Eternity – Page 2 – The Word Worker

The Forgiven Debt

A man owed billions of dollars to his employer. As a minimum wage earner, his chances of paying off such an astronomical debt were nonexistent. His employer, in an attempt to recover at least some of his money under the laws of his country, decided to sell the man and his family as slaves and sell off the man’s property. The man begged for time, promising to pay the debt despite insurmountable odds. The employer, knowing the situation and having deep sympathy for the man’s plight, decided that even that great sum of money was not as important as the man’s life and decided to wipe that great debt from the books as if it had never happened.

The man’s future had been saved, and he should have recognized the enormous opportunity he had been given to start fresh with a new outlook on life. Instead, he assumed an overimportant, entitled attitude, physically assaulted a fellow minimum-wage employee who owed him a few thousand dollars, demanded that every penny be paid immediately. When the other employee could not and begged for time to pay the debt, this man furiously and unreasonably had the other jailed until he would agree to pay the full amount.

When the employer heard what had happened, he was furious. He had given this man a chance for a future that he could never have under the weight of his crushing debt, and instead of taking that chance, the man had taken it as a sign that he was better than others and entitled to whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it. The employer reinstated the debt, called the police, and had the man arrested for embezzlement. Instead of having a future, the man would now spend the rest of his life in jail, without the opportunity of repaying even the smallest portion of what he owed.

In the beginning God created a perfect world, setting humans born of his own breath as its crowning glory. Instead of appreciating this incredible gift, humans decided they needed more and destroyed God’s perfect creation. Much like a financial loan that accrues interest the more time goes by without full payment, humanity continued to pile sin upon sin on a debt far greater than any financial obligation we could ever accrue. Two thousand years ago, on a wooden cross covered in His own blood, God wiped that debt from the books as if it had never been.

What do we do with this incomprehensible gift? I fear that most of the world behaves like the employee in the story. Rather than recognizing what an opportunity has been given them to rise above the petty desires of this world, rather than gratefully passing on the relief from this crushing weight of spiritual embezzlement, they waste their liberty in abusing humanity and demanding what they feel entitled to have. No obligation in this world, no imaginable slight on earth, could possibly come close to the spiritual obligation cleared by the gift offered on that cross, yet we become petty tyrants rather than relinquish any claims on our fellow humans.

Selfishness did not produce the result the employee in the story desired. Rather than getting everything he wanted and thought he deserved, he lost the opportunity to have anything for the rest of his life, and died with the insurmountable debt marking his name. Selfishness will not serve us either. Our jail will not be a physical one, and will not end with the death of our bodies. We will be tortured for eternity, with our debt to our creator burned into our consciousness as a constant reminder of what we threw away. Why would we choose such a fate for the sake of temporary and unfulfilling gratification, when we have been gifted a future worth more than the entire universe, a future we could never achieve on our own? Why would we waste the gift of our forgiven debt?

The Undying Sacrifice

The sun crept over the hills, its deep shadows still heavy on the path to the tomb. The women bringing oils to preserve the body of their teacher halted transfixed by the sight of the seal rolled to the side and bright rays breeching the darkness within the cave. The broken body taken in grief from the cross and gently laid to rest behind that seal only two night before was gone, and as they turned in confusion the One who made use of that body stood before them, very much alive.

The ground around the temple still stank with the blood of the many Passover lambs blessed and slaughtered there only days before. The Levites still worked frantically to mend the great curtain dividing the seat of God’s mercy from the nation who awaited it. Two disciples struggled to quiet breath ragged from their headlong rush to see the empty tomb for themselves, only beginning to understand that they had stood beneath the shower of blood on the true seat of mercy as God offered Himself as the final Passover lamb.

As crowds flooded the city for the great festival of harvest, the friends of Jesus went home to Galilee. There the Living Sacrifice met them on the shore where they worked and waited for something they did not fully understand, and brought them back to the site of His Altar. There, in the garden where His first drops of blood spilled, He allowed them to see Him ascend like the smoke of the offering to His rightful place as the Receiver of the Offering.

As the sun rose on another festival morning, worshippers ascending the temple mount were drawn away from their dead sacrifices by the expression of God’s presence over a humble house within the city, where the friends of Jesus received the gift of His life. For the first time since Mt Sinai, God showed himself to His people in a new Holiest Place, the hearts of those who loved Him. For the first time since Mt Sinai, the temple stood empty as the Living Sacrifice blessed the beginning of a new harvest.

The tomb remains empty. The temple has long since been destroyed. The harvest continues. The undying Lamb still shows Himself every day to those willing to see the power of His presence and walk in the light of an eternal festival morning.

Doorman

The floor undulated beneath me, its checkered waves lifting me although I could not feel a surface under my feet. I wasn’t sure I even had feet; I couldn’t seem to find myself. The door hung from nothing, stood on nothing, with light streaming through it from some unidentifiable source. A Fedora sat on top of it, incongruous and yet belonging.

“From where have you come?” The light flickered with every word that hung heavy in the blackness like a star.

“What are you?” I would have gasped, but could not find my lungs.

“I am the Doorman. From where have you come?” The stars increased and yet lit nothing.

“Um, Earth?” I would have swallowed, but could not feel my tongue. “Small town USA?”

“What is your purpose here?” The stars began to coalesce into nebula, filming the blackness with cloudy light that could not obscure the Doorman.

“I don’t know.” I would have shaken my head but the muscles had vanished. “You tell me, I don’t even know what here is.”

“Where are you going?” The light behind the Doorman intensified, searing into my unprotected soul.

I would have covered my eyes with my hands if I had possessed either. “I wish I could tell you. Where do you lead?”

“You have asked correctly.” The checkered waves froze, the fedora vanished, and the door opened.

Tears of the Cyborg

I walked through the empty rooms, no footprints visible but mine in the soil-thick dust covering the floor. My steps echoed thinly from the metal cabinets lining every wall. My ears tingled from a faint hum that could be felt more than heard, and an occasional click or whirr felt like a church bell in the silence.

Double doors, windowless and cold, jerked on clogged tracks into the wall, exposing thick darkness tinged by a faint red glow. I took a ragged breath, my chest aching with anticipation that bordered on fear. Two agonizingly slow steps carried me over the threshold, and I strained for every shred of light to illuminate the room’s contents.

The whirring and clicking surrounded me here, along with the faint gurgle of some sort of liquid, and a steady drip against a puddle. As my eyes adjusted I could make out the source of the red glow, clear tubes filled with a luminescent fluid snaked toward a single point against the far wall. I walked toward it, a shape materializing slowly as I drew near.

The whirring grew louder, and I could make out exposed gears, wires, and pulleys against a narrow strip of white somehow untouched by the dust that pervaded the place. A little closer and something moved; I jumped backward with a compulsive squeak as a pale, expressionless face rose to view, colored only by the glow of the tubes that culminated behind it.

A crack appeared at the edges of the face, and a light breeze fanned the loose hair at my neck, obviously the reason for the lack of dust on what I could now see was an old-fashioned dress collar. A drop of blood-red liquid spilled from the corner of a dark eye and rolled down the delicately human cheek to drip on the floor. Another followed it, then another. The lips parted with the whir of gears, and a mechanically female voice spoke incongruously through their stillness. “Is it the end?”

The Ghost

FB_IMG_1589074214619 The monk stood beneath the arch, staring down the endless corridor of archways. Once echoing with the sounds of prayers and sandals, once filled with the bounty of the fields waiting to be distributed where needed, the archways stood empty and silent. He was alone.

No one had foreseen the disaster. The unholy thing had slipped in so easily, feasting on the contentment of the people. There had seemed no need for guard; the peace of the community had been unbroken for centuries. The stranger was welcomed with open arms and generous kindness.

The monk barely remembered the first disappearance. An old man, he thought; or perhaps it was an old woman. The forgotten went first. The children were next, and with the first of those losses came the fear. By then it was too late.

One by one they were taken. One by one the community dwindled. When it came for the monks they were powerless. Their own fear and grief was their undoing. They fell to the unholy stranger like the last in a chain of dominoes.

The monk stood under the arch, staring down the endless corridor of archways. Here he would stand forever, the ghost of all those he had taken. With their deaths he had died, trapped forever in this empty hall of his own making.