Parasha Shemini 03/26/2022 Good morning, and shabbat shalom! Today’s parahsa covers Leviticus 9-11 and is titled Shemini, which translates to the “eighth day”. Today’s passage is a striking picture of progressive revelation, the idea that the later Scriptures are fuller revelations of earlier ones. We might think of earlier passages (such as today’s) as the scaffolding necessary for the construction of New Testament doctrines. Specifically, this Shabbat’s text is helping us erect a full-bodied understanding of the two ordinances, baptism and the Lord’s Supper, as well as the priesthood that administers them. Chapter nine picks up right after the glorious completion of the Tabernacle. Naturally, the first point of business is to make various sacrifices to the Lord. Moses commands Aaron to make atoning sacrifices for himself first and then for the Israeli people. Interestingly, a sin offering was made for the people before a peace offering was made on their behalf. The ultimate purpose behind these sacrifices is plain, “... that the glory of the Lord may appear to you”. In what form did this glory present itself? In an all-consuming fire which brought the people to their knees in terror. If the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, then we might rightly conclude that Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, did not have it. For, at the start of the very next chapter, these newly appointed priests had the audacity to offer an unauthorized, unsolicited, incense fire to Adonai. The glory of the Lord reappeared in full, fiery force to show that every coin has two sides. Hearing of his sons’ deaths, Aaron, Israel’s great orator, was reduced to silence. He and his other sons were not even allowed to grieve their deaths outwardly. A new law was made by Moses that Aaron and his remaining sons were never to drink alcohol before entering the Tent of Meeting, their sacred place of worship, perhaps to keep their inhibitions high. This new law was evidently not enough to provoke obedience because Aaron’s remaining sons, Eleazar and Ithamar, consumed the aforementioned sin offering outside of the designated place, the Sanctuary. For this offense, the two received a harsh rebuke from Moses. Aaron appealed to Moses that all other duties were performed properly and that he did not eat with his sons because his sorrow exempted him from such a solemn, sacrificial meal. Despite his consternation, Moses accepted this justification. Chapter eleven brings our parasha to a close with a long list of kosher and non-kosher creatures. Among those acceptable to God included mammals who chew the cud and have cloven hooves and fish with both scales and fins. Unclean creatures included those that swarmed on the ground as well as certain flying animals like eagles and bats—in case you needed two more reasons why you should be grateful to live in America and not China. We are even told that anyone or anything that came in contact with impure things needed to be cleansed, either through washing in water or isolation until evening. So, what does all this have to do with priestly ordination, communion, and baptism? Well, chapter nine is explicitly about the new priesthood of Aaron and his sons. Aaron is told to make a sacrifice on behalf of his people. A priest, pastor, or rabbi is a bidirectional representative. That is, with his back to the altar, he represents God to us, and turning himself round, he represents us to God—one reason why the priesthood is a strictly patriarchal vocation. Additionally, the sacrifices Aaron offered were a sin sacrifice and a peace sacrifice… in that order! Pastors know that, as with the order of our prayers, the obligations they have to their flock concern first their sin and second their peace. The pastorate is an honorable vocation, but a dangerous one. Pastors will either receive strict judgment (James 3:1) or the unfading crown of glory (1 Peter 5:4). Like Aaron’s sons, pastors inevitably get a front row seat to God’s glory. The question is whether that glory will consume them or their sacrifice. Moving on to chapter ten, we see that Aaron and his sons are responsible for properly consuming the meat of the sin offering so that they, “... may bear the iniquity of the congregation, to make atonement for them before the Lord.” Today, you and I also partake of a sin offering—the final one, Yeshua—not to bear our iniquity but to share in the divine nature of the one who did (1 Peter 1:4). What a beautiful reversal! God, as Master Architect, actually inverted the Old Testament scaffolding to build up the New Testament sacrament of Communion. Furthermore, the physical system has been replaced with a spiritual one; the regenerate heart has replaced the holy Tent of Meeting. Like Aaron and his sons, we must not eat of the sacrificial meal unless we legitimately reside therein, lest we eat and drink judgment on ourselves (1 Corinthians 11:29). Lastly, chapter eleven talks about holiness and uncleanness. Two facts are immediately apparent. The first is that unclean things are as ubiquitous in our lives as the creatures listed are on the earth. In short, God demands holiness in every area of our lives. The second fact is that uncleanness was not a sin and did not mean spiritual or physical death; it was temporary and almost routine. Instead, kosher impurity was a symbol of sin and death, a symbol which God forbade to enter His presence. He is teaching us something about the actually deadening nature of sin. In the same way, immersion in water was merely for outward purification, whereas baptism actually demonstrates inward transformation, all by the resurrection of Jesus the Messiah (1 Peter 3:21). Big score for progressive revelation! Like children, God explained his holy ordinances by way of physical analogs before exposing us to the fuller spiritual reality. For 2,000 years now, God has been faithfully revealing what is expected of us in the areas of the priesthood, communion, and baptism. Are we, on our part, being faithful? Are we holding our pastorate to the high standard of bidirectional representatives? Are we eating the Lord’s Supper in the sanctuary of a regenerate heart? Are we seeking holiness in all areas of life and baptizing new covenant members with all the confidence of Messiah’s resurrection? To answer those questions, we must explore ourselves and the Scriptures in earnest, rejoicing in progressive revelation all along the way. Saint John the Evangelist on Patmos (1547) by Titan #Parasha #ProgressiveRevelation #Baptism #Communion #Priesthood

Parasha Vaera 01/01/2022 Shabbat Shalom! This week’s Parasha, Vaera, translates to “... and I appeared”, and it spans Exodus six through nine. This passage is nothing short of an epic battle between gods warring in the heavenly realm, the shadows of whom we see dance over Egypt. In these gods' human counterparts, we see clearly how the will of man fractures under forces both natural and supernatural. The text starts out with God commanding Moses and Aaron to spread the word of the Israelis' forthcoming deliverance and of God’s supreme authority over the Earth. When Moses expresses doubt over his and Aaron’s abilities, not only does God double down on His original command, but we are even allowed a sneak peek at the genealogical credentials of these unlikely heroes, both Levites. God then sets the stage for the imminent cosmic battle. He says that He has made Moses like God to Pharaoh and Aaron like Moses’ prophet. That is to say, Moses is God’s frontman—the unusual role of acting in persona christi long before Messiah’s incarnation—and Aaron was to be his executor. This appears strange until we are introduced to our main antagonist, Pharaoh. We read that God “hardened Pharaoh’s heart”. One might object that God violated Pharaoh’s free will here; and that Pharaoh should not be held responsible for the sins to follow. This is to gravely and fundamentally misconstrue the relationship between God, man, and their respective wills. Put simply, God is unchanging. We, however, are fickle creatures, constantly shape-shifting to fit the molds of fleshly desires. Moses is like butter, and Pharaoh like clay. The sun, God, shines on both the same, but one, by its nature melts, and the other hardens under the heat. It has been likewise speculated that the rays of God’s love and glory which warm the believer in Heaven are the very same rays which torch the damned in Hell. And, indeed, in today’s story, it appears as though, in his hardness toward God, Pharaoh necessarily softened to the deceiving spirits of this world. Moses’ sign of his staff becoming a serpent was replicated by Pharaoh’s pagan sorcerers, which pleased Pharaoh. By rejecting the true miracle of the true God, Pharaoh yielded to the deceptive conjuring of a false god. In this moment, he is the embodiment of a demon, and his magicians are his prophets; an inverted parallel to the dynamic between God, Moses, and Aaron. So… which false god is possessing Pharaoh? Rather, the question ought to be, which false gods are possessing Pharaoh? In that day, Egypt was full of pagan deities. Each of the ten plagues were specific attacks from Adonai on these false gods. Together, they form the ten battles of this celestial war. God’s stated objective in this war was, as always, holy: to set the Israelis free to depart for the wilderness and worship Him. The first plague was turning the water of the Nile into blood. This is an attack on Apis, styled the “god of the Nile”. Water was the most crucial element of Egyptian society and economy. It was so intense, in fact, that Pharaoh pleaded with Moses to make it stop, even promising the release of the Israelis. But he reneged on his promise immediately after God lifted the plague. The second plaque involved the proliferation of frogs, which invaded homes, later died and produced a stench across the land. This was an attack against Heqet, the goddess of birth, who had the head of a frog. Again came the pleas and false promises, and again, Pharaoh’s heart was re-hardened. The third battle featured gnats (or lice) arising from the dust of the earth. This was a targeting of the god of desert storms, Set. This plague the magicians could not replicate; a powerful testimony to God’s unmatched power. The fourth attack, swarms of flies, was against Uatchit, the fly god. This plague moved Pharaoh to comply with God’s command, but that Israel must stay within the land of Egypt. But Adonai will never placate the demands of demons or despots, and the plagues continued. The fifth plague was the death of Egyptian livestock. This attack was leveled against either Apis, the bull god, who symbolized fertility or Hathor, the goddess with a cow head. Here, as with the flies, the Jewish people were spared. God always protects His faithful remnant. The sixth plague was boils on the Egyptians. This was a judgement on either Sekhmet, the goddess of disease; Isis, the goddess of healing; or Sunu, the god of pestilence. Even the sorcerers were so afflicted with boils that they could not muster an appearance in this act of the drama. The parasha concludes with the seventh plague: hail and fire from Heaven, which destroyed crops and killed people and animals. Here, Adonai humiliated Nut, the sky goddess and Osiris, the god of crops and fertility. Throughout these plagues, Pharaoh’s will was repeatedly broken, yet propped up again by false gods. Moses, on the other hand, was tapped into the power of God Almighty, so his will withstood both natural and supernatural forces. When we walk in obedience to the will of the Father, we are immovable. Humans are, in some sense, vessels which need filling. The demons knew that if they could not keep Pharaoh’s heart hard and his will set against the God of Israel, then God would have his way—meaning, the Israelis would escape and it would usher in the next phase of God’s bigger plan to save the world. That’s right… This was not merely a divine squabble over the social injustices of slaves; it was a decisive battle in Satan’s doomed war against God and His master plan of salvation. Now here’s the sobering part. The same battle is taking place in your life. At this very hour, there are false gods at work in our schools, our government, our computers, and at our workplaces. We dare not give them a foothold in our hearts or homes. Paul could not be more clear, writing these words to the believers in Ephesus, “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.” Fortunately, the Scriptures have much more to say on the matter. Paul also wrote, “What shall we then say to these things? If God be for us, who can be against us?” (Romans 8:31). And centuries earlier, God spoke these words through Isaiah: “No weapon that is formed against you will prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against you in judgment, you will condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is of Me,” says the Lord” (Isaiah 54:17). Israel would soon be set free. You and I have been set free. For now, the battle continues, but victory in the eternal realm has already been achieved. We are in the camp of the triumphant! Let your heart rejoice! The Tenth Plague of Egypt (1802) by J. M. W. Turner #Parasha #Egypt #Plagues #Moses #Rejoice

Parasha Lech L’cha 10/16/2022 Shabbat shalom! Today’s parasha, Lech L’cha (translated “Go forth”) spans Genesis chapters 12-17, and is, I think, a sorely needed refresher in God’s ability to use His children for mighty things. I would like to preface this parasha with a word of encouragement. At any given time, God is acting in one of three ways in your life: offering to use you, preparing you for His use, or using you. These Spirit-inspired transformations are the building blocks of your personal story and, ultimately, the story of God redeeming the world. The question is not if God will use you; it is to what end will God use you, and will you resist him in His efforts? Abram illustrates this point beautifully. At age 75, he was not too old to be used for a divine purpose. God called on him to leave behind all that was comfortable and familiar, and after pronouncing a seven-fold blessing over him, he didn’t hesitate to become God’s nomad, bringing with him his wife Sarai and his nephew Lot on the journey. Leaving his father’s basement was step one: responding to God’s offer to use him. He sojourned a great distance before encountering step two: God preparing him to be used. In this case, through a series of trials. The first was a famine which sent Abram seeking refuge in Egypt. Only, he had lost sight of the prize for which God had called him. It was the fear of man—the fear that the Egyptians would kill him for his beautiful wife—that compelled him to pretend Sarai was his sister. Presented with an opportunity to display sacrificial love, honesty, and faith, Abram instead chose cowardice and deception. Per usual, the benefits of his sins were short-lived. Pharaoh took Sarai as his wife, and God, in His justice, sent plagues on Pharaoh's household. When all was settled, Abram and company were banished from Egypt. Humbled, he retraced his steps to Bethel. It was actually wise for him to return to the land where he constructed his second altar. Once the place of close encounter with Adonai, it now served as a place of rededication after his spiritual crisis. In a fallen world, the progress of an righteous man occurs in a “two steps forward, one step backward” manner. Had Abram given up and returned to home in Haran, he would have given the devil more than his due, a heinous sin. But he didn’t; he remained in Bethel; long enough, in fact, for his capital to outgrow the land. As Lot and Abram’s flocks grew, quarrels broke out between their herdsmen. Generously, Abram generously offered Lot first choice, to settle whichever land he desired. Lot chose the more superficially prosperous (albeit morally insidious) of the two, the region of Sodom. Predictably, from expediency grew misfortune. A war broke out that ultimately engulfed all of Sodom, and Lot and his family were captured by an allied army of four kings. Upon receiving word of this, his second trial, Abram chose not cowardice but rather sacrificial love and faith foreshadowing that of Messiah: he left the ninety-nine, as it were, for the one. Abram rounded his army of 318 men, led them to victory, and rescued his nephew. In the aftermath of this war, two kings turned up at his doorstep. The first, the king of Sodom, a luciferian figure, offered earthly spoils. The other, Melchizedek, the king of Salem, whom some maintain to be the preincarnate Messiah, offered bread, wine, and a blessing. Abram elected to receive the gifts of the High Priest, tithed to that enigmatic priest-king, and pressed onward. God was pleased with Abram’s courageous faith and rewarded his willingness to be used. At Abram’s request, Adonai consented to a formal covenant with him. Abram was instructed to sacrifice certain animals and line them in two rows, after which a “dreadful and great darkness fell upon him.” In that deep sleep, Adonai promised Abram that his offspring would inherit the promised land, but not before being enslaved for 400 years. To consummate this covenant rite, it was customary for both parties to walk through the animal halves. When Abram awoke, however, he saw a smoking firepot with a blazing torch passing through. The Lord, it seems, had ratified this covenant unilaterally! In the words of Jonathan Edwards, “You contribute nothing to your salvation except the sin that made it necessary.” Next, Abram faced his third refining trial, this time with Sarai’s influence. Sarai was a faithful wife who yearned for God’s will, her promised boy. Yet, her faith faltered here, and she pressed Abram to circumvent God’s plan by instead producing a son through her young servant, Hagar. Just as with Pharaoh, the human plan almost worked. Hagar birthed Ishmael, a donkey of a man, who received the blessing of prosperity, but the curse of lifelong contention and strife. Like Sarai, our hubristic ambitions turn a good thing wicked for want of patience and humility, ultimately resulting in a perversion of the original Good God intended. In Sarai snickering “After I am worn out, and my lord is old, shall I have pleasure?” one can almost hear Pilate asking sarcastically, “Are you King of the Jews?” Cynically, we suppose that what God has promised is too good to be true. Boy, are we wrong! At the end of our story, Abram and Sarai realized just how wrong. After 25 years, they received the greatest, unlikeliest, and earliest gender reveal in history with God’s pronouncement of Isaac, the prophesied son. In one year’s time, little Isaac would enter the world, the trunk of a family tree which would eventually produce not only the flowering community of believers we see today but the Messiah himself. By gradually submitting to God’s intended character-building, Abram and Sarai graduated from the offer to be used by God, to being prepared to be used by God, to finally step three: being used by God for this, their destiny. To find God’s use for us is to find our identity, so, as part of this covenant, Abram and Sarai were renamed Abraham and Sarah. And, to show that they had some skin in the game, Abraham was circumcised with every male in his household, present and future. Foreshadowing Messiah, this ordinary man was destined for greatness, simply because he could say, “Not my will, but thine be done.” When God used trials to prepare him, Abraham obeyed; and when he failed, he quickly returned to God in repentance. Today, we celebrate him as the Father of the Faith because of that simple obedience. I urge you, brothers and sisters, wherever you are along the path, obey the Lord. He is either offering to use you, preparing you for His use, or using you. Pray for understanding of to what end God is trying to use you, and press on in that endeavor. And when trials bring doubt, remember that your identity rests in Him and His purposes. Abraham Leaves Haran (1560 and 1592) by Francesco Bassano the Younger #Parasha #Abraham #OurDivineUse #GoForth #Melchizedek

Parasha Re'eh 08/07/2021 Shabbat Shalom! God’s revealed truth comes to us this morning from Deuteronomy 11:26 through 16:17. The title of this parasha is Re’eh, translated “See”—and what we “see” in this passage is a pretty good road map for faithful believers in their practice of a few, key spiritual disciplines. The text begins with Moses forcing the hand of the Israelis concerning the reaffirmation of their covenant with God: “See, I am setting before you today a blessing and a curse: the blessing, if you obey the commandments of the Lord your God [...] and the curse, if you do not obey.” These “commandments” can be thought of as spiritual disciplines, the intention of which were to set Israel apart as a holy nation. I believe that with a little exegetical legwork, they can do the same for us today. The first is a command for Israel to claim the land that God had given them, and to do so in a very particular way. This is not the polite pussyfooting of one college freshman girl moving in with her new roomie. This is more akin to guerrilla warfare. It is God using the Israelis as a holy wrecking ball against wicked icons, wicked temples, and wicked cities... and not stopping to consult the wicked city code first. It is also Israel filling the earth, subduing it, and having dominion over every living thing that moves on it. The fact that God’s first commandment in Genesis is His first commandment here should tell us a little something of its importance. The second commandment was to sacrifice, or “tithe”. Again, not just any type of sacrifice, but the best sacrifice one can make. The Israelis were to give their finest vow offerings, freewill offerings, and the firstborn of their herds and flocks. This was to be done, not wherever they pleased, but specifically, “[...] in the place that the Lord your God will choose.” In other words, your tithe is not a proper spiritual discipline if it’s not rightly placed. If God has called you to Shema, then the First Church of Blank and Blank probably shouldn’t be receiving your ten percent. This also goes for your time and talents too; if God made you a fish, you should probably swim to the glory of God, not fly. The following commandment is the first and only negative one, meaning it calls for a type of inaction rather than action. Here, the action to be avoided is idolatry. To paraphrase a few examples, “Take care that you not be ensnared to follow the gods or the (sac)religious practices of those whose land you overtook.” And again, “You shall not listen to the words of the prophet or dreamer of dreams who asks you to go after other gods.” And another time, “You shall not yield to, listen to, pity, spare or conceal your loved one who asks you to serve another god.” What were they to do? They were to stone them. And the same goes for the city that turns to idolatry. They were to devote these cities to destruction, right down to the cattle therein, so that they might be a burnt offering for the Lord. Clearly, avoiding idols and destroying idolaters is a spiritual discipline. Perhaps Christians are losing the culture war because in fear of being the first to cast a stone, we forget that God made some stones for casting. Just ask David. Next is perhaps the most familiar of the commandments, namely the laws regarding a kosher diet. These, I think, can actually be broken up into two spiritual disciplines. The first is obvious: remain pure by avoiding the unclean, specifically that which can cause disease. The second is slightly different: never pervert the true nature of a thing. The clearest example of this comes from my favorite verse of this passage, “You shall not boil a young goat in its mother’s milk.” Why, you ask? Well, because, simply put, man should not use for death that which God meant for life. It is wrong for a mother to outlive her child, and even more so to see that child die in her own milk. On the flip side, that which is meant for death should not be used for life. For instance, angels are warriors, not women designed for the procreative act. Just ask the Sodomites. Moving on, we reach the fifth commandment, Christian charity. At the end of every three years, the Israelis were commanded to gather in their towns the collective tithe of all their produce to feed, among others, the Levite, the sojourner, the fatherless, and the widow. Additionally, three times per year, at Passover (the Holiday of Unleavened Bread), at Shavuot (the Holiday of Weeks), and at Sukkot (the Holiday of Tabernacles), each Israeli male was to present before God all that he was able. If you’re paying attention, you can see why Christian charity is often so unpopular. When the Church is doing her job, her charity perplexes the secular and pagan world. She offers freely what the world is forced to demand, often on threat of violence, in taxes, for example. She leads in servitude. She boasts in weakness. She grows under persecution and hardship. Where else but in Christ and his bride do we find such beautiful paradoxes? Finally, God commanded of Israel faithful observance of Passover. And it is reasonable to infer that, for us today, this includes not just the Passover but also the Holy Communion, the apotheosis of the Passover. The spiritual discipline here is the act of formally recalling to mind our deliverance out of slavery—to Pharaoh, yes, but also to sin and death. For the liberated Christian or Messianic Jew, the Lord’s Supper is about as optional as the manna was for the Israelis starving in the wilderness. In conclusion, even though we do not have Moses setting before us a blessing and a curse, the spiritual disciplines behind his commandments still apply, perhaps more powerfully now than ever before. After all, Messiah set the bar higher, not lower, when he said, “[...], You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like it, You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the law and the prophets.” Moses Smashing the Tablets of the Law (1659) by Rembrandt van Rijn #Moses #Commands #SpiritualDisciplines #BlessingandCurse #Parasha

Parasha Chukat 06/19/2022 Shabbat shalom! Today’s parsha, entitled Chukat, translated “statute”, chronicles the ups and downs of Israel’s wandering from Numbers 19:1 to 22:1. I think the text today has something to teach us about true goodness and true evil. If goodness is that which is holy, clean, and life-giving, then evil is that which is wicked, filthy, and life-threatening. In this passage, Israel repeatedly encounters evil, some of it by their own doing and some of it imposed on them from without, in the form of four major bodily threats: disease, drought, war, and predation. By studying God’s dictates throughout these trials, we stand to gain a discernment over true goodness and true evil that transcends our natural, fallen wisdom. The section starts with an all too familiar threat: disease. The whole of chapter 19 describes the elaborate processes by which the unclean and clean become so respectively, and as complex as it is, it’s still simpler than trying to make sense of Dr. Faucis’s various and contradictory pronouncements. A Red Heifer is sacrificed, its ashes added to water, and that water sprinkled on those who are ceremonially unclean. If one neglects the purifying water, they are willful participants in evil and are rightly severed from God's holy community. “Repent and be baptized”, anyone? Clearly, our Creator regards bodily wellbeing as good, but not as important as a repentant heart. The next brush with evil concerns drought. As they headed out of Paran into the wilderness, Moses’ thirsty flock started to look more and more like a mutiny, which drove Moses and Aaron to fall on their faces before Adonai. The LORD answered their prayer by commanding them to tell a rock to yield water. Moses, likely out of deep frustration, instead rebuked the people and gave the rock two, good whacks. The water pours forth, but at a cost. For the luxury of self-righteous indignation and stolen glory, Moses and Aaron were cursed with the fate of their flock; they were never to see the promised land. And here we again learn that not all that is good is equally so. Our God values health, but obedience is a higher priority. Lesson apparently learned, we momentarily depart from the barrage of evils to instead witness the wages of sin… death. In particular, the death of Aaron. It took place after Moses pleaded with the King of Edom for passage through his land and was met with a hearty, “No can do.” So, instead, they journeyed from Kadesh to Mount Hor where Adonai made the pronouncement that Aaron was to die. Moses and Eleazar (Aaron’s son) accompanied Aaron on his march up the mountain. In the sight of saints visible, Aaron departed this world to join those invisible. And after he passed, Moses himself clothed Eleazar in his father’s priestly garments. From this we learn that Our Father sees life as good, but not to the same degree as the communion of saints or the succession of faith. It was not long after this loss that evil revisited Israel in a specially potent form: war. First, the King of Arad laid siege to Israel and took a portion captive. In response to Israel’s prayers, the LORD gave the Canaanites over to Israel for utter destruction. Next, Sihon, the King of the Amorites, denied Israel passage through his land and sent an army against them, so Israel decimated them and took their land and possessions. This happened for a third time with Og, the King of Bashan. And while the spoils of righteous war are good, justice and covenant-keeping is clearly the higher good. Arguably, Israel’s most notable run-in with evil came in the midst of these wars, and it concerned a threat as ancient as man: the predator. And not just any predator: a snake. Moved to wrath by the Israelis complaints about the manna, Adonai summoned fiery serpents out of the desert shadows to prey on the faithless. Many died before the people pleaded for Moses to intercede with God, a Moses likely still in the throes of grief over the loss of his dear brother. Moses brought it before the LORD who prescribed a most unlikely cure: “Make a fiery (bronze) serpent and set it on a pole, and everyone who is bitten, when he sees it, shall live.” In this one, seemingly bewildering action, Moses gave life to a revolutionary truth, namely, that salvation begins with the voluntary examination and admission of sin. Evil cannot be overcome until it is identified; until it is called out by name; until its every detail is sculpted and hoisted high for all to see. Likewise, treatment for a disease is only possible after looking at the disease long enough and hard enough to form a diagnosis. To be poisoned from a fiery serpent and to gaze upon Moses’ statue for healing is to be spiritually dead from Satan’s attack on Adam and to look up at Jesus’ on the cross, the object of God’s wrath, for everlasting life. Earthly antidotes are good, yes, but not so good as heavenly ones. Whether we know it or not, much of the faith battle inside us, much of the culture war around us, and much of spiritual combat above us is fought, not where black meets white, but in the shifting shades between good and evil. Discernment is not only knowing what is good, but knowing exactly which good is the greatest good. It is seeing the sacred through the Father’s eyes. With that in mind, let us make a few things clear in terms of priority: (1) The life of a preborn baby is more sacred than the comfort of his parents. (2) The love of our neighbors is more important than our politics. (3) The proclamation of the gospel is more sacred than public approval. (4) The fellowship of believers is more sacred than safety from COVID-19. (5) The protection of Israel is more sacred than diplomacy. (6) The glory of God is more sacred than all the accomplishments of man. If—God help us—we get these things backwards, we risk being judged exactly as Israel was judged. The Crucified Christ (1632) by Diego Velázquez #Parashat #Serpent #Christ #Sacred #Profane

Parasha Shemot 01/09/20201 Shabbat shalom! Today’s parasha, entitled “Shemot”, spans Exodus 1:1 though 6:1. Our reading begins in Egypt where we find that Joseph’s descendents have been fruitful, multiplying in number to the point of disconcertion for the new Pharaoh, who feared an alliance between foreign armies and the “exceedingly strong” Israelis. In his indifference to Joseph’s legacy of saving Egypt, Pharaoh enslaved God’s chosen people. He assigned taskmasters to ruthlessly oversee their work in brick and mortar and in the field. We are told that the Israelis multiplied despite Pharaoh’s heavy hand. So, in a wicked act foreshadowing that of King Herod, he commanded the Hebrew midwives to kill all newborn males, and when they courageously disobeyed, he ordered all Hebrew boys be drowned in the Nile. It took one brave woman, no doubt full of grace, to set in motion the liberation of Israel. Yocheved, the wife of Amram, hid her baby boy until his development forced her to send him down the Nile in a basket. To quote Freud, “The good mother necessarily fails.” That is, she sends her son into harm's way that he might become the savior that defeats the evil. Yet this mother was not about to fail without a contingency plan; she sent her daughter to keep a watchful eye over his voyage. So, when Pharaoh’s daughter found him in the river, it was this older sister who suggested Yocheved rear the child while he nursed. After he was weaned, Yocheved did the impossible for a second time, and returned the child to Pharaoh’s daughter, who named him Moses. Thus, Moses came of age in royalty, deep behind enemy lines. That is, until his nascent sense of justice compelled him to kill an Egyptian who was beating an Israeli. Of course, his sin was not long hidden, so he escaped Pharaoh’s wrath by fleeing to the land of Midian. It was there that he rescued the daughters of the Midian priest Jethro from shepherds, earning him a room in Jethro’s home as well as the hand of his daughter Zipporah. One day, while shepherding Jethro’s flock, the Spirit of Adonai appeared to him at a mountain named Horeb, a place where heaven and earth intersected. God—made manifest in a burning bush—instructed Moses to deliver the Jewish people into the Promised Land. So, with his brother Aaron as his mouthpiece and his staff as the implement of divine power, Moses and his family left for Egypt. On his way, God confronted them with Moses’ unsettled, in-house business. After all, how can a man lead a nation before first setting straight his own family? Moses was struck by God and nearly died, only spared after the proper sacrifice was made: the circumcision of his son, a mark of commitment that should have been made long ago, and by his hand, not Zipporah. Now reconciled to God, Moses proceeded into Egypt and delivered the good news first to the elders of Israel and then to Pharaoh. But God hardened Pharaoh’s heart, and far from liberating the Israelis, he intensified their work yet again. When the Israelis could no longer keep pace with the demand, Egyptian taskmasters beat the Jewish people who, in turn, blamed Moses for their plight. Yet, as we know, God was and continues to be true to His word. The text ends with the LORD, the mighty “I Am”, reassuring Moses that liberation is on the horizon. But, you see, it would be a mistake to imagine this liberation as merely a political or even geographical one. Just as Yeshua was not the anticipated political or national messiah, neither was Moses to be solely the political or national abolitionist. This is why, even after the Exodus proper, they were forced to wander for 40 years in enslavement to sin before, if you will, their “spiritual exodus”. Indeed, Moses’ initial request to Pharaoh was not that they inherent the Holy Land but rather that the Israeli be allowed a three days’ journey into the wilderness, that they might sacrifice to the Lord their God. The Lord desired from Israel rightly ordered loves, very near the bottom of which was the Nile, the Sun, and Pharaoh. Naturally, a spiritual exodus from Egypt was in order. We, too, need spiritual exodus. I am sorry to report that our leaders do not remember Joseph. They forget that the free and prosperous land they enjoy only came to be so by God’s blessing and by the founding fathers’ Judeo-Christian worldview. Even still, America—this world—is not our home. The Church yearns for the promised land, for things to be done on earth as they are in Heaven. But, she is enslaved by our Pharaoh, Satan, and his taskmasters. He uses such things as money, alcohol, excess food, politics, pornography, social media, televised sports, and much more to keep us too exhausted to revolt. The solution to the Israelis’ slavery in our reading was two-fold. They needed God to send a redeemer, and the people needed to have enough faith to trust and follow him. I don’t see why our spiritual exodus should be any different. God has already sent Yeshua, the Redeemer even greater than Moses, to do the saving. Now, all we need to do is have enough faith to follow Him and turn from our ‘Egypts’. That means abandoning our preoccupation with worldly distractions. We need to simplify our lives to find our center in Yeshua. In a word, we need obedience. Like the Israelis, we have tremendous strength living in us, namely the Holy Spirit, and He works best when we practice self-denial. Jesus taught in John 14:12 that whoever believes in Him will perform works even greater than He did. This could mean playing your own role in a sort of modern ‘exodus’. You could be a Yocheved, protecting, rearing, and cultivating the next generation of spiritual leaders. Or maybe you are a midwife, as it were, helping grow the Church in number. Perhaps you are a Moses, called to the ministry. Or an Aaron, specially gifted to articulate the Good News. Whatever your part in the exodus, you have the opportunity to join Messiah in that adventure. To turn to the Lord with unveiled face and loosed shackles. To strive after the good, the true, and the beautiful in search for Holy Land. And, ultimately, you have the opportunity to bear witness to and participate in the Spirit-wrought transformation from glory to glory. Moses’ Mother (1839-1842) by Alexei Tyranov #Exodus #Parasha #GlorytoGlory #Moses #Israel

Slouched outside the small clinic’s door with eyes closed and chin on chest, Karl made one last search for any possible excuse. Finding none, he took a deep breath, opened the door, and muttered an apprehensive, “Morning, Doctor,” with as much life as he could muster. Dr. Oliver, thoroughly startled by the sudden entry, let out four yelps in quick succession. The first, from surprise. The next from the pain of hearing the first yelp through his stethoscope, which just happened to be buried in his mouth at the time. Another from the pain of reflexively yanking the stethoscope out of his ears. And one last yelp out of sheer embarrassment, as much for the compromising state his guest had found him in as for the four girly yelps. Sufficiently rattled and without much social protocol to guide them, each stood and stared at the other blankly. After a few moments of silent wonder, Karl ventured, “Are--Are you alright?” Taking quick stock of any salvageable pride, he blurted, “Quite. Quite alright.” with as much poise as possible, waiving the question off with one hand and straightening his suit with the other. “It was a mere experiment, you see. Doctor stuff. Science and whatnot.” “Right” Karl responded, letting the poor excuse slide. “Anyway, I’m here for my checkup.” “Of course. Yes, of course.” Oliver said, still with an air of overcompensation. “And what exac’ly we checkin’ up on again?” Already beginning to regret the visit, he answered, “Well, all of it, I suppose.” “All of it? But what about yer economunism?” He remarked while struggling to squeeze his gut between the wall and the examination table separating him and Karl. “My communism,” he corrected for what seemed like the hundredth time. “It’s called communism. And what does that have to do with the price of tea in Prussia?” “There ya go again, makin’ me do all your werk for ya.” he said, finally popping out the other side of the cranny. “Oliver! Please! What are you on about?” He pressed with irritation growing in his voice. Oliver, distracted by his accomplishment, looked up with a proud grin to Karl’s steely scowl right above him. “Oh! Right! Well, first yous come in without the dec’ncy of having first found yer problem. No, instead, ya want me to play detec’ive for therdy minutes while you jus’ sit back n’ enjoy the ride. Then ya start makin’ me answer these economy questions fer ya like how yer economunims affec’s tea prices in Prussia n whatsnot.” He paused for a second to catch his breath. “But I thought yous said wes suppose to do tha davisions of labor. Doctor do doctor stuff, patient do patient stuff, and economunist do economunist stuff.” Karl was massaging his eyes in frustration. “No! I said division of labor is poisonous to the human spirit and alienates the working man. It cannot be allowe--” “Makes ‘em higher” he casually interrupted. “What?” “Economunism makes em higher. The tea prices, that is.” “What do yo--Wha--Why?” “Well, if one guy in Prussia’s gotta go all tha way ta Inya ta get tha tea leaves, dehydrate ‘em in tha Chinese fact’ries, mine tha tin and shape it inta cans, package the tea in tha cans, n’ bring ‘em all tha way back ta Prussia, I suppose the price would go up.” Taken aback, Karl responded defensively, “Well, not all division of labor is all bad. For example, you should leave the economics to experts like me. And I shouldn’t have to diagnose my health problems; that’s your job. Got it?” “I think so. Jus’ one more question.” Dr. Oliver said making a quite serious face. “And what, pray tell, would that be?” “Will you be pay’n cash or labor?” His lungs collapsed with the bellowing outpour of laughter while Karl swore to a God he didn’t believe in that he would find another doctor if it was the death of him. The Court Jester Stanczyk Receives News of the Loss of Smolensk During a Ball at Queen Bona's Court (1862) by Matejko Dedication: To Oscar Wilde who taught me The Importance of Being Earnest. #DrOliver #Communism #Comedy #Novella #Teaser

See the fangs and anxious licks Of that ancient dog squirming under desert sun. His bloated gut drags on thirsty sand, Blood and bile in its wake. Then rod of thunder, Heaven sent, Strikes the salted ground, And all about, her moans are heard, The liturgy of a drowsing moon. There blooms the temple dome, Rising in the presence of her King. The stir inside is stir enough For palm and paw alike. Hunger pangs yawn slavered jaw Closed hence on steely blade, And into peace, his hand opposed, Crawls savior to safety. Saturn Devouring His Son (c. 1819-1823) Francisco Goya #Pregnancy #Baby #Abortion #God #ProLife

Once upon a time, there were two brothers named Thomas and Ivan who lived on a small island off the Western coast of Africa named Erith. The island was the shape of an inverted diamond, with a town sprawled across the crown and a mountain reaching down to the culet. Slicing between the two was Thorne’s Valley, right where the girdle would be. Erith was so quant, and the mountain so tall, that the townsfolk to the South could make out her peak on the horizon, even on those foggy summer days. It was at the foot of this mountain, on just such a foggy summer day, that our story begins, for this is where Thomas and Ivan called home. The two boys were resting under an apple tree when Thomas finally broke the silence of dusk. “We should start to head in. Mom’ll have our necks if we miss supper.” “What? Are you a little fraidy cat? You’re not still scared of the dark, are you?” Ivan replied. Ivan was ten, three years older and one foot taller than his brother, but it was actually him, not Thomas, that was still afraid of the dark. “No,” said Thomas. “It’s just that Dad will be home soon too, and if Mom’s upset with us, you know what that’ll mean!” “I don’t care about no spanking. They don’t even hurt,” Ivan lied again. “Besides, Dad won’t be home for another hour.” This time, Ivan was right. Three miles from any other person and on the wrong side of Thorne’s Valley, the Raffers were an isolated bunch, but none the poorer for it. In fact, Mr. Raffer liked it that way. After marrying Mrs. Raffer and having the two boys, he decided to leave his job as firefighter in crowded Boston to be a farmer. Fortunately for him, Erith had some of the best soil in the world, almost all of it just surrounding the mountain like a halo of fertility. On a good day, you could walk the circumference of the mountain in six hours and see everything from corn to peaches to tomatoes to wheat. Even more fortunately for Mr. Raffer, there was nobody he had to share the land with. When he purchased his fifty-acre plot, the town clerk’s office, they gave it to him for pennies on the dollar! But being so far from town and without roads to get there did mean that his deliveries took almost half the day. Even in his big, blue truck crossing Thorne’s Valley was no walk in the park. On days that he left to sell his produce in the town market, the boys and Mrs. Raffer wouldn’t see his yellow headlights roll up their long drive until eight or nine o’clock at night. “Well, I’m going in. You can stay out if you like.” Thomas said. As he headed in, he whispered over this shoulder with a smirk, “Don’t let the wolves smell you! I hear they can run fast as sound.” With that, Thomas opened the door to their farmhouse, and the golden glow from inside momentarily illuminated the lawn. Then there was a click as the door shut, leaving Ivan alone with the dark. And the dark seemed even darker now. “I’m no fraidy cat. I’ll show him.” Ivan murmured to himself. He looked around nervously. The long, winding driveway was right in front of him, and to each side of the gravel, as far as the eye could see, were crop fields, corn stalk to the right and wheat to the left. Both were summer crops, so the stalks were too high for him to see above. Behind him was his house, and behind that the barn, filled with tow horses, two cows, three pigs, and fifteen chickens. Behind the barn was the mountain, towing above it all. Suddenly the cicadas stopped their chirping. The animals in the barn stopped their shuffling about too. Even the wind died down. For a moment, it was completely silent, and Ivan became scared. He looked around for wolves but saw nothing. More scared than he could handle, Ivan turned to run inside, but something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Something bright. At first, he thought it was a lightning bug, but looking again, he saw that it wasn’t moving at all. It was a glimmering, green light about half-way up the mountain. Ivan tried to focus in on it, but something ran up on him from behind. Ivan turned back to the fields and saw a wolf bounding toward him only feet away. It leapt into the air, throwing Ivan to the ground. He whined his eyes shut and let out a scream which filled the night, but it cut off when he felt a warm, wet tongue instead of great, big fangs. Ivan opened his eyes again and saw Brano’s looking back at him, confused. The door to the house opened again and Mrs. Raffer yelled out, “Quit playing with the dog so loud! You’re going to spook the animals!” The door closed once more. Ivan lifted himself to his feet and gave Brano a few pats on the head for screaming at him. Then he remembered the mysterious light, but when he looked up to the mountain, it was as if it had never been there! “I must have been seeing things,” he said to himself. “It’s all Thomas’ dumb fault getting me all scared. Ain’t no wolves here.” He dusted off his jeans and walked inside to join his mother and brother. As he did, he heard his Dad’s old truck tires on the gravel off in the distance. Altarpiece of St. Michael (c. 1510) by Gerard David Dedication: To my friend, Jonah, for his efforts in the fight for life. #Novel #Teaser #FathersSword #Mystery #Life

In ethereal warmth he hides, Known and not blended both in crimson tides. The stream within is in song with the sea without, An opera choired by a cosmos tossed about. And there, betwixt the three, he explores the boundary In dance as big and grand as he. The world he uncovers is covered once more In a swell of peace home to Angels galore. The story they whisper under star-lit shoal Enchant his body, invade his soul. Under cover of dark, Heaven stretches each utmost, Bigger and grander than His greatest host. Yet waters of growth are waters outgrown When the halls of Heaven echo her groan. At last, the tide crashes on the cosmic threshold. The song is sung. The story is told. Time offers a choice—live in the truth Or drown in the fount of youth. A struggle ensues, the first battle of a holy war. Bloodied and choking, he washes ashore. Triumphant lungs fill to tell the nation The song of Glory, the story of Creation. Words let out, bigger and grander than he But, alas, shrouded in shrieks, smothered by a banshee. Worse, as the tongue learns, the mind forgets The face of a God as big and grand as it gets. Every hour is a lyric forgotten. Every day, a scene turned rotten. It will take a lifetime to recover What it took nine months to discover. Maternity (1909) by Pablo Picasso Dedication: To my lovely baby boy. I'll see you soon, Son. #Poem #Baby #God #Pregnancy #Birth

A series of yellow street lights lined Kent Lane, cutting large slices of darkness out of the thick London air. Beneath their piercing rays, a heavy fog slowly patrolled the slumbering cobblestones, and all about, angels whispered anxious prayers heard in the creaks of the old homes, the hum of the telephone wires, and the sighs of the Autumn winds. Danger was close, growing closer at nearly 145 km/hr. On cue, the police van tore through the peaceful suburb, shattering the whole scene as though painted on stained glass. Its lights threw scrambled rainbows in every direction, its siren sent shock waves through the air, and its sheer momentum left in its wake a whirlwind of angels tangled with fog. Inside, Charlie Burn lay flat with two men on either side. He struggled under the velcro straps to contort his arm enough to read his standard-issue watch. It read 0256. “Christ, it’s late. Albert couldn’t wait until morning to send you chaps?” The two policemen exchanged looks above him. The younger of the two, a twenty-something dressed in a uniform large enough for him to hide in but not quite so large as to hide his insecurities, turned to him with a face of apprehension. “Just try to relax, Charlie. We’ll be there in less than five minutes.” “Good golly, Rupert Bear! What a great idea!” Charlie raised his voice with a child’s enthusiasm. “Why don’t you share with the gang where this little adventure of ours will take us, and I’ll do my very best to relax and enjoy the great big hug of these restraints.” The rookie felt the familiar flush of embarrassment creep up his neck, filling his ears with warmth. He looked to his partner for help, but the other officer had already shifted to face the small, beeping screen on the van wall trying to conceal his smile. Charlie knew he won, which actually did help him to relax. In his forty-eight years on the force, he never once let a colleague get the better of him, and the only one that ever came close was his boss, detective chief superintendent (DCS) Albert Shore. Even now, seventy-seven years old and long retired, Charlie could still tango with the best of ‘em, not that many tried. Charlie was 6’ 3” and, although quite slender, age had not yet robbed him of his staggering strength. Yet, however impressive his wit and brawn, his detective skills always stole the show. Never before had a detective solved so many high-profile crimes in his career as Charlie, and seldom few could match his effortless style. He was known to toy with his perpetrators, victimizing them in the same fashion they victimized others. Poetic justice was the name of his game, and he liked to play dirty. On one occasion, Charlie was assigned to the case of the infamous rapist Jack Turner, an eccentric millionaire socialite whose M.O. it was to buy entire gated subdivisions on London’s East side, lock his kidnapped girls in one or other of the houses, allow them to escape and seek refuge in neighboring houses but only to fall back into the cold, grimy hands of his equally high-class cronies living there. After that house’s owner had his share, another escape was staged with the same results. This sick game of cat and mouse only lasted a few weeks before most girls would give up trying to escape and eventually, through abuse bonding, willingly take up residence with, or even marry, one of the men. The girls they grew tired of (along with the ones who wouldn’t break) were properly disposed of—though this was never proven in court—and fresh faces were brought in to keep up with the steady demand. A proper revolving door of horror. Having discovered through the realtor which neighborhood Jack and his villainous posse lived in, Charlie sent fabricated jury duty summons to each of the houses. He waited until Jack and his co-conspirators passed through the courthouse metal detectors on the selected court date to make the arrests. Jack was loaded, loosely cuffed, into a police car whose driver intentionally left the door unlocked. When Jack slipped out of his cuffs and made his inevitable break-for-it, he tried to hijack another car passing by. He was instead met with a badge in his face and a gun to his chest. The undercover cop made his arrest in similar fashion. This was repeated three more times before Jack finally realized that, on their arrival to the courthouse, Charlie had blocked off public traffic on that block and enlisted every copper on the force to drive in circles around the courthouse in their civilian vehicles. Four counts of attempted grand theft auto and four counts of evading the police were added to his rap sheet which, with the rape charges, brought his sentence to ninety-eight years behind bars with no chance of parole. Jack died in his prison cell but not before a few of Charlie's more appreciative, perhaps indebted, inmates showed him how real men welcome a gal to the block. Charlie also had a private word with the Judge concerning the girls. To this day, he receives dinner invites from a dozen lovely ladies living in a dozen lovely houses located in a lovely gated community on London’s East side. Another time, a masked bandit was seen hauling off truckloads of maize from old man Wesley’s fields in the dead of night, one of only four maize farms in the London area. When Charlie heard of this, he reached out to his connection in the Food Standards Agency (FSA) who broadcast over the BBC radio that an outbreak of the flesh-eating virus, Feihteziam tarptfad, had infested the maize fields of London and that anyone who has been in contact with locally-grown corn in the last two weeks should report to the William’s Virology Institute for immediate examination and treatment. They were further instructed to bring a sample of the corn they purchased for testing purposes. Only one person actually turned up to the abandoned confectionery dressed up as a doctor's office, and the maize he brought with him tested positive for the baking soda that Charlie dusted Wesley’s fields with the week prior. His name was Jesse Rayborne, and in his panic over the virus, not once did he stop to consider that London’s maize harvesting season was a full month away, meaning no local maize had yet been sold that year. Charles took great joy in later visiting the perp in prison. He took with him his constant companion, his Sheffield Bowie, and with it, etched the name of the virus into the blank wall opposite Jesse’s sink and mirror. Jesse watched on in silent horror, praying this wasn’t a warm up for something a little more personal. However, when he was finished, Charlie turned around, tipped his hat to Jesse with a smile, and left the cell. On his way out, Charlie stepped into the director’ office to request a favor. For the next year and six months, Jesse saw only “daft prat maize thief” in the mirror and ate only maize in the cafeteria. As for old man Wesley, he never had a customer buy his whole crop before; didn’t know why anybody would. Nevertheless, it sure made life easy, and it felt good to help supply his local penitentiary. Unfortunately, no man is perfect, especially detectives. God is keen on balancing the decks of people who throw too much in the pot. Charlie, for one, never scored many points in the friends and family department. He was a functional alcoholic with no cat, no place for it to drag him, and no company to look on if ever it did. The only space he could conceivably call home was his daughter’s apartment on 725 Kent Lane—that is, whenever her pity reached that intolerable level where turning him away felt worse than allowing him to sleep in the shed out back (which was almost always the case). Even the Queen in her opulent palace was never so content as Charlie was in his little shack with a bottle of wine. After all, such adroit detective work, everyone knew, was only possible for the monomaniac, the hermit living under a singular rock. That old, wooden shed was Charlie’s rock, the rock under which he made investigations of his lovers, made love with his investigations, and made war with everything between. Well, everything save for a handful of fellow detectives whom he half-way respected and, on occasion, tolerated long enough for them to begrudgingly surrender their toughest investigation. In fact, Sherlock Holmes, nearing death, was rumored to have once paid a visit to Charlie’s shed wherein they drank Old Highland, smoked pipes, played chess, and regaled each other with tales of old, their most brilliant work, until the break of dawn. Before he left, Holmes handed Charlie a list of his cold cases, the crimes that slipped through his fingers and into—never back out of—his tortured mind. Holmes died the next day, and although he would deny it up and down, many hold Charlie responsible for the mysterious deaths of Holme’s chief suspects in those cases. Some speculated that perhaps Charlie regarded those cases as not his to solve; that in bringing those men to legal justice, he would be robbing a dead man. Whatever the case, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Charlie possessed the will or the means to resolve those criminals, if not their crimes. Such was his respect for Holmes. On especially quiet nights, before the golden rays of dawn invade the cracks of his shed, Charlie could sometimes hear Holme’s voice, distant but clear. Sometimes it was a word of wisdom. Other times, a pointed jest. This morning, it was a stern warning. “You may be retired, but you are not yet dead, my friend. Your final case awaits; the most treacherous man is loose. Fail to find him and death will find you.” Painting by Unknown Dedicated to G. K. Chesterton for giving us the every-inspiring Father Brown. #Detective #Novel #Teaser #Chapter1 #TheFinalCase

Charlie looked like a man who had been boxing natural selection in the wrong corner of a punnet square for the past seventy-five years. He was dumb and poor like his strong, loving mother and weak and mean like his intelligent, wealthy father. It seemed the only thing that hadn’t yet been entirely beaten out of him was his curiosity. Only, he didn’t have much to be curious about in those days. Moreover, he refused to be curious about certain other things—pretentious parties, lavish homes, and formal dances, to name a few. Nevertheless, he shuffled into the mansion with a hunched back and a limp. The latter he earned from his first job in landscaping, and the former from a terrible mishap in his current occupation, construction. It was for these reasons—or so he told himself—that his gaze was almost always fixed on the yard or so of ground ahead of him. He figured there’s enough going on down there to be bothered with what’s going on up above. On this particular night, what was going on up above was perhaps the most exclusive and opulent gala in recent memory, and nothing could be more fitting to describe Charlie’s thoughts on the matter than what was going on down there. His father’s old, ragged Oxford’s were struggling to keep pace with the steady trickle of guests as they entered the venue. Each awkward step threatened to topple him, and the worn leather seemed to squawk with delight at the prospect. Needless to say, he was the last to enter. Why he accepted the invite, he couldn't say. He was humiliated that he even had to ask the question. But there it was, no two ways about it… “What am I doing here?” Whatever the real reason, a few things were for certain. It wasn’t out of love for music. He had long tired of the same few songs being sung in more and more showy ways with less and less to actually show. It wasn’t for interest in fraternity either. People, in his experience, only “see each other” to see each other see each other; they love to admire their fashion through other eyes, hear their wisdom through other ears, feel their bodies through other skins, smell their perfumes through other nostrils. And, it wasn’t even out of a sense of compulsion or loyalty to the one who invited him. In fact, who invited him was as much a mystery as why he was there. All he was given was a cryptic voicemail, exactly one week ago, in which a boisterous voice demanded his attendance at, “Grace Gala with the master of masters themself.” Charlie thought it a great curiosity for such an obviously scripted message to include a grammatical blunder, but he had more pressing concerns, namely, where Grace Gala was to be held and who in the world the master of masters was. As it happens, he didn’t have to go on wondering all that long, for the very next day, the construction company he worked for was contracted for work at an old mansion some seven miles from where he was living. On his way to the site, Charlie had to ask his boss to repeat himself more than a few times. “You want us to build what now?” Charlie pressed the phone tighter against his ear. “A woman stage. Well, a stage in the shape of a woman. A woman-shaped stage, I guess.” “Is that even legal?” “It doesn’t matter if it’s legal! The customer is hosting a gala there in exactly a week. Calling it ‘Grace Gala’. Sounds like money to me. Get it done!” As it happens, it was legal. But that didn’t stop it from offending Charlie’s sensibilities in both directions. On the one hand, Charlie had been raised from mother’s knee to believe that one’s body is wicked, a conduit for weak wills and strong desires. “Flesh,” his priest would say, “is the shackle of a sinless soul.” How could any self-respecting socialite dance on such a scandalous stage? On the other hand, the world around Charlie seemed to praise the body, even worship it. Billions of dollars were spent yearly on efforts to protect the body from death, on equipment to fine-tune the body, on substances that pleasure the body, and on videos of bodies in intercourse. How could any forward-thinking person even think about reducing the female form to something functionally identical to the dirt outside? All this aside, a job was a job, so Charlie went to work building this stage. Nothing but the finest materials were used in its construction. This came as no surprise considering the splendor of the mansion itself; every brick of the place seemed to sing. Not just any song either, but one in particular; a timeless song that told of unrequited love, hidden knowledge, and thrilling adventure. It was a song that beckoned to Charlie, if only he were wise enough to hear it. Each day that he returned to the mansion, he would keep an eye out for the owner (or, really, for anyone matching the description “master of masters”). Oddly enough, all he ever saw were the same small group of men chanting in a foreign tongue and reading from scrolls that looked quite ancient. They were always huddled outside the entrance to a room at the back of the banquet hall just beyond the head of the stage, a room which Charlie’s construction intuition told him led into another, smaller room. This cultish behavior did tremendously little in the way of enticing Charlie to attend Grace Gala. Even so, he felt that the master of masters might be waiting in that back room, and that its doors might open on the night of the party. By day six, the silhouette of what could only be described as the perfect woman was completed. And, by day seven, Charlie was approaching that stage, not with work boots, but with those forsaken Oxfords. “Kind of you to join us, Charlie!” came a familiar voice from behind. Charlie looked up and saw a great many people of all kinds, the chanting men among them, dancing with zeal. He then turned around to find that the voice had come from the butler of the gala. Charlie would have never guessed that he was a butler if not for his outfit. The man was about as tall as Charlie with the body of a college line-backer but the eyes of a wise, old sage. “I knew that you’d make it.” Charlie immediately recognized the voice as the one on his voicemail. “Did you? That makes one of us,” Charlie said, letting his gaze slip back down to his bum leg resting on the polished floor. “Come. Join us,” the butler returned, lifting Charlie’s chin with his first two fingers. Now, Charlie had always had a temper so hot his stork likely wore oven mitts. And, if there was one thing he had never appreciated, it was a breach of his personal space. On this occasion, he very nearly socked the butler for his trespasses. That was, until he realized that his body actually could sock the butler. His previously craned back, stiff neck, and arthritic shoulders now moved like magic. No sooner had he realized that the miracle occurred than did the butler disappear into the crowd of people on the human silhouetted stage. For the first time since his youth, Charlie looked about him with a full range of vision. It was then that the full majesty and grandeur of Grace Gala finally hit him. The floors, the windows, the ceiling, the paintings, the lights… it was all too much for him. Overwhelmed and all the more self-conscious of his lacking attire, Charlie started to hunch his back and bend his neck back down to the familiar comfort of earth. But something drew his gaze back up, just as forcefully as the butler’s fingers. It was a song that he had only then begun to hear despite its playing since his arrival. The song was queer in more ways than one. For starters, every lyric from the singer sounded an odd combination of solemn and soulful, but Charlie was damned if he could understand a single word. He guessed that not even the chanting men had a clue what was being sung. What’s more, the song had a rhythm he had never heard before, one which felt more like a heartbeat than a drumbeat. Similar to a heartbeat, the rhythm was merely a facilitator for something much greater: the flow of the melody through the crowd. Charlie felt it invade his body, compelling his legs to action. He marched, not limped, onto stage. It was warm up there, yet his body insisted on shivering. Sweat dripped down his suddenly aching forehead. He felt like he was being brought to a fever, but it was unclear to him if the song was causing him to be ill or if it was purging an illness already inside him. All he knew was that it hurt. A lot. But whether the music was the problem or the solution, he knew that his first step was the same: find the band. He would decide whether to run from it or to it when he got to that point. His scan of the room came up woefully short. Not only could he find no band, it seemed that the amplifiers and microphones were missing as well. Just when he thought this night couldn’t get any more bizarre, the song that had been playing this whole while was disrupted, and for the first time, he could distinguish three singers. They were still singing the same song with the same mystical lyrics, but it took on a new energy. One of the harmonized voices waned into a throaty whisper with morbid undertones. Another grew in intensity, sending frightful reverbs through the crowd. The last voice was perhaps the most conspicuous, beginning a beautiful crescendo whose progression Charlie could not predict and whose end he could not detect. The effect, in short, was that the assembly didn't know whether to plug their ears or strain them. Fortunately, the choice was made for them. At once, all fell silent. That is, all but one voice with a familiar refrain. Then, no more than three seconds later, the song resumed ostensibly as normal, although Charlie thought he detected an heir of triumph that wasn’t there before. As the song returned, a most unusual thing happened. The ground beneath his feet felt like it was moving, as if the body he built was alive and active. At the same time, almost all those on stage started to reorient themselves. As if rehearsed, they started to break off into small groups. The longer Charlie stood observing this fractioning, the sicker he became. In all the confusion, Charlie noticed that one part of the stage was not moving, the head, and behind it, the two back rooms were now open and empty. It was there, at the head of the stage, that he found the source of the song. The butler was side by side with two other men, and they were simultaneously singing, dancing, and playing their instruments. One was clearly the lord of the property, the so-called “master of masters''. A full, stoic head taller than the rest and dressed like a King, this gentleman was located at the top of the head, leading the dance with an imperceptibly small tempo. It was the person to the side of him and the butler who was most perplexing for Charlie. Unlike the others, this man wore meager clothes not entirely dissimilar to Charlie’s. He looked like a man after battle, like a knight who might as well have been eyeing down his virgin maiden while holding a sword still dripping with the blood of a dragon. Seeing these three figures made one thing apparent, that the sickness was in him and not in the music. It was as if the Butler’s eyes could see infection in him, as if the King’s face was hardened against it, and as if the knight’s sword was dripping with it. Together, the trio all sang the same song and danced the same dance, except they played different roles. Each played their own instrument, each sang their own pitch, and each danced their own choreography. They played their parts so well, however, that the three were indistinguishable from afar, and if one didn’t know better, one would think that they had been practicing for eternity past. It was a performance so overwhelming and so mystifying that any attempt to join was an insult to the trio and their music, if one could even make the distinction. This is where the name of the night’s event finally dawned on Charlie. Grace Gala. He saw in the eyes of the butler an invitation to join in his dance, despite the obvious offense against the trio. The fever inside of Charlie, the movement of the stage, and the welcoming eyes of the butler all obliged him to dance and to dance with the entirety of his soul, his filthy, clumsy, off-beat, and out-of-tune soul. So, he did. At first, his mind resisted the free movement of dance out of sheer habit; years of guarding what little was left of his stiff joints and tight muscles had conditioned his mind to make slow conservatism the standing order over his body. But little by little, his joints and muscles loosened, and with them, his fever disappeared. “If only my chiropractor could see me now,” Charlie chuckled with joy, not realizing that the fever was passing. The special thing about this particular dance, he discovered, was that, very often, the more one danced the dance and the more progress one apparently made, the less skilled one actually became. For this reason, children seemed to be among the best dancers on the floor. Charlie realized this as soon as he became proficient enough to stop looking at his body and start looking at the crowd (which, of course, made his dancing all the worse). In his observations of the crowd, however, he did realize (and not without much dismay) two important things. The first, that the dance required a partner. And, the second, that he had come alone. As if anticipating this problem before it even existed, a small woman had been migrating from the left rib-area of the stage to Charlie’s location in the right, upper arm since the time that the music returned to normal and the people started separating into groups. Her black, frizzy hair was floating by when, in an act of raw instinct, Charlie took chase, probably (definitely) faster than he needed to. She feigned surprise as they made contact. “Oh my!” She gasped in perfect exasperation. “Hello. My apologies. My name is Charlie, and I’m afraid that I’m quite lost. Well, not lost, per se. Just unsure if I belong. I don’t know the host, I hardly know how to dance, and I don't have a soul to dance with if I did.” She laughed softly. “I’m Alice,” she paused to curtsy. “Nobody at all belongs here, silly. Not except the master of masters, of course.” “He’s the one dressed like royalty, right?” Charlie asked. “He is.” She answered. “Then who are the other two?” “What do you mean?” “Who are the other two men at the head?” “They’re the master of masters.” “I thought that was the man in the King’s mantle.” “It is!” This time it was his turn to be exacerbated. “Oh, never mind.” he puffed, “Would you like to dance?” He thrust out his arm. “I thought you would never ask,” she replied, softly laying her gloved hand on his. His anger melted down his spine and filled those ragged Oxfords right to the brim. He took his other hand and laid it on her waist. They danced like that, perfectly content in each other’s company, for a few moments before something felt incomplete. The mysterious absence nagged at them to where they lost rhythm and started to trip over each other’s feet. “Hold on a second,” Charlie said, pausing briefly. Something’s not right. What are we missing?” “You tell me,” she said, still smiling, dimples and all. He managed to take his eyes off her, and they landed right back on the trio at the head. “Aha! I’ve got it! We need a third person! The dance is clearly meant to be danced between three people,” he exclaimed, pointing at the trio. “Who did you have in mind?” she asked. It took all of nine seconds of searching for them to get their answer. Like a little tornado, a young boy came whirling past them, clearly caught up in the excitement of the party. Charlie grabbed him by the arm and swung him between his body and Alice’s. Without missing a beat, the boy matched their movements. “What’s your name, Sport?” Charlie asked. “I don’t know,” he replied with a smirk. “Haven’t your parents told you your name?” asked Alice. “They haven’t gotten the chance yet.” “Fair enough,” Charlie shrugged, long past questioning such oddities. It was beginning to seem to him like the only predictable thing about this gala was its unpredictability. “How’s Clement sound?” “Sounds like a fruit,” he answered honestly. “Well, it’s not. It’s a name. And it’s yours now.” Charlie replied in his best grouchy dad voice. The boy looked questioningly at Alice, who gave him a slight nod. “Alright, Clement it is,” he said with glee in his voice. The three of them danced like that for a good, long while before, once again, their dancing turned to mush—Clement was whining about being hungry, Alice was struggling to anticipate Charlie’s movements, and Charlie was unsure if he was even dancing the same dance as the one he entered the stage dancing. He looked around for someone, anyone, to mimic. In doing so, he realized to his pleasant surprise that the whole of the right, upper arm was well worth imitating. Indeed, they seemed to be dancing in a strange, dynamic unison both beautiful and useful, almost as if they all had a similar goal in mind. Looking further in either direction, he saw that those in the right upper arm were actually in a dance with those in the right shoulder and right forearm. Charlie couldn't see far enough, but he would have bet his bottom dollar that the right arm was dancing with the rest of the upper body and the upper body with the lower. It reminded him of the larger construction jobs he worked where each person had their own task—cutting drywall, for instance—within a small group working on one wall within one room within one floor of a sprawling complex. “How is this possible?” he asked himself. “Who has the blueprints? Where’s the foreman?” “What’s going on up there?” Alice asked. Charlie almost forgot that she and Clement weren’t tall enough to see what he was seeing. “Just listen to the music and follow my lead,” he instructed, taking her hand in his. “Clement, grab Alice’s hand and do as she says.” Charlie discovered that by keeping one eye on the trio and the other eye on those with him in the upper arm of the stage, he could lead Alice and Clement in a dance that started to feel less like work and more like worship. Worship of what, he didn’t know, but he had his suspicions that the trio had at least something to do with it. But, alas, even worship can grow tiring, and Charlie thought with remorse that it must be time to go home soon. He entered the Gala at 8 o’clock, and he could see through the windows that it was dark out. In the absence of any clock or watch, he guessed that it was probably 11 o’clock already. Unfortunately, the song showed no sign of concluding, and neither did his dance partners. Actually, now that he thought about it, Charlie sensed that the beat had picked up recently. Or perhaps another drum entered the mix. “If so,” Charlie thought, “he’s not very adroit.” He turned to Alice, “Is there another drummer?” Charlie asked. “I hear that too. I’m not sure.” “It’s fireworks!” Clement exclaimed. That gave Charlie pause. The drumming did sound like fireworks but as if the fireworks were far away and growing nearer. Then the stage started to shake underfoot. “BOMBS! RUN!” Charlie shouted. He scooped Alice over his left shoulder and Clement under his right. Everyone scattered like ants, making their way to the exits. They were too late. Charlie was the first to make it outside, but not for long. A bomb dropped ten yards away from him, sending all three of them back through the doorway. Charlie recovered himself, slammed the door shut, and helped Alice and Clement to their feet behind the wall. Looking around, he saw that the same was happening in every exit. They were trapped. Panic set in. Charlie felt his fever return. In the chaos and confusion of it all, though, he noticed three figures still dancing on the stage. He had to rub his eyes. It was the Trio, moving as elegantly and peacefully as ever. “Stay here!” he yelled over the explosions to Alice and Clement. The trio gave no reaction to Charlie as he ran up to them in a frenzy. “What are you doing? You need to tell these people where in your house they can hide. We need to get to safety NOW!” Charlie’s fury was back in full force. But the trio just kept on singing, dancing, and playing their instruments. “Why won’t you save us?!” He asked, aggravated. The knight stopped his singing and stooped to look deep into Carlie’s eyes, “You have already been saved. Now, dance in peace.” The butler took Charlie by the hands and led him in dance. He felt tremendous power in the butler’s hands and nearly wept with relief as the anger, terror, remaining fever drained away, this time into the hands of the butler. When the crowd saw this, a hush filled the room. Little by little, some of them started to filter back on stage and dance hesitantly. The dance floor shook with the building, but the more it shook, the more confidence Charlie had in his workmanship and in the grip of the butler. Charlie heard a crash behind him and thought it was the building finally giving way. He shut his eyes and prayed his first true prayer, which was also to be his last. To his amazement, the building was still standing when he opened them again, but the door he had shut was now on the floor with a dark figure standing in its place. Even in the shadow of night, Charlie immediately recognized the person from his landscaping days. This was the man who gave him his first job, the same man who gave him his limp. He called himself Amon. “Isn’t this cute? One last hoorah before it all goes up in smoke,” jeered Amon. For the first time, the lord of the house spoke. “That’s right.” His regal voice sent echoes through the mansion. “Well, it doesn’t have to be that way,” he hissed, now addressing the crowd. “You don’t have to die today. He never should have even invited you into this shack; he knew it would end in death. Come, all of you with sense, follow me to safety and freedom. Who will join me?” Those in the crowd looked at one another. It didn’t take long for the people still cowering by the exits to sheepishly surround Amon. These were the same ones who, from the beginning, refused to enter the stage. They were those who preferred their own dance, who were too embarrassed to dance, or who hated the masters of masters. Many on stage walked off to join Amon’s ranks as well. These people, everyone more or less knew, were never really interested in dancing with the master of masters in the first place. After the enemy lines were drawn, Charlie decided that couldn’t help himself any longer. Seeing Amon after all those decades brought more anger—this time, of the righteous variety—boiling up to the surface than could be contained. “You! You gave me my bum knee!” he shouted. Amon darted his black eyes to Charlie, clearly vexed by the interruption. “I gave you your crooked back too. Or did you think I wasn’t also there on the construction site?” He twisted his lips into a grin. “You were?” Charlie was lost. “I was. No different than when you worked for me and wouldn’t stop dancing, so I crippled your leg by letting that tree branch fall on you. After you quit, I continued to watch you. I saw you dance while you were installing windows in that building. So, I made that crane drop its load on your back. I even see you on your average, good day; you know, the ones where you are a bit more hopeful, a smidge more joyful, and you just can’t stop doing good for others. You always dance that same stupid dance, and I always find a way to straighten you right out.” “You are wicked. I’m healed now and will never stop dancing,” Charlie cried. “No, you will come wit—” “Silence. You have taken your lot. Be gone.” The knight commanded the man and his company back into the hellscape outside with the point of a finger. Amon looked at the knight, then at Charlie, then at the people surrounding him. He sneered with bitter delight and stooped through the broken doorway. After he and his company had all left, the trio bowed their heads, and one final explosion sounded outside. The shock wave shook the mansion worse than any of the bombs before it. Then it was over. No more explosions, no more disruptions, no more injuries or illnesses. Only dancing. Thomas Kinkade's Mansion in Heaven Dedication: To my friend, Antonin, who seeded in me a love of Catholic metaphor. #GraceGala #Trinity #Dance #ShortStory #Fiction