Not Long Tales … December 17th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4461)

19.

The Glimpse

Teaching American history at the Daniel Boone High School in Lancerville, Kentucky, required a delicate balance between honoring the actual story of events mingled with comprehension of what every citizen of Lancerville believed to be true—or at least insisted was.

Marco Craswell had arrived in the town four years before as a teacher, and in the past schoolyear had taken on the added responsibility of assistant football coach.

Because his name was Marco, many people thought he was ethnic and looked deeply into his complexion for confirming signs. But actually, his father named him Marco out of a deep admiration for the great explorer, Marco Polo.

Depending on who you talked to, Marco was either the most eligible bachelor in the community or a closet gay. It would be delightful to report that Marco was a dedicated teacher, spending hours developing study plans, and giving extra sessions after school to encourage troubled students. But actually, Marco was the last one in the door when school began and the first one out when it ended. That was why he was a little upset about accepting the job of assistant football coach—it forced him to linger around the campus.

Marco did not like Lancerville.

The town had a credo: “Leave well enough alone.” The theme ran from City Hall, through the streets, into the stores and front doors of the homes, and even to the pulpits and pews of the seven churches sanctifying the surroundings.

As soon as he had arrived, Marco was informed by the school principal that he should find a church he liked—or at least could tolerate—because such things were very important to the citizens, and word would spread very quickly of any non-participation with the Jesus faithful. He had discovered that there was a Community Church in town which had a young minister from California, who by some circuitous journey, had ended up in Kentucky. His name was Jack Murphy, but required everybody to call him Pastor J.

He was a clumsy fellow with a great mind which was never able to manifest its authority through his tongue. So the sermons were a bit confusing, but blessedly brief. Marco made his church home there, struggling to attend each and every week.

Back at school, however, he never went to the teacher’s lounge, nor did he sit with the educators in the cafeteria at lunchtime but perched himself with the computer geeks, which seemed to greatly raise their self-esteem. One day after lunch, one of the leaders among the staff whispered in his ear, “They’re gonna ask you to chaperone for the upcoming class trip to Mammoth Cave.”

Marco flinched. The teacher continued, “This is a good time to say yes. Trust me.”

Sure enough, Marco didn’t even get halfway down the hall before the principal stopped him and said, “We’re having a school trip to Mammoth Cave in three weeks, and we wanted to ask you—because the students love you—to be one of the five chaperones. The school will pay for all your expenses, including entrance to the park. And the mothers are packing sack lunches for everyone.”

Marco wanted to decline—like he had done so many times before—but something told him that this was a line in the sand, a silent demand for him to participate or possibly face the danger of being eliminated.

With the cheeriest voice he could muster, he replied, “Of course! Where else would I be?” The principal really liked this answer. Matter of fact, he patted Marco on the back and tottered down the hall, whistling.

Marco did his best not to think about the upcoming trip. He tried to get sick. He looked for any reason possible to skip out on the duty.

He was just not happy in Lancerville. He was sick and tired of making Daniel Boone one of the predominant characters in his American history class. He was angry that several of the parents had suggested that he refer to the Civil War as the “War Between the States.” He was a disgruntled mentor to young men and women who desperately needed a fresh idea.

Yet Marco was ashamed of himself—so unhappy with his attitude that he decided to make an all-out effort to turn the Mammoth Cave trip into a roaring success.

The day arrived. Everything started out pretty normal. As he rode down the freeway on the bus, he read the pamphlets about the destination. He felt a little thrill. After all, Mammoth Cave was—and is—the largest underground cavern system in the world. Four hundred miles of it.

And even though he was a bit claustrophobic, he thought being with others, conversing, would prevent the walls from closing in on him. He would be fine.

The first part of the tour went well. Then one of the parents wanted to go down a different trail than the tour guide was pursuing. She needed an ally. She asked Marco if he would join her and four of the students. They had all heard flowing water off to the right, and the little group was curious to see what they might discover.

Marco was hesitant, but since he had vowed to become a willing participant in the class escapade, he nodded and joined the mother along with the four kids. They headed down the Eastern path.

After a couple of minutes, there was a sudden, violent shaking beneath their feet—a movement that threw all parties to the ground. Marco believed it was an earthquake. They were not common in Kentucky but did come from time to time—and unfortunately, today one arrived when he found himself beneath the earth inside a cave.

Terrified, everyone tumbled onto the ground, amid a cacophony of screams from all directions. Marco had fallen hard against the stones, bruising his side. He was still trying to recover from the impact when he looked up and realized that the entire entourage, which he had been leading, had run away.

He called out, uncertain what the appropriate beckoning should be. “I’m here!” he said once—then twice and a third time. No answer. A deep silence.

It didn’t seem like the earthquake had done any damage. A few rocks fell. Some sand and dirt.

Where was everyone?

Strangely, Marco felt at peace. Everything was so quiet. The surroundings were primeval. He felt that Nature had engulfed him within her soul.

He realized he should get up and try to find his way back out, but he was content. Maybe they would search for him.

It was so quiet he could hear his own heart.

Then, right in front of him, on the rock wall, a tiny pinpoint of light appeared. It was odd because the cave was so dark that even this small illumination hurt his eyes. It came and then it went. And then it came again.

It happened four times before Marco decided to get up and investigate. He walked over to the rock face and there, etched into the surface, was a small slit about seven inches long—like a rip along the seam of a pair of pants. And every few seconds a brief spritz of light emerged, then disappeared.

Marco giggled to himself. It was so unusual and peculiar that it seemed silly. But it was also a bit frightening. What was trying to shine through the rock?

Slowly, deliberately, he inched his way forward and placed his eye right in the center of the slit in the stone. He stepped back suddenly, unable to breathe. Then he scooted forward again to look. Once again, he retreated, breathless—for inside the miniscule crevice, surrounded by blinding light, he saw himself.

Not the person he was—an American history teacher from Daniel Boone High School. No—he was suddenly, almost cosmically alerted to the fact that he was staring into his own face from another place. Although he had seen the vision for less than two seconds, the realization swelled in his mind.

He slowly inched forward. But this time, as he put hie eye up to the crack in the rock, the stone suddenly began to seal together, as if being mended. The light that had been emitting flickered. Then the wall closed its rupture and the seam was gone.

Marco moved forward, staring at the place where the severing had been. It had vanished. The rock was sealed.

So spooked was he by the event that when two of the students came running up behind him, he jumped, pulling back from them in terror.

“What’s wrong?” said one of the students. Marco shook his head and bound out of the cave, with them trailing.

On the ride back to Lancerville, he could not think about anything else. He did not share his experience because he didn’t understand what he had seen. He didn’t offer details. It was the kind of report that would be considered weird—certainly unacceptable in the provincial village.

He kept it to himself, closing his eyes occasionally, to try to remember and regain the vision he’d beheld.

Arriving back at the school, he was the first one off the bus, ran to his car and drove home. Escaping to his bedroom, he turned off all the lights and lay on his bed, trying to simulate the quietness of the cave. What had he seen? Why did he believe he was staring into his own face—yet not the face that resembled him. It just was him.

Laying there quietly, exhausted from the trip, he fell into a deep sleep. Deeply slumbering, he had his first of two visions.

The first one was like his encounter in the cave, except in this dream, he could see himself more clearly. It was so bewildering. It was him, except formed by a different atmosphere—a unique climate. Or was it a coloration?

He awoke from the first vision, too tired to rise, too weary to think. He fell back asleep.

In the second vision, he was standing in front of the rock in Mammoth Cave. He saw five creatures, so different in appearance. Yet deep in his heart, he knew they were all him—all molded in his image. All constant with his spirit. As he watched, the crack healed and blended into the rock face, returning the wall to normalcy.

Needless to say, he awoke troubled. He carried the burden all the way to school—but decided to share some of his insights with his students during class. They listened, sympathetic, but also deeply worried that the experience had done some physical damage to the teacher’s brain, leaving him in need of medical attention. Less than half-an-hour after his class, three students, one faculty member, one parent from the town and the principal were standing in his classroom, demanding to know how he was feeling, and strongly suggesting that he immediately check himself into the city infirmary.

Marco realized his mistake—he needed to be much more careful about what he said about what he thought he had seen. So he laughed it off and told them it was just an experiment, to see what the students would do. He explained that he wanted to give them an example about how people throughout history had to make major adjustments to see progress achieved in our nation.

His sincerity rang true and they believed him.

He couldn’t wait to return home—to dream again, to see more, to learn more. But there were no more dreams. As startled as he was with the visions themselves, the absence of them left him sad, vacant.

The following morning he decided to take a day off from school and headed back to Mammoth Cave. He tried to find the place he’d been before but had no idea where it was.

Disappointed, he drove back toward town. Hungry, he pulled over at a diner, stepped inside, sat down at a booth and ordered a hot roast beef sandwich.

The young waitress was so kind to him that a sweet relaxation settled in. He realized that he just needed to talk. So he called ahead and asked Pastor J if he would be available for a visitor.

Pastor J was surprised but agreed. They met at the parlor of the church. Marco didn’t waste any time. He shared exactly what had happened, beginning at Mammoth Cave.

He told the whole story—the earthquake. The split in the stone. The flickering light, and the visions.

Pastor J listened carefully, trying his best to muster all his training. After the story was all done, Marco asked, “Is it possible, Pastor J—and I’m only asking you if it’s possible—that I’ve had a visit into another world?”

Pastor J sat for a moment, thinking. “Well,” he began, “let me tell you what I know from what you’ve shared. Or maybe what I think from your thoughts. I, for one, have never believed in a heaven where we humans, who have lived for less than a century, go and celebrate our little adventures eternally.”

Marco thought the way Pastor J put it was so adorable that he had to laugh. Pastor J continued. “Let’s not forget, the Bible itself says that ‘eye has not seen, nor ear heard’ what God has prepared for us. And speaking of that prepared thing, Jesus told his disciples that he was going to prepare a place just for them.”

He paused, considering. “And if you remember, the disciples didn’t recognize Jesus when he rose from the dead—and they had just seen him a couple of days before. Maybe that’s the way it is with us. Maybe we don’t die and go to heaven, but we raise up kind of like ourselves, and arrive in a new dimension.”

Marco was enthralled with the concept. “Let me ask you something, Pastor. Have you ever thought about the fact that Mars, Venus and all these planets that we think are unlivable—well, that maybe in our dimension they are, but in their spectrum, we look like just a rock hanging in the heavens.”

“No, Marco,” said the pastor. “I’ve never thought of it just that way. But maybe we just rise and live again. Or maybe it’s just a continuation without us being totally aware that we’re ever absent. I don’t know. But it’s gonna be cooler than hell.”

Marco gave Pastor J a hug. From that day forward, the two men became great friends. Marco decided to put any further speculation to the back of his mind, to toy with his own entertainment. But he did decide that if living was about keeping on living, and maybe even living in another aura, he’d better get started doing it.

Suddenly, he wasn’t afraid anymore.

He talked to Miss Sanchez at school—one of the new teachers, who was beginning a course in musical appreciation. He was attracted to her. He just walked right up to her at lunch and asked if he could sit down. The two entangled intensely in each other’s lives. He took her to the dance. He took her to Nashville for a concert. He took her to his family. He took her into his heart. She was thrilled with each experience.

They took one another to the altar, where they were married. Marco was no longer in a hurry to leave. He wasn’t sure what was waiting far beyond the stars, but down deep in his soul, he realized that he’d had a glimpse.

1 Thing You Can Do This Week To Resurrect Your Life

Publicly Crucify Your Sins

Although your instincts may be to duck away, hide your faults or come up with an explanation to excuse your errors, the human race around you is geared to dig up unseen naughtiness, exploit it and make the doer of such deeds look not only evil, but treacherous for trying to disguise the actions.

It’s been proven throughout history.

Those Who Confess Fare Better

Those who confess their sins before they’re forced to do so always fare better than the hapless shysters who attempt to use legal means or clever methods to get an adjusted verdict from the court of public opinion.

Without trying to be controversial, I will go so far as to tell you that if Adolf Hitler, arguably the most sinister sinner of all time, had realized that he was losing the war, negotiated peace and tearfully articulated the darkness and foolishness of killing the Jews, he would have certainly been punished severely—maybe even had his life taken—but still would have been granted a bit of human grace.

It is ironic that we teach diversion and lying while simultaneously tracking down those who use such practices like we are on the hunt and they are the foxes.

Have your own resurrection this year.

Come clean

Hang yourself up on the cross for a brief time, so that your decision to recant ignorant ways can be acknowledged by the masses, your old ass can be buried, and you can rise to new life.


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Jesonian … October 9th, 2018

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(3820)

A great resurrection always destroys a good funeral.

That’s just the nature of things.

Miracles interrupt. They evolve us and they change the world around us.

So since we are such stoic, immovable creatures, it is amazing how often we will carelessly pray for a miracle.

MIRACLES DISRUPT

Yes, miracles surprise us.

There are four times in the ministry of Jesus that he raised people from the dead.

Now, it sounds like a fabulous experience, but when put into the environment of the doldrums of everyday living, the people who were present for these events were more annoyed than “enjoyed.”

He came upon a situation with a twelve-year-old girl who had passed away. He was a little late getting there, so he told the room that she was not really dead, she was “just sleeping.”

This pissed them off.

They felt that he was insulting their ability to discern when someone was living or dead. They so abusively ridiculed him that he had to kick them out of the house so the little girl could live again.

As they stood outside, not allowed to be part of the miracle, they mused to one another, “That son-of-a-bitch ruined our plans for a good funeral.”

One day he was walking by a town called Nain and came upon a funeral procession for a widow who had just lost her son. Jesus, having great compassion, reached over, touched the coffin, and the young man rose up and began talking.

Two priests and a psychologist nearby shook their heads and said, “That bumpkin robbed her of her grief process!”

When his friend Lazarus fell ill, Jesus was once again tardy, arriving four days after his death. Still wanting to see his buddy, he decided to raise him from the dead. But Lazarus’s sisters were put off by the idea because they thought, “By this time, he will stink.”

Yes–they were unwilling to go through a bit of nasal discomfort to have their brother back.

And of course, when Jesus, himself, was put in a tomb, the religious leaders, sure of their power and might, positioned soldiers to guard the tomb and make sure nothing unusual could happen. Of course, the angel just put them to sleep and Jesus rose from the dead.

CREATURE OR CREATOR?

The truth of the matter is–and if it’s not the truth, it’s still a damn good point–as you walk on this Earth you are either a creature or a creator.

A creature of habit, tradition or propriety

Or a creator–someone who simply says, “This thing before me does not need to be exactly what it is, but could be transformed into something different.”

Make up your mind. Just remember:

If you want to see transformation and miracles, hold onto your hat.

You will be jostled.

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Jesonian … May 19th, 2018

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With all the focus being placed on Jerusalem, dubbed “the Holy City,” I thought it might be fascinating to take a look at what Jesus felt about this newly-proclaimed capital of Israel.

For instance, his mother and father visited there before his birth, ended up stranded in the suburbs in a little town called Bethlehem, where there was no room for them in the Inn, and there they birthed their first-born in a barn.

When Jesus was twelve he visited the city, asking lots of questions which produced no answers. The fussy religionists basically told him to “go back home, little boy.”

Although he didn’t make many trips to Jerusalem itself, he frequently encountered a stony-headed group of followers of the Law of Moses who were more concerned about his eating habits than his message.

One day, while visiting the Temple with his disciples and realizing that they were enamored by all the gold and architecture, he explained to them that very soon “there would not be one stone left on another.”

Jesus was very upset about how Annas had turned the Temple into an unrighteous trading center, cheating the visiting pilgrims out of their money on goods and exchanges. He took a whip, beat the money changers and drove them out of the Temple.

When he raised Lazarus from the dead, not far from Jerusalem, spies and assassins were hired to plot the death of the resurrected man because it was bringing much notoriety to this upstart Galilean movement.

Eventually the religious leaders found a fellow-Judeean named Judas to betray Jesus. They put Jesus on trial, lied to Pontius Pilate about him, pretended that they were disinterested in having a “King of the Jews” because they were satisfied with Caesar, screaming for the Nazarene to be nailed to a cross.

On his way to his death, women who were weeping for him were rebuked by Jesus, who stated, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me. Weep for your children and yourselves.”

I believe at this point he might have flashed back in his mind to several days earlier, when he looked over the city of Jerusalem, and with tears, lamented, “How often I would have gathered you under my wings, like a hen does its chicks, but you would have none of it. Your house is left to you desolate.”

If you’re curious about the definition of “desolate,” it is “a place deserted of people, with a dismal emptiness.”

Even after they killed him–murdered him on the cross–the Jerusalem leadership was still afraid that the disciples might steal his body, so they placed guards in front of his tomb.

When he rose from the dead and ascended to the Father, Jerusalem continued to persecute the disciples and early church members, killing and scattering them into the world.

So there weren’t many Christians left in 70 A.D., when Jesus’ prophesy about the destruction of Jerusalem came to fruition, with the Roman Legions destroying the Temple and the town.

As you can see, Jesus had no love affair with Jerusalem.

He angered the Jewish people because he told them that he existed “before Abraham,” and that “God had the ability to take stones and make children of Abraham.”

So it is a good idea for us to check out the Jesonian view of Jerusalem instead of joining the pandering that is done in this country under the auspice of “Judeo-Christian.”

I will tell you, certainly Jesus was not anti-Semitic. He loved the whole world.

But I also must tell you, he certainly was not pro-Israel.

 

*****

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Jesonian … April 7th, 2018

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Every story is better told and more effective when the facts are allowed to line up in a reasonable order.

Such is true of the Gospel of Jesus.

Theologians spend so much time proclaiming him the Son of God that they lose the fragrance and uniqueness of the Son of Man. In an attempt to make the tale “super” they lose all of the “natural.”

The average person going to church is deluded by an array of facts which just don’t add up to a crucifixion.

One of those great misconceptions is that Jesus was extremely popular. There were certainly occasions when his crowd appeal spiked, but it always revolved around three stimuli:

A. Was he doing miracles?

B. Was he feeding people?

C. Did it look like he was the Jewish Messiah?

Whenever the populace became convinced through these three “signs and wonders” that God was going to save them from the Romans, they rallied around Jesus. Whenever it was obvious that he was intent on sharing a more universal message which included people that were not Jewish, they slipped away.

Let’s look at some facts:

1. Jesus was rejected by his home town, Nazareth, and never able to return again. Not only was he ignored, but threatened with death–dangled from the edge of a cliff.

2. Even though Jesus held a great revival in Samaria with the testimony from a woman at a well, when he returned to the city, he was forbidden to enter by the town fathers because they found out he also ministered to the Jews.

3. When he fed the 5,000 in Galilee, the hordes followed him for a while–until he told them this was not a food pantry, but rather, that his words and life were the message they were supposed to “eat.” They all departed–except for the twelve.

4. Over and over again, interest sparked with the Pharisees, but when Simon, one of their number, invited him to a special meal, the Pharisee snubbed Jesus and treated him like an outsider.

5. After the resurrection, it is recorded that over 500 people saw Jesus–witnesses of the miracle. But on the Day of Pentecost only 120 remained. Kind of a drastic drop-off.

I guess we feel the need to believe that Jesus was greatly appreciated by the people in his generation, and taken to be crucified only by a handful of powerful critics.

It’s just not true.

We are told that most of the time he dealt with twelve disciples–and he focused on three of them, to be the core leaders. We have some idea of the size of a normal following of Jesus when the scriptures let us know that he sent seventy out to share in his name.

If you are trying to give credence to the message of Jesus by pointing out how enthralled the Jewish community and the Roman oppressors were, then you will be sadly disappointed when you read the actual accounts of his mistreatment and the number of individuals who desperately tried to ignore him.

We’re even told that John the Baptist’s disciples did not believe in him.

Jesus had a model. It’s very simple: Develop a hot core of followers and let them radiate the message.

Nowadays we are so eager to build up numbers in the sanctuary that we fail to build up people. Jesus basically spent three-and-a-half years working on twelve human beings.

  • One of them betrayed him and killed himself.
  • Another denied him, and was prepared to leave the work.
  • Yet another one doubted that a resurrection was possible.

Do not despair–Jesus suffered the same slings and arrows of human apathy that you and I encounter every day. He just had a great system. So when he left the planet, there was a handful of people who knew what he taught, knew what he stood for and were prepared to be filled with the Holy Spirit, to give them the power and insight to take the Gospel to the whole world.

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Cracked 5 … April 3rd, 2018


Jonathots Daily Blog

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Matters That Really Upset the Easter Bunny During This Holiday Celebration

A. The Lucky Car Dealership giving away a rabbit’s foot for good luck as a promotional benefit during “Hoppy Sales Week”

 

B. Obtuse and confusing parallels drawn by ministers and church youth leaders between the Easter Bunny and the Resurrection of Christ

 

C. Peeps voted “Best Easter Candy.” Damn those chicks.

 

D. Jokes about the Easter Bunny being a “basket case”

 

E. Politically correct individuals upset with the term “colored eggs” want to change it to “hue-enhanced eggs.”

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Catchy (Sitting 41) Paradise Tossed… March 25th, 2018

Jonathots Daily Blog

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There was a noble effort made by the staff of the Walter Reed Medical Center in Washington, D.C., to keep the autopsy of Cassidy Templeton private.

Noble but futile.

A mere ten minutes after it was posted in the hospital records, the system was hacked, and the conclusions of the autopsy were spread abroad across the world in the matter of an hour.

In the report, was decided that Cassidy Templeton’s death was from natural causes–even though there was nothing natural about the discoveries. In the report, one doctor commented that it appeared that his internal organs had been burned–worn out like an old tire. There were systems that were non-funcitoning, and others that should have been connecting up to create life, which were dangling without purpose. So at the end of a very lengthy probe, the conclusion was that Cassidy Templeton died because there were no real systems keeping him alive. Of course, this further added to the mystery of the awakening.

When Matthew was asked by a reporter what he thought about the findings of the autopsy, he quipped, “I don’t give a shit about any of this shit.”

He was drunk at the time and probably shouldn’t have answered the question, but he had grown weary in his mediocre doings. This idea had begun so simply–some music, some food, some gentle words. Now it was growing into an international phenomenon, with many promoters seeing the potential for profit and struggling to get their piece before the pie was gone. Also, because there was a softening of the hearts of the American public, a desperate attempt was being made by those who preferred the darker portions of human existence to intrude.

Mother Rolinda’s church in Baltimore was fire-bombed by an organization called “Catholics for Christ’s Church.” Taking responsibility for the incursion, their statement explained that since Jesus was a man, God expected all of his preachers to be male.

About sixty of Prophet Morgan’s friends and followers began an organization called “The Morganians,” who immediately accused Merrill Handerling and the B.I.F. (Believers International Fellowship) of foul play in the murder of the prophet. At first it was just nasty letters and law suits, but finally ended up in violence when five “Morganians” were ambushed by ten members of B.I.F., resulting in a street brawl, leaving two dead by stabbing.

What once was a jet stream of spiritual love across the world via Jubal Carlos and the band had now splintered into different representations, traveling groups who sprang off the original concept to develop their own rendition, complete with erroneous theology.

Everyone was claiming to have the “true Jesus.”

A year earlier, nobody gave a damn about Jesus, and now everyone was trying to market their favored clone.

Matthew continued to dwell in Las Vegas and find more and more perverse ways to separate himself from anything that resembled religion. To him, it seemed like the paradise they had envisioned had been tossed aside in favor of a return to man-made, ecclesiastical mayhem.

But Jubal continued to travel–matter of fact, Matthew made one journey with him, deep into the south, to Jackson, Mississippi. It was a piece of curiosity for the cynical marketer. He had never been to Mississippi before and was curious what the response would be.

Yet the town square and the park nearby was jammed with people, and it seemed like just another wonderful day on a heavenly Earth.

Except for one thing. There was something different.

Matthew picked up on it immediately. It was Jubal. Although he retained the presence of his faith, the energy was gone. He was surrounded by adoring and rejoicing disciples, but he, himself, had taken a portion of his being and removed it for his own private thoughts.

Matthew asked him about it and Jubal just smiled and mouthed the classic, “I’m just fine.”

That afternoon, when it was time to return to Las Vegas for the evening rally, Jubal was late for takeoff. He texted Matthew, saying he would catch another flight and be there for the evening, but revival time arrived, and Jubal was nowhere to be found.

He wasn’t there the next morning or the morning after that. Many of the members of the staff feared there was some sort of foul play–after all, death threats had come in from people who were less than thrilled at a second resurrection of a once-dead carpenter. After seventy-two hours of absence, the FBI was called in to investigate.

There was a squabble among the troupe as to whether to continue the nation-wide schedule without Jubal buzzing along with them. It actually wasn’t very problematic–Jubal had gradually reduced his activities in the journey, opening the door to new people, new acts, and new possibilities, so replacing him onstage was not as much of a problem as trying to imagine the work and mission going forward without his soul.

After much discussion, Matthew insisted that the tour should resume, and within a few days, the cast of characters was so involved that they had to remind one another nightly to pray for their old friend.

It was two weeks to the day the disappearance that a telegram–yes, a telegram, of all things–arrived at Matthew’s office. It was from Jubal. It read:

“Sorry for the mixup. Got an invite from the Dali, to come and enjoy a sabbatical. Seemed right. Love, Jubal Carlos”

It took Matthew a second to realize that the Dalai, in this case, was the Dalai Lama. It was a strange time. It actually comforted Matthew to remain in his iniquity.

After all, those who seemed to be righteous sure looked screwed up.

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