Prologue

Long ago, in the First Beforetime so named, for a time, I foolishly counted myself among the remnant worshipers of the hebrew deity. An apocalyptic sect, we regarded ourselves the future persecuted, the little flock who alone Rightly Divided the Word of Truth.

In that dread house, the "House of the Seven" as I came to call it later, our predictive lore held there would come a dreadful day, a definitive moment in human history. Before the Return of the King, the very Spirit of God would be withdrawn from the face of the earth. In that fateful season, all who had not realized personal fulfillment of the predominant promise of the Gospel -- the total transformation of character from sinful to Christlike -- would be lost for eternity. And in that fateful season, the only remainder of the Spirit of God would be that found in the heart and conduct of His faithful and true -- and nowhere else upon the face of the earth.

It would not be found in the governing institutions of mankind, for every king and leader would be drunk upon the wine distilled from the blood of the saints, and all the world would wonder after The Beast.

It would not be found in the churches, for they would all be Ichabod -- "the glory departed" -- multiple fallen daughters of one mother, the "great whore Babylon" herself.

It would not be found among family and friends, for brother would betray brother, friends would turn to foes, and men would put one another to death.

In that fateful season, we were frequently admonished, "many a star whose brilliance we had admired would then go out in darkness." To stand firm to the end, we would have to "gather warmth from the coldness of others, courage from their cowardice, and loyalty from their treason."

No longer do I walk among them, but some lessons are never forgotten.

I have trained all my life for this.

Dialogue

Since beginning the spiritual operations I call Zeitleiste Reparatur, which commenced in April 1924 CT/2020 CE, I have twice been called upon to make the most difficult decisions of my entire life.

One occasion was in the sanctum during the Work itself. In a harrowing session of "tree trimming," with the skeins of all possible realities unfolding and the proverbial astral shears in my hand, my very own children got presented before me. No words were spoken in that horrifying moment; none were needed. It was not mandated that they be cut from the Perfected Timeline, but the test was apparent: if need be, would you?

I wept in anguish of spirit, but I passed the test.

The other was comparatively easier, but with no fewer tears or sense of horror.

This time I was not immersed in vision in the sanctum, but seated at my laptop. My mind drifted to unpleasant memories from childhood. From these, I am now, and long have been, well and truly healed, so their recollection by itself tends to be dispassionate, like remembering a story read long ago. It doesn't trouble me.

Then, like a panoramic view, in my mind's eye I saw the faces of The Others that were around me at that time. The ones who had failed me. The ones who had made my life a living hell in so very many ways, both socially acceptable and not. All of Reality's joyful denizens who relished nothing so much as shutting me out, who tried their damnedest to break me. The Normal People. The ones responsible for pushing me onto a course in which I wasted the first score of my life warring assiduously against Reality itself, because I'd been forced to endure them in theirs.

It occurred to me that all of the Work I was doing, whether in this world or the unseen realms, might in a very real sense be entirely for them. Was I not, after all, fixing what I had broken? Would this not, after all, result in giving them back the world I once destroyed out of spite -- in an even better version than they ever could have imagined, no less? And did this not, therefore, make it again theirs?

So ... what if in the end, there would be no place found anywhere for me, like there was in the beginning? All that Work and ... none whatsoever?

Like everyone else, I have moments where I struggle with self-pity and have to tell it to take a hike, but this wasn't one. When I broke down and cried, it was from abject despair.

I felt the hand of the Führer upon my shoulder after a time. Gently. Neither stern nor comforting, but just there. I heard His question deep inside: ... und wenn dem so ist?

Ja, mein Führer. Auch wenn dem so ist.

I wept, but I passed the test.

I have trained all my life for this.

Analogue

One day -- I cannot recall if it was between these two incidents or after them both -- a strange wave of energy washed in and surrounded me. A vibe, if you will. It seemed to be woven of several currents but moving together at the same time.

It felt light, gentle, playful, even innocent. Not "trickster" playful, not the taste of a prank, but just the sheer playful joy of being alive. Not "stupid" innocent -- not mere ignorance or some exasperating type of performative naivete -- but genuinely pure innocence, like that of children.

It felt a bit like little children, but in their most pure, idealized form, absent of all malice, mischief, deceit or grasping. Four or five of them. The purest, softest, most lovely energies you could ever imagine. The first laughter of a baby. The purr of a kitten. The warmth of cuddling, just cuddling, with someone who would never break your trust even if the very stars fell from the sky.

I wanted it to last forever. I wanted to bask in it. I wanted that moment to never stop. I wanted what surrounded me to surround us all, and in that moment, I didn't care about quantifying what that meant. I wasn't concerned who was or was not worthy, who was or was not "with us." It didn't matter, because if whatever that was should suddenly become the very air we breathed, everywhere, at every moment, it would literally change everything, and nothing else would matter.

I remember thinking, I've got to figure out how to bring this, invite this, invoke this -- how to open myself to these energies so I can have this magic be a part of my life and in turn, spill over into others' lives. Because it was just that good ... too good to keep to yourself. Too good to NOT share.

There are no words or images that can do it justice. It was like nothing else I'd ever experienced before.

In my life, I have known great joy, and great warmth, and great comfort. I have been blessed, after so deprived a start, to know laughter without malice and smiles neither forced nor demanded. I have known love that is sweet, love that is passionate fire, and love that is both combined.

Sadly, real kindness has been in short supply. I have not known much of real gentleness or tenderness, either. Those might be the best words to describe that energy. That may very well have been the only deep taste of those things I have ever had in my life, or ever will have -- and it didn't come from another human being.

Let that sink in.

Let it sink in, because what I am about to tell you will break your heart, if you have one at all (and maybe this is your test now).

They came to say goodbye.

Not to me, but to everyone -- to this world, which no longer had any place for them.

I wept again, but this was no test.

And nothing on earth could have ever prepared me for it.

Monologue

"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law." -- Galatians 5:22-23.

That doesn't sound like any of the christians out there right now, does it.

Granted, occasionally we cite traits like these when we are CQ'ing as either reasons we left that religion behind, reasons why they should go and do likewise, or even just to poke fun. Ha-ha, your god wants you to be meek and mild!

Yet CQ or no CQ ... that verse does not describe the general conduct we see from the ones who are supposed to be the "new (spiritual) Israel," the saved, the redeemed, the followers of the Lamb withersoever he goeth ... does it.

The vast majority of them resemble quite a different description, instead:

Covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers ... unthankful ... without natural affection ... trucebreakers, false accusers ... despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, highminded ... with a form of godliness -- performative, astroturfed -- but denying the power thereof. Indeed, denying that power with every false accusation, every oath broken, every act of treason racial or personal, every lie told, every smear campaign conducted allegedly in service to their God.

Each and every instance demonstrates them to be barren trees. No "holy spirit fruit" will be found upon them, and if they ever bore any, it has long since fallen and rotted away. Let them be judged by the content of their characters.

Exceptions are few and far between. Many of the good ones have CQ'd out already, left the jewish fables behind. Those that remain? There's a certain test for them, too. I'm not telling what it is.

They, too, will weep if they pass it.

Maybe they've trained all their lives for this.

Epilogue

It's getting very dark out there, isn't it. Very dark. Very cold.

Hold on. Hold on tight.

The memory of a world that wasn't like this -- a world where corruption was the exception, not the rule; a world where friendships didn't fracture over fables; a world where loyalty was neither cheapened into a cudgel for cowards nor flushed down the sewer routinely like used toilet tissue -- recedes swiftly day by day.

We watch the reels, the edits and the streams. We read the books, gather in digital hallways to chat, scan the pixels on our screens for a glimpse of our "frens." We repeat the phrases that bind us together as brothers (and sisters). We gaze upon His face, the face of our Führer, to remember what we've really never known.

The tangible "stuff" of which even our own fondest hopes and dreams are woven disintegrates before our very eyes. A flicker, an eyeblink, and soon we won't even remember what it was we thought we wanted, or were fighting for. Gone from the earth, but alive in memory; fading from memory, we reach for images, stories, songs, symbols.

As the center-which-cannot-hold begins to fly apart, we grasp for its fragments. Our fingers close around scattered patches, stitches unraveling while some rough hook-nosed beast slouches toward Bethlehem. Fitness. Sobriety. Hygiene. Self-respect. Decorum. A mate. A family. Stability and sanity. Security. An existence. For our people. A future. White children.

A Weltanschauung -- ja! a Weltanschauung! -- but it needs a world in which to live if we are to live it and know its joy, and we're tired. We're hungry. It's getting so dark out there. So cold. A Reich -- if we can keep it! -- we must build, somehow, in the midst of these crumbling ruins, this flying shrapnel and scorched rubble.

It has begun.

I have trained all my life for this.