What's this nonsense about our body being a temple? Is that just more New Age mumbo jumbo? And what about the world, does God even CARE about it? I mean He's gonna burn it to a cinder, right (both the body and the world)? Can't care much about that, can He? Must just be garbage (our physical body, and tired old Lady Planet Earth). That's what we do to garbage, isn't it, burn it? And He is going to give us new bodies, glorified He calls it, so why care about these dumpy, ridiculously wimpy bodies? And what about all the tree huggers? They're just going to hell in a handbasket, ain't they? What's this world coming to, is what I'd like to know.
FREE and Graceful Gifts.
The one man was short and round, while the man sitting next to him was very tall and extremely thin. Looking in through a window at the two men, you might think you were seeing the enactment of some tired old joke. But in reality the two men didn't know each other, had never met before, and each hardly knew why they were summoned to this place, a monstrous garage, empty of all vehicles or mechanics, with only two white chairs. The identical letters in each man's hand contained directions to take a chair.
The round man, Barney, kept talking. He talked about the weather. He told about his fix-it shop in Tennessee. He talked about his powerful muscle car all in flaming red and how he loved to drag race the city slickers in their European rattletraps.
The skinny man, Frederic, didn't say much. He nodded politely to Barney, and he "hmmm'ed" and "oh'ed" and often he smiled shyly, but he didn't seem to have much to say. He kept his long-fingered hands folded in his lap.
But the rumble of gigantic automotive engines cut out any possibility of speech, as a motorcade of massive Humvees entered the garage, shaking the very earth. The procession vibrated before the two men in their white chairs. Each man pulled in their feet to save their toes, so close did the line of vehicles pass them by. The garage was huge, but within two minutes it was filled to capacity with mighty, shining, all-black Humvees. Finally, the most massive Humvee of all, a veritable limousine of a Humvee, braked to a halt alongside Barney and Frederic.
Barney swallowed hard. "Boy howdy," he squeaked.
"Oh my," whispered Frederic.
Behind the monstrous limousine Humvee was a long white trailer, the most high-tech thing poor Barney and Frederic had ever seen, in all their born days. The trailer looked as if it might fly away into the utmost atmosphere, at any moment.
Then a man all dressed in black came tromping in shiny black boots, his black chauffeur's cap pulled low over his very pale face. He bowed low, and opened the very rear door of the Humvee limousine.
Barney held his breath. Frederic held his breath.
Nervously, the two befuddled men glanced at each other.
They had received a strange invitation, with no explanations given. That invitation had brought them to this place, and things were getting stranger by the moment.
The interior of the massive vehicle appeared a cave. It was dark in there. And quiet. The proverbial pin-drop, and all that.
Barney still wasn't breathing. Frederic, whose chest was not quite as expansive, finally gasped in a breath.
Then a shape emerged from within the vehicle. A bright light appeared in the darkness. It was the shape of a man.
Barney threw up his hand before his face. Frederic winced at the brightness of the apparition.
In the dark garage, surrounded by a veritable train of dark vehicles, appeared a man all dressed in white. He was perhaps the brightest man Barney or Frederic had ever seen, his skin seemed to glow with light. His hair, long and upon his shoulders, was beautiful white, shining white, as well as the man's full beard, all glistening bright light. Within a few heartbeats, Frederic speculated that this was an albino, and yet upon consideration, the man did not even have irises, pink or any other color. His eyes were white, pure white with nary a sign of red, nor black pupil, and his skin, too, was pale, pale beyond reason.
"Bernard," the mysterious man spoke, in a loud and booming voice -- and yet it was obvious the man was not speaking loudly. And his voice was mellow, and rich, and multi-textured and undulating with sweet melodies, sweeping harmonies, a voice of music and poetry. "And Frederic."
The two men sat with mouths hanging slack.
"I am from a faraway land. My name is Myshkin. Prince Myshkin."
The strangely beautiful man -- it seemed rainbows surrounded him, prisms of light and color and remarkable hue shot like sparks all about him, the color that could not be seen in his whiteness seemingly dripped from him in all directions, it was like a fireworks display erupting from this beautiful, odd, fascinating being of light and splendor -- smiled, and his teeth were beautiful and large and white, and despite himself Frederic thought of the "pure, driven snow," even though he never did like cliches, and Barney thought of snowcones and polar bears and a snow-white Persian cat his mother favored in Barney's childhood.
"I have chosen you, Bernard. I have chosen you, Frederic," the man who called himself Prince Myshkin said in his unspeakable voice.
"Um," Barney said, "I don't like the name Bernard, I go by Barney, if you don't mind."
Frederic looked at Barney in shock, but he could only take his eyes away for hardly a second from the splendid man of a billion reverberating colors.
The man did not look at Barney. But then again, it was tough to tell, as he had no iris in his eyes, nor pupil. His all-white eyes seemed to stare into space, blindly, and yet both men knew full well that this person could see them perfectly, perhaps better than anyone had seen them before. He was not looking at them, it was almost too painful to consider that he would ever look at them, and yet it was distinctly probable he was always looking at them.
"What I offer you this day is your choice. I wish to give you both a gift, and this gift is for you personally; from me to you. You do not have to accept this gift."
The trailer behind the limousine suddenly began to hum.
"I promise you both that I expect nothing in return, other than one thing, and that is that you care for the gift that you receive."
The humming noise from the trailer increased. And the trailer seemed to glow. It seemed to suck the light out of the garage, all the light except that which emanated from Prince Myshkin himself.
"That is all. Care, and nothing more. I expect you both to be caretakers for one full year, or perhaps a little more than that, perhaps a little less time. I will not tell you now, but I will come to you soon and judge the care you have given my gift."
Frederic felt he was dreaming. He felt he might die. He wanted to run. It seemed he was melting and would never move again. His legs were numb, his face without feeling. Was any of this real?
Barney said: "I ain't buying no condos in Florida! And I tried Amway and this better not be about THAT. I'm not switching to a new cell provider, I got the best cell phone money can buy, and strike long distance carriers off your little list, buddy. And I'm not giving you a penny, brother, no life insurance, no car insurance, and definately no latest-and-greatest ab exerciser, so the minute you mention money I'm outta here!" He poked a short, thick finger at the strange white man. "I been around the block, and you ain't taking me for any rides, I don't care how many black Humvees you got, dig?"
The splendid man swept a hand toward the trailer behind his Humvee. "Behold: receive your gift."
The trailer purred in answer to the man's voice. Two great flaps opened on the side, and inside were two amazingly beautiful sports cars. Or perhaps they were spaceships. Flying saucers. True, they had big black rubber tires like most vehicles on the road, but pretty much there the comparisons ended. These were two cars, these strange vehicles, but like no automobiles Barney and Frederic had ever seen before.
The trailer went very quiet. But the cars began to move. Some kind of lift extended them from within the trailer, and slowly, quietly, gently, the amazing vehicles exited the trailer and entered the garage.
The vehicles were dazzling in paint that seemed to emit light, and they were flat, only not quite flat, and sleek, with curves and swept back things, fins and tinted glass, and looking at either vehicle made your teeth hurt after only a few moments. So smooth, such thick smooth paint that rippled the light, oh, cars made from rainbows. Candy on wheels. Liquid in suspended state. Space-age vehicles from another land and time and dimension. Oh they were beautiful.
Frederic thought the vehicles were more beautiful than any concert grand piano he had ever imagined in his life. And Frederic had never, ever thought anything was as beautiful as a concert piano.
Barney erupted: "I KNEW it! I ain't buying any car kits! I got a muscle car right outside that can blow any of these two babies away! Suckah! Hah, thought you were bilk me for shiny toys, huh? You gotta get up pretty early, let me tell you, I said let me tell you brother!"
Even though Barney was vehement in his speech, it was obvious he was drooling over the two sports cars. Because these two cars made a brand-spanking-new Ferrari appear a Wal-mart shopping cart in comparison.
The man of light said: "One vehicle is for you, Bernard. And one vehicle is for you, Frederic. For a period of one year. A year, approximately. In the glove compartment of each vehicle is an owner's manual with all the instructions for caring for your vehicle."
Barney decided to let the Bernard slip of the tongue pass, but he was far too clever to let this foreigner in his fancy duds trick him, not Barney the fix-it man.
"You gotta be kidding me! With the price of gas, you think I'm gonna take one of these junkers off your hands? Huh? How stupid do you think I am?"
The dazzling man spoke. Just three short words.
"Study the Manual."
Within moments the dazzling man was returned to the limo and the whole procession was in rumbling movement and in only seconds it seemed nobody else had ever been in the dark garage other than Barney and Frederic. They sat in their chairs blinking, their lower jaws hanging open.
As one the men rose and walked to the cars.
It just happened that Frederic stood by the candy-apple red car, and Barney stood by the glistening white car.
"Um, you're standing by my car," Barney said, and he shoved Frederic out of the way, knocking him to the cold garage floor, and within moments Barney was screaming and burning rubber on the garage floor, and perhaps only five seconds later, only Frederic remained. Frederic, and the white car
Only distant echoes reverberated quietly, Barney's giddy scream, and the shrill screech of rubber on cement, the roar of a monster engine that sounded like a jet taking off.
And the faint smell of sulphur.
Frederic climbed to his feet. He dusted himself off. Wow, he thought, I don't know why in the world Prince Myshkin chose me for this car. It was funny, though, how he really wanted the silvery white car, not the flashy red car. Of course, he would have been perfectly happy with the red one, but if Barney wanted the red one, then it really did work out for the best.
As he approached the car its door swung open, like the wing of an angel. The inside was plush and gorgeous and as Frederic sank into its depths it was as if he were being hugged, held close. He closed his eyes and sat back. It felt like he was inside of a heart, a giant warm heart, and he was safe, and his eyes filled with tears. A Kleenex appeared at his hand, somehow produced from the car itself. Frederic blew his nose. Then, before he did anything else, he reached for the glovebox -- before he could touch the button, the little door swung open and a leather-bound book slipped into his reaching hand. The edges of the book were rich gold leaf, and the pages inside, as he opened the cover, were delicate onion skin, almost oily to the touch of his fingers.
"Dear Frederic," the manual read, "Please start me gently, for at least the first thousand miles, and always allow me to warm for at least two minutes before you drive."
"How do I start you?" Frederic mused out loud.
The car started. "I am voice activated, Frederic, please just speak to me."
And so began the oddest relationship of Frederic's life. He read the manual every day, sometimes many times a day, whenever he had a question the car would tell him what page to turn to. Frederic learned about the special oil that must be used. He learned about the special fuel. And the odd thing was, the small can of oil would appear on his doorstep the day before he needed to add oil, and the small can of fuel would do the same thing (and it seemed, no matter how much Frederic drove, it never took more than one can of fuel per week, always appearing on Friday morning). And each and every Saturday Frederic allowed his special car to rest in the garage, as per the Myshkin Manual.
People asked about the Myshkin car, the sleek, sporty, techie wonder. And Frederic didn't mind talking about his Myshkin. But mostly, he dearly loved driving his Myshkin, and reading the Myshkin Manual. The voice of the car became a welcome, comforting addition to Frederic's life. They shared many a rambling discourse as they sped mile after mile.
Barney, on the other hand, experienced something entirely different. He made quite a lot of money challenging other drivers to races. He'd enter bar after bar and challenge the drunks to races, sometimes racing for drinks, and what a blessing, he never had to buy a single shot of whiskey (but mostly he raced for pink slips, and his land blossomed with won booty, shining Camaros and Ferraris and Corvettes, all of it snatched away, a rapture of the Myshkin! He also found he could get many pretty girls to take long drives with him in this hot, hot car. What a blessing, praise the Myshkin!
Barney also found that car manufacturers would pay more than a pretty penny for the small can of fuel delivered to his doorstep every Friday morning. The first two cans he sold for a thousand dollars a pop. But then Barney learned. He learned people would pay him big time for the strange, futuristic fuel, and he cursed the wasted opportunity from those first two small cans.
Which meant he pumped regular gas into his car, only once a week. And the thing of it was, the magical thing, the car ran absolutely no differently on regular gas! What a boob, that Myshkin. He pumped in the cheapest gas he could find, and even though the price of gas was up around $5 a gallon, he could do the whole week of driving on one half-gallon of gasoline, that ding dong Myshkin!
And the oil cans, GM started writing him $1 million checks for each can of that magical oil. A cool Mil once a week, that was the way to fly! And the best scientists couldn't even figure out what it was. They concluded it must be from the ground-up fragments of a meteorite, or something else as equally non-terrestrial. And the greatest thing was, Barney never had to add oil, not once, that's how good it was, this Myshkin jalopy of wonder and delight.
It was almost like a Genie, a Magical, oh so Magical Genie, this Myshkin Wonder! Oh the doors Myshkin opened for Barney with this flashy red car.
And Barney loved to carry around the Myshkin Manual in his pocket. Whenever he was in a group of people he'd whip out his Myshkin Manaul and show it around. If anyone started bragging about their own car, Barney would hit them in the face with the book; he found that it shut them up fast, real fast. And wonder of wonders, people would actually PAY Barney to read to them from the manual, just little snippets, from here, or there, the words were that magical, and the poor stupid boobs stood open-mouthed as Barney read the wondrous words.
Soon Barney had his own TV show, reading about his Myshkin, driving a stretch of road in some exotic locale as the cameras rolled and the TV audience swooned, and soon there was a Barney fan club, and Barney employees who autographed pictures of Barney and mailed them out, and people paid to come and see the Myshkin Motor, and Barney found he could get them to write big checks, for just one little ride in the passenger seat of the Myshkin. Famous Indy 500 racers paid to stand and smile next to the car. Others, many, many others paid Barney big bucks to stick a simple sticker on the side of the Myshkin (and Barney didn't mind, because regardless of the glue employed, the stickers soon blew away, leaving the Myshkin as pristine as before). It was a great car, the Myshkin, and Barney didn't mind it, not one pretty penny, when people began to refer to him, to Barney, as Myshkin!
Afterall, wasn't Barney special? Didn't he have his own special TV show? Wasn't he rich, wealthy, prosperous beyond imagination. Didn't gorgeous women throw themselves at him whenever he roared to some fancy shindig? The gorgeous women didn't even mind that he went through them like dirty tissues, because hey, they got to ride in the Myshkin, didn't they? They got to sit next to Myshkin, didn't they?
The only obnoxious thing about the whole deal was that stupid voice in Barney's car, it was insipid like that stupid voice in that old TV show. Barney told it to shut its trap, right from the beginning, and when it wouldn't he tried to disconnect the wires that powered it, but no matter what he did, it kept yammering at him, telling him to slow down, to please use the proper fuel, to "oil up" as it inanely babbled, and on and on. He took to playing very loud music (music that his followers created, all singing the praises of Myshkin, all of it very loud, repeating over and over how fast was Myshkin, how slick was Myshkin, how hot hot hot was Myshkin) and that seemed to hold the insistent voice at bay. Probably six months had passed before Barney even realized that the stupid voice had finally shut up.
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Stupid voice, stupid Myshkin. But people, oh yeah the people, pretty soon they were making special laws just for Barney and his Myshkin. Police would follow him everywhere he went, smiling at him, even when he blew them off the road by punching the Myshking up beyond what normal speedometers even displayed. Soon laws were written, that normal people, those poor boobs with a Myshkin, could only drive the speed limit. But not Barney. Oh not Barney. He was not under the law, no sir, no way. He could drive as fast as he pleased and anyone who didn't like it ought to just go straight to hell without passing GO.
Frederic, on the other hand, was driving the Myshkin from coast to coast, giving free piano concertos wherever he went -- people fed him, they loved to do it, and gave him a place to stay, and a place to play. And Frederic played the piano better than he ever had before, and miraculously, he began to play the cello almost as well as the piano, which he had played all his life. New talents emerged that he never knew were inside him, almost as if the Myshkin brought these special talents and abilities out of him. Frederic covered thousands and thousands of miles, talking to the car, reading the Myshkin Manual, and probably only six months passed before Frederic realized he was retaining great portions of the manual, without even trying to memorize it!
Frederic's life changed, completely. Always lonely, now he made friends everywhere he went. He even met a beautiful woman with the bluest eyes he'd ever looked into, and she gladly married him, and began to drive alongside him, reading aloud from the manual, and sometimes they sang together, and the car joined in, singing perfect three-part harmony! They were like a three-twined rope, perfect in happiness, his lady, Frederic, and the Myshkin. Wonder of wonders, a logo appeared on the side of the car, three cords bound together, a piece of glistening twine. They didn't know what it meant, but they thought it was beautiful, and so fitting, like their lives.
And the funny thing was, Frederic hardly had to say a word to people. When they saw him emerging from his Myshkin, they smiled. They knew he was different. They asked him questions and he gladly answered. And his wife became as knowledgable about the Myshkin as he was himself.
It wasn't long before Frederic and his wife were driving down the road, with Frederic's hand affectionately placed upon his soulmate's abdomen, feeling the new life moving there. The Myshkin car played Mozart, which supposedly was good for the baby in the womb (at least that's what the Myshkin said), and the car even insisted on reading classical literature which he insisted was just as good for the developing baby inside Frederic's wife.
Frederic shook his head. He was happy. For the first time in his life, he was happy. He was fulfilled. He knew he didn't deserve this, as he had done nothing, not ever, that could account for this kind of bliss. It didn't even occur to him that twelve months had come and gone. It was not at all like he'd gone out and found Prince Myshkin, that strange and glorious stranger. It as as if Frederic had been lost, lonely and wretched, and Prince Myshkin had come and found him.
Barney was making friends too. Sure, he knew most were just fans, just hangers-on and leeches, bunches of worthless scumbuckets, but they paid for everything he needed. Barney took to wearing white clothes, and telling all his followers about Myshkin, who would come any day and take them all away with him. Yes, soon they would all be driving Myshkins to other planets, they'd leave behind this filthy mess of a world that was nothing more than a broken-down machine, and they would soon have everything they'd ever wanted. Barney could even prove a lot of his theories, by reading little snatches out of the Myshkin Manual, a little here, a little there, and sometime along the way, Barney had found himself enjoying the book, he rarely hit anyone in the face with it anymore. Now he found he could win any argument by speaking the words of Myshkin. And more and more Barney believed himself to actually BE Myshkin.
It made sense, didn't it? I mean, nobody knew this weirdo with the white beard? That stinking, stupid, ridiculous freaky abino dude. He wasn't an average Joe like Barney. I mean Barney was a real guy. You had to like a guy like Barney, didn't you?
Barney went so far as to legally change his name to Myshkin.
He spoke Myshkin, preached Myshkin, lived Myshkin.
Really, after all this time, he actually was Myshkin.
But Barney could hardly be called happy, even with all the riches he'd garnished from the Myshkin car and the Myshkin Manual. The cans of special Myshkin fuel had long stopped arriving, and the miraculous Myshkin Oil had dried up many months ago (and the car manufacturers, unable to replicate its qualities, had hidden away all their studies and tests and now denied the oil had ever existed). Myshkin gas stations littered the world, across the street from every Starbucks and McDonalds, and although the gas was no different than any other gas, Barney demanded that it sell at four times the price of its competitors (and people paid, many claiming to receive true miracles, such as free oil changes, and repaired mufflers, better-sounding stereo experiences, and Barney encouraged this nonsense, even talking about the miracles on his TV show -- sometimes he'd hold his hand up to the screen and say: "Someone out there right now is getting free Myshkin, oh yes they are!").
The funny thing was, the boobs started sending him money, claiming he'd performed a miracle. The letters said how great Myshkin was, how truly wonderful and marvelous and beautiful. Oh the glory of Barney, Barney thought. And then corrected himself (not that he even hardly needed correction, not Barney, he was practically infallible; practically? oh let's face it, he was a god on Earth, yessirree a true god!): "Oh the glory of Myshkin!"
Yes, he'd become a great man. Yes, people hung on his every word.
But still, it just seemed there had to be MORE to life. Everything felt like a lie to Barney, especially anything to do with Myshkin and his cars and oils and fuels and manuals. Every one of his millions of Myshkin Manuals that he was publishing and selling in all kinds of formats (there was a pink one for little girls, a camouflage version for Myshkinites in the military, a glow-in-the-dark version and one hundred other special versions, some of them with flavors you could actually lick, to get that Myshkin taste), they all seemed as nothing, like he was mass-producing dictionaries, or comic books.
It just didn't seem to MEAN anything. And the more he pushed Myshkin, the more he despised everyone, and that meant Myshkin first and foremost (both the imagined Myhskin, that would-be Barney, and the Myshkin from that long-ago dark garage). Oh that devil Myshkin, how Barney loathed the memory of that freaky albino.
It didn't help, Barney felt, that people were such suckers. Born every minute? How about a dozen a minute! It was pretty much their fault, Barney realized, theirs, and Myshkins (not himself, Barney corrected, but that OTHER Myshkin, the one from the dark garage). Yes, it was the OTHER Myshkin, he was the source of all Barney's troubles, sadness, emptiness.
Barney began to realize that Myshkin had come from deep within himself. It was his Inner Myshkin that he had manifested. And now, from selectively reading his Myshkin Manual, he understood that he could manifest anything his mind delighted in. And so Barney gathered his Myshkinites about him and brought together the biggest press conference the world had ever seen, and Barney announced to the world, via his Inner Myshkin, that he was declaring December 25th as the Great Myshkin Drive, and everyone who wore the distinctive Myshkin letter "M" around their neck on a gold chain and swore to never pass Myshkin on the Great Freeway of the Cosmos, would be anti-ejected into their very own Myshkin Cosmoscraft, and would drive the universe (which would soon be changed to Myshkinverse) with Myshkin (formerly known as Barney) behind the lead Myshkin vehicle.
And on the appointed Christmas, all the Myshkinites gathered for their Great Myshkin Drive, all of the multitudes wearing their distinctive Myshkin letter "M" on gold chains about their necks, all of them reaching toward the sky, chanting over and over again: "Myshkin! Myshkin! Myshkin!"
On the freeway that passed the great stadium where all the Myshkinites were gathered, a lone white vehicle sped along the pavement.
"What's going on over there, I wonder?" mused Frederic, wondering at the thousands and millions of people filling and surrounding the stadium, all with their hands lifted to the sky.
"They are getting what they truly deserve, because they never learned to love the Truth," the Myshkin car answered him.
"The poor people," Frederic's wife said, watching the people wave their hands at the sky as the white Myshkin car sped away.
Then, far up along the freeway, they saw a beggar standing on the shoulder of the road, thumb extended in the universal sign of begging a ride.
"Do you think it's safe to pick him up?" Frederic's wife wondered.
"Well, we can at least stop and see if he needs some help," Frederic answered, pulling over to the side of the road.
And then Myshkin himself was smiling at them, his glorious colors revealed in the sparkling hues of the rainbow.
"Prince Myshkin!" Frederic laughed, his heart bursting with joy.
"Can I have a lift?" Prince Myshkin asked.
"Of course! Of course!" Frederic and his wife laughed as the doors of the car lifted like angel wings.
"My good and faithful servants," Prince Myshkin said, seating himself behind Frederic and his wife, placing a long-fingered hand on each of their shoulders. "Drive on. We have much work to do. There are many, many people who will welcome our free gift, and we will ensure that each one is behind the wheel of their own Myshkin. And we shall change the world!"
Far behind, in the stadium, Barney stood perplexed. The day of his Great Myshkin Drive had come and gone. And the people were grumbling. They were demanding their own Myshkins. And poor Barney didn't exactly know what to tell them.
Of course, he still had the Myshkin car and the Myshkin Manual. He would always have those, thank Myshkin! They were as brand-spanking new as on the first day.
Just then, the beautiful red Myshkin burst into flames of fire. And poor Barney screamed as the Myshkin Manual also burst into fire, singeing his back pocket. He dropped to the ground and dragged his backside in the grass until the pocket broke away and released the Myshkin Manual, where it burned to ash in the green, green grass of the stadium.
Barney was so mad. He was truly angry. What a gyp the world was! Barney felt so betrayed! That filthy Myshkin, the con man, the liar, the deceiver. Oh how poor Barney had been deceived! Barney, who did everything right, who was special, who had his own TV show, who had millions of followers who would do anything for him, for Barney, the REAL Myshkin.
Thank Myshkin, Barney thought, that people really are that stupid. He bet they'd still buy into him, into Barney the REAL Myshkin! Yes, he still was Myshkin, and people would still follow him. They would do anything for him. Anything.
"My followers!" Barney shouted, and all the milling masses halted, looked to him with hope in their eyes. "I have changed my mind! There has been a change of plans! I promise you are gonna LOVE this next one. Gather in closer. And start gathering together seed offerings, pass those buckets around! Come one, come all!"
The people paused, only a moment, their jaws hanging slack, their eyes glossy and dark. And they gathered closer, passing great buckets around, brimming with dollar bills, loose change, and countless bright plastic credit cards.
* * *
Our bodies, hmmmm, and the world, both baptized by water, both baptized by fire. Both renewed. Does God CARE if we care for the Temple of the Holy Spirit? When He asked us in Genesis to take care of the world, maybe He wasn't kidding. Think about it. Jesus used His own body as an example, destroy this temple and He will raise it up again on the third day. Our body is the Temple of God, the Temple of the Holy Spirit. For God so loved the world...
It's something, about sense, you know? It pretty much makes sense. Anyone can do it -- THINK, I mean. You just have to make an effort, to see through the propaganda, the slogans, buzz words, "thinkless" speech, knee-jerk reactions and angry, bitter rhetoric. Try it, thinking, what have you got to lose in a crazy, crazy world?
What's this world coming to, anyway, is what I'd like to know.
Ways to aid this ministry include praying for this site www.TruthSeek.net, www.DeceivingtheElect.net, and www.DramaticParables.com, donations and provision may be gifted using the TruthSeekGift page (and please only use this if you feel you are inspired by God to do so), and also feel free to use the Prayer Request page to submit prayer requests, and praying for the prayer requests of others, as well as exploring the various advertisements and links on these pages (regrettably, the advertising is necessary to recompense the many costs of keeping a website running, so exploration of the advertisers, which are not connected to any of these parables, is greatly appreciated). Any aid is joyously accepted, even if that means a smile and a well-wish. Thank you so much!
...Just Trying to Make Sense in a Crazy, Crazy, Loony-Tunes World.
Just give Thinking a chance.
THINK. Think your own thoughts.
Use the MIND that God Himself gave you, the thing that makes you unique, the thing that encompasses YOU, your mind, your noodle, your "heart" as the Bible calls it. Think with it, it's what God wants you to do. If you only think the thoughts of other people, you are not doing what you were designed to do. THINK. Or at least think about thinking, that would be a good start.
Sense is not evil. Common sense is a good thing, and perhaps not as "common" as the cliche. You think you can't figure it out, but that is because you haven't ever tried. God gave you a brain for a reason, and it is your responsibility to USE it.
Is tradition more important than what the Bible actually says?
When God says don't put this in your temple, is it okay to disobey Him?
Will the Holy Spirit even reside in a defiled temple?
Is the world, created by God, really something we can afford to disdain? Rape, pillage, plunder and deplete? Wipe out the animals? Cut down the trees? Greed is good, right?
When God says He is coming back to destroy those who are destroying the Earth, is He just bluffing?
Why do those on the left, who don't believe in God, say we should protect the planet? And those on the right, who claim to believe in God, say the world isn't important?
Society is robbing you of thought. Ads and gurus and the very worst of "teachers" are right now sapping your very soul. Aspartame and sucralose and Acesulfame K and splenda and MSG and high-fructose corn syrup and perpetual bombardment by cellular phone rays and the worst of nutrition-free diet is all adding up to rob you of your very ability to THINK. But you can yet do it. Exercise your gray matter.
Society is robbing you of thought. Ads and gurus and the very worst of "teachers" are right now sapping your very soul. Aspartame and sucralose and Acesulfame K and splenda and MSG and high-fructose corn syrup and perpetual bombardment by cellular phone rays and the worst of nutrition-free diet is all adding up to rob you of your very ability to THINK. But you can yet do it. Exercise your gray matter.
The one man was short and round, while the man sitting next to him was very tall and extremely thin. Looking in through a window at the two men, you might think you were seeing the enactment of some tired old joke. But in reality the two men didn't know each other, had never met before, and each hardly knew why they were summoned to this place, a monstrous garage, empty of all vehicles or mechanics, with only two white chairs. The identical letters in each man's hand contained directions to take a chair.
