"The Holocaust was the Rapture," I heard it exclaimed
But it fell on deaf ears, because ears are for looking, and no one with the look of Jesus was anywhere to be heard. And they looked everywhere, high and low, front to back...no Jesus...only a few well-dressed, well-meaning witnesses to several impostors who were posing just across town at that "other" church, that "other" way home.
Without Jesus there could have been no Rapture, not yet. It could not be. But soon, they were certain, very soon, they shouted, and they could hardly wait for the joy that comes from the fear of knowing that you are right, absolutely right, when everyone around you thinks that you are wrong. Dead wrong. Completely wrong. Dying wrong was more than they could bear.
But for a thousand years or more, we have been dying wrong, passing from this world to the next to leave behind a rotting, stinking heap, a brown and molding husk, for others to forebear. Does it not seem odd these things we do near daily, perhaps by the hour, should be done improper, for so long, yet our fondest wish be that we would set aright? Surely be at once one man, nay woman, who sits up straight when asked, does dishes when a sink be full and owns nothing but the claim that he is owned by one and all -- be his beloved buried treasure hence in this life and the next?
Is this right, I ask?
Be we concerned, nay perplexed, that those who see with ears and catch a ring in their eyes be leading confusion's path to a room of doors whose choice becomes arrival at yet another room of doors? Choose again, I say, and choose well and wisely, for there can be but one choice in a room full of doors and blessed be that choice be made and complete at last. Happiness depends upon it, that fear who forbids it be cast aside and a longing lover's gaze be met at once in homecoming and repose.