LEE HERALD'S WRITING

Below are two chapters from my novel—The Grandmother of War.

Copyright 2000 Lee Herald

18. A NEW PERSPECTIVE

February 1973, Sunday night.
After supper the boys had gone to their room to play Monopoly until bedtime.

Frank and Liz were sitting at the dining room table drinking coffee. Frank had on jeans and an unbuttoned, white dress shirt. Liz had on a blue satin robe.

She asked Frank about an article that he had finished writing. It concerned certain commands of Jesus that were seldom mentioned in any church.

“Never has a life been so fully studied, and so little understood, as the life of Jesus,” Frank said. “You hear about the Ten Commandments every Sunday morning, but you hear very little about the commands of Jesus.”

“You mean where Jesus spoke about sacrifice and obedience?”

“Yes, two unpopular subjects in the modern church. The Ten Commandments are easily seen because they’re grouped together, but Jesus’ commands are scattered throughout the four gospels. If you’re not observant, you’ll read right over one.”

Liz said, “But once you’re aware of them you see them more easily, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He paused. “Any sentence can be classified as one of four types.”

“Four types?”

“Yeah. That scripture you just read in Matthew five is either a command, an exclamation, a question, or a statement.”

Liz looked at The Living Bible lying on the table. “Well, it’s not a question.” She looked closer. “I think Jesus is giving a command.”

She read it out loud. “If you are ordered to court, and your shirt is taken from you, give your coat too.” She looked at Frank. “But don’t many preachers get a lawyer whenever they’re in trouble.”

“Yes, and they not only defend themselves, they sue others.”

“That’s really breaking this command,” Liz said. She got the coffee pot and filled Frank’s cup. “And they’re also breaking the command that says, resist not evil.”

“Yes, they are. In this chapter Jesus was teaching believers how to react in the world, to brothers and enemies. Christians were never to defend themselves. That’s why Jesus commanded resist not evil, and also, give your coat too.”

“But if followers really obeyed these commands, Frank, they wouldn’t last a day.”

“True, but impractical or not, the Christian is commanded not to resist evil.”

“Have you ever known anyone foolish enough to obey that?” Liz sipped her coffee.

“Yes.”

Liz looked at Frank in surprise. “Who?”

“When the multitude came to capture Jesus he didn’t resist. Peter drew a sword to defend . . .”

“Frank!” Liz playfully slapped him. “I mean besides Jesus, who do you know . . .”

“Peter drew a sword to defend him,” Frank continued, “and Jesus said put your sword away.” He grinned at Liz.

“Jesus practiced what he preached,” she said.

“Unlike all of the celebrity ministers today who have bodyguards,” Frank pointed out, “and unlike the Pope with his ‘Vatican Vanguard’”.

“And that scripture just below, in the same chapter,” Liz said, “give to those who ask.” She skeptically looked at Frank. “You don’t mean that they’re suppose to give whatever anyone asks, even thousands of dollars?”

Frank smiled. “Yes, it does mean that, without qualification. You’ve read that scripture before, Liz.” He took a drink of his coffee.

“Yes, but it’s hard to believe, Frank.” She laughed. “But I can see why Oral Roberts and Billy Graham would want to keep it quiet.”

“They don’t talk much about that command,” Frank said. “Almost all preachers avoid these commands by all sorts of waffling. ‘Oh, he didn’t mean that,’ or ‘we have to take this with a grain of salt.’ The Fundamentalists are very literal—until it comes to their pocketbook.”

Liz glanced down at the Bible. “And this is a tough one too, don’t turn away from those who want to borrow.” She looked at Frank. “You could bankrupt those preachers using these commands against them.”

“You could if they would obey them, but don’t hold your breath.”

Liz laughed. “Don’t worry, Frank. I’m not that foolish.”

“I don’t have a quarrel with liberal Christians,” Frank said, “because they don’t force their religion on others. And the double standards of the Fundamentalists wouldn’t bother me either, except that they’re always condemning everyone else.”

“And they get so noisy about it,” Liz agreed. “Everybody else is wrong and going straight to hell.”

“Yet they themselves don’t obey Jesus, and that hypocrisy screams for a rebuttal.” Frank paused. “That’s why I wrote ‘The One and Only Gospel.’”

Liz raised her arms and stretched. “Ohhh,” she moaned, as her robe fell open. “That feels so good.” She had on a black negligee.

Frank rubbed her inner thigh and grinned. “Honey, we may have to finish this conversation later.”

Liz smiled and pulled her robe around her. “Control yourself, Frank.” She looked at the boys’ bedroom. “Get ready for bed, boys.”

“Can’t we stay up a little longer, Mom?” David yelled.

“You’ve got school tomorrow, you guys,” Frank said. “Obey your mother.”

In a few minutes the boys came in and Frank and Liz kissed them good night. She went to their bedroom with them. They had twin beds.

David laughed. “Mom, I can’t believe you’re still seeing us to bed. I’m almost twelve and I can get in bed by myself.” He brushed his long hair with his hand, and then pulled his bedspread back.

“Well, I know that, but you’re growing up too fast.” She kissed David on the cheek.

Paul laughed. He got in bed and pulled his blanket up to his chin.

“What’re you laughing about,” Liz teased. “I know, I know, you’re almost ten.” She kissed him.

Then she went into the living room, and sat on the sofa beside Frank. “‘The One and Only Gospel,’” she said, “that’s a good title.” She hesitated. “It was rejected again, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Frank gloomily replied.

“Don’t worry, Honey. You’ll get it published.” Liz took a drink of coffee. “Didn’t you say in that article that most ministers study the Apostle Paul more than they study Jesus?”

“Yeah, I did.” Frank glanced out the dining room window. “And I think they misunderstand Paul’s teachings, but Thomas Jefferson went further than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Jefferson said that Paul was ‘the first corrupter of the doctrines of Jesus.’”

Liz was amazed. “Jefferson actually said that?”

“Yes he did. The religion of Jesus was a do religion, active, not a passive belief. It wasn’t a saving grace theory like the doctrines that have been twisted out of Paul’s words. Look at the differences between the words of Jesus and Paul. Jesus speaks of . . .”

“Difference? But don’t the Fundamentalists say that all of the words in the Bible are God’s words?”

“Yeah, they do, Liz, but Paul himself made a distinction between the words of Jesus and his own words.”

Frank turned to the seventh chapter of First Corinthians, “This is what Paul said. 'Here I want to add some suggestions of my own. These are not direct commands from the Lord, but they seem right to me.'” He looked at Liz. “Paul elevated the words of Jesus above his own. He called his own words suggestions, but he calls the words of Jesus commands.”






















He gave the Bible to Liz.

She read the passage. “The Fundamentalists never mention this, do they?”

“No, they’re not about to do that. It would provoke too many questions.”

“They’re very selective,” Liz said.

“They don’t want to face the hard truth.” Frank looked at the Bible again. “You can see the difference in style between Jesus and Paul. Except for the parables Jesus speaks plainly, but Paul’s words wander like a stream in the woods, which makes him easy to exploit. He wrote rambling epistles and the church hierarchy used them to create intellectual believeism.”

“Is that a word?”

“Believeism?”

“Yes.”

“It is now.”

Liz laughed.

“And look at all the books written to explain what Paul meant,” Frank said.

“He was a publisher’s dream,” Liz said.

“He sure was, and with one hand he transformed Christianity into Paulinism.”

“Paulinism? Is that a word?” Liz laughed. “I know, I know.”

Frank smiled. “In order to know the true gospel, Christians should read the words of Jesus first, and then read the rest of the New Testament.” He paused. “If there are any contradictions between the two, then the words of Jesus would prevail.”

“Contradictions? Do you believe there was a conflict between the words of Jesus and the words of Paul?”

“There may be conflicts, but I don’t think they’re deliberate. Jefferson believed that Paul corrupted the gospel of Jesus by changing it.” He paused.

“But I believe that the words of Paul can only be understood in the light of the words of Jesus. That’s why the teachings of Jesus should be understood first, then—as I said—if there is a conflict when you read Paul, then Paul is wrong.”

“Well, that seems logical,” Liz said.

“Yeah, but the Fundamentalists don’t call it that.”

“What do they call it?”

“Heresy,” Frank replied.

Liz kissed his cheek. “Keep trying to get ‘The One and Only Gospel’ published.” She patted his arm. “Try again, Honey.”

“I appreciate your encouragement, Liz, but it’s been rejected everywhere.” Frank paused. “Nobody wants to touch anything so controversial.”

“I know, but you didn’t send it to that . . . I forget the name, but that statewide magazine here in L.A. It’s a small publication and they just might publish it.”

Frank briefly reflected. “I know the one you mean, and you could be right, I’ll try them.”


19. THE ONE and ONLY GOSPEL

July 1973.

When the telephone rang Frank was sitting in the living room and Liz was in the kitchen. “I’ll get it,” Frank said. He picked up the phone in the dining room. “Hello.”

“Hello. Is this Mister Dorsen?”

“Yes.”

“Mister Dorsen, I’m Ron James of KWIZ AM radio, ten-sixty. How’re you doing?”

Probably another rock contest, Frank thought. “I’m okay.” I should give this call to David. He glanced toward the boys’ bedroom.

“Great, Mister Dorsen. Every weeknight I host the talk-show program, ‘Tell It Like It Is.’ Have you heard our program?”

“No, but I’ve heard of it. If this call’s about rock music, my sons know more about that than I do.” Frank glanced at his watch.

“Well, that’s great, but our program takes on a variety of subjects, most controversial. That’s why my staff enjoyed your article in A Different View.”

Frank was surprised. “Really?”

“Yes. That magazine covers the west coast, and it gets into Arizona and Nevada too. And for a statewide monthly, your article provoked quite a response.”

Frank chuckled and sat down at the dining room table. If it had to be published in a local magazine, he thought, California couldn’t have been better.“

Anyway, the hullabaloo that ‘The One and Only Gospel’ caused has carried over on our program,” James said, “and we’ve had a hundred calls in the last week.”

“I knew the piece drew a lot of comments, but I didn’t know about the talk-show response.”

“We’re one of the largest radio stations in Los Angeles, Mister Dorsen. We reach a lot of people on the west coast, and also nearby states.”

Frank put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked toward the kitchen. “Liz, can you bring me a cup of coffee?”

“We’re still getting dozens of calls, and when ‘The One and Only Gospel’ began generating heat, several ministers called in disputing what you wrote. Then the Reverend Robert Seagram called and aired more unfavorable remarks about it.”

“Seagram,” Frank replied. “Isn’t he headquartered here in L.A. County, in that stainless steel building with stained glass windows? What’s it called?”

“That’s him, and it’s called The Temple of the Lord. He’s been here for twenty years and he’s growing everyday.”

“I can understand that,” Frank said. “He’s a smooth speaker.”

“Some say he’s the best,” James replied, “but the reason I called, Mister Dorsen, is to invite you to be on our program.”

Liz set Frank’s coffee on the table. “Who is it?” she whispered.

“We’d like you and Reverend Seagram to debate the theme of your article, and Reverend Seagram has already agreed.”

Frank turned away from the mouthpiece. “It’s KWIZ radio,” he said to Liz, “about ‘The One and Only Gospel’.”






















Liz sat down to listen.

“Would you be interested in doing that, Mister Dorsen?”

Frank’s heart quickened, but he answered calmly. “Yes. I believe I would, Mister James.”

“That’s great.” James paused. “I didn’t read your article because I wanted to hear it from you in the debate.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint you,” Frank replied. “When will this take place?”

“Reverend Seagram has previous engagements, and we can’t schedule it for a couple of months. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah, that’s okay,” Frank said.

“Great. I’ll call you back with the date and the particulars.”

“Good.”

“Talk to you later, Mister Dorsen.”

“Okay.”

As soon as Frank hung up he shouted, “Hallelujah!”

Then he grabbed Liz and they danced into the living room, joyfully falling on the sofa.

The next day the enormity of facing a minister of the stature of Reverend Seagram dawned on Frank. The thought of the debate began to weigh heavily on him.

“I hope I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew, Liz.”

Liz tried to encourage him. “Frank, I’ve heard you speak so many times, and I know you’ll be good at this.”

“Maybe, but I would be rusty.”

“For a few moments maybe, but it’ll all come back to you.”

“Well, it’s a great opportunity,” Frank said, “and that’s how I’m going to look at it.”

* * * *

September, Thursday night, 7:27 p.m., Los Angeles.

The sign over the studio door read, KWIZ, 1060 AM,
On The Air.

In the little studio, The Reverend Robert Seagram sat at a conference table facing the audience. Fifty-five and tall and solid, he had ruggedly handsome features. A broad smile adorned his face, and distinctive streaks of gray enhanced his thick black hair.

He looked majestic in his long, black clerical robe. Trimmed in scarlet, it was the same robe he wore on his nationally televised Sunday program. His Bible was spread open on the table and he had a notebook at hand. A pitcher of water and three glasses sat in the middle of the table.

Frank sat at the other end of the table. He had on a navy blue blazer with gray slacks, and a white dress shirt without a tie. At forty-two his blue eyes reflected an undiminished curiosity. His dark hair and high cheekbones accented his lean face. A legal pad and a pencil were at his fingertips. His tattered Bible lay on the table along with The Living Bible and some notes.

Ron James, the moderator, sat between the two debaters. Casually dressed, James was a tall muscular man of about thirty-five, with blond hair and an easy smile. He was a very popular radio talk-show host.

Crammed inside the studio, seventy people sat waiting, and others were standing.

Many complained that the debate should’ve been held in a large auditorium. Reverend Seagram had not appeared before such a small group in over two decades. When questioned why he would speak in this little arena, he replied.

“Because these spurious charges against the church must be publicly refuted.”

Seagram’s church had ten thousand members. Ron James had set a limit on Seagram’s flock, so that other people could attend. Twelve people from the huge church sat in the audience with Bibles on their laps. Several other people also had Bibles.

Liz and the boys sat in the front row, on the opposite side of Seagram’s people. A narrow aisle separated them from the group. David was twelve and Paul was ten.

Because of the Reverend Seagram’s prominence there were three reporters present. A cameraman had been assigned to film the debate.

Frank glanced at the clock and brushed over his hair with his hand. You’re going to be okay, he thought. Just take a deep breath.

Liz smiled at him and it calmed him down a bit. He briefly went over his notes again.

7:30 p.m.
Ron James gave his program introduction and then spoke of the debate. After that he turned to the participants.

“Gentlemen, you’re each allowed a five-minute opening statement, and by a flip of a coin you’re first, Reverend Seagram.” He chuckled. “I’m going to stay out of this unless you two get violent. You may proceed, Reverend Seagram.”

Glad that Seagram was first, Frank tried to settle his nerves. He was having a difficult time breathing. That’s all I need, he thought, trying to speak without any breath.

“Thank you, Mister James,” Seagram began, “and a thanks to KWIZ Radio. A warm hello to the people here, and to all of you who are listening.” He glanced past James at Frank, and then looked at the audience.

“Mister Dorsen, when you called Jesus Christ a communist, you offended me. I’m also dismayed by your claim that the Christian believer should be a poverty-stricken pauper.”

The reverend had been on national television for many years. He was at ease and spoke with clarity.

“And I’m sorry that your view of God is such a depressing one. But I’m happy to inform you that the God I’ve served for, lo, these thirty years, is a rich and generous God, a benevolent God who withholds nothing from those who believe. So, it isn’t surprising that many Christian believers are affluent, for God has no limit on his blessings.”

As Frank listened to Seagram his apprehension grew stronger. He’s even better than James said, he thought. He speaks so effortlessly.

“Mister Dorsen has trouble interpreting the scriptures,” Seagram continued, “which is understandable since he isn’t a Christian. And his view of Christianity is extremely narrow. He considers Mother Theresa, and others like her, as the only living Christians on Earth. By that extreme view he has slandered the good name of Christians everywhere. As for the charges he makes in his article I will take issue with all of them.” He nodded at Ron James.

James said, “You have more time, Reverend Seagram.”






















“Thank you, but that’s all I need.”

Most of the audience enthusiastically applauded.

Seagram glanced at Frank. I would think he’s quite nervous, he thought. I’m sure he doesn’t have much experience before the public.

James looked at Frank. “Now we will hear from Mister Dorsen who will be using both The King James and The Living Bible. Mister Dorsen doesn’t believe in Christianity, but for the sake of this debate he’s accepting the Fundamentalist’s idea of divine inspiration and literal interpretation of the Bible.”

James paused. “He does this to argue from the Bible that the Fundamentalists don’t obey what Jesus taught.” He looked at Frank. “Your turn, Mister Dorsen.”

Frank breathed deeply. “Thank you, Mister James, and welcome to all who are listening.” He looked at the audience and fought for breath. “It should come as no surprise that an institution two thousand years old should, ah . . . stray, from it’s original tenets . . . and it is common for an outsider . . . ah, to see this more clearly than those . . . who ah, who have a vested interest in the status quo.”

He glanced at his notes.

I’m glad I have plenty of notes. I’m already having trouble remembering.

“Is something wrong with Dad?” Paul whispered to David.

David frowned at Paul. “No, he’s okay.”

“I called Jesus a communist in the truest meaning of the word,” Frank continued, “and ah, not in the political sense. Jesus was a true communist because . . . because ah, obedience to his gospel leads to equality . . . equal personal poverty.”

Some people shook their heads, perplexed by Frank’s view of the gospel, but he tried to ignore them.

“And by using the commands of Jesus as guidelines for . . . for ah, identifying a Christian, we can see what Jesus meant by few there be that find it.”

Oh God, my voice is so weak, and I’m stammering.

He briefly paused and looked around the small audience. Inconspicuously taking another deep breath, he slowly let it out.

“There are plenty of good people in the church, as there are in . . . in lodges, social clubs, or cocktail lounges, but the question isn’t about goodness. The rich man in the gospels was a good man too, yet Jesus told him that he lacked something.”

Feeling Frank’s distress, Liz put her hand to her mouth. When the boys looked at her she smiled.

Dear God' she prayed, please help Frank relax!

The key is to relax, Frank thought. He slowed down, and tried to speak more deliberately.

“The question remains then, what is a Christian, or what was it that the rich man in the gospels lacked? When Jesus said to him, You lack only one thing it was clear that, ah . . . that whatever he lacked was the final building block in becoming a Christian.”

He paused and took a breath. “Jesus gave this man the hardest command of all and he couldn’t obey it, so what he lacked was obedience to Jesus.” He smiled at Seagram.

“Of course, most believers think they are obedient to Jesus, but all should consider a question Jesus asked. In the sixth chapter of Luke he said--So why do you call me Lord, when you won’t obey me?--Jesus wasn’t speaking to the Pharisees when he asked this.
No, he was speaking to his followers who claimed to love him, and this is something that should seriously concern all followers.”

“Listeners, yes,” Seagram interjected, “but not followers.”

“Please, Reverend Seagram,” James said, “let Mister Dorsen finish his statement.” He smiled at the reverend.

“Thank you, Mister James, but the reverend makes my point,” Frank said. “They were listeners, and not obedient followers. That’s why Jesus indicated that he wasn’t their Lord.” Frank was speaking better.

“You have time left, Mister Dorsen,” James said.

Frank glanced at his notes. “In the four gospels the Christian belief is so clearly taught by Jesus that it can only be misunderstood by those who are not fully devoted to Christ.”

He looked around the small audience, feeling freer. “The gospel of Jesus is not hard to understand, but it is very hard to do.” He paused. “The words of Jesus can be separated into three components—parables, plain statements, and clear commands. Only the parables need interpretation. The plain statements and clear commands need no clarification.”

Frank looked at Seagram. Pretend he doesn’t have any pants on, he thought, and he’s wearing pink shorts.

“No one sits in a car wondering what the green light means,” Frank went on, “and like the traffic signal STOP, the commands of Jesus need no explanation. When slapped on one cheek the command to turn the other is clear.” He turned to the audience.

“The commands of Jesus may not be practical, but understanding them is only a matter of honesty.” He paused. “So it is easy to recognize a Christian. Just check his obedience to the commands of Jesus.”

Frank glanced at Seagram and looked at the audience, then he held up his Bible. “And this is where I got my ‘extremely narrow’ view as Reverend Seagram called it. It came from the straight and narrow teachings of Jesus. And one more thing, reverend, you spoke of slander. Well, the church slanders unbelievers everyday by calling them sinners.”

He nodded at James and there was polite applause.

Frank believed that in a meaningful debate two people would try to get at the truth, and each would consider the opposing view, but he could see that wouldn’t be the case tonight.

James smiled at Seagram. “Let the debate begin, Reverend Seagram.”

The reverend glanced at Frank and looked at the audience. “Mister Dorsen, you speak of the commands of Jesus as something new, but they’re only an elaboration on the Ten Commandments.”

“Some are,” Frank agreed, “but many of Jesus' eighty-six commands have nothing to do with the Ten Commandments, and are far more difficult to obey.”

“Eighty-six commands?” Seagram looked directly at Frank. “I doubt that there are that many in the gospels.”

I wondered if he would say that, Frank thought. This might be a break.

“Jesus openly gave these commands,” Frank said, “and why doesn’t a prominent churchman like yourself know this?” He paused. “Your church publishes a monthly magazine and I think you sell it. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Seagram replied. “We have a minimal charge to cover our costs.”

“Well then, in the tenth chapter of Matthew, Jesus gave a command about those costs, and it has nothing to do with the Ten Commandments.” Frank paused. “Jesus said, freely ye have received, freely give. This is the ‘minimal charge’ that Jesus commanded—zero. Why do you disobey him by charging for your magazine, Reverend?”

Seagram was unperturbed. “One has to defray costs, Mister Dorsen, and I’m sure God understands that it’s a practical matter of any business.”






















“Business? An intriguing choice of words, Reverend Seagram, but if it were truly God’s business your costs would be covered without breaking his son’s commands.”

“A matter of judgment,” Seagram answered, “but it makes no matter.” A smile revealed deep-set creases in his handsome face. “For we are saved by God’s grace through faith and not by our own works.”

“Amen,” one of his followers agreed, then others chimed in.

“But Jesus spoke of active faith,” Frank countered, “not passive theory. In Mark two it says, When Jesus saw how strongly they believed. The gospel he taught was so powerful that it produced something that could be seen. It wasn’t a hidden intellectual acceptance as Billy Graham and others preach.”

“Nevertheless, man is a sinful creature, and God gave him salvation by grace.” Seagram paused. “One would have to be perfect to fully obey God.”

Oh boy! I can’t believe he said that.

“That’s an interesting statement, Reverend, since there’s one command Jesus gave that by its very nature includes all of the others.”

“And which one would that be?” Seagram asked.

“It’s found in the fifth chapter of Matthew.” Frank paused for emphasis. Jesus said, “But you are to be perfect.”

Seagram was unruffled. “You do have troubles with interpretation, Mister Dorsen, for in that passage the word perfect merely means complete.”

Frank smiled. “Jesus anticipated your attempt to avoid this command, Reverend Seagram, so he finished his sentence with—even as your father in heaven is perfect. I would say that’s pretty complete.”

Seagram smiled at Frank. “All Christians try to be perfect, but God’s grace is the means of salvation.” He turned to the scripture Frank mentioned.

“You’re adding to the words of Jesus, “Frank said. “He didn’t say try to be perfect, he said be perfect. This is the difference between the Christian and the unbeliever. Christians must be perfect. That’s why Jesus said, few there be that find salvation.”

James noted Seagram reading the scripture. “Do you have a comment, Reverend Seagram?”

“Yes I do, thank you.”

Seagram addressed the audience. “One has to be reasonable in his interpretation.” He used his hands to emphasize. “For we can all say whatever we . . .”

“Are you implying that Jesus commanded something that couldn’t be done?” I didn’t want to be hard with him, but he’s being dishonest.

Seagram ignored the question. “We can see the divisions caused by misuse of the Bible, such as this by Mister Dorsen who is not a Christian.”

“Amen,” someone said.

“Gentlemen,” James said, “we have to take a commercial break.” He looked at the audience. “But we’ll be right back with this interesting debate about the meaning of Christianity.”

During the interval an elderly man with hair as white as snow came in and stood in the rear. The cuffs on his old black suit were frayed and his shoes were well worn. His weather-beaten face was lined with hard times, but he had a peaceful aura. He held a Bible in his right hand and a copy of A Different View in his left hand.

“Okay folks we’ve paid the bills and we’re back,” Ron James exuberantly declared, “right here at KWIZ AM, ten-sixty on your dial. We’ve got a hot one goin’ for you, ‘What is true Christianity?’”

James asked Frank to continue his theme on perfection.

Frank smiled at Liz, then he looked at the audience, now free from the fear that had bound him. “Mister James,” he said, “would you please read two passages from James in the New Testament. Frank pointed to the two passages.

“Sure thing,” James replied.

“This is in the second chapter of James, Reverend,” Frank said.

Ron James began to read: “James 2:10, For whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one point, he is guilty of all.” Then he read the second passage. “James 3:2, If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the whole body.”

"I see what you’re getting at Mister Dorsen. At least one of Jesus’ disciples also believed in perfection, and I think that they all did.”

“Yes,” Frank said, “because that’s what Jesus taught.”

Reverend Seagram was still studying the scriptures in James.

“Since Jesus demands perfection,” Frank said, “if only one command can be found that a believer doesn’t obey, then he’s not a Christian. And Jesus told the rich man you can get to heaven if you keep the commandments, so obviously you can’t get there if you don’t obey them.” He paused, and then continued.

“You lack only one thing, Jesus said to the rich man, but that was still too much because perfection lacks nothing. In Matthew nineteen, Jesus went on to say--If you want to be perfect--and then he gave the rich man the command that would make him perfect, but the Bible says that the rich man went away.”

Ron James perked up. “And what was that command?”

“It was the hardest command of all,” Frank replied, “awesome in its severity.”

James leaned forward. “Yeah?”

“It was the one command that instantly identifies the misinformed, for others would know that they had not obeyed this command.”

“What was it?” James asked.

“And once you know of this command,” Frank said, “you will never forget it.”

James was fit to be tied. “What was it, Mister Dorsen, please.”

There was not a sound from the audience, for they too were leaning forward.

Frank spoke very deliberately. “That command was—sell everything you have and give the money to the poor.”

At first there was dead silence, then there were sudden gasps and shaking of heads.

“No one can do that!” someone yelled.

James was astounded. “No wonder he went away.”

Seagram was negatively shaking his head. “That’s a very extreme view, Mister Dorsen, and one that only an unbeliever could come up with.”

“Yes, it is!” another yelled.

“I wasn’t an unbeliever when I learned this, and it’s not my view. It’s straight from the mouth of Jesus Christ.” Frank paused. “And I doubt that you, or any of your congregation, have ever obeyed this command.”

“Jesus hadn’t died on the cross at that point,” Seagram said, “and the Law of Moses was still in effect.”























Frank loosened his tie. “Are you implying that the words of Jesus were invalid because of the time of day?” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Of course not, but Jesus only gave this command to the rich man, so it doesn’t affect other believers.”

That’s it, Frank thought. He’ll never get his foot out of his mouth now.

“But this command wasn’t just to the rich man. It was to all of the . . .”

“But it was only to him, Mister Dorsen.” Seagram smoothed the breast of his robe with his hand. “Scholars have agreed for centuries that the command to give all to the poor was because the man was rich and . . .”

“And scholars have been wrong for centuries,” Frank interjected.

Most in the audience were amazed by Frank’s quick reply.

“When Jesus told the rich man to give all,” Seagram said, “it touched him where it hurt the most. Surely you understand this.”

Ron James looked at Frank, breathlessly expecting a rebuttal.

Frank didn’t disappoint him. “But Jesus gave this same command to everyone who followed him.” He opened his Bible to a prepared place and placed it in front of James. “Mister James, would you please read the phrase in each of these two scriptures that indicates who Jesus is talking to in this chapter?”

Frank pointed to the two passages.

“Sure thing,” James replied and cleared his throat.

“This is in the twelfth chapter of Luke, Reverend,” Frank said.

James waited for Seagram to find the chapter, then he said, “The first scripture is verse twenty-two, and it says, Then turning to his disciples he said.”

James paused. “The other scripture is farther down, verse thirty-two, and it states, So don’t be afraid, little flock.”

Seagram was reading the verses and James started to return Frank’s Bible.

“Please keep it for a moment,” Frank said, looking at James. “So can we safely say that Jesus was speaking to more than one person here, and that the group he was speaking to consisted of his disciples who were a little flock?”

James glanced at the twelfth chapter of Luke again. “Yes, that’s right, Mister Dorsen. It’s clear that Jesus is speaking to all of the disciples there.”

Seagram was studying the chapter.

Frank looked at him and said, “Do you see a rich man in the crowd there, Reverend Seagram?”

Seagram hesitated. “Well . . . ah, I’m not sure.”

Frank kept looking at Seagram. “But even if the rich man was there it would make no difference, for Jesus was speaking to all who were standing there.”

He looked at James. “Maybe you’re not sure, Reverend, but I think Mister James is. Do you see a rich man there, Mister James?

James had been scanning the chapter. “No,” James answered. “There’s no mention of the rich man in any of the passages from twenty-two through thirty-two.”

“Now, would you please read the command given to this little flock of followers who wanted to be Christians,” Frank said. “It’s found in the very next verse, verse thirty-three.”

James read loud and clear. “It says, Sell what you have and give to those in need.”

He glanced at Frank and scanned the chapter again, marveling at this unique teaching.

The audience had become very quiet, and Seagram continued scrutinizing the chapter.

Frank looked at the audience. “Jesus didn’t tell the rich man to sell all because he was rich, for this command is to everyone. And it is this one command that swiftly detects the misinformed” he firmly explained. “For it is so astounding that if it was obeyed by anyone, everyone in the area would know.”

Ron James laughed. “It would be hard to pretend that you had obeyed this command.”

He looked at Seagram for a reply, but he was still studying the chapter.

Probably looking for a way out, James thought.

Frank smiled and went on. “Some of you may have guessed why the rich man went away, why he was no longer with the crowd of pretenders who had not sold all.” He paused. “The rich man was honest. He understood Jesus all too well, but he couldn’t obey him. And knowing that he hadn’t obeyed Jesus he couldn’t hang around. So he did the only thing an honest man could do. He went away.”

Frank paused for effect. “The rich man didn’t continue following Jesus as millions do, carrying the Bible and passing out tracts. The rich man didn’t call other people sinners and crusade around the world, preaching in the name of a Savior that he knew not. This man was too honest to be an impostor, so he went away. He had painfully learned exactly what Jesus meant in Luke fourteen thirty-three--whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple.”

“Wow,” James exclaimed. “That statement is an amazing confirmation of what we have just learned.”

Seagram closed his Bible.

“An extreme message, a radical message?” Frank said. “Of course it is, but that’s what Jesus was. He was an extremist, a radical. This extraordinary man, this charismatic teacher, this man who commanded his followers—If you have two coats, give one to the poor—was simply the greatest communist who ever lived.”

There were appreciative murmurs and applause from the audience. But when they later understood what they had learned, their reaction was not appreciation but dismay. ‘Sell all and give to the poor?’

The white-haired elderly man in the rear raised his hand.

Ron James acknowledged the man. “Yes, would you like to ask a question, sir?”

The audience turned to see the old man. James’ assistant held a mike for him.

“Thank you,” the old man said. “I’m a Christian minister, and I’ve read Mister Dorsen’s article.” He briefly held up the magazine.

“And I’ve stood here and marveled at words that I’ve never heard so clearly expounded, though I can’t understand how such an honest man isn’t a Christian.” He opened his Bible to read.

“I understand now what Peter meant in Acts three when the beggar asked him for money. Silver and gold have I none, Peter said. It must be that Peter had obeyed Jesus by selling all, and he didn’t have a dime left to give. And now I understand what was going on in Acts four thirty-four, where it says”—he looked down at his Bible—”as many as were possessors of lands or houses sold them, and brought the prices of the things that were sold.”






















The old man paused. “It’s so clear now,” he said. “They were obeying the command of Jesus.” He looked at Frank. “And I know what Mister Dorsen means by communist because they all lived in a commune as the family of God.” He held up his Bible again.

“Acts four thirty-two, They had all things common it says. Common--commune--communist--community of God! I didn’t realize I lacked so much, but I thank Mister Dorsen for bringing it to my attention, and I’m praying for you, Mister Dorsen. Thank you.”

He sat down amidst a smattering of applause.

Frank was deeply moved, but it wasn’t this kind of gentle man that he wanted to expose.

“And now, gentlemen,” James said, “it's time for your closing statements.” He looked at Frank. “Mister Dorsen.”

“Thank you,” Frank replied. He glanced at his notes and looked at the audience.

“A long time ago the church faced a big problem. The gospel of Jesus was much too simple to become another growth industry. The problem was—the gospel didn’t generate money. It gave money away. So when commercial Christianity stood at the fork in the road it chose the wide gate, ‘The Gospel According to Paul’.”

He paused. “Then, in order to ensure the growth of a prosperous new institution, the need arose to confuse Christ’s catechism. And today the Christ Conspiracy continues—the deliberate avoidance of the teachings of Jesus and the presenting of the doctrines of Paul as a substitute. Thus, what started as a simple surety in a Savior was transformed into an immensely profitable business.”

He paused. “And the irony of it all? The one thing in all the world that doesn’t turn on the golden wheel of commerce, is the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

“And one last point,” Frank said, “in John fourteen Jesus said, anyone believing in me shall do the same miracles I have done, and even greater ones.” He looked at the reverend.

“Reverend Seagram, how many wedding parties are thankful for your miraculous supply of their wine? And how many joyous lepers have known your healing touch? And do you have a resurrected Lazarus—alive and well—hiding in your closet?”

Los Angeles Times . . . Saturday, July 21, 1973 . . . . C1
DAVID BEATS GOLIATH
Obscure writer takes on Reverend Robert Seagram. Uncovers centuries-old Church paradigm. Religion News Press


EIGHTY-SIX COMMANDS of JESUS of NAZARETH
New International Version Bible

Matthew 5 . . . . . 12 Commands
16 Let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds . . .
24 First go and be reconciled to your brother; then come and offer your gift.
25 Settle matters quickly with your adversary who is taking you to court.
29 If your right eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away.
30 And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away
34 But I tell you, Do not swear at all (oath) . . .
39 Do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.
40 If someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well.
41 If someone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles.
42 Give to who asks you, do not turn away from the who wants to borrow from you.
44 Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.
48 Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.

Matthew 6 . . . . . 7 Commands
1 Be careful not to do your ‘acts of righteousness’ before men, to be seen by them.
3 When you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.
6 When you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen.
9 This, then, is how you should pray: Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name . .
16-17 When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do . . .
19-20 Do not store up for yourselves treasures on Earth . . . But store . . . treasures in heaven . .
25 Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life.

Matthew 7 . . . . . 3 Commands
1 Do not judge, or you too will be judged.
6 Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs.
13 Enter through the narrow gate.

Matthew 18 . . . . . 4 Commands
15 If your brother sins against you, show him his fault, just between the two of you.
16 But if he will not listen, take one or two others along, so that every matter may be established by the testimony of two or three witnesses.
17 If he refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church; and if he refuses to listen even to the church, treat him as you would a pagan or a tax collector.
22 I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times. (To forgive)

Matthew 19 . . . . . 3 Commands
18 Do not murder, do not commit adultery, do not steal, do not give false testimony.
19 Honor your father and mother, and love your neighbor as yourself.
21 Sell your possessions and give to the poor . . . Then come, follow me.

Matthew 23 . . . . . 4 Commands
8 You are not to be called Rabbi, for you have only one Master and you are all brothers.
9 And do not call anyone on earth father, for you have one Father . . .
10 Nor are you to be called teacher, for you have one Teacher, the Christ.
11 The greatest among you will be your servant.

Matthew 28 . . . . . 2 Commands
19-20 Make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, and (teach) them to obey everything I have commanded you.

------------------------------------------------------------

Mark 1 . . . . . 2 Commands
14 Repent and believe the good news!
17 Come, follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.

Mark 9 . . . . . 3 Commands
43-47 If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off . . . If your foot causes you to sin, cut it off . . . If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.

Mark 11 . . . . . 1 Command
25 And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive him, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins.

Mark 13 . . . . . 7 Commands
5 Watch out that no one deceives you.
9 Whenever you are arrested and brought to trial, do not worry beforehand about what to say. Just say whatever is given you at the time, for it is not you speaking, . .
23 So be on your guard; I have told you everything ahead of time.
33 Be on guard! Be alert.
35 Therefore keep watch . . you do not know when the owner of the house will come back . . .
36 If he comes suddenly, do not let him find you sleeping.
37 What I say to you, I say to everyone: 'Watch!'

Mark 14 . . . . . 1 Command
38 Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.

Mark 16 . . . . . 1 Command
15 Go into all the world and preach the good news to all creation.

------------------------------------------------------------

Luke 6 . . . . . 13 Commands
27-31 Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, 28 bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. 29 If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other also. If someone takes your cloak, do not stop him from taking your tunic.
30 Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. 31 Do to others as you would have them do to you.
37-38 Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. 38 Give, and it will be given to you.






















Luke 12 . . . . . 7 Commands
11 When you are brought before synagogues, rulers and authorities, do not worry about how you will defend yourselves or what you will say, . . .
22 I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear.
29 And do not set your heart on what you will eat or drink; do not worry about it.
31 But seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well.
32 Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.
33 Sell your possessions and give to the poor.
35 Be dressed ready for service and keep your lamps burning, . . .

Luke 14 . . . . . 4 Commands
8 When someone invites you to a wedding feast, do not take the place of honor,
10 But when you are invited, take the lowest place, . . .
12 When you give a luncheon or dinner, do not invite your friends, your brothers or relatives, or your rich neighbors; . . .
13 But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, . . .

Luke 17 . . . . . 2 Commands
3-4 If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him. 4 If he sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times comes back to you and says, 'I repent,' forgive him.

Luke 18 . . . . . 2 Commands
22 Sell everything you have and give to the poor, . . . Then come, follow me.

Luke 20 . . . . . 2 Commands
25 Then give to Caesar what is Caesar's, and to God what is God's.
45 Beware of the teachers of the law.

Luke 21 . . . . . 4 Commands
8 Watch out that you are not deceived. For many will come in my name, claiming, 'I am he,' . . . Do not follow them.
9 When you hear of wars and revolutions, do not be frightened.
14 But make up your mind not to worry beforehand how you will defend yourselves.
34 Be careful, or your hearts will be weighed down with dissipation, drunkenness and the anxieties of life, . . .

------------------------------------------------------------

John 14 . . . . . 1 Command
1 Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me.

leeherald@comcast.net


I remain in good health.

From a Physical Exam in 2005 by Dr. Jeffrey A. Moody, “. . . exam is remarkable for a normal male . . . . with no palpable abnormalities”.

Except for the above exam, I haven’t seen a doctor in 25 years—since February 1984.

For 20 years I have lived without health insurance—since January 1990 when I left the U. S. Postal Service.

What Dr. Moody didn’t know—I am not a “normal male”.

When I feel a new pain, I do not immediately see a doctor. I first pray for healing; then I let it rest.

If it persists, I pray again. If the pain remains, but is not significant, I drop the issue.

However, if I need to go to a doctor, I will definitely go.

My photo is from 2002.

This is my bio from High Plains News – Colorado Springs, April 2009

WELCOME Lee Herald

Lee has been a Friend at High Plains Church (Unitarian Universalist) for some time and attends regularly. He is retired, and formerly worked for Standard Tube Co in Detroit MI for 11 years and also General Motors for many years.

He grew up in Flint MI, served in the Air Force, and attended the UU church in Flint when his sons joined the military in the 1980s.

He moved to Colorado Springs from the Phoenix area in 2000, as his two single sons (Jonathan and Randal) relocated here, and he wanted to be close to them.

Lee writes music, sings, and plays guitar; loves to dance; has written three unpublished novels and his autobiography (My Ride to Infinity); and develops and uses personal computing skills.

Ask to listen to a copy of Lee’s CD, Blue Country Soul.
leeherald@comcast.net

You are also invited to visit his website.

Copy this URL http://beautifulwomenand.blogspot.com

Copyright 2008 Lee Herald


NOVELS BY LEE HERALD

PRELUDE TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD . . . Thriller
After the end of the cold war many world leaders thought the possibility of nuclear war was over, but the danger became even more ominous when a brilliant Stanford University mathematician dismissed mere possibility.
PROFESSOR HELLMAN spoke of something far more serious—probability. He shocked the world with the headline conclusion of his theory—NUCLEAR WAR IS INEVITABLE.
But BURT STEPHENS, an investigative reporter, discovered the only way to prevent nuclear holocaust. Yet his astonishing solution would be so difficult to apply that the world might not beat the “Apocalyptic Deadline.”

THE GRANDMOTHER OF WAR . . . Mainstream
At the lowest point of FRANK DORSEN’s life it seemed unlikely that he would become the center of the most explosive controversy ever to shake the world, but the unpredictable hand of fate creates life’s surprising events and selects its improbable players.
Frank was distraught by his recent divorce and sought comfort in reading the Bible. He had tried everything he could to mend his broken heart. Now he would try religion.
At the age of twenty-three he was converted into the Pentecostal Church, starting down a path of “prophecies and miracles,” but the day would come when his faith would be tested to its limits.
Later disillusioned, he writes a novel that unveils the dark side of Jehovah, the biblical God. Because of this a fanatical assassin begins stalking him and the story turns into a thriller.
After a shot from a passing car narrowly misses Frank, his new wife begs him to go into hiding, but he continues his crusade.

WHY DOES THE LION ROAR? . . . Mainstream
DAVID MALCOM’s breakup with his wife had been painful, so he would have been astonished to know that their divorce had started a movement to save an innocent man from the gas chamber.
In the loneliness of single life David was fighting depression. He began to have prophetic dreams, which caused him to wonder how the future could be foretold. It seemed that there was only one way that could be possible. The future would have to be already decided, he thought, and that would threaten free will.

CRIMINALS COULD SOON PLEAD ‘MY GENES MADE ME DO IT,’ The Gazette (Colorado Springs) Thursday, July 24, 1997 (from the Toledo Blade, Bar Harbor, Maine)

Today’s astonishing genetic discoveries have revived an age-old mystery: Is man free, or is his life determined by fate? WHY DOES THE LION ROAR offers an answer to this fascinating question.


“YOU'RE EXACTLY RIGHT!”
This self-exalting statement is spoken daily by political analysts to one another.





















LEE HERALD -- A Brief Autobiography

I was born in Malden, Missouri and raised in Flint, Michigan. A wanderer from my youth, I have lived in a dozen towns—-Flint, Malden, Columbus, Ohio; Pasadena and Pico Rivera, California; St. Louis, New Orleans, Detroit, Phoenix, Tempe and Mesa, Arizona; and Colorado Springs.

My interests are many and varied. They encompass metaphysics, religion, parapsychology, science, quantum mechanics, dream interpretation, lucid dreaming, music, dancing, singing—and women.

At sixteen, I spent some time in the Merchant Marines working as a deckhand, sailing across the Atlantic from Norfolk, Virginia, to Rouen, France.

I was the youngest seaman on the ship.

Counting the alcoholic captain, there were only thirty-six men on-board.

In the gunner's quarters a Polish stowaway had been tied to a bunk. He had sneaked onboard in Europe, and it was the duty of the captain to return a stowaway.

After the ship left the harbor, about two miles out, the Polish refugee broke loose and jumped into the ocean to swim back to America. The captain radioed the coast guard and the stowaway was brought back.

When the captain had him chained to a bulkhead on deck, the man was only wearing tattered shorts. Left outside for three days in the cold October winds, no one was allowed to give him food or water.

He had paid a heavy price for his desperate try for freedom, but he taught me how important freedom was.

After that, I went to New Orleans to catch another ship. Arriving broke, I slept on park benches and in the mess halls of docked ships.

When I was mugged in the bus station in Philadelphia, my nautical journey ended. I called my parents for bus ticket money and went home.

At eighteen, and now a landsman, I left Michigan with two buddies and headed northwest.

We were going to make our fortune in the goldfields of Alaska, but our broken-down jalopy coughed and died in Bismarck, North Dakota. Then we rode a Greyhound back home.

At twenty, my journey took me into the U.S. Air Force for four years.
I later attended Mott Community College in Flint.

After experiencing a renaissance in my mid-twenties, I became an insatiable searcher of truth. For ten years, I was a Pentecostal preacher, speaking in tongues, playing the guitar, and singing gospel music.

When my nomadic journey led me away from Fundamentalism, I started singing in the taverns of Flint.

I am an unpublished novelist and have completed three novels: Prelude To A Mushroom Cloud, The Grandmother of War, and Why Does The Lion Roar?

I have had three different agents, but none could persuade a publisher to read a manuscript.

Bold Scientists Say: PROOF Soul Exists—December 17, 2001
By Cathryn Conroy, CompuServe News Editor

The Lancelet is one of the world’s most respected medical journals. So when it published an article in its current edition in which scientists claim to have PROOF that humans have a soul that exists independently of the body that it inhabits, folks are sitting up and taking notice.

A team of research doctors from Holland conducted the largest near-death experience survey ever—a two-year study of 344 heart attack survivors.

Results: Eighteen percent, or 62 out of the 344, experienced “emotions, visions, or lucid thoughts” while they were considered clinically dead. Some of them reported out-of-body experiences as well.

“Our results show that medical factors cannot account for occurrence of near-death experiences,” Dr. Pim van Lommel wrote in The Lancelet.

Clinical conclusion: The mind—and more specifically, the soul—can survive death.

Previously, scientists have credited these out-of-body experiences to a lack of oxygen in dying brain cells or psychological factors, such as the fear of death. But Dutch researchers noted that if this were true, then ALL patients would experience it.

They don’t. “We did not show that psychological, neurophysiological, or physiological factors caused these experiences after cardiac arrest” the Dutch researchers wrote.

All of which, just creates more questions. Does this mean the mind and the brain can function independently of one another?

Does this mean that we do have a spiritual component that outlasts our mortal experience?

Does this mean the universe is meaningful and not random?

What do YOU think? Is this proof of the human soul? Sound off in the Science/Math Forum.


OUR LAST CHANCE --- Copyright 2001 Lee Herald

We are deceptively lulled, by less important matters, into ignoring the whispering winds of war. It is a whirring whisper that will grow and grow, burning beyond belief, into a roaring, white-hot, thermonuclear inferno.

A raging fire of ten thousand hells, it will be the last war, the holocaust that will never be seen on television, a war so dreadful that survival will be worse than death.


















IF THE HIGHWAY OF HISTORY REVEALS NOTHING ELSE it does display an invariant vein of violence—the rich against the poor, the strong versus the weak, war after war. Throughout human existence man has waged a perennial power play to be king of the hill.

Today, Apocalypse is at our door and knocking loudly. Planet Earth is hurtling toward nuclear destruction.

Why have we never had lasting peace? Many of the ruling men have been warriors, barely out of the cave, and the warlike cannot sustain peace. It is against their hostile nature. Peace would put them out of the ruling business and self-preservation is the first principle of evolution. World peace has failed because of the aggressive nature of many world leaders. Expecting them to make peace is like expecting wolves to protect sheep. The cause of the cancer cannot cure it.

We need more women in government; we need the tender, feminine touch. Yet being female does not automatically qualify a woman as empathetic, and it would be of no value to replace a macho-man with a macho-woman.

OUR SURVIVAL IS NOT A TECHNOLOGICAL PROBLEM. It is a spiritual problem, a problem of values. What do we place a greater value on, people or possessions, life or things?

Our hope does not reside in an unfeeling technology, but in the changing of man’s nature. This transformation is neither a swift operation nor a symptomatic face-lift. It is a structural process—slow and painful—a growing experience that engages three components: suffering, earnest reflection, and time. The unreflective soul experiences very little change and remains the same throughout his life.

People do not change for others. They change for themselves, and they do not change until the pain of continuing their behavior outweighs the pleasure of continuing it. Attitude is the key. Slogans are nothing. Attitude is everything because correct thinking causes correct action.

Our salvation lies in the speed of the adaptability of our species. Do peaceful people—evolution’s marvelous pioneers—live in sufficient numbers now? Will they be in positions of power when needed?

WE LIVE IN THE DAY OF THE SHRINKING GLOBE. For the first time in history what affects one affects all. Because of an ever-globalizing world there is no longer a place called “over there.” Due to instant communication and jet transportation the Earth is now one global megalopolis spinning in space. For better or worse everyone is a neighbor.

THEREFORE, NATIONALISM IS OBSOLETE.
Much to the dismay of ambitious world chiefs we now need only one “governor”. There isn’t room for two radically opposed ideologies—democracy and autocracy. Both cannot remain on a planet that is rapidly becoming a single community. Nationalism must cease to be or the human race will cease to be.

We must have one governing body. It is the process of evolution. We will be one world government, a single planetary parliament, or we will become extinct. Never mind now the enormous difficulty of such a task. First see this as the only hope, and then seek answers.

We must mature to unity. Since we are unable to prevent individual rulers from starting wars, we must remove the reason for war. If there is no territory to fight over, there will be no wars.

FREEDOM OF RELIGION must be in the same manner as freedom of speech. We cannot tolerate ignorant incendiaries in either case. No one is free to yell “fire” in a crowded theater, and no bigoted religionist is free to light a match on a powder keg Earth. This planet must not allow inciting to kill in the name of a ruthless, local god.

Strait-laced sectarians have juggled their mental toys for centuries, and have miserably failed to solve social issues. They have had their day. Now they stand in the way, impotently issuing pallid proclamations to bring about peace, thinking that prayer alone will suffice to solve human problems.

We cannot continue to let the appearance of peace pass for peace. Church steeples, synagogues, mosques, turned collars, and friendly smiles can be treacherously deceptive, as students of Fundamental religion’s bloody history know. Those who would be diplomatic concerning this fact fail to realize how late the hour is. Fanatical religions that inspire war are obscene. It is far past time for the world to expose evil, intellectual baubles.

We must now be pragmatic. The health of the earth demands it. Whatever separates caring human beings from one another is evil. No matter how supposedly sacred the creed, whatever divides mankind from communal caring is evil. If a thing works and produces good, then we must make use of it. If it does not sustain well-being, and instead incites division, we must completely expose it before it destroys our fragile world.

PEOPLE IN THE MEDIA have an obligation, and the self-preservation instinct of the human species has cleverly utilized at least one evolutionary survival tactic. It has maneuvered some of the media into the hands of creative and sensitive persons.

Responsible communicators have a duty to single out and identify the divisive sects and forces of the world. We must condemn dogmatism and intolerance. We are obligated to expose religious zealots for what they are and to clearly reveal the disunity they inspire. Let us look, see, and scrutinize everything, without exception.





There are many ancient institutions, long-standing traditions, cherished religious creeds, and impractical doctrines that have seldom been questioned. Let us boldly question their value now. Let everyone examine them. Turn them over. Think about them. How did we become what we are? How did we come to our beliefs? Can we trust them? Did we diligently search them out with all of the resources available, or were we born into their culture?

Most people have adopted the religion of the society in which they were raised.

Are lifeless creeds worth the death of our children, or their survival on a planet saturated with deadly radiation? Are superstitions worth the searing of their eyeballs, the mutilation of their arms, the crushing of their legs? When all of their hair falls out and puss-filled sores cover their wretched little bodies will it matter then whether we are conservative or liberal? Will it matter then whether we are Protestant or Catholic, Jewish or Moslem, Hindu or Sikh, theist or atheist? Are the coldhearted dogmas of division worth the destruction of all we hold dear?

MILLIONS OF LIVES ARE DISRUPTED DAILY by the ongoing struggle between freedom and slavery. Yet only a comparative handful causes this constant harassment of happiness. Who are the people that make up the “handful”? They are the insensitive politicians, the plundering industrialists, the fanatical religious leaders, and the dictators of the world. This destructive minority, perhaps less than twenty thousand, is the source of the suffering of the distressed majority.

It is unjust indeed that less than one-tenth of one percent of the Earth’s inhabitants should decide the fate of the rest.

THE CHOICES ARE NOW CLEAR. It is time to choose--nationalism and annihilation--nor world commonwealth and life.

Margaret Mead said, “We need to devise a system within which peace will be more rewarding than war.”

THIS IS THE SYSTEM--ONE WORLD GOVERNMENT.

The secret of the bomb should be committed to a world government . . . . . Do I fear the tyranny of a world government? Of course I do.
But I fear still more the coming of another war or wars. Any government is certain to be evil to some extent.
But a world government is preferable to the far greater evil of wars. --ALBERT EINSTEIN. THE GREAT QUOTATIONS, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by POCKET BOOKS, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.


HOLOCAUST HEADLINES

The following alarming headlines are but a few culled from years past.

The Arizona Republic . . . . . . . Thursday, May 26, 1994
RUSSIAN MOB MAY SOON BE ATOMIC PERIL, FBI WARNS
By Steve Goldstein, Knight-Ridder Tribune

Parade Magazine . . . . . . . . . Sunday, November 2, 1997
Parade’s Special INTELLIGENCE REPORT
NUCLEAR TERRORISM HIGH ON WORRY LIST,
By Jane Ciabattari

Saturday, May 2, 1998 . . . . . . . . . . . The Denver Post
CHINESE MISSILES TARGETED AT U.S., CIA REPORTS
By John Diamond, The Associated Press.

The Gazette . . . . . . . . .Saturday, August 1, 1998
NUCLEAR MISTAKE POSSIBLE IN INDIA, PAKISTAN CONFLICT . . The Associated Press

The Arizona Republic . . . .Friday, September 10, 1999
U.S. FEARS OF MISSILE STRIKE RISE,
Report names China, Russia and North Korea,
Republic News Services

The New York Times . . . . . . Thursday, June 20, 2002
INDIA-PAKISTANI TENSIONS SUBSIDE, BUT NUCLEAR FEAR IS FAR FROM OVER,
By Celia W. Dugger

CAPE TIMES . . . . . . . . . . . September 8, 2002
'NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST' WAS PLANNED FOR SEPT 11

October 13, 2002, Sunday . . . . . . . . . . The New York Times
THE WORLD: AT THE BRINK, THEN AND NOW;
The Missiles of 1962 Haunt the Iraq Debate, By Todd S. Purdum,
Week in Review Desk

January 4, 2006, Wednesday. . . . . . . . . . . The New York Times
IRAN TO RESUME ITS NUCLEAR WORK; U.S.
Warns of Seeking Restraints By Elaine Sciolino, Foreign Desk

February 5, 2006, Sunday . . . . . . . . . . . The New York Times
IRAN'S NUCLEAR CHALLENGE: THE WEST; Germany's Chancellor Emphasizes Urgent Need for Action to Quash Nuclear Program in Iran
By Judy Dempsey (International Herald Tribune); Foreign Desk

The discovery of nuclear chain reactions need not bring about the destruction of mankind . . . a supranational organization, equipped with a sufficiently strong executive power, can protect us.
Once we have understood that, we shall find the strength for the sacrifices necessary to ensure the future of mankind. ---ALBERT EINSTEIN. THE GREAT QUOTATIONS, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by POCKET BOOKS, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.


Knowledge of how to build nuclear weapons makes disarmament relatively useless . . . . . . The real question is not whether nuclear weapons have
postponed World War Three;
the real question is whether they have eliminated its possibility forever.
---MARTIN HELLMAN


CNN . . . . . . . . . . . . Sunday, February 19, 2006
STUDY: BRAIN FINDS A WAY TO DENY NEGATIVE FACTS

PRELUDE TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD -- Thriller
After the end of the cold war, many world leaders thought the possibility of nuclear war was over. But the danger became even more ominous when a brilliant mathematician dismissed mere possibility.

PROFESSOR HELLMAN spoke of something far more serious—probability. He shocked the world with the headline conclusion of his theory—NUCLEAR WAR IS INEVITABLE.

But BURT STEPHENS, an investigative reporter, discovered the only way to prevent nuclear holocaust. Yet his astonishing solution would be so difficult to apply, that the world might not beat the apocalyptic deadline.

MEN'S HEALTH!





















THE GRANDMOTHER OF WAR - - Mainstream

At the lowest point of FRANK DORSEN’s life it seemed unlikely that he would become the center of the most explosive controversy ever to shake the world, but the unpredictable hand of fate creates life’s surprising events and selects its improbable players.

Frank was distraught by his recent divorce and sought comfort in reading the Bible. He had tried everything he could to mend his broken heart. Now he would try religion.

At the age of twenty-three he was converted into the Pentecostal Church, starting down a path of “prophecies and miracles,” but the day would come when his faith would be tested to its limits.

Later disillusioned, he writes a novel that unveils the dark side of Jehovah, the biblical God. Because of this a fanatical assassin begins stalking him and the story turns into a thriller.

After a shot from a passing car narrowly misses Frank, his new wife begs him to go into hiding, but he continues his crusade.

















WHY DOES THE LION ROAR? - - Mainstream
DAVID MALCOM’s breakup with his wife had been painful, and he would’ve been astonished to know that their divorce would forever be a link in evolution’s chain of causes, and that the effect thereof would be a valiant struggle to save an innocent man from the gas chamber.

In the loneliness of single life, David was fighting depression. He began to have precognitive dreams, which caused him to wonder how the future could be foretold. It seemed that there was only one way that could be possible.

The future would have to be already decided, he mused, and that would threaten free will. A captivating news headline seemed to support his thought.

CRIMINALS COULD SOON PLEAD ‘MY GENES MADE ME DO IT,’ The Gazette (Colorado Springs) Thursday, July 24, 1997 (from the Toledo Blade, Bar Harbor, Maine)

Today’s astonishing genetic discoveries have revived an age-old mystery: Is man free, or is his life determined by fate?

Why Does The Lion Roar offers an answer to this fascinating question.


















Psychic experiences have been in my life since I was nine years old, including prophetic dreams. Because these intriguing occurrences continue, I keep a record of them.

















For a more inclusive biography see
MY RIDE TO INFINITY On The Spaceship Earth


FEAR OF DEATH?
If we have a massive stroke, or linger on with a painful disease, it is understandable to dread that.

However, that is not fear of death, it is fear of the kind of death.

There is no reason to fear death itself.

Death is a can’t lose situation.

If there is no life after this, we won’t know the difference.

If there is another life we will greatly rejoice, for the theme of this life is making things better, so a second life would be a marvelous advance.





LIFE AFTER DEATH?

If there is no life after death, God would be the only universal permanence.

That would be a desolate existence, for God would have no connection with similar beings.

I have secondhand proof of life after death.

As my mother was dying, my cousin heard Mom talking with loved ones who had gone on before.

There is something more extraordinary.

I have firsthand proof of life after death, experiential evidence of a spirit world.

A spirit visited my bedroom at 3:00 a.m., Sunday, November 30, 1980.

I awoke from a bad dream, yelling, “DAD!”

I seldom have a bad dream, and my father was deceased.

I looked at the red numbers on my digital alarm clock.

Then I saw a transparent figure standing by the side of my bed.





















The milk-white specter was about two and a half feet away. He—or She—was tall and slender and had no discernible features.

With outstretched open arms, the spirit peacefully reassured me.

After that, the ghostly figure rose to the ceiling, and glided through the wall.

This was about 60 seconds.

I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to weigh the breathtaking visitation.

“What is this about, God?” I prayed. “Where are you going in my life?”

At the time, I didn’t consider the implications of this visit. The implication now?

Since I saw a spirit, there must be a spirit world.






















WORLD IN A HURRY

The Western World’s obsession with hurry is a problem that harms everyone--children and adults. Like a child’s balloon swiftly losing air, many Westerners dart here and there.
Usually controlled by hurry, they are constantly rushing somewhere.

Some insist on an endless bustle of action, demanding constant noise. Their televisions are always on; their stereos blast out the neighbors; their car stereos blast out the neighborhood.

Unable to stand still, they must do something even if it is the wrong thing.
America is a land of turbulence and that turmoil has been given a name—-The Rat Race.






A news article stated doctors “have limited time to spend with patients”, but these constraints are self-inflicted. In their hurry to become rich, some schedule too many patients.

When insensitive physicians degenerated to an assembly line speed, the patient became a dollar sign.

Many doctors hurry from cubicle to cubicle where anxious patients wait, stripped to the waist. Because of these doctors haste and superior attitude, questions are indifferently answered, upsetting the patient, which is harmful to the patient’s health.

Somewhere in the distant past, a thoughtless executive set the first arbitrary deadline. Now the Deadline God rules many aspects of America, from birth to the gaping grave.

Time for thoroughness is usually available, but deluded by this bogus god, the Western World will not take the time.
In this environment, few children will learn inner peace

Making up for lost time—-is the can’t-wait American goal-—but it is impossible.

America feverishly builds many automobiles that are recalled before broken in; rushes to build costly structures, some of which collapse before their time; and hastily constructs nuclear power plants with little foresight for safety.

Many auto accidents are caused by drivers speeding to their destination

A Gas-Masked Traffic Cop



The chaotic American pattern has been exported into almost every corner of the industrialized world, presenting the spectacle of a Tokyo traffic cop going to his oxygen booth to breathe clean air.

In the mall a mother imparts this foolish fever to her little girl—“Hurry now! We've got to get our shopping done. Hurry now!"
Destroying her child's curiosity.























The little girl will likely impart the same life-suppressing habit to her children.

In their haste, a ground crew caused a fatal plane crash, forgetting to remove duct tape temporarily covering the outside sensors. The captain’s hasty eyes missed the tape on his pre-flight walk-around.
All on the plane were doomed because of obsessive hurry.

This was not “pilot error,” but superiors error. Many profit-driven managers impart their deadline fever to the employees, pounding their hasty attitude into the crews’ minds.

Firmly in the grip of this fever, the NASA administration—-scrambling to impress the news media—-launched the Challenger “on time.” When the doomed space shuttle exploded, it shattered seven American families. How much time was saved?















One report said the explosion was caused by “a faulty gasket design”, but impatient executives, who ignored warnings to abort liftoff, were the cause of this needless disaster.

Ten years after the Challenger disaster, the Deadline God reigned supreme.
Deluded by a departure date set in stone, the crew of the Ron Brown plane took off in bad weather.

Defense Secretary Perry said “no single thing” caused the plane’s fatal crash, but impatience caused both catastrophes. With patience, both disasters could have been avoided by simply waiting, but too often that is not part of Western nature.

What was more important than life?

An interview about a fire in the Russian space station Mir reads like a farce, but it was far too serious to be laughable.

In the middle of a harrowing tale of smoke so thick that he could not see his hands, the American astronaut said—“I feel safe up here.”




NASA management has indoctrinated their astronauts to treat dangerous situations as the norm rather than to speak negatively about the program.

The administration will let few things delay their wayward deadlines. The space shuttle Columbia’s mission was shortened by twelve days.





















The Associated Press reports, “The astronauts might have been able to fly the entire sixteen-day science mission if NASA had halted the countdown Friday and replaced a faulty electric generator that had been giving unusual voltage readings hours before liftoff.”

Again we see the American inability to accept delay, and disaster was averted through luck, not skill.

After many airline crashes the transportation bureaucracy declares that the airlines are safe, and that the accident was an exception.
Yet, Western impatience is not an exception, but the general rule.





Failing to take time to patiently carry out safety routines, the Western World will have many more catastrophes.

Our airplanes, space shuttles, tottering buildings, and ancient bridges all face disaster because of hasty maintenance—-or no maintenance.

Whatever is produced in haste goes hastily to waste--said Sadi, a Persian poet.

Stunning examples surround you, America—-scream at you—-engulfing you in your blindness. Yet, you run headlong into disaster.

Why is the Western World constantly running? The only time to hurry is to get out of the way of a freight train, or something similar.

Westerners have a penchant for being “on time,” but the most important time is any non-hectic time they spend with their loved ones, which should be a top priority.

The West refuses to stand still and listen. Yet calm reflection could be its salvation. Solitude, confused with loneliness, is feared by thousands of Westerners.

Unacquainted with the stranger in the mirror, they are afraid to be alone. Little wonder that their families are in disarray, for they have no patience to peruse the map of life.

Our problems are not material; they are cultural. Four phrases in one recent news article illustrate the West’s addiction to hurry.

About the recent tobacco settlement it was said that, “negotiators struggled to meet a self-imposed deadline,” “negotiations involved a frenzy of activity,” “representatives raced to resolve,” and “White House officials . . . were . . . drawn into the whirlwind.”

News reports are full of this terminology of destructive haste.

By impatient governing, many Western leaders rob their people of tranquility. In their impatience, they have devastated the environment of a once thriving world.

They take better care of their automobiles than their primary vehicle, yet Earth is the only spaceship we have.

Impulsiveness is a trait of Western nature, but we must start somewhere to overcome this negative characteristic.

Most deadline pressure originates from the top—-with impetuous executives—-and they must be forced to change.

Our decline in moral values is tied to cultural pollution.

We are drowning in technology and blissfully think that the water in our lungs is a new kind of oxygen.

Cutting corners--the point of much technology--is harmful to spiritual growth. What we call progress has resulted in the degeneration of our families.

In our present condition, we cannot handle more technological advances. We must advance spiritually first. If we acknowledge our problems, the answers will come.

Freedom of speech notwithstanding, we cannot allow cultural pollution. What it does individually to families, it does collectively to nations and to much of the world, leading to inhumanity and spiritual death.

This desolate condition destructively affects our children. If we are truly concerned about our children’s welfare, we will go on full alert to rescue them.

Let us rid ourselves of unnecessary deadlines, and then feel the relief. Even though our reactions will be the same for some time, our new understanding will slowly change us.

And let us teach our children to take time to smell the flowers along the way



Photo by Tom Gilbert / Tulsa World

The wisest lesson we will ever learn is this
—HURRY IS A WASTE OF TIME—


CITIZEN OF THE UNIVERSE

Originally published in New Thought magazine, Autumn 1994






















Is someone watching?

There is grandeur in knowing that in the realm of thought, at least, you are without chain; that you have the right to explore all heights and all depths; that there are no walls nor fences, nor prohibited places, nor sacred corners in all the vast expanse of thought; that your intellect owes no allegiance to any being, human or divine.

Surely it is worth something to feel that there are no priests, no popes, no parties, no governments, no kings, no gods, to whom your intellect can be compelled to pay a reluctant homage. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL, THE GREAT QUOTATIONS, Compiled by George Seldes, Published by POCKET BOOKS, New York, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

AN OPEN MIND
One of the greatest riches of life is an open mind in all discussion. Like a golden magnet gleaming in the sun this priceless mental attitude continually attracts knowledge and wisdom.

“The free man is he who does not fear to go to the end of his thought,” said Leon Blum. Yet, due to the mind-blinding influence of tradition, free thought is an attribute that most people never possess.

The liberated thinker and the hidebound traditionalist were both provided with a virgin mind, but that beginning was their only similarity.

The eclectic thinker knows no intellectual boundaries, but the myopic conventionalist is limited by his dogmatic beliefs.

Early on the highway of life they came to evolution’s fork in the road. One went down a wide freeway that led to mental lethargy, and the other took a narrow pathway that led to invaluable knowledge.

THE DOGMATIST
Unrelenting stubbornness is the calcifying characteristic of the dogmatist. This preachy puritan can’t bear to consider anything contrary to his entrenched creeds from the cradle. He is a direct descendant of the Christian witch-hunters of the seventeenth century who put their neighbors to death at the burning stake.

Why did they commit murder in the name of God? Because someone dared to differ; because someone dared to think new ideas.

Book-burners and people-burners are one and the same, but in a civilized society they can only burn books.

Moved to hysterics upon hearing a differing viewpoint, they flee from the circle of illumination and hide in the shadows of superstition.

Then, like the proverbial ostrich, they stick their heads in the sand and ignore any opinions that differ from their own.

The narrow-minded fundamentalist is easily identified, for he refuses to read anything not approved by his intellectually inhibiting institution, nor will he tolerate free speech within its walls.

An ever-obedient sheep, he is so steeped in his emotion-encrusted doctrines that he never considers the possibility that he might be wrong.

However, the shifting sands of his foundation are swiftly revealed when he loses his cool at the slightest questioning of his Babylonian beliefs.

Whenever challenged by someone who might upset his applecart, his crafty dodge rarely changes—“I don’t want to argue.”

This proud believer doesn’t realize that his philosophical persuasions are the product of his environment, his personal circumstances.

He doesn’t realize that his parents and his cultural surroundings influenced his “choice” of religion.

He never perceives that his religious tenets are but hasty assumptions, second-hand biases, derived from a geographical accident of birth.

He never understands that if he had been born in India he would most likely be a Hindu.

He never discovers that it is his learned deceptions that forever prevent him from having an original thought.

Citizen of The Universe
In stark contrast to the simplistic sectarian, calmness of spirit and patient grace are the refreshing marks of the citizen of the universe.

A man for all seasons, he has learned to control his emotions in a debate.
The only lesson needed to gain this control was to be willing to change.
He will listen to any mind-boggling proposal, even if it conflicts with his present opinions.

He will ponder any proposition, though not necessarily subscribe to it.
He does not first consider how a new theory would affect him, a fact that might color his thinking.

He uses the scientific approach to truth. He determines the probability of a concept being true and then ponders its effects on his life.

Standing atop a lofty plateau this unique pioneer surveys the world with panoramic vision.

He is a rarity—-a spearhead of evolution-—and because of this, the unchanging majority often brands him weird.

Unlike his tunnel-visioned contemporary the book lover knows that change is the only constant, the single eternal event.

Upon hearing a radical hypothesis his unfettered mind coolly stills itself instead of scampering to darkness.

A truly free man, he gladly welcomes anyone presenting a dissenting viewpoint.
He will not always agree, but he will listen. He may not accept, but he will consider. He will not change completely, but he will grow somewhat.

Such a person has severed his ties to all of the embalmed establishments that fearfully forbid open discussion.

Since he is ever prepared to change his mind he fields dozens of questions about his philosophy.

He is willing to examine every new theory, and he will cast aside beliefs of a lifetime when found in error.

Having no dogma to defend, he does not worry about saving face.

This exceptional explorer understands that error is error regardless of how charming the elder is who teaches it.

He understands that the veracity of a statement has nothing to do with the character of the speaker.

He knows that two plus two is four, computed by Hitler or Gandhi.

A freethinker, he is spiritually related to all of the sages of the past and, like a swelling sponge, he eagerly absorbs knowledge at every opportunity.

Keenly aware of the “use or lose” principle, he continues to exercise his emancipated imagination throughout his lifetime.

The citizen of the universe has spent much of his life in daily contemplation while developing the courage to break away from erroneous convention.

Now he has a reward for this mental discipline, a compensation for his hours of serious study in solitude.

Now his logic and intuition are so sharp that he can recognize fallacy even if from the lips of an eminent scholar.

He will not always know what is true, but more importantly—-he will know what is false.

BETH -- Phoenix





















TWO BEAUTIFUL WOMEN





















THE MISSING LINK of QUANTUM MECHANICS

Copyright 1994 Lee Herald
Originally published in New Thought magazine, Spring 1994

PILLARS of CREATION




According to two articles from The Arizona Republic the physicists of Quantum Mechanics, who study subatomic particles, have asked the ultimate question.
“. . . whether this (observation) is the only act of creation that is needed to bring the whole universe into existence.”
In an attempt to answer this question my theory follows these excerpts from the two articles.

SCIENTISTS TRY TO EXPLAIN PARTICLES’ IRRATIONAL BEHAVIOR, By Walter Sullivan, The New York Times, in The Arizona Republic, December 2, 1984
Quantum mechanics . . . indicates that properties usually attributed to matter have no real existence until measured . . .
. . . the features of the atomic world become real only when we look at them . . .
Until then . . . they are . . . in an uncertain state, wavering between alternate forms of polarization.
Only when measured does the polarization become real. Which form will be recorded is completely indeterminate . . .

THE MEANING OF LIFE – Some deeply disturbing things about reality, brought to you by your friends who study quantum mechanics, By Philip L. Harrison, Arizona Magazine, The Arizona Republic, June 23, 1985

The theory’s centerpiece, the so-called Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, states simply enough that the behavior of subatomic particles is not predictable . . .
According to the physicists . . . (uncertainty) actually is the nature of reality . . .

There is no way of knowing where a particle is, and thus its true nature, because we change it by merely looking at it . . .

. . . quantum mechanics . . . are best expressed by that old saw: :if a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound if no one’s there to hear it?

(but) . . . quantum mechanics even questions whether the tree exists (or the forest for that matter), by stating that any object that remains unobserved exists in all its statistically probable states—including nonexistence.

A uranium atom, for example, exists in a never-never land as both uranium and lead, which is its decay product.

By observing it, we force the atom to make a choice . . .

But it would be wrong to dismiss this as having no particular meaning for the so-called everyday world.

For in a very special sense, this act of observation is an elementary act of creation.

The Ultimate Question, therefore, is whether this is the only act of creation that is needed to bring the whole universe into existence.

Is the universe “nothing more” than billions upon billions of observations?

LEE HERALD’S THEORY

Actually, the “Ultimate Question” should be—what is it about observing that forces something to come into existence in a particular way?

It is important to note that there are only two entities interacting here, the atom and the observer.

If the atom is being forced, then the observer must be the enforcer who is influencing the atom’s “choice”. As Mr. Harrison said, “. . . we force the atom to make a choice.”

Reality is uncertain because it is the uncertain mind of man that creates reality.

The vacillating mind of man is characterized by indetermination and uncertainty as it constantly wavers from degrees of certainty to traces of doubt.

Thus, the indetermination of the atom is actually a reflection of the faltering, unpredictable consciousness of man.

When the physicist anxiously peers through his microscope at the atom, having wondered whether he would see lead or uranium, he finally possesses a certain viewpoint.

The polarization of a particular form, which the atom ultimately chooses, is caused by the settling of the observer’s mind upon one of the atom’s “statistically probable states”.

The object about to be observed—the atom—is capable of many states of being. As a result, it emerges from its “nonexistence” and cooperates with the observer by reflecting the state of being that at last dominates the observer’s thoughts.

This majority decision of the observer’s mind is what resolves the atom’s choice, which is actually an inclination of the atom to become one with the observer.

Therefore, Mr. Sullivan was right when he wrote, “. . . it would be wrong to dismiss this as having no particular meaning for the so-called everyday world.”

Why? Because what you believe you will see is what you will see.

LOGICAL ARGUMENT
PREMISS 1: An atom is capable of many states of being.
PREMISS 2: Until observed, an atom is in an uncertain state, waving between alternate forms.
PREMISS 3: When an atom is observed it is forced to choose a particular form.
PREMISS 4: There are only two entities interacting, the atom and the observer.
CONCLUSION: It is the mind of the observer that influences the atom to choose the particular form that comes into existence.





















From my novel

PRELUDE TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD

PART ONE

1. FIRST CONTACT

Chicago. December 23, 1965, Thursday night.

Burt Stephens was ten years old on the night that he first felt the impact of psychic experience, and he would probably be haunted by the encounter for the rest of his life.

He had gone to bed at eight-thirty because he wanted to get up early to wrap Christmas presents. He made the presents for his parents yesterday and hid them under his bed.

At 9:00 p.m., a faint reflection from the backyard light filtered into the small, dark bedroom. Sitting in front of a tall window, a high-backed wooden chair created shadowy twin peaks on the opposite wall. In one corner, a family picture sat on a little desk, but a shadow hid the mother and father and only Burt’s face could be seen.

In his sleep, a black omen enveloped him and he began to softly moan. Soon he awoke in a sweat and threw his blanket back. He felt a powerful premonition, so unsettling that he didn’t want to go back to sleep. Wondering if he had been crying in his sleep, he sat up from his damp pillow.

Burt sadly thought, Where’s Mom and Dad? Did they come home yet? As he turned on his bedside lamp, tears welled up in his hazel eyes.

Oh, this is awful. He wiped his eyes. What is it? Did something hurt them?

He brushed over his blond hair with his hand, got out of bed, and buttoned his pajama top. After putting on his robe, he went to the closed door and stood there. Then he opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway.

Seeing light coming from the living room he was relieved, but remembering that it was the baby-sitter watching television, his relief vanished.

Unwilling to know more about the terrible impression gripping his heart, he stood in the hallway for a moment. Then he went into the living room and looked at the baby-sitter.

“Hi, Mary.”

“Oh, Burt,” Mary said, surprised, “did I wake you?” Mary Evans was the family’s seventeen-year-old sitter. She wore blue jeans and a checkered red sweater, and her brown eyes displayed friendliness.

“No, you didn’t wake me, Mary. I had a bad feeling and it woke me up.”

“You look pale, Burt. Was it a dream?” Mary was five-foot-five and slightly chubby.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but it scared me.” He looked at Mary. “Mom and Dad should be here by now. Did they call?”

“No, they haven’t called.” Mary got up from the sofa and turned down the television. “But they’ve been late before.” She picked up her brush from the coffee table, and as she brushed her long black hair, she sensed Burt’s distress.

Burt glanced at the glistening Christmas tree standing in front of the wide picture window. Sprinkled with silver and decorated with a rainbow of sparkling bulbs, it reigned over the room.

Going over to the window, he looked outside, and heard the howl of the winter wind. Then he recalled a movie and a distant wolf calling to the pack. Beneath the streetlights large snowflakes hovered in the air, as if trying to avoid landing on the frozen ground.

He remembered hearing earlier that it was supposed to drop to ten above by early morning. He shivered and tugged the top of his robe closer to his neck.

Mary sat down. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, Burt.” She stared at his back, wondering why he was an only child. She had three brothers, and she thought that it must be lonely for Burt.

Burt turned away from the window, oddly looking at the telephone on the end table.

Mary said, “They’ll probably be here any moment and . . .” The telephone rang.

“Hello,” she answered, then smiled at Burt. “Yes, he’s standing by the Christmas tree.” She listened. “Okay, Mister Stephens, we’ll see you then.” She hung up.

Burt smiled, and hurried over to the sofa. “That was my Dad?”

“Yes, they’re leaving for home now.” Mary too had a smile on her pleasant, round face. “He said they’d be here in about a half hour.”

“Oh, good,” Burt said, feeling relief, “that’s good.” He sat down to watch television with Mary. “I guess I’m gonna wait for them now.”

Mary glanced at her watch. It was 9:15 p.m. “Okay, it’s not ten yet. Do you wanta catch the rest of Gilligan’s Island?”

“Yeah, sure.” He put his feet up on the sofa and clasped his hands around his bent knees.

Mary got up and switched channels. “Want some hot chocolate, Burt?”

“Okay, Mary.”

She went into the kitchen. When she came back, she handed Burt a steaming cup. “Be careful, it’s really hot.”

“Thanks.”

She set her cup on the coffee table and sat down. They watched television, and lost track of time. When the program ended at ten o’clock, Mary glanced at the door, wondering why the Stephens hadn’t arrived.

Burt got up and went to the window, gazing into the night. “I wonder what’s takin’ them so long, Mary?” The driveway was covered with snow.

“I don’t know, but they’ll probably be here any minute now.”

Burt came back to the sofa and sat down. An anxious half hour later, the phone rang.
Mary answered it. “Turn down the TV, Burt.”

He quickly got up and turned down the television, then he sat on the sofa to listen.

But the short conversation was ending. “Okay, Mister Stephens,” Mary said, and hung up.

Burt earnestly looked at Mary. “What’d my dad say, Mary? When are they gonna get here?”

Mary looked worried as she glanced at the clock. “That wasn’t your dad, Burt, it was your . . . .”

“It wasn’t them?”

“No, it was your grandfather.” Mary turned off the television.

Burt was puzzled. “Grampa?”

Mary sat down and looked at him. “Yes, he said to tell you that he was coming over to see you.”

Burt stood up from the sofa. “Now?” he asked. He felt the dread coming back.

“Yes, he said the roads were bad, but he’d be here in about a half hour.” She looked troubled. She too wondered why the elder Stephens was coming over.

Burt glanced at the clock. “Did Grampa say why?”

“No, he didn’t say.”





















Thirty years later, November 6, 1995.

On Monday afternoon, the staff at The Phoenix Times was busy preparing Tuesday morning’s newspaper.

A low hum of computers, printers and copiers rolled across a sea of gray desks in the large news office and blended in with a buzzing of conversations, creating a hypnotic tone.

Burt Stephens sat at his desk. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, trying to understand the exotic scene that had just popped into his mind.

What was it? he thought. What’s happening to me? He grasped for something to hold on to. These thoughts of peculiar places, what the hell are they?

Opening his eyes, he glanced around the office, but no one had noticed him. He tried to shrug off a nagging feeling of remembrance, an eerie impression that he should know what the scenes were about.

He started to get up, but he was still gripping the arms of his chair. Relaxing his hands, he waited a moment, then he got up and went for coffee.

Burt was forty, and by working out he consistently maintained 185 pounds on his six-foot-two frame. His straight blond hair touched his collar in the back, and partly covered his ears. He had a face that might have gotten him in the movies, high cheekbones, a Roman nose, and a square jaw. His inquisitive hazel eyes were usually asking questions and expecting answers.

He wore a brown sport coat, a green dress shirt without a tie, and tan slacks. He preferred casual clothes.

When he saw Larry at the coffee machine, he was thankful. “How’s it going, Larry?” Conversation would give him the opportunity to shake off the weird vision.

“Okay, Burt.”

“How’s the wife and kids?” Burt dropped some coins into the machine.

“Sue has a cold, but the girls haven’t caught anything lately.” Larry was thirty and about five-eleven. He had the body of a runner, lithe and slim.

“Are you still working on that political corruption article?”

“Yeah, but I think I’ll finish it today,” Burt replied. “What are you writing?”

“I’m on nuclear thefts.” Larry sipped his coffee.

“Has there been another one?”

“Not recently, but I’m writing a follow-up on a European theft in June ninety-four.”

“Let’ see, wasn’t that . . . was it the one in Germany?” Burt got his coffee from the machine.

“Well, there have been several in Germany. This one was in Landshut, northeast of Munich.”

Burt waved at a passing colleague, and then he looked at Larry. “Did they catch the guys?”

“Yeah, the police arrested a Czech, four Slovaks, and one German.”

“What did they steal?” Burt sipped his coffee.

“They had nine grams of highly enriched plutonium, two-thirty-five.”

“Getting ready to make a nuclear bomb,” Burt said.

“Yeah.” Larry took a drink of coffee.

“Nuclear material was better protected during the Cold War,” Burt said, “but now too many people have access to it.”

“I found that out since I’ve been covering this.”

Burt shook his head. “And these damned thefts seemed to be multiplying.”

“Like you said, Burt, too many cooks in the kitchen.”

“Yeah.” Burt glanced at his watch. “I got a deadline, Larry. Say hello to Sue and the girls.”

“Will do, Burt.”

Feeling better, Burt went back to his desk with his coffee. Before the troubling image interrupted him, he had been looking at an intriguing note that he had propped against his computer to study. He sat down.

Damn, I can’t leave this on my desk again, he thought. He slid the note in front of him, flat on the desk, so he could conceal it better.

A nine-by-twelve envelope addressed to him had come in the day’s mail. After opening the clasp envelope, he knew for sure that this Monday would not be a routine day. The strange note had been clipped to the first page of a lengthy article.

Glancing around the noisy office, he wondered if the note was a practical joke.

It seems too serious to be a joke, he thought.

Across the room, a brunette coworker waved and smiled at him. Burt smiled and waved back.

But if it is a joke, he thought, maybe that’s what she’s grinnin’ about. The brunette turned away to answer her phone. Then he held the note with both hands and examined it.

Burt was a contradiction of terms; he was an objective investigative reporter, an opinionated columnist, and a reluctant psychic. The phone rang. “Burt Stephens,” he answered. Then he listened. “Okay. I’ll have it done this afternoon.”

As soon as he hung up, he picked up the note, contemplating its incredible message. He shook his head in amazement. Whoever sent this has one hell of an imagination. I’ve never read anything like it. He sipped his coffee and glanced at the article, then he continued to examine the note.

He heard a spirited discussion going on and looked across the office. The editors were leaving the conference room, ready to put in motion the day’s decisions, which would affect tomorrow’s newspaper. One of them mentioned O. J., and Burt wondered if there would be another story about his acquittal of the brutal murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman.





















But whatever the lead story, the Times’ giant presses would soon be printing the next morning’s edition, unfolding the bizarre and the ordinary in a world at war with itself. A fresh newspaper still aroused Burt’s curiosity, and stirred him to write his eclectic opinions in his columns.

He looked at the bottom of the note, enthralled by the mystical signature, but trying hard to resist that sentiment. In spite of the fact that he’d had some startling psychic experiences, he was a natural skeptic, and he wouldn’t spend time with most sensational mail.

But there’s something different about this note and article, he thought.

“Larry,” an editor yelled from across the aisle, “meet me in the conference room, and bring your write-up.”

When Burt saw Larry hurrying down the aisle, he waved at him.

Hearing the wailing siren of an ambulance racing by, Burt put down the note and looked at the window. A large crow landed on the windowsill. Burt stared at the glossy black bird, amused by the notion that it was staring back at him.

I wonder what he’s got on his mind, probably food and trouble.

The sound of a siren often made Burt feel sad, beginning when he was ten. Two days before Christmas 1965, Burt’s heartbroken grandfather had to tell young Burt that his mother and father had been killed in an accident.

It was the hardest thing the elder Stephens had ever done.

Burt’s parents had been on an assignment for the Chicago Tribune. They were returning home late at night when their car slid head-on into the icy path of an eighteen-wheeler.

At the funeral, Burt had wiped his eyes and asked, “Why are the caskets closed, Grampa? Aren’t they supposed to be open so we can see Mom and Dad?”

Mr. Stephens had swallowed a lump. “Well, sometimes the funeral director thinks its best that way, Burt.”

He had taken Burt into his home and raised him. As the years went by, Burt learned how supportive a loving grandfather could be, but Christmas had never been the same.

I’ll call Grampa tonight, he thought.

He gazed at the forceful words in the note, lightly brushed his fingers over the extraordinary print, and wondered what typeface it was. The feel of the paper was also impressive, smooth and rich. He was irked by his attraction to the package, yet it continued to invite him.

The phone rang. “Burt Stephens,” he gruffly answered. His frown melted into a smile. “Grampa--I was just thinking about you.” He listened. “Tomorrow night?” He looked at his calendar. “Sure, I’ll be over about seven-thirty.”

After they chatted for a while, Burt hung up and glanced at his watch. He had a meeting with his editor shortly, but he wanted to read the curious note once more. He looked down and began to read.

"Mister Stephens, you will know when the time has come to publish this indictment that I . . ."

The executive editor walked by. “How’re you doing, Burt?” Phil Gaines had been the exec ed for ten years.

Burt quickly covered the note and article, then looked up. “Good, Phil.”

“Let’s review your political corruption piece. My office in ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

As Phil walked on, he glanced back. “I assume it includes something on President Archer.”

Burt grinned. “You know it does.” He uncovered the note. Maybe I should tell Phil about this now, but how do I know there’s anything to it?

After struggling with the idea, Burt’s compelling psychic history overrode his journalistic sensibilities, and he decided not to say anything yet. He quickly read the note again.

Indictment, he thought, what kind of indictment? That must be in the article, but I don’t have time now. He put the article and the note back in the large envelope.

When he started to put the envelope away, he glanced at the address.

The typeface is the same as the note, but I’ve never seen anything that resembles it. He put the envelope in his bottom desk drawer and locked it, thinking that he would look at the package again before he went home.

In 1990, when Burt was thirty-five, he reluctantly started recording his psychic experiences. He had been reluctant because he didn’t like things that he didn’t understand.

The remarkable adventures had begun when he was a young boy. At that time, he was wide-eyed and perplexed. Later, after he learned of the scientific community’s attitude toward the paranormal, he became skeptical. Now, he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to have such experiences.

They always leave so damn much unanswered.

But in spite of his skepticism, his pragmatic side had realized that he shouldn’t ignore this part of himself. So, he tried to understand each abnormal happening and consider if it had a purpose. This was often frustrating, because if there was a purpose, it wasn’t always apparent.

After Burt went over his assignment with Phil, he went to a staff conference. After that, he worked on his next column until he decided to stop for the day. Turning his computer off, he prepared to leave.

When he went down the steps to the parking garage it was getting late. He saw the sports editor across the lane.

“Hey, Burt, leaving early?”

Burt stopped at his car and smiled. “Early? Can’t you see it’s almost dark?”

“Yeah, but you’re usually still at it when I leave.”

“I got to take a break sometime, Mark.”

Mark smiled. “Did you go easy on President Archer?”

Burt opened his car door. “About as easy as he goes on the homeless.”

“So, you clobbered him.”

“You can read it tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to that.” Mark opened his car door. “See you tomorrow, Burt.”

“Right, Mark.”

Mark got in and backed out of his slot, then he drove off.

Before Burt got in his car, he cautiously looked back at the murky stairwell. He couldn’t see any movement in the shadows, but he sensed that something was there. He tugged at the collar of his sport coat, mesmerized by the stairwell.

Shortly after Burt started recording his dreams, a mysterious presence began appearing in some of them, not as a participant, but as an observer. Whenever the observer was in a dream, he always stood to the side, watching.

This had gone on for five years, and from time to time Burt uneasily thought that he could feel this presence nearby, watching him. But he couldn’t explain this; it was just a feeling.

Exasperated, he glanced at the dark stairwell again, then he got in the car and drove away, heading for home.

Psychic happenings no longer astonished Burt, though many were baffling and some downright annoying. One month ago, he’d had another one.

* * * * * * * *






















October, early morning.

Stepping out of the kitchen and into the carport, Burt locked the door. He rolled the trashcan out to the curb, then he went back to his car and started to get in.

Dammit, I left the news file on the kitchen counter.

Going to the door, he tried to push his key in the lock, but it wouldn’t go in. Then he saw that it was no longer straight, but bent beyond use.

“Oh no, it’s happening again,” he mumbled. Troubled, but not surprised, he wondered when the key had bent itself. Well, it had to be in the last two minutes. I just locked the door with it.

Irked by the experience, he wondered if the bent key meant that he was going to move. Oh hell, it probably doesn’t mean anything, he thought, but he
didn’t feel sure about that.

He got his spare house key from the glove box in the car and unlocked the door. Later that evening, he took a large hammer and flattened the curved key back into shape.


* * * * * * * *

Driving along, he thought of another occasion. He had turned off his bedside lamp at ten o’clock and had fallen asleep, only to awake at two in the morning to find the lamp on.

The first time the lamp turned itself on, he turned it off and fell asleep again. The next time, about a week later, he got up and looked around the house.

He wondered if the light might be a warning, or if it meant that he should be up doing something important. Yeah, he had thought, like sleep’s not important.

Irritated, he had turned the lamp off and fell asleep again. He knew how the lamp had come on. His uninhibited, nocturnal mind had been playing psychokinetic tricks again, mind affecting matter.

Sometimes he was reluctant to write down his psychic experiences. But when the key had instantly bent itself, and the lamp had turned on three nights in one week—-and twice in one night—-he knew that he should record these queer happenings.

Because of his slumbering psychokinetic ability, he thought that he might be unconsciously disturbed about something. That troubled him.

He had quit surmising why these things happened, they just did. But they were hard for him to accept, and he had wished for several years that they would stop.

After many odd looks from his friends, he had learned not to talk about them. Now, except for confiding with his grandfather, he buried them deep within, hoping that he could live an ordinary life.

But no matter what Burt might hope, his life would never be ordinary, and in fact would become more incredible. He turned onto his street, and then into his driveway.

Recently, Burt read a statement by a leading war researcher that bothered him. The historian said, "Some world leaders agreed that the possibility of nuclear war was over.”

This report nagged him until he decided to search for more information. What he had found confirmed his own belief—that preventing nuclear holocaust was nearly impossible.

He would later learn of a terrifying calculation by a respected mathematician. The conclusion of this probability thinker would shock the world, and perhaps lead to the final global conflict.

* * * * * * * *

Downtown Phoenix, Tuesday, November 7.

The young man walked up to the sidewall of an empty commercial building, glanced down the alleyway, and carefully looked up the street. Temporarily satisfied with his situation, the graffiti artist began his mission to the world.

He painted his first word—BEWARE.

While the desert sun beamed down on his back, he spray-painted more words on the beige wall. Standing back, the artist ran his fingers through his long, stringy black hair, then he shaded his dark eyes and surveyed his work.

In large black letters the words now formed a phrase, BEWARE ALL YE.

With skilled swirls of his hand, the man continued his artistry. Soon the somber admonition identified the group of people who should be concerned.

BEWARE ALL YE HEADS OF EARTH.
The young man enthusiastically shook his paint can and went on, unveiling more to the world.

A terse new sentence revealed the reason for the warning—-THE JUDGE IS COMING!

When the man completed the ominous message, he walked five yards away.

Then he turned around for a better view of his prophetic creation. His eyes reflected his satisfaction.

BEWARE ALL YE HEADS OF EARTH
THE JUDGE IS COMING!
BEWARE!
FOR HE WILL INDICT THE LEADERS OF THE WORLD!
* * * * * * * *


2. ROBYN JARVIS

Wednesday morning, November 8, 1995, The Phoenix Times.

It had been two days since Burt Stephens received the strange package. Sitting at his desk, he scrolled down the monitor and searched the Internet. He needed information for an investigative report.

Larry stopped by. “How’s it going, Burt?”

Burt looked up. “Keeping busy.”

Larry glanced at Burt’s screen. “What are you working on?”

“Gathering material for an article on Newton Mercer.”

“Newton Mercer?” Larry chuckled. “If I know you, that’ll be a hair-raiser.”

Burt smiled. “You got the wrong idea, Larry. I’m not writing a thriller.” He nodded at a friend passing by.

Larry grinned. “We all know that your—ex po zays—are not too thrilling for your victims.”

Burt laughed. “Victims?” He always stood up for the little guy, but because of his robust appearance and persistence for the facts he was sometimes mistaken for a hard-ass. “What about Mercer’s victims?”

“Yeah, that’s true, Burt. He put a lot of people in desperate situations with those junk bonds in the late eighties.”

Burt said, “And Mercer’s the only big fish that the justice department failed to get for securities fraud.”

“Not enough evidence, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Burt replied, “and if I can, I’m going to kick his two-billion-dollar ass.” He took a file out of his desk drawer. “Did you finish your follow-up on the nuclear thefts, Larry?”

“Should be done tomorrow.”

Burt turned his swivel chair away from the desk and looked at Larry. “That’s exciting work. Is Hank going to keep you on that?”




Maybe, as long as the nuclear thefts continue.”

“That could be a long time.”

“I’m scheduled to do another report on a European sting operation,” Larry said.

Burt briefly reflected. “Wasn’t there an arrest in Germany?”

“Yeah. They caught the guys at the Munich airport.”

“How many did they nail?”

“They arrested three men on a flight from Moscow, a Columbian and two Spaniards.”

Burt shook his head. “These damned terrorists are persistent.”

“And these guys had fourteen ounces of plutonium two-thirty-nine,” Larry said.

“I guess all the stuff is coming out of Russia.”

“Yeah,” Larry replied. “The Russian authorities have promised to track down the sources, but I’d like to see our own government get serious about this.”

“Our leaders are dragging their heels again,” Burt agreed. “They need someone to hit them in the head before they react.”

“Yeah.”

“But there’s another problem,” Burt said. “Too many governments on planet Earth.”

“Too many chiefs, and not enough Indians,” Larry said.

“Right, and there isn’t a flow of information from one country to another.” Burt reflected. “I’m trying to remember what Einstein said about controlling the nuclear genie.” He paused. “But I can’t get it right now.”

Larry glanced across the newsroom, then looked at Burt. “You ought to do an in-depth investigative report about this, Burt. You could scare up some red faces in Washington.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Good.” Larry saw his editor approaching. “See you later, Burt. Gotta see what Hank wants.”

* * * * * * * *

Later that day a story began to develop in Phoenix that Burt might cover.

A dusky evening was coming on, unusual for the valley of the sun.

In the gray sky, the sun sat on the horizon, faint rays casting a dim shadow of a saguaro cactus on an elementary schoolyard.

Clothed in contrasting colors, like the hues of a kaleidoscope, several young children were noisily playing in the sandy yard. The children lived in the neighborhood, many of them across the street.

They were warned about strangers, but they were all unaware of a man standing thirty yards away, who had watched them for ten minutes.

The man was white, five-foot-ten, forty-five and stockily built, with dark wavy hair and long thick sideburns. He had on baggy black slacks, a tan shirt, faded tennis shoes, and a jean jacket.

As he considered which little girl to choose, his pulse quickened and his dark eyes shimmered.


"Maybe, as long as the nuclear thefts continue.”

“That could be a long time.”

“I’m scheduled to do another report on a European sting operation,” Larry said.

Burt briefly reflected. “Wasn’t there an arrest in Germany?”

“Yeah. They caught the guys at the Munich airport.”

“How many did they nail?”

“They arrested three men on a flight from Moscow, a Columbian and two Spaniards.”

Burt shook his head. “These damned terrorists are persistent.”

“And these guys had fourteen ounces of plutonium two-thirty-nine,” Larry said.

“I guess all the stuff is coming out of Russia.”

“Yeah,” Larry replied. “The Russian authorities have promised to track down the sources, but I’d like to see our own government get serious about this.”

“Our leaders are dragging their heels again,” Burt agreed. “They need someone to hit them in the head before they react.”

“Yeah.”

“But there’s another problem,” Burt said. “Too many governments on planet Earth.”

“Too many chiefs, and not enough Indians,” Larry said.

“Right, and there isn’t a flow of information from one country to another.” Burt reflected. “I’m trying to remember what Einstein said about controlling the nuclear genie.” He paused. “But I can’t get it right now.”

Larry glanced across the newsroom, then looked at Burt. “You ought to do an in-depth investigative report about this, Burt. You could scare up some red faces in Washington.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Good.” Larry saw his editor approaching. “See you later, Burt. Gotta see what Hank wants.”

* * * * * * * *

Later that day a story began to develop in Phoenix that Burt might cover.

A dusky evening was coming on, unusual for the valley of the sun.

In the gray sky, the sun sat on the horizon, faint rays casting a dim shadow of a saguaro cactus on an elementary schoolyard.

Clothed in contrasting colors, like the hues of a kaleidoscope, several young children were noisily playing in the sandy yard. The children lived in the neighborhood, many of them across the street.

They were warned about strangers, but they were all unaware of a man standing thirty yards away, who had watched them for ten minutes.

The man was white, five-foot-ten, forty-five and stockily built, with dark wavy hair and long thick sideburns. He had on baggy black slacks, a tan shirt, faded tennis shoes, and a jean jacket.

As he considered which little girl to choose, his pulse quickened and his dark eyes shimmered.

The sun had set.

In the twilight, Darwin’s eyes narrowed to slits as he made his choice, a seven-year-old girl in a yellow dress.

Blue-eyed and slim as a reed, freckles dotted her happy face, and her long blonde hair fell below her delicate shoulders.

Darwin’s heart beat faster as he thought of grabbing her. He was pleased that the girl’s mother had helped him make his selection.

She dressed her little precious in bright yellow, he thought, so she’d stand out for me.

But things didn’t always work out for Darwin.

At a school in Albuquerque, a father had come for his child only moments before Darwin was about to snatch her. And Darwin had been arrested in Las Vegas on a molestation charge, but he was released because of tainted evidence. Then he had grown bolder, realizing how hamstrung the police were.

When the rabid slaughter first began, Darwin was upset with himself. He had repeatedly gagged whenever he was done with a child, finally throwing up. There were several days when he avoided looking in a mirror. One time he had broken the bathroom mirror, splattering it with blood from his fist.

Darwin had come to the need for little girls because he couldn’t get what he wanted from women.

His rage had begun when he got tired of being turned away. He had heard some men meekly say, “If women could just say no politely.” Other men were furious and said, “I could kill that fucking bitch!”

Others only think about killing, Darwin thought, but I do the job. The Bible says thinking about it is as bad as doin’ it, so the thinkers will all burn in hell with me.

Darwin was hardened by his evil edge now.

The streetlights came on. A mother stepped out of her adobe house across the street from the school. She glanced at the darkening sky, and then she yelled for her son. He didn’t answer, but when she started across the street, he popped out of the crowd.

After that, two more mothers came out and called for their children. Then all of the kids began to run toward their homes.

One ten-year-old boy challenged his little sister to a race, the girl Darwin had chosen.

“Robyn,” Jimmy yelled, “betcha I beat you home!” He turned and ran toward the street.

Robyn laughed and ran after Jimmy. She was the last one to leave the schoolyard.

Darwin cased the street and quickly came down the sidewalk. He knew it was risky, but that was an exhilarating part of it.

Seeing that Jimmy wasn’t looking back, he seized his chance. Just as Robyn crossed his path, he clamped a thick hand over her mouth and picked her up.

Robyn wildly kicked and tried to scream, and Darwin ran around the corner of the school. No one was in sight, so he headed for a deserted park about 150 yards from her house.

He set Robyn on the ground, but she got up and ran, frantically looking toward home.

“Daddy, help me--DADDY!” When she stumbled over a park bench, Darwin easily caught her. As he put his hand over her mouth, Robyn glimpsed a sliver of light.























A tall young man stepped out of his house onto the front porch. Robyn’s father came down the steps and stopped at the bottom, looking toward the school.

* * * * * * * *

At that same time, Burt was driving home. He lived seven miles northeast of the Times office.

He was thinking about the dark stairwell in the parking garage, and the weird sensation that he’d had Monday, that something was lurking there.

He wondered why he’d thought that the “something” might be the mysterious presence that had been appearing in his dreams.

He tried to remember exactly when the strange observer first appeared. He knew that it started right after he began recording his dreams.

He hadn’t given the appearance much thought at first, but when the observer continued his nightly invasion, it began to weigh on Burt’s mind.

Again, he wished that he wouldn’t have any psychic experiences.

This is all so crazy, he thought. I think I’m going to quit recording my dreams. I’ve got to shake these things once and for all. They’ve gone on way too long. I’ll talk it over with Grampa.

* * * * * * * *

Behind a row of thick bushes, Darwin tore off Robyn’s dress, but she wrestled out of his arms and started to run. Nearly naked, she stumbled into a shallow pond.

“Daddy!”

Darwin grabbed her arm and slapped her face. “Oh . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you . . . you got to quit fighting.”

Through strands of flaxen hair, Robyn’s blue eyes brimmed with fear. She stared at Darwin’s hard eyes and lined face.

“I want my Mommy!”

Darwin threw her to the ground and straddled her, slamming his hand over her mouth. Sweat appeared on his face.

Robyn’s Chihuahua dog ran up, barking at Darwin, and then came closer.

When Darwin jerked Rusty over by the collar, the little dog whimpered. Darwin broke his neck and flung him away.

“Oh, Rusty,” Robyn cried. Darwin muffled her mouth again.

* * * * * * * *

Jimmy ran up to the porch where his father was standing.

Ed Jarvis had on tan slacks and a white dress shirt without a tie. He glanced at the shadowy schoolyard.

“Where’s Robyn, Jimmy?” I’ve told him so many times to stay with her, Ed thought.

Jimmy looked back at the empty street. “I don’t know, Dad. She started to race me home.”

The porch light revealed Jimmy’s perplexed look. He just remembered that he had forgotten to stay with Robyn.

“I bet she hid on the other side of the school, Dad.”

“Rusty must be with her,” Ed mumbled. He brushed back his brown hair with his hand.

Jimmy looked down at his shoes. “Sometimes she hides, Dad.” He scratched his freckled nose.

“I know, Son, go get her. Hurry now.”

Jimmy ran across the street and headed for the other side of the school. Ed went into the house.

* * * * * * * *

As Robyn struggled with Darwin, she ripped a button off of his shirt and bit his hand.

“Ow . . . you little bitch . . . you’ll pay for that!” Darwin slapped her face again. “I’m sorry . . . but it’s . . . it’s your fault.”

Wild-eyed, she grabbed a large rock and slammed it against the side of his head.

“Goddamn!” Darwin said, groggily clutching his head.

Robyn slipped from his grasp and tried to run again. “DADDY!”

Blood matted Darwin’s hair and he angrily grabbed her ankle.

“I tried to be nice to you, but if I . . . if I have to . . . I’ll kill you and . . . and then fuck you.” He slammed her head against the ground and straddled her again.

“The Lord’ll punish you . . . because he’s given you to me!” Spittle dribbled from his open mouth and fell on Robyn’s face.

Robyn beat at him with tiny fists, but he clasped his hand over her bleeding mouth and gazed at her body.

In the leaden night sky, the moon came out from behind the clouds. Unwilling to provide light for the horror below, it solemnly slipped back into the haze.

* * * * * * * *

While Burt drove along a residential street, he thought about the mystifying note and its powerful accusations, wondering what he would do with it.

He smiled when he saw a little girl playing in front of her house, but unexpectedly he felt sad, an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

These damn premonitions. God I hate them, and they’re always so surprising.

He looked in his rearview mirror, and then turned around at the next block.

Slowly driving by the house again, he rolled down his window and peered at the little girl.

She seems to be all right, he mused, but the porch light isn’t on, and there isn’t anyone watching her.

Dammit, she shouldn’t be out in the dark alone.

The girl’s father stepped out of the front door and called her in, then he suspiciously watched Burt speed away.

As Burt drove on, he wondered why the awful premonition was still heavy in his heart.

* * * * * * * *

Jimmy ran toward home, breathing hard.

Ed opened the front door and saw Jimmy running across the street. “Where’s Robyn?” Ed yelled.

Jimmy came up to the porch. “I didn’t see her, Dad. I don’t know”—he tried to catch his breath—”where she’s hiding.”

Jimmy wished that he had stayed with his little sister.

Ed came down the porch steps, his blue eyes troubled.

* * * * * * * *

Jimmy ran up to the porch where his father was standing.

Ed Jarvis had on tan slacks and a white dress shirt without a tie. He glanced at the shadowy schoolyard.

“Where’s Robyn, Jimmy?” I’ve told him so many times to stay with her, Ed thought.

Jimmy looked back at the empty street. “I don’t know, Dad. She started to race me home.”

The porch light revealed Jimmy’s perplexed look. He just remembered that he had forgotten to stay with Robyn.

“I bet she hid on the other side of the school, Dad.”

“Rusty must be with her,” Ed mumbled. He brushed back his brown hair with his hand.

Jimmy looked down at his shoes. “Sometimes she hides, Dad.” He scratched his freckled nose.

“I know, Son, go get her. Hurry now.”

Jimmy ran across the street and headed for the other side of the school. Ed went into the house.

* * * * * * * *

As Robyn struggled with Darwin, she ripped a button off of his shirt and bit his hand.

“Ow . . . you little bitch . . . you’ll pay for that!” Darwin slapped her face again. “I’m sorry . . . but it’s . . . it’s your fault.”

Wild-eyed, she grabbed a large rock and slammed it against the side of his head.

“Goddamn!” Darwin said, groggily clutching his head.

Robyn slipped from his grasp and tried to run again. “DADDY!”

Blood matted Darwin’s hair and he angrily grabbed her ankle.

“I tried to be nice to you, but if I . . . if I have to . . . I’ll kill you and . . . and then fuck you.” He slammed her head against the ground and straddled her again.

“The Lord’ll punish you . . . because he’s given you to me!” Spittle dribbled from his open mouth and fell on Robyn’s face.

Robyn beat at him with tiny fists, but he clasped his hand over her bleeding mouth and gazed at her body.

In the leaden night sky, the moon came out from behind the clouds. Unwilling to provide light for the horror below, it solemnly slipped back into the haze.

* * * * * * * *

While Burt drove along a residential street, he thought about the mystifying note and its powerful accusations, wondering what he would do with it.

He smiled when he saw a little girl playing in front of her house, but unexpectedly he felt sad, an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

These damn premonitions. God I hate them, and they’re always so surprising.

He looked in his rearview mirror, and then turned around at the next block.

Slowly driving by the house again, he rolled down his window and peered at the little girl.

She seems to be all right, he mused, but the porch light isn’t on, and there isn’t anyone watching her.

Dammit, she shouldn’t be out in the dark alone.

The girl’s father stepped out of the front door and called her in, then he suspiciously watched Burt speed away.

As Burt drove on, he wondered why the awful premonition was still heavy in his heart.

* * * * * * * *

Jimmy ran toward home, breathing hard.

Ed opened the front door and saw Jimmy running across the street. “Where’s Robyn?” Ed yelled.

Jimmy came up to the porch. “I didn’t see her, Dad. I don’t know”—he tried to catch his breath—”where she’s hiding.”

Jimmy wished that he had stayed with his little sister.

Ed came down the porch steps, his blue eyes troubled.






















He remembered when his neighbor’s little boy was briefly missing. Tom had anxiously asked, “Have you seen Bucky, Ed?” At that moment, Bucky had come down the sidewalk pedaling his new tricycle. Ed had elatedly yelled, “There he is, Tom!”

“Did you look in the park?” Ed asked Jimmy.

“I ran back to . . . to tell you, Dad.”

With Jimmy following, Ed hurried across the street, fighting a growing fear.


* * * * * * * *

After Darwin raped Robyn, he kept one hand over her mouth, still straddling her. As he clicked open his knife, he heard noises near the school.

Robyn was barely conscious, but her eyes widened when she saw the steel blade.

He put the point to her slender neck, feeling her tremble beneath him. His dark eyes turned to ice as he moved the knife below her left ear.

Hearing sounds again, he put his knife away and grabbed a large rock. He held the rock up high and glared down at Robyn, fascinated by the fright in her eyes.

Robyn feebly struggled, and her heart beat wildly.

“I’m just a kid,” she softly said.

When he bashed the side of her head, her legs kicked once and she softly moaned.

Obsessed by a lust for blood, he hit her again, mashing her hair into her cracked skull.

Darwin stood up, zipped up his fly, and wiped his bloody hand with his handkerchief. He heard the voices getting closer, but he looked down at Robyn’s lifeless body.

“You made me do this . . . You, you should be nice to me.” Then he made the sign of the cross and left.

Only seconds later in the park, Ed saw a clump on the grass ahead. Running toward the small dark mound, he prayed that it wasn’t Robyn.

A lump formed in his throat when he looked back at Jimmy.“Get back, Jimmy, stay back!”

Jimmy waited by a tree, but he knew that something was wrong.

Ed saw Rusty’s limp body. “Oh God, where’s Robyn?” A short distance away, he saw Robyn’s yellow dress.

“Oh, dear God,” he prayed, “please let her be all right. Please!”

Jimmy craned his neck to see. “Is Robyn okay, Dad?”

Then Ed saw his little girl. “ROBYN!” He glanced back at Jimmy.“Run home, Jimmy. Call nine-one-one! Hurry!”

Ed knelt beside Robyn. Seeing her tangled bloody hair and her fractured skull, he was sick with despair. “Oh God, no, no!”

Jimmy stood by the tree, crying. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Jimmy--call nine-one-one. Hurry. Oh God!”

As he ran home, Jimmy fervently prayed that Robyn would be all right.

“Oh God,” Ed prayed, desperately trying to revive Robyn. “God, no, please God, please!”

Twenty yards away Darwin stood behind a large tree, glad that it was dark.

I should’ve left sooner, he thought, but I . . . I wanted to look at it.

He could see Ed kneeling beside Robyn’s body, but he thought that he would be seen if he tried to run. I’ll hafta kill . . . kill the prick to get outta here.

When Ed realized that he could do nothing for Robyn, he wiped his tears and looked up at the dark sky, shaking his fist in the air.

“Oh my God, no, no!” He stood up and glanced around the area, listening, but he could only hear the throbbing of his broken heart.

In unbearable pain, he draped Robyn’s dress over her body.

Which way did he go? he thought. He looked around the park.

Oh God, if I can just catch him! Eyes full of tears, he looked down at Robyn again. Then he started running toward the large tree.

Breathing heavily, Darwin hugged the back of the tree. I gotta kill him, he thought, opening his knife.

Fifteen feet from the tree, Ed stopped and looked around the park, but his sight was blurred.

“God help me,” he prayed.

Darwin gripped the knife, ready to grab Ed from behind when he came by.

Ed continued on, walking by the tree.

Darwin circled the tree and watched Ed’s back, but Ed turned around.

Darwin hastily backpedaled around the tree, breathing fast.

Ed started toward Robyn but stopped with his back to the tree, only four feet from Darwin.

Darwin held his breath, afraid that he might be heard.

I can’t hold long. I gotta kill him. He moved to the side of the tree to reach out for Ed.

He started to grab him from behind, but Ed stepped away and bent over to pick up a scrap of paper.

Only a piece of a newspaper, Ed thought.

He stood up and moved farther from Darwin, then he started running back to Robyn.

Darwin took a deep breath.

Ed knelt beside Robyn, tears falling on her bloody head. He caressed her face and gently picked her up. Brushing her hair back, he kissed her bruised cheek. He tried to hum a line of her favorite lullaby, but instead he sobbed deeply.

Some neighbors were standing outside when Ed came back with Robyn in his arms. The streetlight cast a heavy gloom over the night.

Robyn’s mother saw Ed and she ran into the middle of the street screaming. “Oh, my God,” she wailed, “not my baby!”

Seeing Robyn’s face she fainted, but two mothers grabbed her arms. Hearing the sorrowful noise, more neighbors came to their doors.

Fifteen minutes later, the first patrol car had radioed for help and several policemen were scouring the area.

Many outside lights were on. The neighbors sat on their small porches and in their carports, quietly talking. Some were praying that the police would soon hunt down the bloodthirsty animal that lusted for their children.

They longed for judgment to come as swiftly as suffering had.

Flashing squad car lights pierced the night as the police checked the school grounds and the park. A helicopter, equipped with an infrared tracking system, circled the neighborhood. Its enhanced night vision spotted nothing.

The ambulance arrived to take Robyn’s body to the morgue.

* * * * * * * *

I’ll be glad when they get the new freeway done, Burt thought, continuing toward home. This traffic is getting worse everyday.

He saw a squad car ahead, and watched it turned off the boulevard into the Jarvis neighborhood.

I thought so; that chopper overhead is searching for someone.

He turned and followed the cruiser. In the middle of the block, the officer pulled over, parking in front of Robyn’s school.

Burt saw a crowd of neighbors standing by the curbs, quietly talking. Something bad has happened, he thought. He eased up behind the squad car.

When Burt got out of the car a detective saw him.

“Hey, Burt,” the detective yelled. “How’d you get here so damn fast?” He was about thirty-five, five-foot-nine and slim.

“Just lucky,” Burt answered. He walked over to the detective. “I was on my way home and I saw one of your guys turn down this way.” He looked around the area. “What happened, Alvarez?”

“A little girl was murdered, and we think she was raped too.” Detective Alvarez’s brown face was grim.

Burt shook his head in dismay. “God, I’ll never understand how anyone can do that. How old was she?”

“She was only seven.” Alvarez smoothed back his black hair with his hand.

“Seven years old,” Burt repeated. Children are so helpless, he thought. Sometimes I wonder if you should ever leave them alone, even for two minutes.

This was not Burt’s first child murder report, but it always affected him the same way.

Alvarez glanced at the school across the street, dark eyes blazing. “We’ve been looking for the son of a bitch, but we probably won’t find him.” He looked at Burt. “Now, don’t print that, Burt.”

Usually everything would’ve been on record, but Burt had a good relationship with Alvarez.

“Don’t worry, Alvarez, I won’t. What’d the guy look like?”

Alvarez gave Burt a description that he had gotten from a neighbor. The neighbor had seen Darwin earlier.

“But the guy’s only a suspect at this time,” Alvarez hastily said. “By the way, Burt, your new police beat reporter is getting along fine in his office at the station.”

“Good. He said he’d like to work at the ‘cop shop,’ so the editor gave him a chance.”

After getting as much as he could out of Alvarez, Burt thanked him and headed for home. He had gotten a new house recently, and he was still getting familiar with the route. He liked his neighborhood and new home.

And so far the key hasn’t bent out of shape, he thought, so I guess I’m going to live here for a while.

* * * * * * * *

Three days after Robyn’s funeral, Ed Jarvis remembered seeing an unfamiliar man near the park.

Tears welled in his eyes as he drove downtown to the Phoenix Police Station. His appetite was gone and he had lost weight.

Ed sat beside the detective’s desk, describing the man. “He was stocky, about five eleven, with dark hair and long sideburns. He had on a jean jacket; it was blue.” His bloodshot eyes pleaded with the detective. “You can find him, can’t you?” He brushed back his hair with his hand.

Detective Alvarez said, “When we do get a suspect, Mister Jarvis, we’ll be able to identify the killer by the blood samples we got.”

He glanced at the case folder. “Your description fits a man one of your neighbors saw, but we can’t make any promises that he’s the killer.”

He answered the phone. “Okay, Dick, I’ll get back in ten minutes.” He hung up and handed Ed a mug shot book. “Would you please look through these photos, Mister Jarvis?”

Ed nodded and began leafing through the book. “Beth and I never wanted to leave the kids alone,” he mumbled, “but we checked on them every half hour.”

He turned a page. “I was just”—his voice cracked—”a few minutes late.” His grim face was etched with sorrow. “Oh God, I hope there really is a Judgment Day.”

Unable to see the mug shots, he held his head in his hands.

Alvarez put his hand on Ed’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, Mister Jarvis.” He glanced at a nearby officer and sympathetically shook his head. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow.”

Ed tried to compose himself. “No, I’ll check them now.”

In a moment, he continued looking through the book, hoping he would see the cruel face that tormented his mind. After he finished, he was disappointed, then he stood up.

“I’ve got to get back to my wife.”

Driving home, he was overcome with grief. He desperately hoped that he could find the man that he had only seen once but would never forget.

I’d give anything to see him again, he thought. Ed believed that the unknown man was the killer, and he prayed that he could get to him before the police.

I may lose my soul, but I’ll slaughter him like the butcher he is. God, forgive me. When I find him—I’ll kill him!

December.

Burt sat at his desk in the Times offices. Rummaging through his In Basket, he came across a memo about Robyn Jarvis. He briefly scanned it, and then leaned back in his chair. Thinking of the little girl saddened him.

He remembered his grandfather consoling him when his parents were killed in 1965. In spite of piercing heartache over the death of his son and daughter-in-law, the elder Stephens had spent every waking moment with young Burt.

There were times when they cried together.

But Grampa wouldn’t let it get out of control, Burt thought. He would change the subject, and divert my attention.

I remember he started a program for us, watching comedies together, making sure that I felt comfortable.

Burt thought of Robyn again. He wondered how the family was making it through the holidays.

Jesus, that was so horrible, he mused.

She was in her schoolyard across the street from home, and she still wasn’t safe. I’d like to strangle the bastard that killed her.




CONTINUED on FAR OUT TOPICS 2

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