He Who contains the universe within Himself, He Who died to break the chains of The LAW, portrayed (winsomely, no doubt) as a Being who demands 1/7th of our time as a special day. How the mountain of He Who is all, is pared down to one day, a bit more or less than 24 hours, depending on the season of the year. I illustrate at the expense of this particular denomination. But the truth is that all denominations, even most of the liberal, have some litmus test of fellowship and therefore entrance into the kingdom of God itself. We make a list of rules and point to the small pile of dust: “Here is the mountain that contains God. Worship here.” We settle for such small bits of Him, when a vast mountain range, a continent, an ocean, a universe cannot contain Him or all that He is. Blow away the pile of dust with a flick of the cleansing broom and turn to Him Whose vastness cannot, comprehended and in Whose vast heart we always have and always will find our peace, the true Truth who woos and wins and draws us to Himself. Less, less of that which I can write into rules, creeds, statements of belief; More more and still more of You Yourself, seen, experienced, touched and tasted in my spirit. Note: Here is the “official” doctrine (Number 20 in the list of 28(as voted by the denomination in session.: 20. Sabbath: The beneficent Creator, after the six days of Creation, rested on the seventh day and instituted the Sabbath for all people as a memorial of Creation. The fourth commandment of God's unchangeable law requires the observance of this seventh-day Sabbath as the day of rest, worship, and ministry in harmony with the teaching and practice of Jesus, the Lord of the Sabbath. The Sabbath is a day of delightful communion with God and one another. It is a symbol of our redemption in Christ, a sign of our sanctification, a token of our allegiance, and a foretaste of our eternal future in God's kingdom. The Sabbath is God's perpetual sign of His eternal covenant between Him and His people. Joyful observance of this holy time from evening to evening, sunset to sunset, is a celebration of God's creative and redemptive acts. (Gen. 2:1-3; Ex. 20:8-11; Luke 4:16; Isa. 56:5, 6; 58:13, 14; Matt. 12:1-12; Ex. 31:13-17; Eze. 20:12, 20; Deut. 5:12-15; Heb. 4:1-11; Lev. 23:32; Mark 1:32.) 11.24.12

Outliers

Prior to the 1970s, as scientists did their calculations, a normal statistic would often show plots of results close to a line. In other words, things were as they assumed they would be. But in almost every calculation, some of the points were scattered outside of the predicted pattern. These were puzzles to the scientists and were dismissed by them as anomalies, outliers. Some artifact in the data, some error of computation caused them and they were dismissed. Then someone started looking at these data points and a whole new science was born-the science of chaos. Chaos is really a misnomer. It should really be called the science of macro organization because it deals with very large systems such as the universe, hurricanes, weather, solar systems. Taking a hurricane as an example, the points on the scientist’s graph which lie along the “correct” line are like standing within the hurricane. We feel the wind, can measure it, show its direction and speed. Chaos is seeing the hurricane from a satellite and being able to describe it shape and components, photograph the whole and begin to understand the dynamics of it. When the Spanish were marauding the New World for gold and slaves, they could only exist in the local: the season of the hurricanes, trying to survive if caught in one. But now our vision and our math can begin to view the hurricane as a whole system. Now predictions can be made, paths tracked and warnings given based on this science. Christianity as lived in its myriad denominations, is like the scientist’s graph. Most belief systems fall within a fairly close pattern. There is a basic “orthodoxy” revealed in the creeds and doctrinal sets each deploys as an attempt to describe God and man and their relationship to one another. It is a bit like standing out in the hurricane: some things are clear, but most is noise and disorganization and frankly destruction. Perhaps the great gift to someone by the great Giver will be that of a macro lens through which to view Him and His actions, His attitudes and expectations. As an “outlier,” I would that we might all be able to view the entirety, not just the line. Perhaps this would destroy some of the animosity, some of the dividing walls that make it impossible to talk to one another. May we each one look through that lens which sees beyond the border of our confining boundaries and join with fellow believers in celebrating the hurricane which is His love for us displayed in Jesus Christ our Lord. 10.23.12

Life and Death and Life

Farley Mowatt and his new bride traveled through Europe a few years after World War II seeking memoria of battles and stories of a time recently past. Farley served with the Canadian Army in Italy and the war was fresh to overflowing in his mind as he visited the battlefield on which he nearly died. Another battle, hardly known outside France took much effort to discover. Local residents would not talk about it; the memories were too fresh and cut too deeply. The area sits high atop a plateau, protected on all sides by steep escarpments and reached, at the time, only by treacherous unpaved roads. The French Resistance exploited its natural defenses from which to launch vicious and nearly-successful raids on the Germans spread out on the plains below. Their tactics succeeded to the point that the Germans were forced to divert troops from Normandy Beach to quell the resisters. Finally, the Germans had enough. They mounted a full-scale assault on the fortress. In days of bloody battles, they finally defeated the partisans. Soldiers, resistance fighters and civilians alike were rounded up and slaughtered; a grim chapter in a grim war; one of a \n almost continuous grim saga which is the history of Europe. Mowatt and his wife found small cairns of rock at locations along the roads with names of those murdered; grim reminders of a time when a whole nation became a serial killer. As a child, riding in my parents' auto, we drove through lush green canyons of corn growing from the rich Iowa loam of central Iowa. Dotting the roadside were crosses; here one, there five. I was horrified to learn these crosses marked the site of an accident in which some was killed. In my childish mind I saw five crosses where our family met their untimely demise. The terminus of death, marked in both locations in memorium; one to accidental and senseless death and the other to inhumane slaughter of purposeful vengeance and bestial cold-hearted murder; death by coincidence of time and place, marked by a roadside memorial. Is death truly accidental, based on a coincidence of time and place and circumstance? Or, conversely, is death a timed event, no matter how apparently accidental, a planned event ass the narrator of Johnny's Got His Gun says, "Somewhere there is a factory manufacturing the shell with my number on it"? If death is unplanned, then we have every right to fear the next moment, the next car ride, the next landing, the serial killer roaming uncaught in the region. If death is a future calendar event, marked in red on His great timetable, we need have no fear; all is in His loving hands. He knows, He gathers into His fatherly arms each at her appointed time and manner. Some view God through this latter perspective with anger and dread; I think it is one more way in which He invests us with faith and trust in His benevolent love; a Mother rocking her babe in her arms, singing a simple tune with comforting words to her fretful infant. Knowing this, having confidence in this, we can cease our restless anxiety and relax into the momentary sleep that wakens into His glorious eternity. Since his days are determined, The number of his months is with You; And his limits You have set so that he cannot pass. Book of Job’s Sorrows Chapter 14 Verse 5 The LORD knows the days of the blameless, And their inheritance will be forever. LORD, make me to know my end And what is the extent of my days; Let me know how transient I am. Book of Psalms Chapter 37 Verse 18 and Chapter 39 Verse 4 " 10.20.12

Happy Captives

Chains clanked; a macabre rhythm of sorrow, pain and far too often, of death. Blood dropped dripped from the wound caused by the chafing of the coffle around his neck. Bare feet shuffled in the dust, raising great yellow clouds which filtered the sunlight and signaled the presence of the slave procession for miles on either side of the trail. Captured, imprisoned, sold, he knew his fate existed in a future time and unknown place, full of hopelessness and pain. Too weary for tears or anger, his only thought of making enough steps to rest in the evening chill around a campfire. The thin gruel of the evening meal loomed in his mind as real and as rich as the banquet held in his honor the night before the betrayal. Agony of mind and body surged and waned as he relived the capture and anticipated with terror, his future. Words cannot express the unhappy lot of a captive. Whether taken as a slave from Central Africa to the slave market on the coast or a prisoner of war or of a displaced person forced from home and hearth by war, famine or earthquake, the lot of the captive and refugee is bare minimal subsistence and terrible uncertainties. However, there is one procession of captives which does not fit the mold. It is a festal parade, full of the vanquished, the utterly defeated, the destroyed and defeated ones of God. He breaks the nations with a rod of iron, subdues His enemies, wades in their blood, shatters their bones and they rejoice in their defeat. Defeat, for these captives of the Most High are not just content to accept their fate, they rejoice in it, revel in it. Enemies once, their battle lost, they find their true selves, their true love, the One who died Himself to bring them into this joyous slavery, this rejoicing train of freed captives. What a joy to be dead, to be raised into this new captivity, this happy captive throng. The chariots of God are myriads, thousands upon thousands; The Lord is among them as at Sinai, in holiness. You have ascended on high, You have led captive Your captives; You have received gifts among men, Even among the rebellious also, that the LORD God may dwell there. Book of Psalms Chapter 68 verses 17 and 18 11.1.12

Slave Coffle

The unyielding, sun-heated iron collar blistered my tender skin and its unfinished edges lacerated my raw flesh. A lifetime of wear had not smoothed its edges or callused my skin. My head bobbed and jerked to the random rhythms dictated by those, one step before and after, to whom I was chained. My bare feet shuffled the dusty path, contributing to the cloud which veiled the hot sun in a ruddy glow and choked my breathing. I wished for the freezing snow and cold rain of winter, but violent shivering and deep mud were only variations on the theme of misery. Plodding, I hoarded my meager energy. Heaps of bones line both sides of the path, mute testimony to those who had already expended their last ounce of strength. Ahead, a woman's voice sang a popular song. Those chained around her joined in. They passed a flask and a white powder carefully between them. In merriment they sought forgetfulness. Laughter rippled along the line as a ribald joke was passed from mouth to mouth. Behind me, two discussed theology. I joined them, debating and arguing over the finer points of doctrine and the pursuit of knowledge about God. We anesthetized our pain in intellectual pursuit and prided ourselves in being religious; better than the rest. As the human chain rounded a bend, I was transfixed by the sight of a woman's lewd dance. She gathered the stares of men to herself as if the sense of her own attractiveness would heal her soul. I lost track of the intellectual conversation in the sight. For a few moments, the sensations drowned out the pain and discomfort of my slavery. The warp to the woof of our pain was pleasure: we Exchanged it, bartered it, sold it. It seemed as necessary as air. Ahead of me, the chain sagged. Those who carried the sudden extra weight on their necks cursed and strained. A shadow materialized, spreading a loathsome, stinking miasma of death and decay around us. In comparison, A Leper's disfigurements seemed beautiful. The apparition unlocked The body and tossed it aside, a silent new member in the piles of bones that fenced our way. Its putrefying stench would soon add to the misery of our journey. Death is our only escape from this hellish life. Once, long ago, I thought I had escaped. I ignored the angry words of those travelling nearest me as I thrashed about, desperate. The iron seemed to yield, and I instantly leaped over the bone barrier. Before I took two steps, the claws of a shadow horror encircled my throat with superhuman strength. With a scream of fury it thrust me back into the line of walking death and abound my hands behind my back. I shuffled with the rest, mesmerized by the unending motion, lulled into a soporific half sleep. A wave of derisive laughter swelled along the line. Its object became clear as By slow inches, I shuffled forward. A strange man stood on the piles of bones. His clothing was ordinary, but stripes of dried blood welded the shirt to his back and a round blotch of dark crimson sealed it to his side. A circlet of dried thorns crowned him. Their hard unyielding spines penetrated the tender flesh of his brow, fountains for Bloody streaks which coursed down his face. His beard was matted with the blood. It dripped from his beard to his shirt, creating a pattern of fresh crimson blots on his shoulders and chest. One man from the line struck him on the head. Laughter rippled around the perpetrator. He spat, a parting contemptuous gesture. This new insult added to the accumulation which covered his face and dripped from his beard. Blood and spittle soaked, his shirt clung to him, revealing ribs standing out clearly as if he was near starvation. He held his hands out to the one who struck him, revealing gaping blood-encrusted wounds in his wrists. "…free…," the word exploded in my mind, absent its context, but capturing my entire attention. "Would you be free?" he asked the one in front of me. "I am free!" He retorted, blaspheming. I stared at the marred face. He turned to me. The line seemed to stop. I could not breathe. An eternity passed as he read my soul to its very depths. He knew my longing, the pain of my enslavement, my desperate attempts to free myself. He understood. He held out his hands to me and asked. "Yes," I said. His word freed me. The collar fell away. The knot holding my wrists slipped to the ground. A shriek of death-wings surrounded me, enveloped me, but I was not afraid. Joyous Peace filled my mind. Falling to my knees, I clutched His wounded feet and worshiped Him. I felt the bones of dead men beneath my knees but the life of him who died for me flowed from his wounds into my soul. "Free, free, evermore free," reverberated in my mind, the antithesis of the hopeless cry of my soul but a moment before. I felt the cleansing touch of His blood as it dripped on me from His wounds. I heard the welcoming words of acceptance and love. The power of a new mind, of a new me, surged in my veins and cascaded down the nerve fibers of my body. "Free, free, everlastingly, eternally, free." 01.31.99

Exhibit Z

“An now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will step forward with me to the next exhibit, you will see Exhibit Z. Frankly, he isn’t one of my personal favorites. In the previous Age, he lived a rather mundane life; ordinary to boring, if you will.” The guide coughed and smiled at his own little joke. “But it pleases His Grace to include him in the rotating order of exhibits. He is not like Saint Paul, over there,” half turning, he pointed over his right shoulder, “Now there was a real witness. Traveling for thousands of miles when transportation could only be considered hard, long and dangerous, he turned the world upside down, as he himself said. His letters were some of the most influential writings throughout the age of the cross and thousands were led to His Grace through his influence. In my book, Paul stands on a high pedestal over all others, even Peter who was sometimes a bit of a flake.” “but what about this Exhibit Z?” came a voice from the back of the tourist group. “He was born in the middle of the 20th Century, a time known for its violence. Those of you born before that time have no doubt experienced the Historicon and were able to sense the tension and fear in that time. It was quite different from the fears of earlier ages when battles were fought by armies and in which civilian populations were relatively unscathed by the battles themselves at least until the battle was won or lost.” “What was so different?” came a young voice at the front of the crowd. “They were threatened by nuclear weapons,” answered the guide. “This meant that now the whole world could be blown to bits.” “But let me get back to our exhibit before we move on to some of the significant events in the days just prior to the closing of that age.” He turned and scanned the audience, then continued. “If you notice, the graph at the back of the exhibit, shows a timeline of exhibit Z’s relationship with His Grace. For most of his life, Z was quite dogmatic, believing the sad tale of his particular group that His Grace wanted his obedience to Moses’ laws. He believed them, taught them to his family and worked for his group spreading the lie. But, unlike Paul, he was rather an anemic enemy of His Grace. Nothing he did made any major impact, though his children and wife suffered under it and all three became less involved as time went on. You will also notice the rebellion line which swings violently up and down. The high of course, is the times when he was most rebellious; the lows are when he pulled himself up by his bootstraps and tried to live what he called ‘a good life.’ At first the line has a gentle rise and fall, but later, in that middle time in a man’s life when all the hopes and fears of the young man become reality, the swings become more dramatic and closer together finally ending up in a rather extended period of rebellion. Even in this, though, he was rather mediocre. He just sort of oozed into rebellion, keeping it well covered. Neither great saint nor great sinner, he lived his ordinary life until His grace confronted him. You will note the image of the meeting he was in at the time, there on the left. Notice his fidgeting and the boredom on his face. If we could hear his interior monologue, we would hear his discomfort at being there-they were discussing Romans at the time, Paul’s great exposition of grace. It is obvious he doesn’t want to be here, but endeavoring to keep his life a secret, he can’t be too different from his religious outer life. Now watch right here. See the change? He is startled by a thought which seems to come from nowhere. Now we know, by his own statements, what the thought was. ‘It came unbidden’ he says, ‘I was sitting there and suddenly the thought came to me, “I believe in Jesus.” It wasn’t a conscious thought, a logical progression of facts, a choice, but a sudden realization of a fact.’” The guide sipped from a flask of water. “I see what you mean,“ said one tourist, “His life seems ordinary, but isn’t he much like the most of mankind, even those who followed His Grace?” The guide thought for a moment and said, a bit reluctantly, it seemed, “Well, yes, I suppose that is so. Perhaps it is like His Grace said in His earth years, ‘…so the works of God might be shown in him.’ It is true, that, as you may notice, that Z’s life took a rather dramatic turn, with fewer and fewer rebellions, but he still did next to nothing for the cause of His Grace. He was a minor player in his lifetime. I still puzzle over his inclusion.” The air suddenly seemed to vibrate. A light too intense for even heaven-accustomed eyes, glowed around them. Warmth enveloped them and each felt a joy and peace that could only come from the immediate presence of His Grace. “Ah my dear Guide,” said a voice which came from everywhere and nowhere, felt as much as heard. “You know me far too little--even after ages of leading these tours. I did what I did for just such as him; he became as a little child and lived and trusted Me. His story is exactly what I wanted it to be and, in his own tiny sphere, contributed to My kingdom. You favor Saint Paul. He’s a good friend of Mine, too. So I want you to remember something he once said when he was writing a letter to my gathering in the town of Ephesus: ‘…so that in the ages to come, He might show the surpassing riches of His grace in kindness toward us, in Christ Jesus.’ It’s not just the great things done with energy and valor that makes one worthy to be an exhibit here in the Hall of Fame; it is much more often small things done from a heart overflowing in unconscious reaction to My love which bubbles from the hidden spring of a yielded heart.” There was a pause, as if the Voice were thinking. “You know, my friend, my beloved guide, I think I’ll send you back to school. It’s been many ages since you were in school, hasn’t it?” “Yes.” The guide responded. “Well its settled then. Take your time, we have plenty of that,” He chuckled and the sound was music. “I’d like you to do a research paper on Exhibit Z. Examine his life, talk to him, listen particularly for how he views his own contribution to showing My glory, My grace in kindness to him and to his family. Would you be willing to do that?” “Why yes, of course. Shall I stop leading these tours?” “Just for now; You will be an even better guide after you know Exhibit Z a bit better.” The light dimmed and faded, its evidence betrayed only by a residual glow on the faces of the group and their guide. They all turned to Exhibit Z and saw that his face glowed even more brightly. 11.5.12

Thanatopsis Revisited

Death became real to me one dark Friday evening. There were five of us in the car, two adults and three young boys, all of us around ten years old. The adults were leaders in our church youth group. Both worked in a hospital and had emergency training. We were on our way to join others in a weekend camping trip. Traveling east from our suburb of San Diego into the back country, a place of few houses and fewer lights. As we approached a curve, a spray of sparks arched across the road in front of us; a single headlamp wavered and crossed in front of us, then disappeared into the ditch on our side of the road. The driver braked. Both adults ran to the scene of the accident. We waited, silent with dread. After the ambulance’s arrival, we drove on. One of the men said, “There were two of them on the motorcycle. The passenger broke his leg. The other one caught the handle bar in his chest. He didn’t make it.” For years, thoughts of that night haunted me; driving at night became a silent terror. Mortality and immortality; this life and the next played a constant low-level dirge accompanying all of my adolescence. To make matters worse, the denomination to which my family belonged believed in eternal life for those who kept the rules, including all ten commandments. We focused a great deal on last-day events. Eventually, as I trained for the pastorate, I was able to lay out in exquisite (or was it “excruciating”) detail, the sequence of events which would herald and precede the second Coming of Christ. We knew that those who didn’t believe as we did would be “lost” and would eventually be destroyed forever-no hell for us, or rather being burned alive was a shorter hell than believed in by those other denominations—those “false” denominations. Vaguely we had an inkling that Jesus was involved in our salvation in some way—after all, we quoted John 3:16 as our favorite text whenever asked. But eternal salvation was an elusive target. We never quite knew whether we were saved or not, primarily due to counsel written a hundred years before by our “prophetess” who stated that one should never say “I am saved” as that led to pride. I suppose she was right, if one believes that one’s own obedience is the key that unlocks the gates of heaven. This second layer of dread made the first even more potent. What if I died tonight and wasn’t saved? I knew I would burn into nothingness in the hot fire of God’s condemnation and never ever know anything again. I suppose that is somewhat less traumatic than a forever-burning hell, but to my mind, at that time, not a great deal. The concept of “eternal” and “eternity” were fraught with anxiety-eternal life, eternal death-both clanged in my mind constantly. That future time loomed on an ever-changing distant horizon—now imminent; now distant, but always hovering. The Second Coming was supposed to be a joyous event, but for me it held only terror. Since recognizing that God’s grace is all; that He does it all, even supplying the faith to believe, the future has lost its terror for me. In addition, the words “eternal” and “eternity” have come to mean something quite different. Just to set the record straight for what follows, I absolutely and unequivocally believe that there is an eternity awaiting past the next step in God’s unerring plan. But what has been opened to me cheers me immeasurably. And it’s based on a chronically mistranslated word in the Greek New Testament. The word is aion. It has been transliterated into English as “eon.” We usually think of an eon as a long time as in “It happened eons ago. We sometimes use the word “age” or “era” for the same concept. Greek used it in a similar way: The “eon, age, era” of a ruler, for example. It could denote a period of time of thousands of years or of a relatively short period of time. New Testament translators, however, added some meanings to it; sometimes translating it as “age,” sometimes as “world” but most often as “eternity” or “eternal” in its adjectival form. In that most famous and beloved text, John 3:16, we should render “eternal” as “in this age” or “age-long” life. For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes on Him might have life in this age (here and now; age-long). This is part of that wondrous Good News proclaimed by the angels at His birth. Jesus and His apostles, when speaking of the aeon, were assuring us, over and over, that the future Life has broken out, a glorious plague, in the here and now. Its rampant infection is overwhelming the darkness of this age and propels us into a multi-dimensional state of being right here and right now. Those who know not Him who is the Doorkeeper into this duality, see only the darkness; we to whom this has been revealed, see with faith’s eye, that which is invisible to the natural, unaided eye. Neither night nor blindness; depth of cave nor of sea can obscure the glory of the other side, this timeless Time outside of time. That which is to come already is. We are in a twilight zone or rather a dawn zone in which the night struggles desperately to hold us back while the light of dawn strides confidently forward toward the ultimate noonday brightness of His appearing. Death is swallowed up in victory. Even though we die, we have already been subsumed into that eternity of which I was so fearful. I can now march with confidence toward that brief night of quiet rest awaiting the trumpet blast that will waken me to that other Age, that new Eon which will have no end. Being raised together with Christ (Ephesians 2:4) you and I already share in that blissful state shadowy but assured, during which all tears, all fears, all pain, sorrow and anxiety are forever past. Welcome to eternity! 11.18.12