“There was certainly a battle, but I get the sense that you are referring to something very specific.” “There is only one battle.” “One?” I asked, curious. His eyes flashed, and he looked straight at me. “Union or separation,” he said definitively. “Once again, sir, you have my undivided attention.” “Indeed,” John boomed, as if he had been given permission to hold forth. “The Greeks and the Pharisees make the same mistake, though in different ways—a large mistake,” he exclaimed, with a sigh of lament, “and apparently these Gnostics are their children.” I knew to the core of my soul that we had arrived at the heart of everything. I could see it in his face and in the way he held his head. I was not sure what he meant by union or separation, but it was clear that to him this was the crosshairs of the cosmos. “I think I could come up with some reasonable ideas about the connections between the Greeks and the Gnostics, but how could the Pharisees be connected?” “The truth of all truths: Jesus. Jesus in his Father and us in him. Without Jesus, what do you have?” “Not much, I reckon. Just ourselves.” “Ourselves and ideas of separation from God,” St. John declared in his most authoritative apostolic tone. “Listen, young Aidan.” And as I did, I felt that my world was about to be shattered. “The assumption of separation is the great darkness.” His words hit me like a blow to my gut, but before I could recover he continued on. “Then, you see, we have to find our way to God. The Greeks offer their way through their minds; the Pharisees offer theirs through external rules. This is Ophis’s chief trick—blind us to how close the Lord is, closer than breath: we’re in him, and he’s in us. Ophis deceives the nations by one lie—separation. Our joy”—his face lit up like the rising sun—“is to tell the truth, let the light shine—and persevere the tribulation of enlightenment.” “Wow,” >>>
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“He sat beside me, then grabbed the bread in silence and tore it into shreds, almost violently, dropping each piece deliberately onto his rag. The drama caught me off guard, but before I could say anything, he raised his wineskin above his head and poured it out onto the broken pieces of bread. Like water hitting a flat rock, the splatter was unmistakable. My heart, already raw with emotion and hope, was spellbound by the sight and sound. I couldn’t see it at the moment, but his dramatic action was already preparing me for his final and greatest lesson. The apostle soared into prayer: Lord Jesus, only begotten, beloved, and faithful Son of Abba, the living Word of God, anointed of the Holy Spirit, Son of Miriam, humble brother of the human race, Lord of all creation. With our whole hearts we honor you and bless your great name, the arche of creation, the Amen, the faithful and true Witness, the Lamb slain and seated upon the Throne of thrones, Heaven’s Gate, the “I Am,” Savior of the world, Victor over death and darkness. Worthy are you of all honor and glory and life, in this age and in all ages to come. We rest in you. Bless you for finding us in the great darkness, for receiving me and my young son and the whole world into your life with your Father, for giving us your eyes. Worthy, Lord Jesus, are you of the summation of the ages; blessed be your great Name. Holding” >>>
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“This cannot be,” I murmured. I wept and shuddered, convulsing in joy yet still not daring to believe. In his Father’s eyes, my Father’s eyes, I heard the song of light singing over me; I still cannot begin to describe what I was experiencing, except that it was a seeing that was also hearing. In the song flowed Abba’s unsearchable care, all around me, in me, cradling me gently as a womb—all of me, every fearful, shame-riddled, guilt-ridden, war-torn fragment. All was known and accepted, embraced within and without—even, impossibly, delighted in. I felt a comfort and love more tender and beautiful than I ever dreamed could be possible. Moving quietly, St. John, ever in tune with the Holy Spirit, left the room. He was giving me space to know, or as he would say, time for my imagination to expand until it was worthy of its theme. I rolled onto my back with my eyes closed, marveling, when I felt Jesus’s presence. I could feel him—Jesus—in me. I groaned as I realized that it had been a thousand years since I felt—or allowed myself to feel. Then” >>>
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“Then a fortress of stone, impenetrable as hardened blue steel, appeared in my gaze. Helplessness seized my heart, and I cried, feeling the pitiful sorrow that comes when a prize is again and again just beyond your reach. As I shook my head in self-loathing, I heard the voice of Jesus, the Word, quiet as a clear whisper: “Take sides with me, against the way you see.” “Lord Jesus . . . this fortress is me, isn’t it? I have built it, piece by miserable piece, but I cannot tear it down.” “I Am,” I heard. I heard at last, and all that was within me declared, Amen! I let go, of what I did not know. The fortress burst and vanished in a blast of purest light. In the light I could see, see beyond my own seeing. Two great eyes appeared, wide open and warm, clear as crystal, deep as a mountain lake and unclouded by any hint of shadow, and trained with affection upon me. In the eyes I saw myself reflected. “This” >>>
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