[10] Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere; I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked. [11] For the LORD God is a sun and shield; the LORD bestows favor and honor; no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless. [12] O LORD Almighty, blessed is the man who trusts in you. Psalms 84 NIV)

This chapter makes its writer uneasy. It is a very personal statement. But come with me behind the stage, to my study, and understand me better. Although I paint in colors dark and faded, my longing would be to picture man's future in the dawning rays of a bright horizon. It is not for desire's sake that I write as if by a dimming lamp, but the light of this generation--my generation--is fading. I reach out to take hold of it on the canvas of my mind, and I find it to be shadows, mist, and turbulent wind.

I would rather lift my pen to paint metaphors of man in the blossom of altruism and peace. I would rather... but the subject masters me! It is said that Michelangelo could look at a stone and see the form of an image struggling for birth. He, as artist, cooperated with what already lay within the granite. His God-given gifts allowed him to reveal the reality hidden within the stone.

True art is neither fabrication nor duplication; it is revelation which expresses a fundamental reality at the junction of one place and one time. I am held captive by a portrait of history that lies outside the influence of my artistic temperament. The Omega Prophecy is not composed in the bright colors of a Renoir painting, but is like wallpaper... crumbling in the dark shadows of a once brightly lit living room... faded wallpaper in a dimming room with vanishing memories of a family's laughter and pathos--the family of man.

O man, how I would like to lift your future, before a memory's end, and bear you like a child upon my shoulders to a different garden with high walls and sweet fruit. Instead, you take my hand and draw me forward upon a path dictated by careless, even wicked choices. You are no longer young, but old, and I am the child. You are a great old tree grown from the loins of Adam and Eve, and I am simply one leaf. You are a great tree sick unto death, and I am dying with you. So if I must speak as we fall, my eulogy is the true praise which lies in the great tree's fiber. I will whittle it not as I would rather, but rather as I must.

I have not been a willing carver. I would rather write children's stories or parlor theology. I would rather tell of the Saints in history than focus on its villains. And I would rather not expose my own heart as it becomes a midwife to what lies hidden. Each person has sleeping giants that are better left alone... soiled linen not intended for public display. Yet this work would be a painting without a frame if I avoided the task of displaying it within my study. I will tell you of my personal furnishings, for once you have viewed The Omega Prophecy in the light of my study, then you will discern the furniture of my mind. Here I paint, and you must discern the strokes that are true and the strokes which may be affected.

The term 'affected' is the modifier of the straight and true. "His thought is affected by ill health," it is said. Or, "The man has been affected by a harsh childhood which distorts his perception of reality." Our century asks the psychological question. I ask myself, "Is this writing true or merely a statement exposing the worn gears of my mind?" Have I judged my generation too harshly? The pathological quirks and dark corners of a would-be prophet may wrongly overcast an otherwise sunny society.

If a cloud could look down, it would see a darkened landscape, true enough. But the cloud is itself the object which stands between the sunshine and the shadowy earth below. In much the same way, a so-called "prophet" may come upon a historical setting, and through a confused psyche that is already an enemy within, become also an enemy to the world.

I have been fully aware that The Omega Prophecy could be the workings of an affected imagination, and less the forecast of a dark tomorrow. Long have I put off the broadcast of this word because I feared a blight within my own spirit. But no more! Let the prophecy be cast forth as seed, to see if it will grow! The test of a thought lies in the thought expressed. Truth and art will grow in the light of day, and there, too, the false myths are scorched and burned away. If this word is of God, it will take root, and grow, and bear fruit, and be harvested.

The Omega Prophecy is a dark cloud over-casting the hopeful horizon of human enterprise. Yet this work is not the only cloud in the sky of man's future. Christian and non-Christian prophets have seen a great storm coming. Fire and judgment... lightning in winter... leaves falling in summer. What is real? What is imagined? Some prophecy is formed in poverty and vanishes like a mist at dawn. Other prophecy is rich as it casts out the poverty of its generation.

Not all prophecy is poor because it speaks of the poverty of the human spirit. Not all bad news is inaccurate reporting. Christ Jesus Himself clearly disclosed that the outcome of this human epoch was to be a total end and radical new beginning. The bitter word, if true, is better than all the sweet falsities of history. If this work clouds the hopes of humanistic idealism with dark shadows, it is because I prefer to look, not down, but rather up to the bright Son who is Himself the Alpha and Omega of all history, and of every unseen reality.

Yet even to write this distorts the thought before me. To behold the blessed Lord is not to glance away from creation. The earth is the Lord's, and the fullness thereof, for He made it. Even if man has led the world away in the chains of apostasy; still the Word became flesh and came to us in the world. To see Christ is to look boldly into creation. To see Christ in history, is to see His Cross, His open tomb, and His hidden presence. He is the untamed Lion whose claws are tearing into the sinews of each philosophy, worldview, human decision, and brute occurrence within nature.

There is a mystery to the human heart and God's hand as they work within history. Agency is constantly demonstrated, but we often fail to see our part and the presence of God. Sin influences man's noblest thoughts and theologies. God's love, as it penetrates every dark corner of this fallen world, radiates from a point beyond us. We overestimate the meaning of man and his achievements, as we underestimate the presence of Christ.

Perhaps we do not see Him because we look for Him in the wrong places. Look to the poor and needy, the rich and empty, the sick and dying, and the sad in spirit; there Christ comes. But be warned, to see Christ in the drawn faces of human pain is to stand powerless before His absolute authority veiled within oblique purpose. We hear the sound of His foot, and we see His imprint upon the path. He moves beside us… we feel His touch, but we do not see His face.

The power of God and His presence within the world is often a mystery to me. The movement of God I feel, but cannot grasp. It carries me into the world with an outward glance, but turns upon me with an inward conviction. I cry like Peter, "Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!" My heart is not steady, and my hand shakes in the writing. I falter at the claim to speak as prophet. And if, by God's direction, I do offer insight, I do so as a Jeremiah who wrestles with God, and not as an Ezekiel who was iron and flint in Yahweh's hand.

I often come before God with lamentations. Complaint upon complaint I have cast as stones at heaven's door. Disobedience upon disobedience I have pounded as nails into the flesh of the Paschal Lamb. Yet for all this, lost in the lifeless desert of mere subjectivism, I have been found. There is a gushing spring that breaks open within my spirit and I feel the cleansing waters of the radical Thou of my life. A stream of grace and love pours from a distant place, and I know it to be my home. A trumpet sound breaks beyond my study walls, and I know that it calls me to obedience and service.

I hear the trumpet calling, but I am slow to respond. I, like Jonah, am afraid of what it means to serve the Kingdom. I know too well that as our Lord died, so He calls us to willing to die for the sake of the Father's will.

God is fully love. God only wills love. But God's love in this world does not invite the flesh. What is the shape and form of God's love within a fallen creation? The Gospel makes it clear. The shape of God's love is a cross. Divine love is a Sacrament, and it most often finds expression within the world through self-sacrifice.

I do not understand why this is so. I have not plumbed the depths of hell nor soared the heights of heaven. My own heart is a mystery to me! Who can speak of the alchemy of heaven and hell as they are expressed in the will of man? Yet the love of God is revealed within His martyred saints. Above all, we have witnessed the blood of the Word made flesh, and the writing is clear, the spelling is C-R-O-S-S.

I would rather go to Babylon than Calvary. The bright and sparkling jewels of this world, though passing, are sweet to my senses. How bright are those special days! I have tasted the nectar within the cup of friendship. I know of walks along a wooded way. I have let my toes mingle with the cool morning's dew as it rested like gems in a flowered meadow. I recall the compelling aroma of combustion engines and factory smoke in the large cities vibrating with life. O Babylon! Even you who so often forget the mind that first conceived you and now holds you like a child from descent into the dark abyss--how I yearn for you! And now my world, I must speak harsh words to you. The children of the vineyard enjoy eating your grapes and playing upon your vines, but to toil and care for you interferes with their plans. They do not share your fruit but hoard it as though they and it would never perish. Their sciences have learned how to unleash destructive forces into the ecology. Through a deep wisdom they have penetrated into the very secrets of your atomic construction. And even this knowledge, I know, you freely offer. This too is from the hand of the Keeper.

But the children are bent. They are turned in upon their own passions and gorge their glands with ill-begotten pleasures. The children of earth will use your secrets in madness, and in their pursuit for pleasure unleash terrible plagues. The children are bent, and they are drunk with the uncontrolled drinking of the libations of your fruit. Madness now reigns as prince, and in obedience the children follow their lord into destruction. The vineyard perishes.

What shall I say to the children? Shall I come to them with soft speech? Shall I scold them harshly? Shall I claim to be a servant from the Keeper? What has happened to those who have been servants from the Keeper when their word is shared within the vineyard? They have been ridiculed, stoned, and killed. The children took the Son of the Keeper and with spikes they nailed him to your side. His precious blood mingled with the crushed martyrs--the fruit of your maturity.

Shall I now--a tiny voice which can only squeak out the elegant poetry of the Keeper and the Vine--shall I now risk my time upon your branches and be crushed in the sacramental offering? I would rather go to Babylon than Calvary. The bright and sparkling jewels of this world, though passing, are sweet to my senses.

There is a burning fire in the marrow of my bones, and I cannot keep it in control. Its flame is a whisper in the wind, or the sight of human depravity, or a Scripture blazing brightly. It vexes me, but I have no way to extinguish it. It comes out of me in images which cause me to wonder whether my thinking might be out of season, and my inner ticking off in time. I rise up in the saddle, look to the horizon, and fear the mammoth visions that I see in the future. Am I able to capture what I see so that others might also be prepared?

As I fear my failures, even more I fear success. Yes, God gives the Christian gifts and intends that they be used for the sake of the Kingdom. But success can be an opiate that dulls the calling and makes the servant a usurper of power. Many a David and Solomon have twisted God's word to suit their own advantages. Simplicity of life is a treasure indeed, for away from fame and the cry of crowds, is contentment rather than temptation. The world and its riches are a vexation, but simplicity and anonymity offer the sweet contemplation of Jesus.

I prefer a quiet life in which I have mastered my surroundings. The problem is that the closer one walks with Christ Jesus, the more one walks out into the world as a servant. The servant's journey is dangerous. Babylon has many dark streets intersecting the path of the prophet. I am afraid of being a servant in Babylon. Sincere leadership, as our Lord proclaimed and lived, is the function of the faithful and self-sacrificing servant. To be a faithful leader only intensifies the dangers of being a dedicated servant.

A futuristic city once stood before me within a dream. I was with a group of men who had been led to a large, open roof. These areas appeared to serve as terraces for outdoor recreation within the city. Armed soldiers were escorting the group that I was with. It was apparent to me that all of us were being forced into military conscription, and by those whom we ill wished to serve.

Soon our captors were leading us in calisthenics to get us into shape. Suddenly I moved forward and called out to my fellow prisoners, "Shall we fight or be led to the slaughter?" As the last word left my lips, I charged a guard. The rest of the prisoners joined me and soon we had overtaken the soldiers and were running down the steps into the streets of the city.

I looked behind me and discovered that the men were following me. They were looking to me to continue our break for freedom. All that I had on my mind was to be alone and to get to my family, my study, and my books. I turned to the men as I ran and pleaded with them to split up. I told them that we would all have a better chance of staying alive if we broke out of a group. Yet within my heart I knew that my only concern was to get away, protect my books, and be with my family.

I join the ranks of those who shun any limelight. We prefer the settled world of family and a few friends. Our joy is a simple fire warming our parlor or the sun resting upon our backs during a hot summer's day in the garden. If we sometimes muse over the pleasures of leadership, we quickly reconsider. We recall what it means to be a true leader. Leadership is nothing more than servanthood--the hard and often dangerous work of service to others.

Leadership adds to the weight of discipleship. If it becomes selfish, leadership binds both the leader and the followers to a demon horse that carries its riders to their doom. This we read on the epitaph of Jonestown. To be a faithful leader, and to be a Christian in the world, is to enter a Sacramental life. And I would rather go to Babylon than to Calvary.

The Lord Jesus went to Calvary as a spotless lamb. All the accusations against Him were trumped up to stamp out the searching light of His holy presence. I find no such light when left to my own resources. I am not spotless. A book of my confessions would make Augustine blush. Obscurity is my protector! The blemishes upon my record are not superficial. They are deep cancers that expose the mortality of my own fleshly living.

The reader must look deeply into these unsightly wounds. You do not know me well enough to see them clearly, but you do know your own heart. The scars upon my soul have been carved by sins unknown to you, but they are no less deadly than the wounds that you carry. These scars testify to a contagion of sin that will someday overtake this body like a malignancy destroys its host. The wages of sin remain death.

Yet death is not the end. There is a mystery to the person who has been touched by Christ. The wounds of the Saint are no less real than for the rebel, and they cause damage and pain. Yet as a cancer destroys the host and thereby its own survival, so death is swallowed up in death. In the dying is the rising! The Saint is united with the death and resurrection of the Messiah: Temporal death becomes a gateway to eternal life. Resurrection is much more than a future resuscitation for God's children. Easter morning floods the present moment with joy. We no longer fear that death and corruption are waiting for us behind the bend in the road. Our sin is hid with Christ on the cross, and our eternal life disclosed within His resurrection.

I know that my sin has been dealt with in the death and resurrection of Christ, but I continue to fear its implications while I labor in the vineyard. Yet more concerning than the radius of my sin, is the dominion of evil. I fear the father of lies. Some cosmologies have squeezed the notion of a satanic power right out of the theological landscape. But I cannot make sense of Scripture nor of the human situation if Satan is written out of history.

The saints of the church have spoken of personal experiences with Evil. Martin Luther, according to tradition, once threw an inkwell at the shape of Satan as he came to Luther's room. The apostle Paul warned the church about Satan's ravenous appetite. The Lord Jesus spoke of Satan, and not as a superstition, myth, or personification of evil.

For Christ, to speak of Satan was never an idle reference. He who truly beholds the face of unholy terror, does not look upon it lightly. Jesus saw Satan in people and events, and it was always as a conqueror sizing up his adversary. I, on the other hand, do not quickly or easily see how the Adversary is at work. Sometimes he works through my sin. I cannot size up or easily predict the assaults of Satan's dominion. I only know that Satan and the servants of darkness are demons at twilight seeking to pass themselves off as angels of light. I do not want to be deceived... I do not want to pass on deception... I do not want to be hurt.

As I place my childlike hands in the Savior's trust, I lay before you The Omega Prophecy. And what sense shall you make of me, and of this word? That decision must await as together we walk with the Holy Spirit into tomorrow. Yet I know this of myself and the history that I live and proclaim: I am but one reed which sings as the Spirit passes through me. Listen to me in this prophecy, and you will hear only the low roar of the wind as it passes through on its autumn harvest. One note, however, does not make a song.

There is also the Song that only the Saints have heard. Century upon century passes by, and the Holy Spirit has blown upon one reed and then another. Each reed then orchestrated one note in the Wedding Song of the Bride and the Groom. I close this chapter with a riddle. The sinful generation hears the reeds sounding judgment and doom. They are those who hear but cannot hear. The world hears the note but it cannot hear the Song. Only the Saints have heard the Song, and they have been the Singers.


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