I Am Being Hunted

I am being hunted.
A lone candle illuminates my space. I dare not use anything brighter because I am terrified that they will find me. I tremble as I write this, knowing that any moment could be my last. But I risk even death to tell this story.
The walls of this cave in which I have found solitude protect me for now, but they have their limits. I am dug in deep, far beneath the surface of the earth. How is it that in a single week I have gone from one of my nation's most respected engineers with prospects of a Nobel prize to one marked for death at the hands of my own people? The answer exceeds even my imagination. But I am no fool as to think this unexpected. On the contrary, I am here as a result of a design I stole. A design that was meant for good. A design I should have locked away in the darkest part of myself and never allowed to see the light of day.
I have always been on the forefront of technological breakthroughs. I lost count of the number of innovations and life changing designs that have been a result of my handiwork. But for all of my achievement I still felt unfulfilled. I had failed to successfully complete the one design that had been my life's goal as far back as I can remember.
For years I attempted to design this particular machine. Yet I always fell short of my goal. I was rebuked many times along the way, either due to lack of imagination or poor design integrity. No matter what I tried, failure was always the result. Countless moments had me reason that since nobody had requested such a machine I should retire the dream. But I thought I was smarter and that it was necessary. I just knew that if I could make it work and when it did the world would laud me, understanding how it would benefit all of mankind.
So diligently I continued to work on my machine. Long hours, lit both by the sun and the bulb, were spent on designs and redesigns. Failures were retooled, corrections made, and materials substituted. The fire I had to be successful on this project was unquenchable.
Finally providence intervened. In a moment, all of the frustration and futility at not realizing my passion dissolved under the radiation of genius. It was just after two in the morning, a slight chill in the early spring air gnawing on me in my shed, when I made the first successful test of my machine. I remember the joy that jolted through me as I saw the fruit of my works staring me in the face, gleaming with possibilities I had long envisioned.
For this machine was like no other created by man. This machine was going to open the eyes of the whole world and bring peace to shores that it had long bypassed. You see, my machine was able to show the inner thoughts of a person in their fullness and truth. My machine could peer into a man's soul and comprehend and translate those deepest of longings and desires, intents and feelings. No longer would words need to be minced. No longer would one man fight against another for lack of trust or the disbelief. My machine would put an end to all of that.
Now some thought my machine was meant for harm. They thought that it could acquire bank account numbers, passwords and even secrets. But that was never a possibility. My machine was not designed to take such things from people, for that was thievery of a sort that I would never condone. My machine, in fact, was incapable of such barbarianism. No, my machine did one thing, and did it to perfection. It allowed the user to see the deepest feelings and beliefs of another. My machine could bring to the surface the thoughts that drove a man's life. It allowed people to see why someone was happy, or why they were fearful. It broke down the walls of platitudes and false security and showed the true nature under a man's skin. It was going to revolutionize the world.
My machine would bring people together. It was going to allow for openness and unencumbered communication. If two men did not trust each other and did not know why, my machine was going to show each how the other was really feeling, and allow them to come together in peace and tranquility. If a husband and wife were on the verge of divorce, my machine would show them how they truly felt, and guide them through the river of shadows and bring them to oneness. My machine was going to show people's true hearts.
I had no doubt that I would be nominated for a Nobel prize, and why not? I was going to do that which had eluded man for centuries. I was going to be known as the man that was able to bring peace to a troubled and corrupt world. Does this person desire peace and unity? Use my machine, and when you find out he does, praise him for it. Does that person really mean harm to those around him? Use my machine, and when it is proven so, provide him with the help he needs to become sound, calm and healthy. My machine could provide all of that, and a utopia would be the result.
But I was a fool. I was so blind that even when I was slapped in the face with the truth I barely felt the sting. You must understand that I repeatedly tested my machine, and it continued to work magnificently. But as I tested, a significant pattern was developing. With each test, whether on myself or another, the results were becoming more and more consistent, and they were unsettling. The machine worked as it should, and brought out in clear tone the specific inner thoughts of each individual on which it was used. The problem encountered was that those thoughts were not as peaceful and benign as I had expected. This was true with each person I tested, not only a few. In fact, everyone I tested showed results that were self-centered and closed minded, bordering on destructive and corrupt.
I was at a loss. My machine was supposed to show the good in man. It was supposed to show that deep down, past the layers of protection and masking that each individual wears, there would be a core of wholesomeness and tranquility. My machine was supposed to report back the desire for unity and peace that existed in all men, if buried under piles of self-preservation. But this was far from the case.
It soon came to pass that those I experimented on began to turn on me. To a man, each was excited at what my machine had to offer. But after it was used on them and they saw the unfortunate results, each decried it's methods, insisting that it was either malfunctioning or that I had somehow corrupted it. But neither was the case. The machine worked perfectly. It was the men who were corrupt, and they were being faced with facts they did not want to acknowledge.
My machine began to gain wide acclaim, though in a way I never wanted. The public soon learned of its abilities, and before long local and national government officials began coming to my door, insisting on speaking with me and observing the machine for themselves. I became fearful of what they wanted, and with good reason. For one day they took my machine, and indecently threatened me if I made any attempt to stop them.
I never saw the machine after that, and am certain it was destroyed. But I was not finished. I knew every inch of that machine, and in my heart knew it had to be rebuilt. I made it known to a close few that I would construct an identical machine, and I was going to use it to expose those that had tried to destroy my dream. That was a mistake.
It took mere hours for me to find not only local officials surrounding my home, but citizens, with the intent of destroying me. Fortunately, I saw this from a distance, as I had been tipped off. I was to be murdered, for in their eyes the knowledge I possessed about the machine was far too dangerous to be allowed to survive.
With great haste I drove far from my home, making my way west in hopes that I would find solace somewhere, perhaps with people who knew the importance of understanding their innermost thoughts. But it was not to be, as providence once again interceded. Night was falling, and as I traveled I came across a baby deer. I swerved to avoid killing it, in the process clipping a tree on the side of the road and slamming my car into the embankment. I suffered only minor bruises, and jumped out of my car, fearful that I was being followed. I ran into the hills, and came across this cave. I have been here a few hours, but I know that has been enough time for them to find me. The will find me. In their hearts they have to destroy me.
I have discovered too late that it is not the desire of man to have his innermost thoughts known. For when faced with the truth, man has no choice but to recoil in horror and admit that he is nothing of and by himself. I was a fool to think that anything but destruction would come of my machine. I am living - if only temporarily - proof of that.

As for me having stolen the idea for my machine, that is very true. Yes, my machine was the first mechanical device to deliver such an accurate and damning portrait of the innermost thoughts of man. But there has been something around as long as man that has done the same. For my idea is simply a steel manifestation of the tongue, that part of us that no matter how hard we try, will always betray our defenses and reveal our innermost thoughts. Tame it though we desire, our tongue speaks only that which we have stored up in our hearts. Those innermost thoughts, that for most of us we wish to seal away from the world, will always slip from our grasp, through the portal of our tongues, no matter how hard we may want to restrain. My machine was not original, and the hatred that was thrust upon me was the only possible outcome.
I am finished with my tale, and though I feel the trail of tears rolling down my cheeks, I am content. For I am comforted in the knowledge of what my machine revealed about myself. I am at peace, and I need to be now. For I hear footsteps, and the clanging of men's voices. They are drawing near. Closer comes their thirst for flesh, closer their rage. Still I sit, waiting as a lamb.

Call Me Chief

With all due respect to the Apostle Paul, I must take a crown from his head and place it on my fully deserving scalp.
No, I am not one of the greatest spreaders of the Gospel.
No, I have not written the Word of God.
But I am the chief of sinners.
It's true, though many would scoff at such a self-diagnosis.
For I am the chief of sinners, at least now, in this place. For that which I have done with my hands and that which I have committed in my heart places me at the head of the list. It is with this knowledge that I unabashedly take spiritual residence with Paul.
This is not some strange need to self-deprecate for pity or the sake of understanding from the public. This is not some attempt to illustrate that I have so succumb to the perfumes of this world that I have no other course of action. Nor is this some weak and ill-fitting attempt to make confession for various immoral, illegitimate or even illegal acts that burden my soul. No, this is a statement of truth, and a statement of faith.
Paul claims in 1 Timothy 1:15 that this is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptance: that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief (KJV). Other translations replace chief with equally weighted monikers: foremost, first, worst.
More to the point, who is to argue with Paul? That question can be asked of anything he wrote, but especially in this arena. No doubt in his mind he felt the pressure of his sins being brought to bear as he reminisced about the persecution, hatred and destruction that he reigned down upon the deeply dedicated followers of Christ of his generation.
In his previous life, Paul had wrought terror and horror aimed at the Gospel of Jesus Christ and those that dare cloak themselves in its message. He cursed the very name of Jesus, hunted and imprisoned His followers, and ensured that they were treated like animals. He started his career of carnage by standing witness and holding the cloaks of those that hurled stones at the martyr Stephen, until the deluge claimed that man's life. Paul had seen and done enough to purchase him a top spot on God's enemies list.
As a memorial to that life, Paul declared that he had been, and was still, the chief of sinners. His understanding, belief and doctrine was that he had not shed that former skin completely, though it rested upon him impotent, no longer to condemn him for eternity. So now do I take up that title.
The question to be asked, then, is what are my qualifications? What references do I have that would vouch for me to wear the crown that Paul insisted he deserved? On the surface that list is seemingly thin. I have never murdered, nor watched gleefully as a murder takes place. I have never hunted another man, nor forced my will upon him in such a way that makes his life physically, emotionally or spiritually unbearable. I have stolen that which most would claim insignificant, and my lies and deceits are characterized by men as insignificant and petty.
The world has found no fault in my values. It took inventory of my moral portfolio, and made no case against me. I am considered righteous, at least by their standards. But take a peek underneath my guise. Take a look at the times I cursed God with my own tongue, and more importantly with my own heart. I felt no need for His intrusive gaze, the desire He had to beckon me from my poisonous slumber. I held Truth at bay, wanting to follow only the path I decreed. There was no welcome place for the Son of God to lay his head in my life. I locked all doors and kept my heart for myself.
Oh to be burdened with the vile truth that within the heart lies such amazing evil. It is stretched so far in the soul that man himself can hardly comprehend. We all will try to clean out the infection of sin from that vital area, only to find that our instruments are dirty and ineffective. The sin we claim to rid ourselves of is at best in remission, lying in wait to join it's newborn brethren at a time of our weakness. When left to ourselves, that time rarely lasts longer than the flap fly's wings.
Left alone I found that within my own heart lay adulterous intentions. I had affairs on everything I deemed important. With each sultry gaze towards the enticing, I widened the gap between me and the shore. The earthly moorings I attached my life too seemed sturdy from above the surface, but were rotted and teetering below. I was not going to be told that my ways were wrong, for I knew better, and could see that all else was folly. The only ways that were not putrid to me were my ways, and all else was ignored. Did I need to commit physically crimes? Hardly, nor would I. My heart had done enough on its own.
I even found fault in the righteous. That which was true, pure, lovely, admirable, and even praiseworthy I found worthless. I can't say I was wholly intentional. I hardly think I even knew what I was doing. But the steel rod of sin embedded in me that bent my will away from those things made it impossible for me to comprehend my condition. Truth was a din in my ears, purity a faint shadow. To that of the world which I found praiseworthy I gave my soul. It had no intention of giving anything back.
But if I say I was all of these things, does that still raise my stock to chief of sinners? Some would suggest that Paul was calling himself this from an unrepentant mindset, and for me to label myself as such now doesn't grasp Paul's reflective nature. I would disagree. For Paul knew what I know, what any man or woman who has studied their own heart and found it to be wanting knows. While within this current state of corruptible physicality, there is no way to completely shake the sewn in label of 'sinner'.
So here I stand, chief of sinners, alongside Paul in the Pantheon of Disgrace. I have no way to shake that label I now detest. But be fairly warned that this does not condemn me to a life of derision with a bitter end from which there is no escape. A glimmer of hope shines through as I squint, a hope that is crystal clear and unforgettable. For though the sinners label cannot be shaken, it can be dealt with severely and with extreme prejudice. For that which Paul found to be his hope I too can take hold. That is Grace, the one element in all of existence that allows the chief of sinners to be accepted.
Paul knew this Grace, and that is what made a heinous individual become one of God's greatest servants. Paul was a man like myself, detestable to the core, spitting on and destroying all that is worthy, who turned around and found Truth standing there to embrace and comfort him. God took hold of that chief of sinners, and did such a miraculous work in him as to make all else fade away. So He did the same with me. Knowing all that existed within my fallen form, there was still room for Grace to settle, take root, and blossom. It happened within my ravaged heart, and so it did with Paul. Paul was renewed, and though for a time afterwards he still felt the stain of sin, that feeling was not forever.. Paul slipped past the bonds of earth in an eternal blink, and on the other side finally found the fullness and glory in all that he once despised.
The chief of sinners is here before you, relating his story as Paul once did. I am certain I am worthy of that title, and hardly doubt I am the only one. For who among us finds that we are not brothers and sisters in this unwanted rank. All of us have tasted the rot of sin in our mouths, fixed on it with our eyes and gripped it with our hearts. Who hasn't known the futility that lies therein, and questioned if there was something worthy to reach down and save us from ourselves. Indeed, are we not all the chief of sinners?
I insist that we all are. Proof of this demands that we look no further than the work of our Savior. For we know that He would have still come to live, die and rise again if for only an individual. That individual would have been you. It would have been me. It would have been Paul. Absolutely, it would have been for the chief of sinners.

Hotel Truth

The hotel rose high into the clouds and was the most glamorous in the city.
Marbled floors with intricate patterns beckoned me. Crystal chandeliers shone brightly as they floated high above. Oak furniture lined the lobby and at the end was an enormous stone fireplace. Opulence didn't begin to describe that which I surveyed.
I normally would never be able to stay at such a place. But I was here because I was the winner of a contest I never remembered entering. My suspicion was high, and I hardly expected to be let in, believing the contest to have been a fraud. But it wasn't too far from home, and I wasn't going to pass up the hope of staying in such an establishment.
I approached the concierge. "Smith," I said putting down my bag. "Room for one."
The attendant smiled and without lifting a finger towards his keyboard welcomed me heartily. "Mr. Smith, of course, we have been expecting you. Your stay is for one night."
"That's what I heard," I responded coyly. "Everything is set?"
"Yes sir, already reserved and paid for. You are a lucky one. People usually have to wait six months for their stay."
The concierge directed me to my accommodations, and I reflected on his observation. I was notified the week before, so indeed I came on short notice. But with my doubts dispelled, I thanked him and turned towards the elevator. I bent down to pick up my bag and pivoted, just in time to run head first into a burly elderly man. I looked up to see a shocked face staring back at me, the man clad in a pinstripe suit, made of a material with which I was unfamiliar. The man had an unmistakable aura of invincibility.
"I am so sorry," I stammered.
The elderly man just smiled at me. "It is perfectly ok, son. It happens more often than you think."
"Mr. Franks, sir!" the concierge shouted, bursting from behind his desk. "Are you ok?"
"I'm fine," the Mr. Franks chuckled. As I stared at the man and heard his name, my eyes widened.
"You're the owner," I said shakily. Mr. Franks nodded his head and offered me his hand. I shook it vigorously. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
The truth was that meeting Mr. Franks was as unexpected as winning the contest, for Mr. Franks was famous for rarely being seen. He was well known as a philanthropist and deeply involved in the well being of the community. But to meet him face to face was a very rare treat.
The concierge attended to Mr. Franks and the two exchanged several sentences. I could feel the concierge's eyes ushering me away, suggesting that I should not be gawking. I grabbed my bag and slowly made my way to the elevator, staring back at the two the entire way.
I replayed the incident in my mind all the way to my room. When I finally arrived, I slipped my key in the door and pushed it open, nearly falling into the room. My eyes were filled with the majesty of what surrounded me. Words could not describe the magnificence of my accommodations for the evening, and the sheer size alone was larger the most apartments. I gloried that I was privileged to such an experience as I walked towards the window that consumed most of the wall space.
The view that greeted me was unparalleled. I could see far and wide the city below as people and vehicles traversed the painted streets. The buildings burst skyward before me, and the clouds above didn't seem nearly as far as they had when I entered. I felt like I could reach out and grab one.
I was in awe as I took my bag to the bedroom and dumped out its contents. I began to shuffle through my things, placing close by that which I needed most. When I was finished I felt discouraged, for I realized I had forgotten some of my basic toiletries. I looked around for the phone and called the front desk.
A man answered and I told him my request. "Yes sir," he replied. "I will send those up right away." Satisfied, I put down the phone and went to sit on the bed. But before I hit the mattress I heard a knock at my door. I headed over, unsure of who could be knocking.
I looked through the peephole and saw a hand holding up a toothbrush. How they had gotten there so fast confused me, but I flung open the door. Before me stood Mr. Franks, with his suit jacket off, offering me what I had request.
"Mr. Franks," I let out. "I...I didn't expect you."
He smiled at me. "This is what you requested?"
"Yes sir, thank you!" I took the toiletries as he walked away, and I closed the door shocked that I was being waited on by the building's owner. I put down the toiletries and headed to the kitchen.
I was hungry, and thought the kitchen might have been stocked. But it was not, so once again I headed to the phone to order room service. I knew exactly what I desired, and called it in. The voice on the other end assured me it was on its way, and I anticipated a wait for my meal.
But again I heard an immediate knock at the door, and rushed over to see if once again my order had come unbelievably fast. I threw open the door, finding once again Mr. Franks behind a cart laden with dishes and plates filled with my order. This time his fine shirt and suit pants had been exchanged for slacks and a colorful top.
I was awed with silence as Mr. Franks began to push the cart into my room. I jumped aside as he placed the cart near the table, and turned to leave. "Do I owe you anything?" I inquired.
"It's taken care of." Mr. Franks replied, his normal smile fading as he closed the door behind him.
I didn't know what to think, so I went on with my day. I finished my meal, took a shower and got comfortable for the evening. It was my desire to stay and enjoy all the hotel had to offer.
I sat on the couch and attempted to turn the television on. I tried and tried, but to my dismay it was not working. I checked the outlet, knew how to operate the remote, but it appeared to be a defective piece of equipment. I wanted to watch a movie, but was hesitant to call for more help, considering what had already happened. But I gave in to my desire, and called maintenance. I explained the problem and hung up the phone, but instead of settling in I headed for the door. I knew what to expect.
Without fail, there was an immediate knock at my door. Once again it was Mr. Franks, dressed in a once piece jump suit, with a toolbox in hand. I opened the door to find his smile gone, replaced with a look of concern. He said nothing to me, entered the room and proceeded towards the television.
I wanted to say something to this elderly gentleman, but either from fear or confusion I was held back. Several minutes passed and I paced the room, a mixture of anxiety and desire for him to be done settling in my stomach. Finally I heard the click of the television and voices from the box. I readied myself to thank Mr. Franks, but he simply left without a glance, shaking his head as he exited.
Unsure of what to make of his apparent disagreeable nature, I settled myself into the couch. I began to flip through the channels to see what I might enjoy. But as I sat there, the thought of Mr. Franks surly demeanor refused to leave my mind. I began to dwell on his countenance, becoming more and more angry at what I saw as a personal slight. Sure, he was the owner of this gorgeous hotel. He had certainly helped me with several problems already this day. But if he was going to offer to fix the issues with my stay, then there was no reason that he should treat me with any manner of disrespect.
I slammed the remote on the couch and rose to my feet. I stormed out of my room, seething at the thought of what Mr. Franks' silence meant. I made my way back to the concierge and demanded to see the manager. A young man approached me and I was ready to unload.
"Is everything alright, sir?" The young man asked.
"It most certainly is not!" I exclaimed. "I want to know how it is that this place gets away with treating it's guests in such a demeaning manner!" The man stood silently before me. "Don't you even want to know what disgrace I am referring to?"
The young man looked me square in the eyes. "Sir, I assure you, I know why you are here. But let me ask you a question first. Were all of your needs met in a timely and satisfactory manner?"
I tried to consider how I could answer in the negative, but there was no way. "Well, yes."
"And who was it that solved your issues?"
"Mr. Franks, the owner," I replied.
"Of course," the young man said knowingly. "Do you believe in God?"
I was aghast at the question. "I'm not sure how that's any of your business, nor how it is relevant to this situation!"
"That's ok," he replied calmly. "I already know the answer. For you see, Mr. Franks as you know is the owner of this establishment. But he is much more than that."
"More?"
"Yes," he continued. "Not only is he the owner, but he actually built this place with his own two hands."
"Impossible!" I replied.
"Quite possible, actually." The young man paused. "Mr. Franks owned this land far before you or I was around. He built this building, brick by brick. He laid the tile, affixed the chandeliers and painted the walls. He hung the art and even plumbed each room. Mr. Franks did all of that, and yet even when you needed something, he was there. He was ready and answered, and when you continued to need things, no matter how trivial, no matter how given only to your desires, he was there. And as it continued, you began to see him for nothing more than an errand boy. You treated the owner and builder of this most magnificent tower as your personal bellhop."
"Well," I stammered, "he kept coming. Wheat else was I to do?"
"You didn't give him the respect he deserved for who he was. I suspect that's how you treat God."
"How dare you!" I shouted. "You don't know me at all!"
"Don't I?" the young man replied. "Consider for yourself how you see God."
The young man just stared at me, and for all the fight I wanted to give I was overwhelmed with the knowledge that he was right. I treated God as I had Mr. Franks, as my personal bellhop to answer my needs at any given moment, and when He didn't I became enraged. If I could treat my God this way, it was no wonder I could treat Mr. Franks, or anybody, with the same disrespect.
"I need to speak to Mr. Franks." I said sheepishly. "I have been a fool. I need to apologize."
The young man shook his head. "No, that isn't necessary. He already knows. Besides," he said, looking down, "it appears that your stay is over."
"Over?" I asked. But I'm supposed to stay the night."
"I think you've seen enough," the young man said as he smiled at me. "Your bag is already packed and waiting outside for you. We didn't forget a thing."
I was in awe. My heart was heavy with my treacherous nature, but filled with hope that I could change my actions. "What kind of place is this?"
The young man walked from behind the counter, took me gently by the arm, and led me to the door. When we got there he stopped, opened the door, and smiled.
"A place where truth happens."

What Do You Hate?

What do you hate?
Or perhaps less pointedly, what do you love?
Because they are different sides of the same coin.
So, seriously, what do you hate?
Because everybody in the world loves something. And everybody in the world hates something. Every single person
As a Christian, you may have a guttural reaction to this assessment. You may be screaming to yourself How dare someone make such a jarring and wholly indefensible accusation? Who is this to suggest that I would ever hate anything? In fact, by now you may have stopped reading, insisting that my assumptions are too foul. If you are not a Christian, you may be equally as appalled, feeling in your heart that even though you do not agree with my faith you are loathe to hate anything, considering yourself able to tolerate and coexist with a multitude of different ideologies, none of which you would stoop so low as to hate. To suggest otherwise simply spits in the face of your self-identified amicability.
To be consistent with Truth, it is extremely important to recognize that there is nothing in creation that is worthy of our hate. There is no man, woman or child, no beast of the field nor creature of the sea, no mountain or valley so vile as to necessitate a poisonous hatred from within our souls. There is nothing we can see with our eyes, touch with our hands, hear with our ears, smell with our noses or taste with our mouths that should push us that far.
But hate does exist. We all have experienced it, both internally and externally. It wasn't always meant to be this way. There was a time in human history when hate was not a consideration. But I will hold off on that for a bit. I submit that today in truth we all love something, while at the same time we equally hate something else, even if we don't admit it. In some cases, we can be loud and proud with our loves and hates, shouting them from the proverbial highest rooftops in the way we live and interact with the world around us. When it comes to that which we despise, we may be bold and bombastic in insisting that there are certain things in this world that we simply cannot stand, and more to the point we carve out special places in our hearts with which we can loathe, despise and detest.
Or in some cases, we carry our hatreds most secretly. To the outside world we may seem at peace and in unity with all that is around us. We feel as though we are in balance and nothing would cause us to crouch and dig into that most basic instinct. We insist that we hate nothing, and who is to argue? But deep inside, in places of our soul that we rarely identify or acknowledge, we keep the tiniest of rooms. We hold those thoughts in the dark places we neither admit nor show, but that we clutch like a fragile egg. We plant them and cultivate them, giving them just enough nourishment to grow into full blown hatred. But we will never let them out, at least not in our public lives. There they will stay, hidden from view, invisible to the world around us.
Make no mistake, there are many things that are socially acceptable to hate. War, poverty, and disease are a few of the earthly perils that most would say it is agreeable, if not desirable, with which to direct our sneers.
But then there are those things that are not worthy of hate, yet hate is manifested towards them every day. Surface differences between us and other people, be it skin color, gender or ability. Habitual differences, such as that which exists between the smoker and non-smoker, the vegetarian and the meat eater. And faith differences, a hatred that has manifested itself throughout the centuries.
And to the Christian, he or she is commanded to love. Love one another, love the Lord your God, and love His creation. But be assured, whether Christian or not, there is something of which we should direct that most heinous of feelings. Something very specific, and something most certainly not intended in the beginning.
Which brings us to the crux of the love/hate argument. For the litany of things that could be loathed in the world, it all really comes down to a choice of two entities. You see, we are all going to love and hate something. That much is absolute, and in this world that will never change. The truth is there are only two facets worthy of such devoted feelings.
What are they? It's quite simple, really, if you take even a cursory look around. The first is the system of the world. It is that which everything on this present plane, hovered over and prowled on by the very Prince that dominates the Air, is pushed and pulled. It is that which we should not want, but that which towards we are all too often drawn. You may know it by its common name. It is sin.
Remember the notion that there was a time in human history when hatred was not a consideration. That time existed, though it was comparatively ever so short. It held reign on this world up until the moment that one foolish individual turned his back on Truth and decided that the incorruptible should become corruptible. It was that man's choice - that Adam's choice - that brought us the stinging and putrid reality of sin.
Sin is that which has corrupted, has destroyed, has blemished all that this world once was and could have been. It is the decaying mark that has brought us all those horrors as previously mentioned in the form of war, disease and poverty. It populates this place with its very nature, and infiltrates each and every human from the moment of conception. It is a pox that will not leave this planet through any power that we as men and women inherently possess.
You see it every day. You see it's grasp stretch from sunrise to sunset, to the edge of the horizon and even to the places on the map that have yet to be filled in. You see it in the smallest of inequities. You see it in the horrors of war and destruction. You see it in deaf jealousy and wordless greed. You see it in the death of the living.
It is sin that is to be hated, and hated furiously. Love is commanded in all things, except when it comes to sin, as written in Romans 12:9: We are called to practice love in all things except when it comes to sin. Sin we are to despise and hate, and in doing so we are to turn to what is good and cling to it.
This is not a command against any single man or creation upon this planet. Instead, with all those that we come across, we are to show love in a way that is unmistakable and right. We need to know, and show, that the order of things in this current age, as watched over by the ever present eye of sin, is one that cannot earn our love. Though we know that one day it shall be abolished, that day has not yet come. Until that time, we are to know this enemy. We are to identify this enemy. We are to hate this enemy.
But we need to be ever vigilant not to lose our hatred of sin. For if we lose that, there will be an inevitable need to fill the void. There is a need in all man to love something, and in turn hate something else. The question then is, if we lose our passion against sin, what will we direct that passion towards?
The answer simply enough is Jesus. For if sin is that which is worthy of our hate, then there must be something of equal or greater measure to thrust that hatred upon should we embrace sin. For the antithesis of sin is Jesus, and it is He who is then to be hated.
Does this hurt certain sensibilities of today? Does one really have to hate Jesus if they do not hate sin? Jesus answered this question in Matthew 6:24: No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money.
Perhaps you are different. Perhaps you feel you possess the ability to have no negative feelings about sin while still loving God. Or be apathetic towards God while dabbling in a playfully sinful nature. This is a fool's playground. It is a paradoxical impossibility. For as God has shown, He hates sin. And his Word repeatedly demands a complete rejection of the sinful order of this current world. In choosing not to completely reject that sin, one is inherently rejecting the commands of God. It can't be avoided.
The concept of hating Jesus may seem all too distasteful. You may not agree with all that Jesus said. You may not even agree that with Him when He said He was God. But hate is such a strong word, and you wouldn't go so far as to say your relationship with Jesus has reached the hate point. Unfortunately, if this is even a consideration, then your current stance towards sin is love. Which leaves only one option for your current stance towards Jesus.
So should you choose to direct you hatred away from sin and towards Jesus, perilous though it may be, you certainly wouldn't be the first. If you choose to fully reject sin and the order of this world, then you should prepare to be hated. For Jesus enumerated both in John 15: 18-19, referring to the sin order with the word "world": If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you.
Joshua said it best when addressing Israel at Shechem for a renewal of the covenant in Joshua 24:15: But if serving the LORD seems undesirable to you, then choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served beyond the Euphrates, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land you are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD.
So the choice is simple. Choose today whom you will serve. Whom you will love. Whom you will hate.

Do You See What I See?

My wife and I had been shopping endlessly for a home church since our move. We attended large churches and small churches, flamboyant churches and reserved churches, seeker sensitive churches and hearty meat churches. But for all of our toil, all of our searching, it seemed that we could never find the one that was home. Every time we thought a church might be a possibility, God always led us away.
It was for that reason we came here this Sunday. There was nothing overtly special about it on the outside. It was a normal looking church with normal looking people. As we took our seats near the back of the church, we wondered what was in store. Would we be eagerly greeted and accepted? Would we feel at home? Or would it once again end with the feeling of dissatisfaction?
My wife and I spent the next hour and a half taking in what this church had to offer. As the blessing was spoken by a deacon, I felt troubled that he seemed unsure of what to say and paused over several words while offering up his praise. As soon as he finished, the worship team took the stage and began to fill the air with what I felt was a poor offering. Their musicians were noticeably off-key, and the look of the singers was drab. But I cringed the most when I heard the noise that came forth. I suffered through a laundry list of classics that I knew was in no way worthy of the King of Kings. I only shuttered to think of what God himself felt after such a display.
But the best was yet to come. As the well dressed pastor took the pulpit, his appearance gave me hope. I was soon let down at the realization that his delivery did not match his look. His message was fine to be sure, in fact one of the best I had heard. It was biblically based, on target, and without reproach as to the truth. It fed a long time believer such as myself while encouraging those new to or just outside the faith. It was a masterpiece. But the pastor himself fell short. As his sermon went on, I found myself noting imperfections in his look. Slight wrinkles in his pants and shirt caught my eyes. The fact that his tie was a shade to light for the shirt he was wearing distracted me. And his speech was the worst of all. He had a distinct stuttering problem, and when that wasn't acting up he would speak to slowly for my taste. In all it was a disaster.
As the service moved forward, I would steal glances at my wife. She would look back at me, concern in her eyes, but with perseverance to see the service through. When it was mercifully over, I quickly gathered my belongings and stood up. But before I could make my way out of the church I was overwhelmed by greeters and well wishers. Members from across the aisles made their way to our seats to see who we were and if we enjoyed our time. I tried to speak to my wife about the need to leave quickly and never return, but before I could she was trapped by a question.
"Do you think you might come back?" an elderly lady asked my wife directly.
"Yes, of course," my wife blurted out without thinking. I glared at her with shock as we finished the round of pleasantries.
My wife and I headed to our car, and I plopped myself in the driver's seat. Before starting the car, I looked over at her. "I really hate that you had to lie to that old lady."
My wife turned to me. "It wasn't a lie. We should come back next week."
"Really," I said annoyed. "Were you not in the same service I was? It was a mess. An unmitigated disaster."
My wife began to nod her head in agreement. "I know, I know, it isn't what we might have liked. But we need to give it another chance. Didn't you hear the message? Didn't it speak to you?"
"I heard the message," I replied. "And I guess, yes, it was good. It was just the messenger I couldn't get past."
My wife just shook her head and we drove off. We didn't speak about it again until the next Sunday, and my wife insisted on going back to that church. I acquiesced, as I had no better ideas, and forced myself into the car.
We arrived and were again greeted warmly as we took our seats. I braced myself as the welcoming prayer began, and was not disappointed. The same problems existed that week that existed before, and I held my eyes tight in prayer that my suffering would not be long. I refused to look at my wife, as I blamed her for making us go through this again. I focused only on the singers and the preacher until it was almost over. Finally, I turned to my wife to give her one of my disapproving stares. I was disturbed by what I saw.
"When did you start wearing glasses?" I asked her. She simply smiled at me and put her finger to her mouth, indicating a need for silence until the service was officially over. When it was, I stood up to flee from this place, but this time the pastor came down to greet us. My wife politely rose to shake his hand, taking off her glasses and putting them in her purse. I shook his hand and let out a barely audible grunt, as I wanted nothing more to do with this church. As soon as I could I ushered my wife out of the sanctuary and towards our car.
"Now can we never come back?" I pleaded.
"Never come back?" she retorted indignantly. "Didn't you hear the message?"
"Yes, yes," I whined. "It was another wonderful sermon. But come on. I mean, does that make up for everything else?"
"Is there anything more important?" she asked me. "Besides, things were better this time.
I wondered how she could say that. Was she even paying attention? If anything, the service had devolved from the previous week. This time one of the soloists forgot an entire verse. She simply hummed along with the melody. We would come back. This was certainly going to be the last time I ever set foot in that building.
But my insistence held little sway. My wife insisted on going back, and more than once. Each time she gave the caveat that we would only try it "one more time". But each "one more time" seemed to strengthen her resolve. In fact, she was becoming rather involved in this church, and making quite a few friends. Meanwhile, I searched and searched to find another church that might tempt her away from this train wreck.
A month and a half passed since our first visit, and I was at the end of my wits. Each time I had to force myself to go, dragging my carcass out of my bed and to the church, painfully experiencing every moment with excruciating detail, but in the end always having to admit to my wife that the sermon was top notch. I was trapped, and as I did this for the seventh time I was through. I barked and complained at my wife the entire way to church, grumbling about how I could not take another week of off-key singing, out of harmony musicians and a stuttering preacher. We didn't speak a word to each other after exiting the car, and left a space in between ourselves when we sat down. There was a frigidness that existed between us, and it was going to take a miracle to unthaw.
The service started and I winced. I closed my eyes for the prayer and shook my head. Moments later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to my right to see my wife poking me with her glasses.
"Put these on," she whispered.
"I don't need your glasses," I shot back and put my head back down. I soon felt the poking again, this time more painfully.
"Put them on!" she demanded.
"Fine," I said defiantly, yanking them from her hand. I scowled at her and mockingly put them on. "You happy?"
My wife nodded at me and smiled. But that made me even more furious. Not only were we in this place, but now I looked like an idiot wearing my wife's reading glasses. Pride welled up inside of me and I grew impatient. I was about to get up and walk out of the sanctuary. That's when the worship team stood up to sing.
I can't say that I hadn't heard such a beautiful sound before, but it was hard to recall a such a time. The voices that poured forth were no less than heavenly, and the music that accompanied hit every note with perfection. I soon became engrossed with what I heard, finding myself nearly brought to tears. As the music ended and the pastor stepped forward, I found myself locking in on his gate. For the first time I failed to find any imperfections in his dress. When he spoke it was like hearing the very voice of Jesus bellowing forth and bestowing heavenly knowledge. I was in shock and wonder that these people had made such a turnaround in such a short amount of time. I looked over at my wife with amazement, and she smiled and redirected my attention to the stage. I anxiously waited for the service to be over so I could ask the pastor what had happened.
As the service ended, I quickly took the glasses off, handed them to my wife and rushed to greet the pastor. He grasped my hand and smiled, and I blurted out the first thing in mind.
"How in the world did you do it?" I said excitedly, with no real reference to what I was talking about. The pastor looked at me with confusion. I felt my wife grab my hand from behind, and the preacher turned his attention to her.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning, pastor," my wife replied, then turned her attention to me. "Honey, we have to go."
I was still in a stupor, and found my mind racing as to the possibilities of the grand turnaround. But my wife led me out, all the while saying hello to her friends throughout the sanctuary. A smile was plastered on my face, one that did not soon fade. We found our way to the car, but before we got in I confronted my wife.
"You know something, don't you."
"I don't know what you mean," she said coyly.
"You know something," I insisted. "How in the world do you explain that," I said, pointing back at the church. "They were never this good before."
"Weren't they?" she retorted, waiting for me to respond. But I just stared back at her. "Fine," she said. "Those glasses I made you wear. They are special. You finally got to see everyone with God's eyes."
"God's eyes?" I asked. "What do you mean God's eyes?"
"When we first came here, I thought everything was as bad as you did. But I prayed about it, and God gave me the vision to see them as He sees them. Don't ask me how, but it came through those glasses."
"What are you talking about?" I asked. "God is sees everything perfectly. And he sees them for all their deficits."
"Yes, God sees their deficits. But when you look through His eyes, you see much more than that. You see the beauty, wisdom and potential in others. You see them as He meant them to be, not as the world sees them. To Him they are masterpieces, where to us they may seem like torn canvas. You have now seen them as God sees them, and you know how they really are. Your eyes have been fixed."
I pondered for a moment. "As God sees them," I muttered. "Of course. I looked for perfection in the imperfect. I should have been looking for perfection in Him." I paused for a moment. "But what about the glasses? We have only one pair. Who gets them?"
My wife smiled. "I don't think either of us needs the glasses any longer. God has done permanent work to our sight."

That Saved A Wretch Like Me

It was the same spiritual classic we had sung a myriad of times. I belted out the last few words as it's familiar chords reverberated in my brain. I loved God, and church was almost always a pleasure. But for some reason, on this particular Sunday in this particular church, I actually listened to the words I was singing. Certainly I had seen them in print before, but I had never actually heard them. That was not the case today.
The song ended not to long after noon and our congregation was dismissed as it had been each preceding Sunday. I gathered my belongings and made my way towards the door, greeting many familiar faces on the way and wishing them a good day. Yet as I journeyed, I felt a resentment welling up inside of me. I did not know from where this came, for normally I left this place feeling revived and full for the week ahead. But not this day.
I hopped in my car and made my way home. Throughout the journey, I tried to squelch the feeling of resentment and insult with which I had been struggling. I thought of upcoming activities, of duties I had to perform, and even of the splendor of the spring season that was soon upon us. But nothing I did made that uneasy feeling submit. I was being poked by it, at first ever so subtly, but soon with a certain pointedness that demanded attention.
I arrived home and went about my business. I changed out of my Sunday attire and into clothes that were much more comfortable and allowed my form to flow freely. I prepared myself a sandwich, all the while having my ire raised over that which I could still not grasp. I sat down for lunch and raised my sandwich to my mouth, at which point I could no longer take the prodding.
"Fine," I muttered to myself as I slammed the sandwich back onto the plate. I was finished trying to push it aside, and knew what I had to confront. It was that song, that infernal song at the end of the service. From the moment the final note died until now, I had been choked with the feeling that those words were directed at me. It felt as though they were being used to repeatedly slap me in the face. They were the source of my indignation.
I stood up and walked intentionally towards my bookshelf. I scanned the books lined there until I found the one that held my tormenter. I yanked it from its perch and threw it down on the table. It had been some time since I touched this particular book, as the word "Hymnal" on the cover was shrouded in a layer of dust. Ignoring the obvious need to wipe it, I flung open the book and searched out that particular song.
Moments later I found my target. In typical hymnal script, bordered by musical chords that nobody but the actual musicians needed to see, were the words to that ancient rhyme "Amazing Grace". Those words that for some reason had so bothered me in service earlier were now staring me in the face, mocking and taunting me to take them in again.
I sat back down and began to read. As I went along, I became more and more enraged. I now knew why it was that I had this feeling deep inside of me. It was those words. They prodded at me, insulted me, and mocked me all the while knowing nothing about me.
"I know how to fix this," I said as I scanned the room. Finding what I was looking for, I snatched up a pencil and brought it to the page. "There need to be some changes here."
I started with the first stanza: Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me, I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.
I started scribbling in the book. Grace cannot make a sound, I thought. How silly is that. And as for being lost, I might have been, but I found my way, I was not found. And I hardly ever remember being blind, but maybe that's a bit too literal for me. But I know for sure the guy who wrote this wasn't blind.
I continued to the second stanza: 'Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved, How precious did that Grace appear, the hour I first believed.
I debated in my head again. Now this is getting ridiculous. Grace is going to make me fear and then take it away? That doesn't even make sense. And I doubt that I am going to see something so paradoxical as precious when I first believe. If anything I would flee from it.
I stopped after the third stanza: Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come, 'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far, and Grace will lead me home.
Well, I do agree that I have been through a lot, I thought. But I had to make it through a ton of that myself. Grace might lead me now, but it hardly has been there every time.
I scribbled and scribbled, crossing out certain words, underlining others, and circling still more. I engraved the paper with my thoughts, and when I was done I looked at my handiwork. There was a milieu of changes to that song that I had made, and I sat back, still unsatisfied.
That's when my eyes fixated on one word. On that word. The word that in my belly I knew was the crux of my pain. Wretch. I stared at it and it stared right back. It refused to relent, and insisted that it was right. But I knew better.
I was appalled. How dare they make us sing this in church? Are we all to acquiesce to the name calling that is in this simple song? Perhaps the author thought he was a wretch, and maybe everyone in my church considers themselves as such. For all I knew everyone who had ever sung this song looked at themselves in this light. But not me. I was many things, but I was not a wretch.
A wretch is an awful person. A miserable being. Contemptible. Hollow. Despicable. Enslaved to that which would corrupt the most wholesome soul. I would not call anyone this epithet, nor would I allow myself to be called the same. That was the point of my contention. That was the word I had finally heard after all those years of singing that song that brought my stomach into knots and unleashed a fury inside of me with which I was unfamiliar. If I was to be called such a thing from a centuries old jingle, then I was going to defend myself. I was going to defend myself with extreme prejudice.
I circled that word over and over again, digging deeper into the paper as I went. I began to think about the type of person that would call himself a wretch in a song, a song that unintentionally became one of the most famous in the Christian faith. What kind of person would insist himself such a monstrosity, then give all the credit for his change to the faceless duality of Grace?
I grabbed for my laptop and punched in the name of the author emblazoned under the song title. "John Newton," I whispered as I typed. As I read the entries on him, I found that this was most certainly not the guy who had an apple fall on his head.
As I perused the biographical data on this man I found that indeed he had times in his life where he could be considered an ultimately contemptible individual. He was engrossed in profanity, gambling, drinking, and most egregiously the slave trade.
But as I read further I found the seed of his conversion. In the middle of the night while on board a merchant ship off the coast of Ireland in the late 18th century, John Newton awoke to a horrific storm that ripped a hole open in the side of the ship. Water began to furiously pour in, and Newton was beside himself with fear. He was so overcome that he cried out to God to save him and the ship. Soon after, in what seemed to Newton to be a miracle, cargo within the ship found its way towards the hole and stuck there, plugging the gouge and allowing the ship to limp back to Britain. Newton attributed this to God - to Grace - and began earnestly studying and seeking the same.
"Luck," I blurted out as I closed the laptop. This Newton had based his entire conversion on a series of coincidental events. I was happy for him that he had come to God, but I realized this whole song, including the overuse of Grace and insistence on his own vileness, was based on a lucky break.
I finally took my pencil and drew a giant X through that contemptible word. I was going to have to find a replacement for it at a later time. It was imperative that I get my revisions to the pastor. If we were ever going to sing this song again, I was going to be heard on why it needed to be changed.
I stood up and walked to my office, searching out the pastor's email address. For the sake of the knot in my stomach, this could not wait any longer. I fumbled through some papers and notebooks, looking for that slip of paper where it was written. Finally I came across the church directory, and realized that I could find it in there. Relieved, I flipped open the book. But what I found was more than I could have expected.
On the inside cover, staring me back in the face, was a picture. It was a picture I had not seen in a long time, and how it got inside my church directory I do not know. The subject of the picture I knew well, and what it specifically captured is not important. Looking at it brought me great joy. But it also brought great pain. It was the epitome of paradoxical, showing me a time in my life of contentment and happiness but also reminding me of sorrow and pain.
But the picture was much more than a single remembrance. For as I gazed at it, my mind went wild. Within me was triggered a rush of memories, all seemingly insignificant or coincidental to the passing eye, but so much more than that. For in those memories, in those little things of life and major changes and adjustments, I saw a work there. In those things that guide us and make our path, I saw the Master's hand cultivating the road in front of me, even though many times I found myself in the midst of hardships, of toils, and of snares. As the film in my mind played, I saw that moment when I knew the power of God and trembled at the thought of how I was but an insignificant microbe to be squashed by His powerful hand, only to then realize that it was the same hand that would carry and comfort me the rest of my days. I saw in those moments of life how blind and lost I was, and how it was through the miracle of miracles that I had been found and made whole to see. And as the memories began to fade, I finally recognized that one day, happily, mercifully, this wretch would be led home.
Grace had made it's point. It was never my will that got me through the difficulties of life. It was His. I dropped the directory, and made my way back to the table. I sat down, pulled in the chair, and lifted my pencil once again. But this time I flipped it around, and brought the power of the eraser to bear on the page. Slowly I erased each blemish I had made, drinking in the unfettered words that now smiled at me across time. The knot in my stomach and the choke of anger were gone.
"This is just fine," I said to nobody in particular.

Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?

I assure you that it was the most glorious day you had seen! With nothing in particular that needed to be done this day, I decided to take my four year old spaniel out for a walk. It wasn't the most pleasurable of chores that I had, but on this day it felt like less of a burden.
So I hitched the collar around my dog's neck, latched up the leash and out we headed. We strolled from our home to the main street where cars whizzed by left and right as people passed us lost in their thoughts of the day. I watched as my spaniel scampered here and there, sniffing each tree and post with reckless abandon. I became concerned as he attacked each station with flared nostrils, sucking in the odors that lay in wait and exhaling the same pleasing fragrances, his brain twitching and twirling with instinctual instructions. Though nobody seemed to care, I put my head down and shook it, sure that everyone was aghast at the ferocity at which my dog greeted each vertical object.
"You are embarrassing me," I murmured as I covered my eyes and the dog pulled me forward. Before I had a chance to look up, I felt myself slam into what seemed like a brick wall. I stumbled backwards and fell to the sidewalk, letting go of the leash and instantly fearing that my dog would become crushed amid the racing cars of the street. I opened my eyes only to find his snout pushed in my face, tongue at the ready to lick off my shame.
"Are you ok?" I heard a burly voice ask kindly. A behemoth of a man stared down at me and offered me his hand. "You must watch where you are going. God knows I've learned that lesson many times."
I fumbled for my dog's leash then reached out and grabbed the man's hand. "I am so sorry," I said as he helped me to my feet. "And thank you." I paused for a moment to make sure I was in one piece. I brought my dog in close to me to ensure he was not a nuisance to this stranger. "Of course God knows I have to learn that same lesson, and hopefully He does not have to teach me too many times. He has shown me the error of my ways before!"
The man looked quizzically at me. "Oh," he said, looking me up and down. "When I said 'God knows', it was really just a figure of speech. I didn't mean God literally knows. That would be foolish."
"Foolish?" I questioned. "I hardly think that. God knows everything, so why is it foolish to think he wouldn't know that you need to watch where you are going?"
The man waited a few moments before answering. "I see," he stated condemningly. "You are one of those."
"One of what?" I asked.
"One of those that believe that there is actually a God and he sees everything you do and actually cares about any of it."
"And you don't?" I asked
"Seriously?" he said as he stared back. "Of course not. It's not that I mind if you believe those things, it's just that I have gotten beyond that kind of thinking. I simply don't believe that God sees and knows everything. In fact, I don't believe in God at all."
I felt my jaw drop and the tight reign I had on the leash loosen. My dog leapt towards the man and jumped on him, his paws reaching just above the man's thigh. My dog was trying to lick him, and it took me a few seconds to recognize what had happened. I reeled my dog back in and calmed him down. I then looked back at the man.
"You can do that?" I asked. "I mean, simply not believe in God?" People were passing us left and right, but I was fixated on the man's face.
"Sure," he said, smiling at me.
"And it works?"
"It has so far," he said chuckling. "And I have no reason to doubt that it won't continue to be true for me."
I stood gazing at the man, dumbstruck by the definitive way he lived his faith. He continued to smile at me, then patted me on the shoulder and walked away. I turned around and watched him grow distant, seemingly as content as any man I had ever encountered.
I finished walking my dog and headed home. All the while, I was transfixed on the fact that the man seemed to be so at ease dismissing God. He went so far as to make God non-existent, something I had never even dreamed. I arrived home and walked inside, letting my dog run free as I fell into the couch.
I started to rationalize. If that man so easily dismissed God and was able to live happily, then would it be just as easy for me? In fact, was God something I had simply decided to make up in order to bring everything into easier understanding and focus? And if that was the case, could I just as easily stop believing in Him, and He would no longer exist? It had seemed to work for that man. Maybe he was on to something.
My mind raced with the possibilities. Perhaps all my life I had lived with this power and had never exercised it! If that was the case, it was about time that I started harnessing that which I possessed. But I could not start with something so grand as God. As I rationalized, I figured that this man must have worked his way up to God. He must have started small, and that is where I had to start. I had to find something that I wished to be rid of, and simply stop believing in it. If that worked, then the possibilities were endless. My heart raced at the thought of the power I held.
I looked around my house for something to stop believing in. I looked at my computer, but I really liked it and decided it should stay. I glanced at my cactus plant and thought about the care it needed, but realized that I did hardly anything and it thrived, so it was hardly a nuisance. I looked at my new flat screen television that hung silently on the wall, and decided that not only did I like it, but it took up practically no space. Then my dog bolted into the room and started pawing at my feet.
"Please stop," I said sternly. That's when it hit me. The dog was nice to have, as he did keep me company at times. And on cold nights it was pleasant to have something so warm in the bed. But recently he had become more trouble than he was worth. He demanded a lot of attention, and was costing me more money in food and vet bills than I had originally thought. He was a good dog by all accounts, but I reasoned that indeed my life would be better off without him. My dog was going to be my test!
I quickly called for him and he jumped into my lap. I gathered him up and excitedly jumped to my feet. "Oh, you are going to make me so happy!" I exclaimed. "Now, it is nothing personal, but I'm just going to have to stop believing that you exist. We've had a good run, but it's time to be over."
I walked around the house contemplating how this needed to be done. I saw the back door which lead to my fenced yard, and decided that would be the place. I sat him outside the back door, looked him in the eyes and shrugged my shoulders.
"Well, this is goodbye," I said as I closed the door. I ran back to the couch and held my eyes shut as hard as I could, reciting to myself that I no longer believed in that particular spaniel. This went on for about a minute until I opened my eyes and shut my mouth. I listened intently for any noise that might have come from that dog, and heard nothing. I became tentatively excited as I stood up . But I had to make certain. I walked slowly across the house to the back door where I listened once again. I heard nothing, and with my heart in my throat I gripped the handle and swung the door open.
"Oh my," I exclaimed as I stared down at an empty slab of concrete. There was no dog, and no sign that he had ever been there. "It worked!"
I was overwhelmed with shock. I peered around the yard and found no trace of the dog. I slammed the door shut and practically floated over the carpet back to the couch. I had done it! It was possible to wish something away, and the power that seemed so foreign mere hours earlier was now mine. My mind began to race with the possibilities as I looked for more things of which to dispose. As I looked around, I saw the remnants of the spaniel's life in my house. Dog bowls, beds and toys littered the area. These were the next things that had to go. God would come soon after.
I started to gather up all of my dog's belongings. I found leashes, toys, the bed and bowls, and little clothing I had bought for him. All of it I wanted gone, and all of it I would soon stop believing in. My arms were overflowing with stuff, stretching all the way to my chin. I struggled towards the back door, and with the smallest portion of exposed digits I fiddled with the doorknob and popped the door open. I thrust the pile onto the ground below, and watched as it splattered into a heap. I smiled and slammed the door closed, running back to my couch. I sat down dutifully and closed my eyes.
This was significantly more than just a simple dog, so I reasoned that I was going to need to concentrate harder and for longer in order that it might no longer exist. I sat there, grabbed my knees with my hands and started to concentrate. I concentrated keenly on the fact that no longer did I believe in the dog's things, and in turn they would no longer exist. I sat there for much longer than I had with the dog, but for how long I couldn't tell. Finally, my eyes burst open, and I felt assured that all of those smelly, hairy things were no longer of my reality. I crept towards the back door and opened it slowly, only to find once again a blank slab of concrete staring me in the face.
I was giddy, and ran back into my house. I had discovered the truth, and no longer would I have to be tied down by inconvenient realities or difficult situations. The stranger I had run into on the street was my ticket to an entirely new world. I was going to be the master of my reality, and it was going to be exactly as I demanded!
Like a child with a bagful of candy, I was grinning from ear to ear. I began to imagine all the possibilities. My mind went wild with what my new reality would exist of. But the longer I thought, the more I became uneasy. I was becoming invaded with fear from what my newfound power actually meant. If indeed I could control that which existed or didn't exist, then I had to be careful with that power. I had become stronger than anything I had ever known before. I had become God.
I stood dumbfounded by my revelation. But before I could ponder any further what had happened, I heard a loud banging on my front door. The noise awoke me from my stupor and I cautiously made my way to the front of the house. The banging continued, and I heard a familiar voice calling my name. I quickly opened the door. I was overcome with terror and confusion as in front of me stood my neighbor with a leash attached to my dog in one hand and a clear plastic bag of my dog's belongings in the other.
I stumbled backwards. I had to catch myself on the wall to avoid falling to the ground. Concern crossed my neighbor's face as he entered the house, placing the bag at my doorway and releasing my dog. It bounded towards me, jumping on my legs and sniffing furiously about.
"Are you ok?" my neighbor asked. "You look like you've see a ghost."
"How is this possible?" I responded. "These things no longer exist!"
My neighbor looked confused and stared blankly at me. The dog continued to bounce around the house as I regained my composure. My neighbor ignored my confusing words. "Your side gate was open, and your dog ran into my yard. I brought him back around, but saw all his stuff on your porch. I thought I might as well pick it all up and bring it back in one trip." He paused while looking at the concern on my face. "Are you alright?"
I wasn't sure what to say. It seemed impossible to me that the dog and all his things would be here now, as they no longer existed. But my neighbor seemed definitive, so I decided to tell him what happened.
"A man I met today said all he had to do was not believe in God, and it was so. I figured all I had to do was not believe in whatever I didn't want, and it too would be gone. And I thought it had worked!"
My neighbor gave me a look of pity, then smiled. "If something exists, my friend," he started, "if it is real, then nothing you or I do can make that thing cease to exist. What's real is real, and if you choose to think otherwise, you are only lying to yourself. It will continue to exist no matter what your mind decides."
At that moment I knew he was right. For all my wishing, all my intent, there was nothing that I could do to make that which was true and real go away. I had been a fool to believe that simply by wishing I could make my dog go away. And I was a bigger fool to think that saying God does not exist would make Him any less sovereign over the whole of creation.
I fell to my knees and began to cry. My spaniel ran over to me and thrust his snout to my face. I held him tightly as tears poured forth. But I knew my tears would soon be dried, for the God I thought I could erase would be there to comfort me. And that was real power.