What would I do, I ask myself, if my real children were bombed, taken from me, by a foreign nation? I, too, might be tempted to become a terrorist. I’d likely be driven mad. I’d probably be blinded by rage or become so cold and calculating, like Liam Neeson in Taken, that I might even consider doing something that could put people in that aggressor nation at risk. What would I have to lose? My progeny would be gone. My pain would be unbearable. My heart would be broken. Everything I built toward, everything I loved for, sacrificed for—gone. What would keep me from trying to bring that same pain on those who brought this pain on me?

Then, an Iranian frigate—87 dead—sunk by a torpedo. And now, to date, thousands of Iranian and Lebanese civilians have been killed. Instead of being Christ, instead of going to Iran (as we were commanded) to show them the gentleness and love of Christ our Shepherd, we are, instead, demonstrating anti-Christ to these people. By being the aggressor, by being the bully nation, by killing our “enemy” instead of loving them, we have become anti-Christ—anti-the-one-who-taught-us-to “pray for those who persecute you and do good to those who do evil to you,” and “they’ll know you are my followers by your love.” He taught us that we win, not by any weapon of this world, but by the greatest argument ever: demonstrating love. It is the only argument loud enough to silence evil, powerful enough to quell religious anger, gentle enough to disarm fighters, subversive enough to motivate people to lay down their arms, forgive, heal, move on, and build again.

There is no middle ground. If we do not step into our destiny to be like Christ and become active, courageous demonstrators of love, then we are doomed to become what we fear. Fear terrorists? Beware! Fear monsters? Beware! Fear this. Fear that. Whatever or whoever it is, stay afraid. Stay very afraid. Harbor that slow-working poison, until it transforms you, until it molds you, until it hardens you through the unrelenting echo-chamber of its own pattern-projections and self-justifications. Then, finally, the imagined war games and divisions become real; preemptive violence becomes the only logical choice; war—the only inevitable fate in a world where fear and suspicion run free.

But thanks be to God that Jesus showed us the way out of bitter enmity. He brought Jew and Gentile—sworn enemies—together through absorbing our anger, by touching our fear-ridden, frightened bodies and driving out that demon, by looking into our faces with merciful eyes of love, coaxing, beckoning, pulling our true selves out of our dark caves… “Lazarus, come forth!”…

…and we wake up again, we step into the light, our death rags falling off of us, grace-breath filling our lungs as if for the first time, and eyes—unscaled eyes—seeing the world as it is—a garden to be loved. How beautiful! This is how it always was; I was just blind to it. But now I see. Get behind me, Satan. Your words are poison. Quick! Renounce suspicion, mistrust, and division, before it’s too late.

“We do not fight against flesh and blood, but against powers and principalities (Eph. 6:12).”

If you call yourself a follower of Christ—a follower of the one who came to tear down walls between Jew and Gentile and to put an end to the cycles of violence and enmity by subjecting himself to the worst of human violence, a follower of the Teacher who taught us to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us, a follower of the one who sides with the blessed of the beatitudes, who identifies with the prisoner, the outcast, the widow, and the orphan, then I implore you to call your representatives and demand they put a limit on Trump and an end to this war.

Jesus-followers are not required to be Zionist radicals. Supporting the nation of Israel has absolutely nothing to do with being a Christian. Loving the people of Israel AND the people in every nation of the Middle East does. Do your homework. Study history. Study what scholars say. Study the FULL CONTEXT of the Bible—the entire story and what it means for the world today. Do not listen to those who use the Bible to support any political movement or nationalistic policy, especially militaristic violence. That is exactly what it means to “take the Lord’s name in vain.”

When this is over—God, let it be over, soon—we will have to think about how we mitigate the pain we have caused. How many delegations of peacemakers will be enough? How many acts of penance? The whole U.S. Congress in sackcloth and ashes? Maybe a monument right in the middle of the mall in Washington, D.C., for that school in Iran and those innocent children, as a perpetual reminder that this is why we must never allow a president the power to take this kind of military action ever again.

Until then, Dear God, be with those families as they grieve. As your followers, we commit to grieve with them.

He continued, “And then it was all over the news. Everyone on Earth was talking about the thing that Voyager 2 had found. It was our salvation. Before Discovery Day, the whole world was falling apart. Divisiveness was tearing apart countries, alliances, trade networks, communities, and families. Everyone had become their own little self-appointed judge of the world, of how everyone else ought to think. ‘If you didn’t see things my way, it was the highway, buster.’ It was all black and white, us vs. them; you're either for us our you’re against us. Everyone shrunk, kept their heads down, and stayed quiet—not knowing that this was the very worst thing they could have done.”

I listened as I stared out the window at the foot of my bed. Orion was there on his side, shooting his arrow downward—or maybe it was aimed at something behind me, something chasing me. I’ve never seen Orion from Earth, but my dad tells me from our point of view it’s basically the same only more pinpricked with dim stars filling in the spaces on a deeper black velvet background.

My dad continued, “Insecure men were preaching their self-made religions of severity and seriousness. Street fights, gang battles, and civil wars were on news reports in every city. Everyone feared the worst—that the fighting would eventually find its way into their backyards and into their homes. And then one month before Discovery Day, Russia and the United States declared they were at war with each other and that ‘all military options were on the table.’ That was an excruciating month. Everyone was afraid that any day communication would break down and, like a high noon duel between two ace gunslingers, one would flinch and launch the first barrage. It would be the domino that would lead to the collapse of all things—total nuclear annihilation. The shroud of nuclear winter would have inevitably led to the extinction of all life on earth.

“Those who were not completely paralyzed by the awful state of the world went to work digging underground tunnel systems and stocking them with food. A hole in the ground became the most valuable asset on Earth. Real estate markets and lottery systems were selling tickets for these limited underground spaces to highest bidders. People with bunkers and concrete basements became warlords. In those months, so many died in collapsed tunnels. People raided grain silos and warehouses to store up as much food as they could in their private hold outs. No one stopped to consider how useless all this was. A global nuclear winter doesn’t just blow over in a few months—it would likely have led to the next ice age. There were murders in the name of self-defense, trade cartels, black markets, and open wars between competing mafia. We had all completely lost our senses.”

Dad told the story slightly differently each time. Each time triggered new thoughts and new questions from me. “Why are people so mean to each other?”

“When people don’t feel safe, they resort to a lot of things they thought they’d never do. When shame is carried for too long, it becomes unbearable. They end up looking to a strong leader who appeals to the moral compass their shame points to, however damaged it may be, and recruits them to join Team Good to root out evil and restore righteousness. But the way they go about it is always in direct contradiction to the life of love they think their idea of righteousness will lead to. Violence gets justified. Controlling others by force gets normalized. Innocent people get killed. This is how it’s been since the beginning of our species…but thank God for Discovery Day. Without it, we would have probably all killed each other.”

“Why?”

“Human beings,” he said, “have always had a really hard time letting go of the past, especially when it comes to forgiving themselves. For whatever reason, shame, guilt, and regret are very sticky things on the human conscience. Ancient religions gradually developed rituals of animal sacrifice. For some reason, for brief moments of time, the blood of animals relieved their feelings of guilt and shame. Many concluded that it was God who wanted these sacrifices to appease his anger or satisfy his justice. So, they systematized these practices. Those systems became business as usual. And business as usual became big business. Markets popped up around these ritual centers, which were often built on high places—tops of mountains or pyramids or pagodas. Psychologically, going up to where the air (and the distance between the terrestrial and the spiritual) is thinner, forced people to lift their eyes, tilt back their heads, and raise their thoughts above their momentary troubles.

“Standards were applied to this economy of shame alleviation. People desperately wanted that feeling of cleanness again—a fresh start—nothing weighing them down on the inside, so they were willing to pay whatever it took. Told a white lie? Easy. Doves are cheap. That’ll cover it. Stole your neighbor’s donkey? One dove isn’t enough. You’ll need to buy three. Cheated a man out of a fair business deal and you know that led to the man’s depression and suicide? That’s a little more complicated. You’ll need to buy an ox, then you’ll be able to sleep at night again. Killed a man? Committed adultery? Broke the Sabbath? You’re going to need a lamb.”

“– why a lamb? Lamb’s are so cute!”

“Yes, they are. And they’re young, with their whole life ahead of them—so much to offer the world—their wool, their milk, their young, their meat. At one year old, they’re beautiful. They’re perfect. They’re full of potential.”

“That’s not fair!”

“You’re right. It is brutal and tragic. But these practices helped people feel clean on the inside. But then a man came and told people that the angry, disappointed, shame-inducing, accusatory voices that plagued their consciences were not from God but from the enemy of their souls. The real God was full of grace, patience, and love for all he made, especially for people, whom he placed in charge of all of creation. This came as good news to some; but to the religious establishment and all the invested parties in the business side of conscience cleaning, it made them flaming mad.”

“Why?”

“Because their livelihoods depended on keeping people afraid of punishment and ashamed of their humanity.”

“But couldn’t they see how they were just hurting themselves, too?”

“People can’t see what their paid not to see.”

“I don't understand.”

“Maybe, one day, you will. Sometimes, things that are too good to be true are hard to believe.”

“What happened to the teacher?”

“He knew he would have to convince everyone of a better story. And the only way to do that was to demonstrate it. So, he offered himself to be sacrificed by the very religious system they had set up to help them alleviate their sin and shame. They killed him.”

“Like the lamb?”

“Yes. Just like the lamb. But his blood wasn’t spilled to cover just one person’s temporary shame—it was powerful enough to alleviate everyone’s shame and guilt from the very beginning to the very end of the human race. Usually, the blood of animal sacrifices was applied on an altar inside of a temple on top of a high place. But this man’s blood was applied inside the temple in the highest place of all—in Heaven itself, becoming a never-ending waterfall of forgiveness, where it continually works to cleanse human consciences for all who choose to accept it.”

“You’re talking about Jesus.”

“Clever girl. Yes. Those who want it can simply believe the new story Jesus made possible for us, confess their shame and guilt to him, and experience cleansing and release from the inevitable gravity of violence, darkness, and angry religion.”

“Is religion bad?”

“Not necessarily. For many, religion is just a set of disciplines and rituals to remind us of what is already true—like the rituals we do to wake up our bodies in the morning; religion can be the daily face wash, teeth brush, and stretch routine to wake up our souls—to remind ourselves that today is a gift to be received with joy, an adventure to be explored with enthusiasm, and a dream to be pursued with passion. The stuff that gets us tangled up, bogged down, and depressed—shame and regret—can be taken to the waterfall of Jesus’s love and washed off.”

“And if we don’t take them to Jesus, we just end up carrying more and more shame for messing up.”

“Yes, without the forgiveness part, religion turns sour and, eventually, manifests as harshness toward self and anger toward other people.”

“That makes sense. But how is the story of this mission similar? That still doesn’t make sense.”

“I think…the Discovery—that day…it’s like it broke a spell. We all just woke up and realized there was something we all didn’t know together. You see, part of the reason people break up into clans and gangs and sects and factions is usually because there’s someone, like a leader, who is able to explain things to their followers in a way that makes sense to them. It helps people make sense of their world and that gives them a sense of belonging—a feeling like they’re on the inside of a secret. They know what others don’t, and that makes them feel special. But with the Voyager’s Discovery, all of sudden, no one had a good explanation—no one could claim they had the answer. And so, instantly, everyone felt like they were on the outside of the secret. It wasn’t just a feeling; it was the truth. Everyone knew that everyone else was just like them. There was no one to go to for the answer, no one to follow, no one to lead them. Our leaders, presidents, and heads of major religions were all stumped.

“For two weeks, there was peace. With this mystery hanging over us, everyone lost the will to fight. Bickering over toys or teams or tomahawk missiles felt silly. It was like, all of a sudden, we all go our senses back—and it wasn’t because we all understood something together; it was because we all didn’t understand something. But we wanted to. Finally, after those first couple of weeks, some sensible world leaders came together—not with an answer, but with a plan: we were going to send a team outside of our solar system to find answers—not just any answers, but the answer to one of the oldest questions humans have ever asked of the stars: Are we alone? And like the Jesus story, this story put the world on the same level ground and brought everyone in sync to the same moment of decision and the same place of worship. This time, the high-place temple was the sky, the launchpad was the altar, and we were the sacrifice.”

I stared out the window for a long time, thinking about how this team of twelve astronauts (not including me at the time) were perceived as some kind of human sacrifice—Earth’s best and brightest—offered up from a platform of our own technological prowess. It wasn’t much different than those ancient rituals after all. In our case, however, it wasn’t an immediate sacrifice, but a delayed one. This was to be a one-way mission—they didn’t yet have the technology to turn this bullet around and get back to Earth once leaving the solar system—so, Ascension Day was witnessing the sealing of their fates—the end of their destiny with Earth. No more beach trips. No more picnics at the park. No more rollercoasters. No more holidays with family. No more running through fields of grass. No more playing with animals.

“Dad?”

“Yes, honey?”

“How were you chosen?”

“That is a long story.”

“Please tell it to me.”

“But the sun went down hours ago.”

“Ha ha. Funny.”

“Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Your mom might not be too happy if she finds out that I kept you up late.”

“I promise I’ll do my chores first thing.”

“Okay. Well, soon after the plan was conceived…”

She rose quickly, choosing her running attire with the same precision she used in drafting contracts—tailored, understated, but designed to win every first impression. In the kitchen, her mother was already up, perched on a stool with a mug of coffee and a mischievous smile.

“How’d it go last night?” her mother asked.

Eve grimaced and offered nothing but a look.

“Oh, that bad?” Her mother chuckled.

“Am I intimidating?” The words slipped from Eve’s lips before she could take them back. She had meant them for herself, but her mother liked to poke fun.

“Intimidating? You?” Her mother gestured with mock disbelief. “No. You’re covered in flaws. You’re lazy—you drag yourself out of bed at six to go for a run. Any self-respecting human being would be out the door by five.”

“Haha. Good one, Mom.” Eve rolled her eyes, as she grabbed an empty glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, and chugged.

“Didn’t go to Yale and settled for Harvard, that backwater diploma mill. Honestly, I didn’t know how they still managed to hand out degrees.” her mother added, following her to the door. “Couldn’t even let someone else be valedictorian. And now—” She plucked a glossy magazine from the counter and waved it—Top Lawyer—with Eve’s face splashed across the cover. “No. Not intimidating at all.”

Eve slipped out the door with a smirk. “Have a great day.”

Her mother watched her go, voice softening as she looked down at the magazine cover. She sipped her coffee, eyes bright with pride.

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Other than Central Park, New York’s green spaces were rare and pocketed. Thankfully, for Jim Claiborne, Riverside Park was close to Columbia University. It hugged the Hudson and was a popular place for morning joggers, something he did not consider himself to be. Today, he was running because of a dare—more like a lost bet—from his research assistant, Max Zhang. He jogged beside Max, their footsteps pounding the winding path.

“You are hopeless,” Max panted. “What’s your problem?”

Jim shrugged without breaking pace. “Look, I wasn’t interested.”

“Dude,” Max’s face reddened with effort. “You are nearly forty.”

“Thirty-nine,” Jim corrected. “Plenty of time.”

“Where I come from,” Max countered, “you are practically forty once you turn thirty-five.”

“Then that makes you older than me,” Jim said with a grin.

“I have a wife and two kids. By life stage, I am older than you.”

“And as your employer, technically I feed your kids. So, I am still your daddy.”

“Hah.” Max laughed despite his breathlessness. “Life is passing you by, man. You needed to move on.”

Jim shot him a sidelong glance. “Move on?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” Jim surged forward, lengthening his stride. “How’s this for forty?” Max huffed, trying to catch up.

“How are you in shape? I’m the one who invited you out here.”

Max moved from China to the United States when he was a child. His parents’ ancestry traced to the western mountains of Sichuan Province, where the Qiang peoples lived in the foothills of the eastern Himalayas. His parents were both anthropologists—his dad from Sichuan university and his mother from Southwestern University of Nationalities. Both schools were in the provincial capital, Chengdu, but they had met at a conference in India. When Max was six, his father was invited to be a lecturer at Rice University in Houston.

Max was determined to not be bested by his boss. Ahead of them, through the trees, a young woman was running—dark ponytail bouncing, stride smooth, earbuds in. Max’s eyes lit with mischief. “You see that girl?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Jim admitted warily.

“You see all those schmoes gawking at her?”

Jim glanced around. Sure enough, men were sneaking glances at her—only to look away quickly when she caught their eyes.

“What’s your point?” Jim asked.

“My point,” Max said, slowing to a jog and thrusting out his fist, “is ‘set aside the ranger, become who you were born to be!’”

Jim groaned. “No. No, no.”

“C’mon,” Max insisted. “We agreed. Girl-challenge at any time.”

Reluctantly, Jim slapped his fist against Max’s. Rock, paper, scissors. One round. Max won with paper.

Jim exhaled, resigned, and veered through the trees toward the woman.

“This is good medicine,” Max called after him. “You’ll thank me!”

Eve was in the zone, music loud in her ears, breath even as she powered down the path. She barely noticed the tall man angling toward her until he fell in a step behind her. She must have sped up her pace, because he found himself losing ground. He picked it up.

“Hi,” Jim said, breathless and smiling. Eve trod on without skipping a beat. “Hello,” he said a bit louder. Still nothing. He sped up to get a half-step ahead—into her field of view—and waved at her. She side-eyed him. He motioned to his ears while saying in a loud voice, “Hi!”

Eve pulled out one of her earbuds as her long legs turned from pistons of forward motion into brakes. Jim slowed alongside her, thankful for the reprieve. He heaved a few deep breaths, “Hi there. You must have noise-cancelling on.”

“I don’t,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Okay, well, I’m sorry to—” he lost his breath again and put up a hand to request a moment.

She glared at him, unimpressed and losing patience.

“See my friend over there—” Jim motioned toward Max, who was waving like a fanboy from across the lawn, “yeah, that one—he thinks all the men in this park are afraid to talk to you.”

Eve glanced around. As if on cue, every man she made eye contact with immediately looked away. A flicker of insecurity tugged at her, but she masked it with an unimpressed stare.

“Well,” Jim said, “I told him you’re not intimidating.” His words touched a nerve—the same doubt she had just given voice to with her mother this morning. Jim continued, “You’re just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“I don’t think you know.”

“You don’t think I know what I want?”

“What do you want?”

“Not to be bothered when I’m running.”

“MmHmm,” Jim said, unconvinced.

Eve couldn’t help but follow up with, “What?”

“From your spotless Lululemon ensemble and new shoes, I would have assumed this exercise routine is more of a performance than a workout.”

Her eyes narrowed into slits, and her chin bunched up into a ball. “You,” she glanced at Max in the distance, “need your friends to tell you what you want, because you’re not willing to go after it on your own.”

She could tell by his lack of response that she nailed him, right between the eyes. She had been the best student in her oral advocacy class in law school—always knew how to put people in their place and leave them speechless. She placed her earbud back in her ear and resumed her run.

Jim recovered a second too late, “Ouch.”

Inside Simon and Schuster’s open office space—that would make a Google office look stuffy—long fingers fanned out the back of a smutty romance novel. The cover art displayed a fierce, Amazonian heroine dressed in a tattered business suit riding a bucking white horse, while a shirtless, muscle-bound man is tied to a post awaiting his oncoming rescuer with desire in his eyes.

“It seems like that one’s got ya,” said Suzie-with-a-Z Demming from her nearby fern-covered desk. The fingers and the book fall to reveal a face Gal Gadot would be jealous of.

Eve responded dreamily, “Why can’t the woman be the hero?”

“We are, honey. The man-hero myth is the stuff of fantasy novels. What you’re reading is biographical of every real woman.”

“I have to believe there’s a secure man out there somewhere.”

“And I have to believe in unicorns.”

They laugh.

“You’re just jaded. You’ll see. I’ll find him.”

“Uh-huh. Good luck with that. When you do, you tell him to bring back my unicorn. Oh, and by the way, Burt wants to see you.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“It’s always trouble in that office. Good luck.”

Eve walked into Burt Chesser’s office and found him exactly as she expected—feet on the desk, hands laced behind his head, eyes glued to the television.

“You wanted to—” she began.

“Shh.” Burt raised a hand.

Onscreen, the camera cut from a reporter to footage of a frail Dalai Lama, being assisted by a young monk, descending the steps of a private jet. The old icon waved to a cheering crowd, his arms weak but his smile still contagious. His aides helped lower him into a waiting wheelchair.

The broadcast’s news anchor narrated the clip, “His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama is visiting the States this week in what he says may be his last trip to America.”

The screen returned to the news anchor’s desk. “Incredible,” the co-anchor said. “Ninety. I hope I make it to ninety.”

“You and me both,” the lead anchor replied. “Next up: German politics is heating up with the rise of Markus Balsiger—”

Burt flicked the TV off. “I want you to do his will.”

“Excuse me?” Eve asked.

Burt waved the remote like a pointer. “The Dalai Lama. His will. I want you to draft his last will.”

Her mouth opened slightly. “Why me?”

“Maybe because you were his copyright attorney for his last three books,” Burt said. “Or maybe because when one of the world’s major religious leaders asks you to do something, you typically say…” He twirled his fingers impatiently.

“Yes?” she offered.

“Bingo!” He grinned. “Besides, it’ll probably be good juju.”

“I don’t think that’s how juju works.”

“Don’t mess it up,” Burt warned, eyes already drifting back to his computer. He jabbed the return key theatrically. “Sending it to you now.”

Before Eve could reply, his secretary burst into Burt’s office. Terry, mid-fifties, looked perpetually exhausted.

“Mr. Chesser, we’ve got a situation in the lobby. Another writer is demanding we do more to protect against deep fakes. Mr. Wright just sent an SOS.”

“That’s bad juju,” Burt muttered, then glanced at Eve. “We’ve got liability language in our contracts about this?”

“It’s still sort of a gray area,” she admitted.

Burt turned to Eve. “Do you mind going down and wriggling us out of the gray?”

Eve hesitated, and Burt wagged his hand for the obvious answer.

“Love to,” she said dryly.

“Good girl,” he said in his best Sean Connery impression. Terry rolled her eyes before she disappeared as quickly as she had come, no doubt counting the days until retirement.

The elevator chimed and opened into the bright lobby of Simon & Schuster. Eve stepped out into the lobby that was decorated with swirls of reds, oranges, and yellows. The interior designers must have been going for cheerful, though the scheme did nothing to help hot tempers. In a semi-private alcove, Jim Claiborne was in full voice, arguing with his agent, Geoffrey Wright.

“You’re a publishing company with an army of lawyers,” Jim was saying. He had cleaned up nicely since the morning run. Casual, tan suit. His dark hair was mussed. His presence commanded attention. “What else do you do if not protect us from this?”

Geoffrey’s voice was placating. “I understand your concern, Mr. Claiborne. We, too, have a stake in protecting against these developments, but—”

“—I don’t have time to chase down every troll who—” Jim stopped mid-sentence as his eyes landed on Eve. His tone softened. “It’s you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Geoffrey made the introduction, “Ms. Dyer, this is –”

“Dr. James Claiborne.”

“I’m sorry, I never caught your—”

She extended her hand. “Evelyn Dyer, copyright attorney.”

He took her hand and shook, or was it his the one being shaken?

“Strong grip.”

“Thank you.”

Geoffrey began, “Mr. Claiborne is concerned, as we are, with the rise of deep fakes and–”

“–Copyright concerns,” Eve finished.

But Jim’s attention had already narrowed to her, as if Geoffrey no longer existed.

“More like blatant misrepresentation,” Jim said.

She gestured to a glossy purple leather sofa nearby. “Please, Mr. Claiborne.”

“I’d rather stand,” he said with a playful defiance that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Stay professional, Eve. “Fine. I assure you we’re doing everything we can to address your concerns. We can show you how to contact each platform’s moderators—”

“Here we are again,” Jim interrupted. “Look, Ms. Dyer. I’m a busy man. I read, I write, I lecture on civilizations older than the pyramids. I don’t waste my time on social media.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Claiborne, but social media is where your readers are.”

“I know my readers use social media, but they don’t go to social media to learn deep things; they go there to escape deep things—to skim, to scroll, to stay on the surface. Is that what you want, Ms. Dyer? Look, all I want is for you guys to approach these platforms and ask them to take down these deep fakes of me.”

“Mr. Claiborne—”

“Call me Jim.”

“Fine. Jim. We don’t have the resources to follow up on every deep fake post online. Your only recourse is to engage more with your followers. The more they see the real you, the easier it is for them to spot counterfeits.”

“I can think of another recourse,” Jim said. “That’s Penguin Random House across the street, right? Maybe they have the resources.” He turned as if to leave.

“Wait,” Eve said.

He pivoted back, surprised by the urgency in her voice.

“Send them to me,” she said.

“What?”

“The deep fake accounts. The posts. Send them to me. I’ll help you submit takedown requests.”

Jim stepped closer, “Not good enough.” His ultimatum evaporated any sense of generosity she felt she had offered.

Her chin lifted. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not hearing me. I don’t have time to chase online punks who get off on hindering human progress.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“You find them.”

“Me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You want me to scour the internet for deep fakes of your lectures on ancient history?”

“Or we renegotiate our contract,” he said smoothly. “Or I take my business elsewhere.”

Eve’s pride flared, but her voice stayed calm. “Fine.”

He blinked, caught off guard.

“On one condition,” she added.

His eyes narrowed with curiosity. “What condition?”

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The purple pill bottle calls to him from his kitchen counter. He’s slowly remembering the dream and says aloud, “doubt.” He searches for a writing utensil—any will do—with feverish energy. “Doubt…doubt…doubt…” he repeats, afraid to lose the thought. Finally he finds a pencil and a nearby notepad.

He scribbles:

He picks up his pen and muses aloud, “Doubt is the key to knowing.”

That’s ridiculous.

The quick judgment alarms Tim. He remembers something Paula said and repeats it, “She said the voice will resist. It blinds you to the truth with certainty.”

Tim decides to test this theory. He speaks with added volume as if there were microphones under the couch cushions, “I can’t trust the voice in my head.”

Again, his head responds, That’s ridiculous.

“Why is it ridiculous?”

Because I’m you. Distrust is–

“–the beginning of anarchy,” Tim finishes the thought out loud. It’s one of those axioms that’s in the water—a script fathers repeat to their children when they feel disrespected.

“Have I been brainwashed?”

Have a pill. Take the edge off.

He shakes the urge and pushes the question again. “Am I brainwashed?”

Silence. He waits for a response, until the next thought in his head dismisses the whole event in first-person POV.

I’m going crazy. This is silly. Take a pill—I’ll feel better. You’ll be happy.

The sudden switch to second person in his head was so slight, it normally would have gone through his head without any alarm. But now it raises suspicion. Tim strains to think an original thought, something, anything that would push through the voice he has only just started to distrust. But the conundrum dawns on him. How would he know which voice was the real him? How would he know which to believe? A solution hits him like a revelation. His pen dances with a new excitement:

The phone rings and shocks Tim out of his reverie. He picks up the phone. “Hello.”

“Hi, sweetie. We just had you on our minds.”

“Oh. Hi, mom.”

“Everything okay?”

Tim covers the phone as his sense of paranoia grows. “Yes. And you?”

“Oh, we’re good. A little birdie just told us to give you a ring. Hey, if you ever need anything, you know you can call us anytime.”

“I know that, mom. Thank you.”

Tim hears his dad’s voice in the background. His mother finishes, “We love you. Here’s your father.”

“Tim.”

“Dad?”

“You need money?”

“Dad, you’ve literally never asked me that as long as I’ve known you. What’s going on?”

“We were just thinking about you and felt like calling. We’re worried about you.

“What have I done to make you worried?”

“That’s the weird thing. I guess it’s just a sixth sense kinda thing.”

“Dad, you’re not making me worried.”

“We’re fine. Just…just be careful, okay?”

“Why is everyone telling me to be careful?”

“Sorry, you cut out there for a second…well, we love you, son. Take care.”

“Dad? Dad!” Tim hears a click and dial tone. He holds the receiver of the phone like it’s evidence in a crime scene. It suddenly rings again causing such a start that he nearly drops it. “Hello?!”

“Dr. Hatfield. It’s Jackie from the office. We just got a wave of appointments; the whole day is booked. We need you in, like, ASAP.”

“Uh…that’s a great…problem.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Um, uh…,” Tim fakes a cough. “I’m not feeling too well today and don’t think I’m going to make it in.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, doctor. Would you like me to have a physician come check on you?”

“No!–uh–I mean, no. That isn’t necessary.”

“Are you sure? I really feel like I should. You know how I get with those unctions. I’m usually right, you have to admit.”

“Don’t–Jackie, don’t give in to unctions right now, please. It’s hard to explain, but I really need you to trust me. I just need to get some sleep and to not be disturbed at all by anything or anyone.”

“Okay,” she says with a highly suspicious tone.

“Strict radio silence.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Thank you, Jackie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Get some rest. Call me if you need–” Tim hangs up the phone before she can finish.

Tim grabs his head to stop the room from spinning. His mind is bombarded by an unending stream of thoughts: I need to take my pills. Where are they? I’m lucky to be alive after last night’s near death experience. I should go to work. Bills need to be paid. I need the money. I’m hungry; I should just eat something; I’ll feel better…

“Stop!” Tim yells out loud. He notices a brief pause in the noise in his head. “I don’t believe you any more. Do you hear me? I’m on to you. I will drown you out with my speech and my writing. You—Voice in my head, whatever you are—you are not allowed to speak to me any more!”

For a moment, Tim hears nothing. In fact, all he hears are the noises outside him—the fan in his refrigerator, the wind in the trees outside the windows, the neighbors shuffling around, closing cabinet doors—and he feels as if he’s never heard them before now.

All of a sudden, another noise crashes in and overtakes all the others—the noise of four hooded men dressed in black breaking in to his apartment, taping his mouth shut before he can speak, shoving him to the ground, putting a hood over his head and something like chloroform over his nose.

He awoke two hours later in a most unfamiliar place.

His expedition of eight S.S. officers, plus a hired Tibetan porter and his heavy-laden packhorse, trudged through deep snow under a bright sun toward Mount Kailash, an unnatural and ominous pyramid-shaped mountain, taunting them on the horizon like some sentinel of Mordor. To hundreds of millions of Buddhists and Hindus, Mt. Kailash was the garden of Eden, home to Lord Shiva, and their faith’s most supreme spiritual pilgrimage site. Four major Central Asian rivers spiral outward from Kailash. Despite its barren surface, it was viewed by believers as the ultimate source of power.

Himmler was one of those believers. “The way to control Asia is through Kailash,” he had said. Friedrich knew the effectiveness of tapping into local legends—Hitler had chosen Berchtesgaden as his Eagle’s Nest on purpose—it was next door to Mt. Untersberg, the “heart chakra” of Europe, central to a German legend that a great emperor would emerge from Untersberg, awaken an army, and restore glory and honor to the German people. Friedrich, like many others, believed Hitler was the fulfillment of the legend. How else could one explain the pride swelling in his heart and the acts of valor and sacrifice he had witnessed? But maybe it was all just a well-told story. There has always been power in unlocking hope—hope for a better future, hope for a better country, hope for a great leader to lead us there.

“This,” said Himmler, “is different. This is true spiritual and geomantic power. Find it, and it will be ours.” Friedrich wasn’t yet sure what he believed about how trekking into the heart of the geomantic center of the Earth and retrieving an ancient religious artifact would unlock power for the German leader, but he was willing to go to any length to bring back a great treasure for his führer. It was his honor to be the one, at this point in history, leading this quest for the sake of the world.

Friedrich had read all of the research on Mt. Kailash—both religious and scientific. Some said it was built by humans, or even aliens, as its pyramidal structure was ‘too perfect to be naturally formed.’ And whether mystics or geographers wanted to prove or disprove the claim, the fact that Kailash was the most remote religious destination on Earth—at least 400 miles from any significant human center—made research trips cost prohibitive. For the führer, though, every cost was justified if the end result was more power. Cost never deterred true pilgrims, either, who came to Kailash as a way to absolve their sins and earn karma. In many first-hand testimonials he read, some pilgrims claimed experiencing supernatural phenomena around Kailash and believe it was inhabited by supernatural forces, the greatest of which was Lord Shiva himself.

At 28, Heiko Knopf was one of the youngest members of the expedition. The swastika on his armband was a mirror-image of the swastika on the mountain’s south face. The buildup of snow on the south face of Mt. Kailash resembled a swastika. Legend has it, the peaceful Hindu religious symbol’s shape originated from the natural features of this mountain. And like every other member of his party, except the porter, Heiko was dressed in a long wool coat and wore a large fur cap. He struggled to catch his breath. At 16,000 feet, at the base of the mountain, breath was a precious commodity. By mere force of habit, he reached for a cigarette and his lighter.

Flick, flick, flick.

“Won’t work. Not enough oxygen,” the first officer said. “Not a good idea anyway.” Heiko put the lighter away then spit the unused cigarette out. Suddenly, they came upon a carousel of large shadows circling around a frozen yak carcass. Heiko stared with morbid fascination. He looked up at the vulture-like birds above him. “Ossifrage,” Friedrich said loudly for the sake of the group. Heiko wore a look of confusion. “It literally means, ‘bone crusher.’ They say if the shadow of one of these birds touches you, you're either going to die or be anointed king. Ha! Luck goes both ways, doesn't it?”

An ossifrage turned its head to watch them and broke from its wolfpack. Its 8-foot wingspan cast a wide shadow that cut through the group like a quickly passing cloud. Heiko took notice and gulped. The porter, at the front of the group, noticed the harbinger, stopped in his tracks, and fell to his knees. Commander Bern Geissler, the expedition leader, spoke, “What is this?”

Friedrich commanded the porter in heavily-accented Tibetan, “Get up, man. Let's go. The terrified Tibetan porter pointed to the nazgul creature above, refusing to budge.

The commander quietly but forcefully ordered, “Tell him to get up and move.”

The translator repeated himself, and the frightened man shook his head. “He refuses.”

The commander pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the porter. The porter, in a kneeling position, waited for the bullet. Why should he care for his life now that it was marked by doom? Better to go out quickly, he thought. Frustrated, the commander placed the gun directly on the horse's temple, pulled back on the hammer, and shouted, “Then the blood of this animal will be on him!”

Friedrich passed on the threat, but the porter needed no translation. He jumped up with tearful pleadings. The commander waved his weapon in a sweeping motion. Knowing that it was just a matter of time before the axe fell, the porter grabbed the reins of his horse and continued plodding forward. Finally satisfied, the commander holstered his weapon and the group resumed their death march. The porter glanced upward with trepidation at the foreboding shadow, just as the bird gave a blood-curdling screech.

Meanwhile, 500 miles away, set squarely in the center of the Tibetan plateau, lay Lhasa, the historic capital of ancient Tibet. Snow-capped peaks rimmed Lhasa’s horizon like an ancient crown. The Potala Palace was perched high on a hill right in the middle of the ancient city as the crown’s centerpiece jewel.

Windhorses—colored prayer flags strung together on lines—flapped violently in the wind as they held on for dear life. One of the strings tore off from a gate and flew straight into the gaping mouth of the low-hanging clouds.

The seven-year-old 14^th Dalai Lama opened his eyes. Fear. Something’s wrong. Seated in his private “god room” in the 400-year-old Potala Palace, he closed his eyes again in concerted meditation. He chanted something under his breath urgently and rocked back and forth with a quickening pace. His prayers must have been able to summon clouds, for the room grew darker.

The sound of crunching snow underfoot formed an odd rhythm as seven pairs of black boots disturbed the pristine powder, like a menacing Wagner piece in seven-eight timing. The wind whistled D#Minor notes, and a sense of doom filled the pack of men.

The translator led them, looking up and down from the leather journal from time to time. He lifted his head and his gaze lingered on mighty Kailash. He noticed, too, the gathering storm. Before he could think twice, the wind picked up and it started snowing heavily. He yelled back to his mates, “Hurry up! We are almost there.”

The group walked up to the foot of the mountain. The nearly vertical rock wall before them made the mountain look like it grew out of the ground…or crashed into it from outer space. A voice spoke through the din of the inclement weather, “Friedrich, what does it say?”

“It should be around here.”

The commander shot back, “I don’t want ‘should be.’ Find where it is.”

Friedrich turned the journal 90 degrees, upside down, and then all around. He spun in place looking confused. “It has to be…” He turned to the Tibetan porter, “Quick, hand me the shovel.” The man didn’t understand German. One of the soldiers ripped the shovel off of the porter’s pack and handed it to the translator, who began stabbing the mountain’s icy skin.

Clank. Clank. Clank…Shlush.

He turned and gave the commander a wry smile. “Everyone, start digging here.” Hands and rifle butts stabbed at the ice and snow. What had just been a solid mountain wall fell away with each stab to reveal a narrow passage. The opening was barely the width of a man’s shoulders. It appeared to have no ceiling, as it was like a giant crack in the side of the mountain formed by some prehistoric earthquake, or the gap left between two warring tectonic plates that collided and sprung out of the ground to form this geologic oddity.

The commander side-hugged the dutiful translator. “Friedrich, I had my doubts, but you did not lead us astray. The Führer will thank you personally. I will see to it.”

Visibly anxious, the young Dalai Lama's eyes opened with a start. Fear trailed down his face in beads of sweat. With the resolve of a warrior, he closed them tightly again and sped up his mantra recitation.

Voices gathered outside his door as someone knocked. “Your Holiness, are you okay? Please open the door.” The knocking became banging. And, in short order, the banging turned into bodies ramming in succession.

Outside the room, two senior monks approached the commotion from down the hall.

The slightly younger-looking one vented, “I tell you, it is irresponsible. Someone needs to be punished for this.”

The older, wiser one answered, “You think this deserves punishment? I better not tell you what I got up to as a child.” Nyima Dawa was a gentle father figure and private tutor to the young Dalai Lama. Nyima walked right up to the door. Two younger monks made way. He stepped up and spoke gently through the door like a father, “Your Holiness. Remember your breathing.”

With sweat pouring off of the young Dalai Lama’s brow, his short, shallow breaths began slowing down. He took several long deep breaths. Panic gave way to something stronger, something confident, something resolute. He smiled slightly as his eyelids fluttered.

The room got visibly darker. The wind outside screamed even louder. The windows chattered to the point of shattering. The commotion on the other side of his door rose to a fever pitch. Like a bull whip, lightning cracked every few seconds. And its thunder sounded like avalanches gaining speed and volume as they closed the distance between life and death. The monks outside the door banged, “Your Holiness! Let us in!”

At Kailash, the expedition members all looked up at the unusual weather forming. Lighting lit up the darkening sky, and a flash blizzard came out of nowhere. The expedition leader urged the entire team into the newly discovered cave. The Tibetan porter stood his ground, shaking his head in fear.

“Get into the cave!” he demanded, pointing his rifle at the poor man. The porter fell to his knees and begged for his life, shaking his head in refusal. Apparently, even death would be preferred than going inside his religion’s most holy mountain.

“Fine.” He pointed his gun to the ground, “but wait right here.” The porter also pointed to the ground to signify he understood and would wait. He was relieved that even though he was sure to die today, he wouldn’t have to be punished in hell.

Inside the cave, Friedrich searched the leather journal for the next clue. One of the men mocked him, “I don’t think we need that to tell us what the next step is. There is only one way,” and walked further into the mountain’s vein.

Inside the Dalai Lama’s meditation room, sweat poured from his weary brow. A wild wind slammed a window shut, and its glass exploded inward.

Outside the room, there were now six monks crowded around the door. They heard the sound of breaking glass and paused their frantic efforts. “Your Holiness, please open the door!”

A seventh monk pushed through the rest holding a key ring the size of a large dinner plate. He fumbled through the many dozens of keys, until he found the one he was looking for. He inserted it and…nothing. “That was the wrong key,” he said embarrassed.

“You think?” one of his friends responded.

Lightning crashed just above the Dalai Lama on the roof of the building. His face looked as if he was lifting the weight of the world.

Outside the cave, in the blinding snow storm, the porter was on his knees praying. He looked upwards and thought he saw a pale blue light glowing from the summit of Kailash. “Shiva,” he said as he took several steps back away from the mountain. “I’m sorry. Forgive us.” And then he heard it—a sound, like a drumbeat, coming to his ears in wafts. Then he heard something else…was that cheering coming from inside the cave?

Inside the cave, a flashlight illuminated what appeared to be a wooden plaque with Sanskrit carved onto its surface.

The commander held it in his hands and proclaimed, “We have found it! Shiva, we welcome you to Germany!” The other men cheer. Their sought-after treasure had been found.

The Dalai Lama threw his head back and let out a primal scream, long and loud enough to shake the walls of the Palace. His voice echoed beyond the Potala Palace, beyond the mountains to the south of Lhasa, carried more by spirit than wind.

Kailash began to shake. The men inside the mountain ran for the cave exit. As they spilled out one by one, the shaking subsided. Some men leaned on the mountain wall gasping for oxygen. Some lay in the snow, like it was a beach, with huge smiles of relief on their faces. After catching their breath, they stood again and raised their hands in victory and let out shouts of triumph. The S.S. commander stepped out from the crack in the mountain at last and held up the long lusted-after prize of the Third Reich.

The porter’s mouth dropped open. He averted his eyes and immediately dropped to his knees in reverence. Friedrich, seeing no more need for the leather journal tossed it into the air like a graduation cap. It lodged itself in the snow like a knife just a few feet in front of the porter. Instinctively, the porter reached for it and pulled it out of the snow.

Suddenly, the earth shook more violently than before. A sudden, loud cracking noise boomed from above. Several of the party looked up to see the last thing their physical eyes would ever see—a forty-foot pillar of ice and snow descending upon them. Within half a heartbeat, it came down as a white explosion and buried them all. The blast of snow threw the porter backwards another 20 feet.

The young Dalai Lama’s visceral scream subsided and he lowered his head and slumped to the floor. The storm was over. A ray of sunlight shone on the thousands of shards of broken glass on the floor, and like tiny prisms, they refracted soft colors throughout the room.

The correct key was found, and the door swung open. The cadre of monks and ministers rushed to the Dalai Lama’s side. Nyima Dawa scooped up the child and held him to his bosom. The senior monk looked to Nyima Dawa, “What is the meaning of this?” There was no answer as the ministers worked quickly to try to revive him. Nyima Dawa was handed a wet cloth and held it to the Dalai Lama’s forehead like a mother.

The senior monk spoke again, “You were supposed to be in here with him.” Still, no answer was offered. Nyima felt the child’s hands. His focus was resolutely on his young lord. “I will ask you one more time. What was he doing in here alone?”

The old man lifted his gaze from the Dalai Lama for the first time and answered his interrogator, “Battle.”

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Charlie Boatman points at a 3D sketch of concentric rings around the sun marking each planet’s orbit and two lines of trajectory—one rising above the orbital plane and one sinking below. He zooms in on the bottom one. “It's turned around. It's coming back.”

“That's impossible.”

“Yeah, it should be. But I’ve checked all the instruments, the calculations…”

“Did it hit something?”

“No. It’s in tact.”

“Alright. Simplest explanation?”

“It…swung…around a massive object…” Conrad gives Boatman a look of incredulity, “…that’s as big as Saturn and has been undetectable to every…yeah, didn’t think so.”

Conrad walks over to another monitor. “Who else knows about this?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure the other stations will-”

The phone rings. Conrad picks up. “Hello…yeah, we’re seeing it…okay…yep…of course. I’m calling her now.” He hangs up the phone and immediately dials a number. “Ma’am, we have a situation.”

Director Susan Daws stares at the monitors with her arms folded, “What do you propose?”

Conrad answers quickly, “We think it’s likely a glitch—some stray muon fried another transistor. We’ll get a software patch to it soon.”

Susan looks to Boatman, “Charlie, what about you?”

“I’m not convinced. Something doesn’t add up.”

“What doesn’t add up?”

“The fact that it all adds up, that’s what. I’ve run the numbers. It’s just…”

“Yes?”

“The telemetry isn’t static…what I mean is, it’s not like just one bit flipped off, or turned negative—it’s not a 180 degree vector change—it’s a…”

Conrad loses his patience, “C’mon, man. Spit it out.”

“-It’s dynamic. The trajectory is constantly changing, like…look, I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s like it’s orbiting something.” All three sit on that for a moment, until Charlie hesitantly suggests, “We could…turn on the camera and take a look.”

Conrad dismisses it as a joke, “Haha.”

Daws responds with a straight face, “I think that’s a good idea.”

Conrad is stunned, “Wait, what? We turned off the cameras on the Voyagers like, what, 30 years ago. There’s no way to turn them back on.”

Director Daws allows Charlie to explain: “We turned them off to extend their battery life, not because the camera was nonfunctional. I mean, there was no chance of there ever being anything else photographable in its trajectory. There’s literally nothing to see.”

“Until now?” Conrad scans Daws’s face for leanings, while still directing his interrogation to Boatman, “And what would turning on the camera mean for the life of the probe?”

“It would completely deplete all remaining battery power. It would be Voyager 2’s last word.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Voyager 2’s only got a few months to live, anyway.”

With one eye on Daws, Conrad takes a risk, “I say let’s do it. I mean, we should first run it by the other stations. But-”

Charlie interrupts, “-Wait…what the?” A notification pops up on the screen alerting them to an image being downloaded. Charlie clicks on it to expand the window.

“What is it?”

“Someone already turned it on. We are getting a visual image from Voyager 2 coming in right now.” An image starts to build pixel row by pixel row on the screen in front of them.

Conrad states the obvious, “But the round trip signal should have taken at least 38 hours.”

Susan finally speaks, “Gentlemen.” Both men turn their eyes toward the director. “I turned the camera on two days ago, when I noticed the anomaly.”

Conrad appears offended, “You did what? Without-”

“-Shh,” Daws leans in toward the screen. Conrad’s and Charlie’s faces pull closer, too. The screen’s blue light illuminates their three faces like some 70’s album cover artwork.“What…”

Conrad continues her question, “…is…”

And Charlie finishes it, “…that?”

Susan turns and picks up the phone as Conrad asks, “Who are you calling?”

She doesn’t answer him, “Yes, hello?…I need to speak to the president.”

Jack Claiborne stared at the communique from Lhasa. His hands shook with trepidation at what he was reading. His heart raced. His stomach turned. He wanted to punch through a glass window, grab that mustachioed man’s face, and make him eat the broken glass. He knew viscerally what this was going to require of him, and he didn’t know if he had the fortitude to go through with it. No one else in the world understood the significance. No one else was qualified to prevent it from happening. No one else would be there to tell him what to do or how to get it done. He was going to need to rely on his previous war experience and twenty years of research to find the way.

Two decades earlier, Jack had been an officer in the First World War, working with the British to train Indian and Nepalese conscripts who had been shipped to France. Some 1.5 million military-aged men had come from the edges of the British Empire to join what many of their countrymen called a European fool’s errand—a white man’s lustful land grab to grow their empires. Yet, Jack had stared into these men’s eyes. He had touched their shoulders, had saluted them face to face. Whatever their reasons for being there—duty, honor, service, money, or fear of repercussions—they each, despite how they felt about it, were walking in courage. In the end, over 90,000 of these conscripts perished in the fight against the Germans and the Austro-Hungarian forces. Those who survived didn’t receive the understanding or recognition for the bravery they exhibited and lived out their days wondering if they had done the right thing, and whether they ever really had a choice.

He dropped the letter and stared out across St. James Park Lake. The brightness of the sunlight made the sky an even darker blue. The lake reflected this darkness. So did his thoughts. The ripples on the otherwise calm surface flashed brightly on Jack’s retinas, like a crowd of reporters with their flashbulb cameras, bombarding his mind with questions. Suddenly, a pelican, like some ancient dragon, crashed on the sparkling surface, sending liquid shrapnel in a thousand directions.

It looked painful.

Pelicans don’t appear to be made for this job. They don’t torpedo through the surface of the water like kingfishers; they more resemble labradors with wings, leaping on their prey from above with the speed and stealth of a giant descending umbrella. Jack was going to need to be like a kingfisher on this mission, and not like a pelican, but first, he was going to need to fly back to the real land of dragons for the race of his life, for the race to save the world from certain, irreversible destruction.

Jack picked up his pen and began to write his response to his informer:

“We have known this day would come. Tell all you know to pray, esp. you know who. By the time you receive this, I will be nearly there. If anything happens to me, please send help to Helen and Harold. Let’s hope it’s not too late, Jack.”

For Jack, what had been a fascinating research subject now felt like a ticking bomb. Somehow, in their quest for world domination, the Nazis had pieced together the same clues that Jack had been following for nearly two decades. A supernatural power was within their reach that could unleash more destructive power than the world had ever before witnessed. And no one else knew the significance of stopping them but Jack Claiborne.

What Jack didn’t know was that he was already too late.

The lights were out all across England. Explosions and air defense artillery were now commonplace sounds—the soundtrack of everyday living. The dread of sudden destruction had given way to a fatalistic numbness. Common folk had been drained of the joy of living. Regular Brits were exhausted by three and a half years of war with Germany—too tired to even be afraid anymore. Sustained resolve had proven wearisome, and the nation’s spirit was about to break under the malaise of war.

Yet not all hope had been crushed. The reed had been bruised, nearly severed, but somehow a thread of life still hung on. With that same resolve and exhaustion, Jack Claiborne walked pensively through the dim and deserted hallways of Oxford University, his alma mater.

He opened the door to his advisor’s office. Frank Blackwell, department head of ancient history and archaeological studies, stood with his back to the door and stared out the window. “Come in, Jack.” Puffs of smoke crawled up the tall curtains.

With no time for pleasantries, Jack dove right in, “Frank, I have to go. The Nazis are there now looking for it.”

Blackwell lowered his pipe and greeted Jack with a nervous smile. “Turns out, I owe you an apology—I thought your research was a waste of time.” Jack tilted his head questioningly at Frank, who continued, “You’re getting funded.”

A wary smile grew slowly in one corner of Jack’s lips. Is this a joke? “The Society finally—look, it doesn’t matter now. Time is of the essence.“

“No, Jack,” Blackwell turned to look out the window, “the funding is from another source.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone of a bit more consequence is interested.”

“Who?”

“What does it matter? Be glad. Money will help your—”

“Who?!”

Blackwell paced back to his desk and sat down. “Heinrich Himmler.”

Jack stood bolt upright, “Tell me you’re kidding me!”

“Jack, you know academicians are getting paid handsomely—more than the crown can provide—for research that others find valuable.” Jack started pacing back and forth. His world was caving in around him. “Look, Jack, don’t get all righteous about where it comes from. Take the money. If it helps push knowledge forward—”

“No.” Finding some conviction, Jack stood and took two steps closer to Professor Blackwell. “We can’t take that money. Never. Don’t you understand? If I find it, I’ll have to turn it over to him, or he’ll kill me.”

In the tone of an amused parent explaining the real world to a child, Blackwell responded, “Jack. Wake up and smell the coffee. Our job is to study, to search out, to seek answers, not to vet the moral integrity of all of our donors. Just think, one day this might pay off more handsomely than you can imagine.”

Jack stared at Frank, feeling disgusted and betrayed by his moral ambiguity. “Frank, do you know what could happen if Hitler gets his hands on that relic?”

“Enlighten me,” said Frank with another puff of his pipe.

“Human civilization would be set back thousands of years.”

Blackwell exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, “Some in the history department might welcome that.”

“We’re talking devastation unlike the world has ever seen.”

“Jack, the world has seen two world wars in a generation and is in the midst of unprecedented devastation. What could be worse?”

Jack stepped toward the window. Air raid sirens droned in the distance. Flashes of light reflected off of Jack’s face. “What’s our job, Frank?”

“Pardon?”

“Our job.” In Frank’s hesitation, Jack continued, “History, Anthropology, Archaeology, expanding human knowledge of its origins, therefore unlocking doors to its future. Isn’t that what we do?”

“Of course.”

“Gone! All of it! Erased. Don’t you get it?”

The professor wore a blank expression as his pipe smoke fell upward over his nose, his forehead, and snuck through his hairline, like spirits entering some dark forest.

Jack turned to face him, “You don’t believe we can win this, do you?”

The professor shrugged, “It’s also our job to move forward with whatever cards we are dealt, and hope for the best.”

“The game isn’t over, Frank. If Hitler gets that relic, there would be no more hope.”

Frank Blackwell saw it was useless to try and persuade Jack. Looking disappointed, he walked behind his desk and sat in his leather chair. “Well, I see there’s no dissuading you. What do you suggest?”

“We have to find it before he does. Send me. No one else knows the region, the history, the language, or the people better than I.”

“God speed, then.”

Jack grabbed his bag, his fedora, and his jacket and headed for the door. He stopped and pulled a leather journal out of his coat pocket. “I need you to keep this safe. This is the map to the relic, 20 years of research.” Jack placed it on Blackwell’s desk.

“Won’t you need it?”

“Who do you think wrote it? Just get me to Kailash and we will win this war.”

“If you won’t accept Hitler’s offer, how do you expect me to pay for this?” Blackwell held Jack’s journal in his hands.

“Professor, I don’t care if you have to steal.” Blackwell eyed the journal and then returned his attention to Jack. Jack stepped out of Professor Blackwell’s office, grabbed the door frame and pulled himself back in and said, “If anything happens to me, take care of Helen and Harold.”

The door closed and Professor Blackwell looked down at the leather journal on his desk. His eyes glanced back up at the door to make sure Jack didn’t return to witness the dark thoughts in his mind. He took another drag from his pipe.

Jack exited the large gothic building and flew down the steps into the dark courtyard. He had a new spring in his step, a new reason for living, a clear vision for the role he had to play. Jack knew he had very little time, but he never imagined just how little.

The blacker-than-usual night was void of all natural light, and the university courtyard was completely barren of any other human soul save one: a shadowy figure skulking behind a large oak tree.

The man looked up to the third floor window, where half of Blackwell peeked around the curtains, half-hearted, half-certain, and halfway to hell. The curtains slid closed two times. The signal. From his trench coat pocket, the man pulled out a gun and walked directly toward Jack at an angle from behind him.

Quietly and quickly.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

Six feet behind Jack, he raised the gun, pointed it at the back of Jack’s head, and pulled the trigger. He continued walking on his line, his stride unbroken.

There on the ground, Jack’s body lay lifeless on a growing island of his own blood. The soulless figure slipped back into the inky black of night.

Watching from his window, Blackwell lifted his pipe to his mouth and puffed, but this time there was no smoke. All the tobacco had been used up. Blackwell looked down at the leather journal in his hand, “I’m sorry, Jack.”

The bartender leans forward on his forearms. “Fall off this side and die or fall off the other side and die. Either way, it’s a death wish.”

“What if it’s not?” Tim ponders. The bartender looks at him, confused. “What if it’s a wish for–“

A woman’s voice interrupts Tim, “–freedom.”

Tim and the bartender look over at the black woman in her late 40s sitting a few spaces down from Tim.

“Yeah,” Tim replies. “Freedom.”

“Freedom from what? Life?” says the bartender. They both look at the woman. The woman looks at Tim.

Tim speaks first, “Maybe not freedom from, but freedom to.”

“Okay. Freedom to what? Die?”

“No. Freedom to imagine a future you can’t imagine. Freedom to believe there are resources and realities that exist beyond the limits of your experience. Freedom to explore the unknown.”

The bartender leans toward Tim, “The only problem with that is, there isn’t any more that’s unknown. You know that, doc. You’re a scientist. Ever since the unified theory–”

“–what? It’s all been figured out? What good has that theory done us? Nothing left to solve—more like, nothing left to live for.”

“Tim, you taking your pills?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. What’s it to you?”

“You know the law…thinkers like you—just be careful.” The bartender walks away to serve another customer.

“Thinkers like you,” the woman three bar stools away laughs. “What are they afraid of?” Tim nods at her with his eyes but doesn’t turn to face her. She slides down until there’s only one barstool in between them. “I like the way you think.”

Tim glances at her, “Most of my friends think I’m too much.”

She looks around, “most of what friends?”

Tim laughs at himself and takes a sip of his beer, “Touché.”

“I believe you.”

Tim swallows.

She continues, “I believe there’s still way more that we don’t know than we do know.”

“Careful who you say that to.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Tim nods nervously then suddenly extends his hand, “I’m Tim.”

She takes it. “Paula.”

“So, what do you do, Paula?”

“I help people explore the unknown.”

“Okay.” He smiles, intrigued. “And how do you do that?”

“That,” she pauses, adding an air of mystery, “I can’t tell you here.” She stands. “But if you want to find out, pay for my beer and follow me.” She pushes away from the bar and walks away with a seductive glance over her shoulder.

Tim peers back at his beer. Every thought in his head is a flashing red light, yet something primal tugs at him. Is it merely a longing for companionship? Or is it a deeper hunger he’s felt in waves and flashes his entire life—the yearning for true freedom, whatever that word even means. What does it mean? It’s a fantasy is what it is. Yes. Complete waste of time. Definitely.

Tim surprises himself when he downs the last long swig, slams down the empty glass, slaps a twenty on the bar, and walks out in pursuit of God only knows.

He pushes through the exit door to the cold air outside. His invisible breath manifests before his eyes in puffs of hope—or is that desire? What are you doing, Tim. He scans the street until he sees Paula 40 yards away on the other side. “Hey, wait up!” She’s nothing but trouble. Tim is surprised by the certainty of the suspicion in his mind. He ignores the warnings and crosses the road as he sees her descend a basement staircase. When he gets to the top of the staircase, he sees the door at the bottom close. He hesitates, wondering if this is some kind of setup for a mugging, but pushes the thought out of his mind as he descends the dark stairs.

The door opens onto a hallway dimly lit by a light from an open elevator at the end. Paula waits in the elevator, holding the open door button and staring holes through Tim, all the way into his intentions, which he feels she can discern even better than he. She would be good at chess, he thought.

He walks slowly, circumspectly forward, until he reaches the threshold of the elevator door. “Where does this go?”

“To the questions you didn’t know existed.”

“Will there be answers?”

“Not easy ones.”

Tim steps into the elevator. And the doors close.

The elevator door opens into a dark basement. The brick walls arch to a ten-foot-high point in the middle of the chamber like a subterranean sewer junction.

A small projection device on the floor in the middle of the room shines tiny purple dots in a grid pattern onto the ceiling. Excepting the uniformity, it was their own private planetarium.

Tim’s eyes have already asked the question that Paula answers, “It’s a radio cloak. No signal can get into or out of this room.”

As soon as Tim follows Paula out of the elevator, he winces. He feels something uncomfortable growing between his ears. Paula glares at him, “Are you okay?”

Tim rubs his temples. “I can’t…think straight.”

She leads him into the middle of the room. Suddenly, grips his ears in pain and screams. He falls to his knees. “What’s going on? What’s that noise? It’s so loud!”

“That noise, Tim–” several dark figures emerge from the shadows, “–is silence. You’ve never heard it before.”

In a police cruiser on a nearby street, a console lights up. Tim’s profile picture and details pop up on the screen. A one-minute timer counts down next to Tim’s face.

…00:57…00:56…

“Drowning?” the younger officer in the passenger seat asks.

“Not necessarily. Could be interference. They usually come back on within seconds.”

…00:49…00:48…

“What happens when it gets to zero?”

Tim winks with his whole face, trying to equalize the pressure in his ears. Paula slides a metal chair to the center of the room and commands, “Sit.”

“What’s going on? Am I being robbed? I don’t–”

“You’re not being robbed, Dr. Timothy Alexander Hatfield.” He stares at Paula and the four men behind her with suspicion. “You’re being offered freedom. And we don’t have much time. You’ve already been triggered as a drowner. They’ll send dispatches within a minute and they’ll be here within five.”

…00:37…00:36…“It’s only happened four times in my 20 years. Only twice were we able to get there in time to resuscitate them.”

“How does it know?”

“What? The state?”

“Yeah.”

The older officer shrugs, “with all the surveillance devices in this city—the cameras, the listening devices, the gauges—they’re all connected, trust me, it knows.”

“Why doesn’t the state just build some droids to–”

“–it ain’t that powerful. It’s just information; it’s a tool. We’re still in charge.”

…00:28…00:27…

Paula squats down in front of him like a mother tending to a child. “Tim, your subconscious has been hijacked.”

“What the hell are you talking about? That’s not even possible.”

“How do you know your thoughts are yours?” she presses. Tim squirms. “C’mon, Tim, you’re a psychologist. How would you know?!”

“I–I can’t think.”

“Doubt.”

“What?”

“Tim, the way to know something is to doubt it.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Tim, before the state, there was a period in human history called the Enlightenment. They figured out something vital to human flourishing—that knowledge is built, not on certainty, but on doubt. If you know how to doubt something, then you know how to know it.”

“I don’t understand. Did you put something in my drink? Why can’t I think straight?”

“Tim, you’ve never been allowed to have your own thoughts. It takes some getting used to.”

“Wait, you’re telling me my thoughts aren’t real because I don’t have the capacity to doubt them?” Paula nods. “And that is because the state has implanted microscopic speakers in my ears that tells me what to think and what to do?” Paula nods again.

“Why me?”

“Not just you, Tim. Everyone.”

…00:05…00:04…

The younger officer stares at the countdown clock. He grows nervous, as his counterpart grows annoyed.

…00:01…00:00…

“It’s your lucky day, let’s go.” The engine roars. The wheels spin then grab the pavement.

“What about you? How do you know you’re not being controlled?”

“We’ve been through a procedure that shut off the voice and allowed us to have thoughts of our own, truly creative thoughts—inspiration that the state would never be able to manufacture.” She lets that sink in. “Tim, we’re here to offer you a choice—a chance at an authentic life—with all your senses turned on. Do you want to join us?”

One of the men say, “we’ve only got 30 seconds before they’re here.”

Paula turns back to Tim, “what’s it going to be?”

“It’s too fast. I can’t decide this quickly.”

The man folds up the laptop he’s been staring at. “We’ve gotta go!”

“Tim!” Paula demands.

“I—I’m sorry.”

“You never saw us.” Suddenly, a foot kicks the back of his chair and he tumbles head first into the water. By the time he comes up, they’re gone. In their place are two police officers. One is on his knees extending a hand to Tim.

They walk down the dark hallway at the top of the elevator shaft, back toward the stairwell to the road. The senior officer continues, “so this rat—the one that you say took your wallet—he went down the elevator, and you—”

“Not exactly…I got my wallet back, then I saw the elevator, and I just got curious, so I went down. I must’ve tripped and fell in the water. Hey, by the way, how did you know I was in there? I didn’t see any surveillance cameras.”

“We got a call. Dr. Hatfield, civilians are not allowed below the city. We wouldn’t want any accidents to happen.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you, officers. I really appreciate it. I don’t know what I was thinking. Won’t happen again.” They come out to street level and walk Tim to their parked squad car.

“Good night, Dr. Hatfield. Be careful.” The officers stand facing Tim, waiting for him to make his leave.

Tim back peddles his way back up the road. “Right. Um, so, thank you for saving me. Goodnight.” Tim turns to go and then spins back around, “Oh, one more question.”

The officers still stand there like they’re guarding something.

“You guys wouldn’t by chance know if the Staite was able to control people’s thoughts, like with a voice implanted in their heads?”

The officers stare wide-eyed at Tim and then at each other. Tim breaks the silence with nervous laughter. “Haha. Gotcha! That would be crazy.”

“You go home and get some rest, Dr. Hatfield.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tim turns and retreats quickly.

The officers get back in their car. The junior officer asks, “What was that about?”

The senior officer starts the engine and pulls away, and picks up the radio, “Officer Watkins requesting a 10-96 on a Dr. Timothy Hatfield.”

The junior officer wears a look of horror on his face, “What? Why?”

[Reading]: How were you born in outer space? Don't they sterilize astronauts before sending them out on long missions?

Well, yes. But as my dad says, it's not an exact science...and that “life finds a way.” Yes, I know where that quote comes from. Well, I found a way. And here I am. A life.

But, it’s not much of a life if you ask me.

Oh, you think your life’s bad? You think you’d like having to stay indoors and play Minecraft all day, every day? For the rest of your life! No. We weren’t made for that. We weren’t made to be hamsters spinning wheels. I believe we weren’t meant for anything other than planet Earth. Oh, it’s easy to dream of exploring Mars or the solar system or beyond when you can grab a fresh burger or crab curry or lemon-grilled salted halibut. Luxury leads to romanticism. In the absolute cold void of space, we ran out of luxury long ago.

[Reading]: What’s it like to have your whole life streamed 24-7 to the rest of the world?

Some of you have expressed jealousy that literally every living person on Earth knows my name, and that’s probably never happened before in the history of the world. No Roman Caesar, no emperor, no president was known by every soul at the same time. The truth is, I wish no one knew my name, and that I could just sit in a rocking chair on a porch at dusk with a cup of Earl Grey watching the purple twilight turn deeper shades of violet, listening to the night critters wake up and duke it out with their dueling symphonies.

“Halley, did you bring in the horses?” Ma would say. “Ah, sorry, Ma! I forgot agin.”

“You best take Splinter wid ya, and get ‘em into their stables. I reckon thar’s gohn be a storm t’night.”

“Yes, Ma.”

“Giddy up, now. And you best work fast, no horsin’ around, ya hear?”

“But, Ma, I can’t not horse around if ya ‘spect me to round up horses.”

We’d both laugh as I run through the wheat fields with my trusty border collie, Splinter. And then, oh no! I’d trip and fall in a little gullet—or, whatchamacallit—gully! That’s the word.

“Splinter, I think I sprained my ankle in this rut…root…thingamajigger. Quick, go get Ma!”…

What I’d give to be able to sprain my ankle on some uneven ground. Everything up here is flat metal panels. It’s so boring. I’ve seen videos of carpet. It looks wonderful. I wish they’d’ve sent us with some, but with all things rocket-related, it’s all about the weight. My parents said it killed them to leave behind their books and journals. Paper’s too heavy for efficient space travel. The only stuff that could be taken onboard was anything necessary for keeping 12 people alive for at least 20 years. Whatever could be digitized was. The only food for our souls were in bits and bytes, and data don’t weigh much, nor do souls.

It’s been 11 years since I was born. My whole life has been lived inside this tin can. Don’t worry. I’ve seen enough pictures and movies of every place on Earth you can imagine. Maybe even more than you have. I’m a bit obsessed with Earth, I guess. I’ve heard most kids dream about what it would be like to go to the moon, or to Mars. Not me. I’m on the other side of the fence, and it’s not so great. I guess it's hard to explain how I feel living on this ship. I can only compare it to what I feel when I watch old movies or tv shows. What always strikes me is how much you have around you that you don't see. How much you take for granted.

I hear people talk of being “out among the stars.” From my point of view, you are already. You are just a speck—less than a speck—outside my window. Well, not anymore. The last time I really saw you was when I was seven—now you’re too close to our star—uh…the sun—for me to be able to see you.

Speaking of earth-years, my parents still count time that way, which is arbitrary isn’t it? Out here, it’s always day and always night. It’s only our instruments that count in earth-seconds and tell us when 24 hours has gone by. If a year is a revolution around the sun, I’m technically only 2/3 of a year-old. What is it you use, months?

I’ve seen pictures of your moon. I’m fascinated by it, actually. I have a picture of it pasted on the wall next to my bed. My mom says I carry the cycle of the moon in my body and that I’ll find out how it works soon enough. What she’s told me so far, though, I’m not sure I want to find out. There’s always something revolving around everything, isn’t there?

What amazes me most from studying your world is how, floating around on a speck in an endless sea of black nothingness, there are things like puppies and pillows, ice cream and curries, rollercoasters and rainbows. When you stop to think about it, it makes you wonder: what is at the heart of our universe? It’s certainly not all butterflies and kittens. I’ve also seen your videos of war, genocide, cruelty. From out here, that isn’t that surprising. Vicious, brutal, cold, deadly…that’s what’s I see outside my window—it's what a few inches of earth materials are protecting me from constantly.

What’s surprising is the–well, butterflies and kittens. It seems too much for one world, doesn’t it? Why couldn’t it be spread out? Distributed amongst the billions of planets and solar systems out there? Maybe it is, and we just haven’t found them, yet. I don't get to experience any of it, well, except the pillows. We have those…though they aren't the big square kind I see on your couches. But I've never dug my toes in sand or tickled my feet with grass. I've never run except on a treadmill. I've never flown a kite or ever really felt wind that wasn’t produced by a fan. I've never danced in the rain or had a hot burger with fries.

I’m an outsider in every sense of the word. I’m out in the cold and dark looking through a window at a marvelous, magical, microscopic world warmly lit and filled with fireplaces, feasts, festivities, fairy tales, and…families—things that the cold of space should suck the life out of in a millisecond. But it doesn’t.

Your whole planet is a prism—a painter’s palette—that splits every color and flavor and element and experience into their singular selves…all to come back together again to form a masterpiece. There you are unaware of how good you have it in such a cold and dangerous place. You’ve secured a spot. You’ve carved a place. You’ve made a warm home. Should I, too, be forced to spend the rest of my life here without a chance to experience life? Without a choice to give it away and make it mean something, like my parents did?

Wait, what? You don’t know? That’s alright. I’ll start from the beginning. No, no, don’t apologize. Please feel free to interrupt me at any time.

So, the “dilemma” that my parents created by having me caused quite a stir back on Earth. All twelve of The Best of Us team (as they came to be known) had to sign a contract. The only way a one-way mission could proceed was if each astronaut knowingly and willingly agreed to give their lives for science. Every one of them knew they weren't coming back. They were willingly making their lives an offering to, as my parents tell me, “explore a mystery that captivated the imagination of every soul on earth.” Fifteen years ago, when the Voyager saw what it saw and sent back that signal to Earth, the whole world came together to build a ship and prepare a team and offer them up to the heavens.

Twelve years ago, on Ascension Day, everyone watched as Ascension lifted off. I wasn’t there, of course, but I am told it was the most unified the world had ever been since, like, forever. And then I came and messed it all up. The news of my mother’s conception divided the planet into factions. The “beggars” rallied for my parents to keep the pregnancy—that all life should be given a chance; the “choosers” argued it would be unethical to give birth to me—as it would turn the intrepid sacrificial space explorers into kidnappers, taking an unwilling human baby to its certain death. So, the Ascension Team, did the only thing they could: send another team to come and rescue me and take me back to Earth. But we already had a five month head start, so time was of the essence—oh, sorry, you had a question?

What did the Voyager see? Oh. Wow. Not sure what hole in the ground you’ve been hiding in, but hey that’s okay. Um, okay then, I’ll start over from that beginning…

Kailash sits in the heart of a vast, moonlike terrain in far western Tibet, near China’s border with India. It is part of the Trans-Himalaya mountain range, which runs parallel to the more famous Himalayan range to the south. From space, the Himalayas resemble a horse’s mane. On the other side of the Brahmaputra River valley, the Trans-Himalayas are the tips of the mane extended when the horse is in a dead sprint.

Four major Asian rivers that feed billions of souls in Asia—the Indus, the Sutlej, the Brahmaputra, and the Karnali (which becomes the Ganges)—find their origin around Kailash, leading many to believe it to be the ancient site of the Garden of Eden (the Bible describes four large rivers flowing out of it). The rivers spread out from Kailash like a giant swastika—that ancient symbol of human design that was used to signify balance and order for millennia before being coopted by Adolf Hitler. One theory of the symbol’s origin derives from the south face of Mt. Kailash itself, which features a vertical gash through a prominent lateral striation. Whether manmade or from the effects of erosion, a giant swastika on the mountain converted countless skeptics into believers of the mountain’s supernatural powers.

Every year, tens of thousands of pilgrims from around the world travel to Mt. Kailash to do the kora—a spiritual trek around the base of the mountain. In the grand scheme of karmic balance, there is no greater deed than the kora around Kailash. It is a slow, mind-and-body-stretching three-day trek at an average of 16,000 feet in elevation. Those who complete the trek and bathe in nearby Lake Mansarovar are granted absolution from bad karma and receive yak-loads of the good kind in exchange. While the waters of Mansarovar are generally calm, its next-door neighbor, Devil’s Lake, is perpetually turbulent, as if teems of demons are fighting to feed off the negative energy on the surface.

Mt. Kailash is quite literally in the middle of nowhere. It is 750 miles from the city of Lhasa, 560 miles from the nearest city of Shigatse, and at least 200 miles from any Indian or Nepalese city on the other side of the mostly impassable Himalayas. Like some Middle-Earth expedition to Mordor, Indian pilgrims have found ways to traverse the menacing towers of the Himalayas in a place known as Uttarakhand. The hike from there is nearly two hundred miles of inhospitable terrain that makes the Dead Marshes and Emyn Muil look like a walk in the park. Whatever the starting point, it’s an arduous multi-day journey to the center of the universe.

According to legend and Hindu scripture, Kailash is the throne of Shiva, the god of destruction and rebirth. In Bön, the ancient Tibetan religion native to the plateau, Mt. Kailash is a geomantic node—a sort of spiritual pole—and the most powerful on earth.

On the journey to Kailash, death is a likely possibility. Altitude sickness, below-freezing temperatures, exhaustion, and accidents claim the lives of many pious travelers. The most religious, who seek a deeper spiritual experience, choose to fast for their multi-week excursion, exacerbating the chances of physical calamity.

Legends of scantily-clad hermit monks inhabiting caves surrounding the mountain do not help the faithful in their preparations. After thousands of miles of prostrations to get to Kailash, some arrive with their clothes in shambles. They piously proceed on their pilgrimage path, not knowing what dangers lie ahead. The weather at the Dolma La Pass at 18,500 feet can change in an instant.

In terms of difficulty, attempting to visit and circumambulate Mt. Kailash is the land-based equivalent of attempting to round Cape Horn at the bottom of South America—the infamy of its weather and resulting shipwrecks is legendary. Modernity does bring its Panama Canals, however. Mt. Kailash’s would be the small town of Darchen, located near the base of the mountain. What was once most likely a temporary encampment to assist pilgrims at the starting point of the kora has become a small town complete with a few paved roads, Chinese restaurants, guesthouses, and spartan retail options.

You are not rewarded with relief upon arriving at Kailash. As if the remoteness, elevation, and lack of material, food, and civilization weren’t enough, visa restrictions by the Chinese government have made it even more difficult, and more expensive, for pilgrims to reach the holy site. China also considers the region around Kailash to be restricted, meaning a traveler not only needs a visa to enter the country but also a Tibet travel permit and special permits to pass through all the uniquely restricted areas in Tibet.

According to legend, in the eighth century, a holy man from Tibet did battle with Shiva (the Hindu god of destruction) on Mt. Kailash and won, subjecting all territorial gods and spirits to the superior truths of Buddhism. Thus, Buddhism became the dominant religion of Tibet and spread from there throughout Asia.

“The institution of the Dalai Lama, and whether it should continue or not, is up to the Tibetan people. If they feel it is not relevant, then it will cease and there will be no 15th Dalai Lama. But if I die today I think they will want another Dalai Lama. The purpose of reincarnation is to fulfill the previous [incarnation's] life task. My life is outside Tibet, therefore my reincarnation will logically be found outside. But then, the next question: Will the Chinese accept this or not? China will not accept. The Chinese government most probably will appoint another Dalai Lama, like it did with the Panchen Lama. Then there will be two Dalai Lamas: one, the Dalai Lama of the Tibetan heart, and one that is officially appointed.”

— His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama in a 2004 interview with Time magazine

“When I am about ninety I will consult the high Lamas of the Tibetan Buddhist traditions, the Tibetan public, and other concerned people who follow Tibetan Buddhism, to re-evaluate whether or not the institution of the Dalai Lama should continue.”

— His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama in a 2011 statement

“I am affirming that the institution of the Dalai Lama will continue. I hereby reiterate that the Gaden Phodrang Trust has sole authority to recognize the future reincarnation; no one else has any such authority to interfere in this matter.”

— His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama in an official statement upon his 90th birthday

The first wave of invitations went out to the ones he knew, so they would have first pick of the best seats at the banquet. But very few responded. Temporarily hurt by the rejection he felt, he determined not to let it ruin the event. He quickly sent out invitations to the rest of the kingdom. Some thought an invitation to dine with the king was a hoax. “Impossible,” they said. Some thought themselves unworthy and made up excuses about their lack of suitable clothes. Some had heard nasty rumors of the king and didn’t like his policies. Yet, many still came. On the day of the feast, as the guests arrived at the palace, they were required to open the first envelope upon entry: All debts cancelled. Great rejoicing ensued. The guests were then required to change into white party clothes. No one complained. They were all elated by the king’s Jubilee edict. The banqueting hall was full to overflowing with people and with joy.

After the extravagant main course, cheerful conversation and satisfied burping brought the noise level in the room to a loud din. Then the king stood with glass raised and shhhh’s spread quiet through the crowd as eyes and ears turned to the host. The king made an official announcement again welcoming the people into his home. He expressed his joy and delight to see his people happy. He finally told them there was a second envelope that would change their lives forever. The King ensured them that none of them would be forced to open the envelope, but that those who did would be consenting to the conditions of its contents. Those who did not want to open the envelope would be asked to first leave the palace before the envelopes were passed out. Their belongings would be returned to them and they would be sent home with the blessing of the king.

Much whispered speculation arose regarding what the contents of the second envelope could be. Some guessed that it might undo the first envelope’s good news. Others worried that it was a certificate of slavery or an agreement of conscription into the king’s army. And others, because of how the king made them feel that night (loved, accepted, understood), reasoned that the king was good and worthy to be trusted. A handful, without so much as a thank you, made a sullen and quick exit from the banquet. The majority remained. The envelopes were passed out by attendants. Once all had received, the king gave permission to open the envelopes.

As the sound of rustling paper echoed through the hall, the king’s eyebrows disappeared under his crown and his grin was larger than seemed physically possible. There were gasps. Overcome with emotion, some fell to their knees. Questions bubbled up around the room. “What does this mean?” “How could this be?” “Is this for real?” “Is this some sort of joke?” One worked up the courage to address the king, “Your Highness, we don’t understand. What do you mean by this?”

The king, full of emotion, responded, “It means you are all my children now! Consider yourself adopted into the royal family!” The king then stepped down from his chair and walked among the people. He hugged some. He placed his hands upon shoulders. He smiled huge smiles of gladness until his expression was mirrored on their faces. He knelt and held others who confessed to him that they had never felt belonging before. Some said that they had never had parents. “Well, now you do,” was all he replied, “now you do.”

The next two hours were like a large but intimate family reunion. Desserts and dessert wines floated around the room on trays. Everyone got to know one another, but more importantly, everyone got a personal introduction to the king. He generally said the same thing to every person, “Now you are my son.” (Or “daughter” to the women). “You belong here. I love you.” It was very late in the night at that point. The king then made an announcement that accommodations had been prepared and that each would be shown to their private room. He added, “I have a third envelope for those who are interested. Meet me in the courtyard before sunrise to receive it. Breakfast will follow.” Some complained that it was too early, especially after such a late night. Others determined they wouldn’t miss it for the world.

The cock crowed, and most were eager to rise and meet with the King. Again, a majority came, but not all. Some figured now that they were royalty, they deserved a little more sleep. Others reasoned they had arrived at the high life—nothing could be better than adoption. All of their anxious energies, which for their whole lives had been their only fuel source, were now satisfied. There was nothing else they could imagine that needed to be done. So, why get up early?

Down in the courtyard, the king personally handed the third envelope out to the smitten majority. They opened them. Again, stunned silence. Someone spoke up, “Your Majesty, this is impossible. This is blasphemy. We could never share in your glory.”

The king laughed and retorted, “How do you know so much about what I can and can’t do? Why not?” No one had an answer. Someone dropped to one knee and then others followed the example. Soon, everyone was in the position to be knighted. The king walked to each one, tapped them on the shoulder with his sword and spoke words over them. This time his words were unique and perfect for each person’s talents, dreams and resources, and came with gravity—a significance that felt heavy and joyful at the same time. As each person rose, attendants would drape them in a royal robe, place a signet ring on their finger and a crown on their head. After everyone had been coronated, he addressed them all again. “You are now royalty with authority. Learn the ways of my kingdom and spread them throughout the whole earth. As I have done to you, do to others.”

One of the king’s attendants pulled him aside and spoke to him in private.

“How long have you been planning this?”

“For a very long time,” the king said.

“You intended more to come, didn’t you?”

“I intended all of this for those who would come.”

“But weren’t all invited?”

“Yes. But only these fully trusted in my goodness.”

Water.

Hands.

All over my body. Pushing me down.

Air. My lungs on fire gasp it, grasp at it, take in all they can before—

Water.

The Hands plunge me in.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t see.

They won’t let me up.

I fight, but there are too many hands. Dozens of them push me down— keep me inches under the line between life and death.

Stop this! the Voice in my head screams.

My body screams—every fiber twitching, revolting, aching for life. I change my mind. How do I tell them? I don’t want this.

But how do I know what I want. How can I be sure? What if it doesn’t work? What if they lied?

I know. Act dead. I stop fighting for one second, two seconds, three seconds. The hands loosen. I can’t do this for much longer. One pair of hands is still using force on my chest, but enough of the others let up that I make one final attempt for air, lunging for the surface with my mouth wide open. My lips break through the surface and feel the air. But the hands come back with force. I inhale too soon and water fills my lungs. Pain!

It’s involuntary now—my body sucks more water in as bubbles crawl out of my mouth, yearning for freedom like prisoners after a jail break—after all, that’s what they say this is. I see them. Balls of light gleefully clamoring to be reunited with their source. My soul, in pieces, is divided up in those bubbles, leaving my body to convulse in spasms. Alone.

All of my strength evaporates. I’m paralyzed. I can’t feel the hands anymore. I blink. I see shadows moving above the surface of the water—the demons that have come to take me.

And then all…

…fades...

…to black.

Two days earlier:

“Don’t you love chess?” says a 30-year-old man with curly brown hair. He moves a pawn forward.

“Not when I’m playing you,” answers a 70-year-old in a wheelchair. White sunlight bounces off the white walls, white clothes of the staff, white curtains, and sanitary white floors of the food court.

“It feels like quiet.”

“What quiet? It’s a zoo in here.”

“I mean in here.” The young man points to his head as he focuses on the board. “One goal. One move at a time. In time.” “Until time isn’t even a thing…Do you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“Time.” Timothy Hatfield—the young man—slides his rook out of its hiding place.

“I feel sick.” Russel Hatfield—the old man—makes a move. Tim smiles and attacks. “Shit.” Russel squints at his grandson. “Is this your idea of fun? You come down here and abuse me? Smart-ass.”

“Granddad, did you get to do everything you wanted?”

“What?”

“Do you feel like you tried what you needed to try, that you pursued everything you wanted to pursue, that you didn’t leave anything undone?”

“Leaving your ass unkicked in chess is my biggest regret.” The old man makes his next move with a bit more pluck.

Tim doesn’t even look up from the chessboard. He’s still waiting for an honest answer.

“Susan Weathers. She stood right there looking like…” he trailed off like he was seeing her all over again. “She wanted me to ask. I felt it. Like she was waiting for it.”

Tim picks up a knight and sets up his next move. “Why didn’t you?”

A wisp of sadness comes over the old man’s face before it hardens again. What’s the point? He’s lived with that regret for most of his life now. Come to terms with it. He looks back at the board, “you son-of-a-bitch. You better be glad I didn’t. You wouldn’t be here if I had.” He sacrifices his rook just as Tim planned.

“I don’t know.” Tim slides his castle back three spaces. “I feel like I still would’ve been. Somehow.”

“You think the universe owed it to you to exist?”

Tim shrugs, “Yeah. Something like that.” The old man studies Tim’s face.

“Dammit, I have nothing.”

“Yeah you do. You have one move.”

“I can’t see it.”

“Want me to tell you?”

“No! Give an old man some respect.”

“Okay.” Tim waits patiently. “Want me to send it over to you?” Tim puts his fingers to his temples and acts like he’s sending brainwaves.

“I think you need to be in this looney bin instead of me.”

“It’s not a looney bin, granddad.” A mumbling man in the corner reaches into the garbage and pulls out an unfinished piece of cake and takes a bite. “It’s a home.”

“Yeah. A half-way home for rejects.” He stops himself. “Ah.” He moves his king to the only safe haven.

Tim brings the knight into play. “Checkmate.”

“You said I had a move!”

“You did. You took it.”

“You dirty rotten…this is the last time-“

“You say that every time, granddad. I know you still love it.” Tim stands to go and looks at his watch. “Time is calling. I’ve got to go. See you next week.”

“Don’t bother. I’d rather rot in here alone than be humiliated.”

Tim leans down and gives the old man a kiss. “Love you.” The old man smiles.

Tim lays on a couch in a bright office and continues his musings, “…there’s nothing wrong with having voices. It’s what we do with them, right?” Tim turns his head to look at the well-dressed, spectacled man sitting in the chair opposite the couch. He folds his hands on his chest and continues as if he can see the clouds beyond the small ceiling above him, “We all have voices in our heads. Life is about learning which is ours and needs action and which ones need to be ignored.” The man in the chair nods. Tim swings his legs down and sits up. “Frank, I’m glad we had this session. I’m going to prescribe you something that will help turn down the volume.” He stands and beckons the man to the door.

“Thank you Dr. Hatfield.” Frank stands.

“Don’t overdo it. One a day max. Got it?”

“Got it.” Frank exits Tim’s office and Tim closes the door.

Tim mounts his roller stool and glides over to his desk. He writes ‘Frank Cline’ on a prescription slip that has an image of a white pill bottle with a purple label on it. Tim reaches into a cabinet above his head and pulls down a bottle of pills—the same white plastic bottle with a bright purple label—pops the top and dumps a couple of pills into his hand. He’s about to throw them to the back of his throat, but something stops him. He places them back in the bottle and places the bottle back in the cabinet. That’s odd. Why would I not take them?

He shakes it off, grabs his coat and the prescription and walks out.

He hands the prescription to his PA. “Jackie, I’m gonna head home early today. Can you reschedule the last one for tomorrow?”

“Okay, Dr. Hatfield. You feeling okay?”

“Uh, yeah. I just um…you ever have the feeling that your mind is working on something, like trying to solve something, but you’re not even aware what it is?”

Jackie raises an eyebrow. She’s concerned. “You took your medicine, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Of course.”

You’re lying, Tim. Don’t go out that door. Stick to your schedule.

Tim pushes through the door anyway. “See you tomorrow, Jackie.” The door swings closed as one of the nurses walks up to Jackie’s desk with a look that says, what’s with him?

“Something’s wrong,” Jackie says as she picks up the phone to dial.

Another purple-labeled white pill bottle stares at Tim from his writing desk in his single-bedroom apartment. His pen glides over an open journal. He stops, massages his temples, and looks at the bottle looking back at him. For a moment of self-control, he picks up writing where he left off. But the headache won’t let him focus. His eyelids push against the pain until he surrenders, picks up the bottle, pops the lid, spills one pill onto his kitchen counter. He searches through one of his drawers and pulls out a large knife and carefully chops the pill in half. He tosses one of the halves into his mouth and downs it with a glass of water.

He walks back to his journal and closes it. That’s right. Just relax. Turn on some TV. Tim picks up the remote to the television, but something inside him is stopping him. Something deep inside wants change, wants different, wants out.

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Thank you for helping get the word out about Stories by Garrett H. Jones!

Welcome to my new substack—the place where I will drip-feed chapters to novels and books (and short stories) that I am working on. I hope you enjoy what you find here.

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The Last Dalai Lama

The next incarnation of the Dalai Lama has already been identified, and he’s a 40-year-old American male—every major political power is on the hunt, but Evelyn Dyer must get to him first to save the world from a rising populist party leader in Germany who’s set on finishing what Hitler started.

Read the first chapter here: https://garretthjones.substack.com/s/the-last-dl

The Voice

Dr. Tim Hatfield doesn't realize that the voice in his head isn't his own—it was implanted in his temporal lobe at birth. Trained to mimic the sound of every individual's own voice, the AI-powered State of the future controls the masses through directly hijacking people's internal thought processes. But Paula and her group of apostles know how to break Tim and others out of the system.

Read the first chapter here: https://garretthjones.substack.com/s/the-voice

The Best of Us

Voyager 2's last signal carries information that shocks the entire world. A team of the best representatives of humanity are sent to explore a mystery just beyond the edge of the heliosphere. When two of the astronauts conceive and give birth to a daughter mid-mission, it jeopardizes the entire mission and throws everything the scientific community has ever believed into question.

Read the first chapter here: https://garretthjones.substack.com/s/the-best-of-us

The King's Invitation

A parable of how God invites and calls his would-be followers into deeper and deeper levels of relationship and surrender.

Read the whole story here: https://garretthjones.substack.com/s/short-stories-tall-tales

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Our Enlightenment-steeped founding fathers all had intimate experience with corrupted church-states that were trying to become the literal manifestation of God's kingdom on earth. It's why they established America to be a secular nation, separate from church powers or influence. Jesus never commanded us to build kingdoms; the instruction was to go, teach, and immerse (baptize). He taught that his kingdom was not of this earth. It is an invisible kingdom; only parables can describe it; only metaphor can approach it. It is a kingdom described by the beatitudes. It does not follow titles; it is no respecter of age, intellect, or wealth; in fact, it often eludes those with all the proper credentials. His spiritual kingdom is as real as every individual believes it and lives it to be. His coronation was a crucifixion, and his kingdom's inauguration was a heart-wrenching political and religious loss—Rome destroyed Jerusalem, and the earthly temple was ultimately destroyed.

BUT, the veil of separation has torn, and God's presence delivered by the Holy Spirit into the hearts of all believers has spilled out to fill the whole earth. At times, we cast shadows by hiding our lamps under baskets and beds and such, but thankfully, some still let out the light, faithfully shining "this little light o' mine" into every dark corner and every dimmed heart they come across.

Every sacrifice, every small act of selflessness, every attempt at building community, every smile and helping hand are the manifestations of that invisible, yet intimately tangible, kingdom. We were given the keys to that kingdom. We were adopted as sons and daughters into that kingdom. We were made royalty in that kingdom. All we have to do is believe it. All we have to do is act in keeping with our spiritual authority to live out that joy and peace and righteousness. We are the bridges and brokers of heavenly storehouses of wisdom and kindness and forgiveness to all the people in our lives. We do not need to wait for some leader or party or government to validate that. We walk in the light, and no darkness can snuff it out. We walk in the ways of the Spirit, and no argument can silence a life of love. We bear the fruit of the Spirit, and no law or government would stand against them ("...against these, there is no law..." Gal. 5).

Let's defeat the darkness with light. Let's overwhelm the weeds with seeds of goodness. Let's bring honesty back into our public discourse and honor back into public service. Let's grow bigger hearts and hug our communities back together. If we do these things and persevere, we will certainly reap a harvest of blessings for our children’s and our grandchildren's sakes. And that invisible kingdom—that kingdom that he has entrusted us with—will grow.

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Imagine if we were healed and could talk to each other again. Just imagine how gloriously boring politics could be if politicians came to the table with honesty, hearts to serve others, and egos and social media view counts out of mind. All our public policy issues would go from stuck to solvable. The economy, reproductive rights, the border, and every other pressing national issue might make progress and improve the lives of more people. This is why unity is the paramount issue of our time. Jesus and Old Abe say that without it, we have already failed. But, that also means that with it—if we can somehow rebuild it and keep rebuilding it after every attack on it toward “a more perfect union,” we will have more than mere hope for success—we will have succeeded.

It’s in our name: The United States. Are we hypocrites? Or are we idealists who must persevere in making reality bend to this biggest of dreams? How do we define this tricky, slippery concept we’ve been playing with as a nation for almost 250 years? What, God help us, is unity, and how do we live up to this greatest-of-all, yet-fulfilled promise of America?

To grasp Unity, we must understand it in light of what it isn’t. Unity is not agreement; it is staying together despite disagreement. Unity is not conformity; it is a generosity of being that not merely allows but deeply desires a diversity of expression. Unity is not an organizational chart or authority structure; it is an empowering culture where every individual believes in their agency and autonomy and has the support of their community to launch out, take risks, be creative, and accomplish greatness. Unity is not commanded; it is earned. Unity cannot coexist with fear but thrives in love. Unity is not to-each-his-own, laissez-faire tolerance; it is blood-sweat-and-tears, deeply invested care in the well-being of others. Unity is not a destination to arrive at; it is a destination to aim at and a vehicle of kindness to ride in on the way there. Lack of unity is not something to be anxious about but something to be patient with. And if you succeed at patience, then you are practicing unity. Unity keeps its doors open to all but excludes division (though the truth is division left on its own terms and, despite warning, is willfully headed in the wrong direction). Division is the tool of insecure, self-seeking, self-promoting people driven by ambition. It destroys public trust and everything decent, and, like all the devil’s work, it is ultimately self-defeating because it is antithetical to love— and love is what the universe is made of.

Unity vs. division is not a minor issue in Scripture. Many theologians would argue that it is the central theme, the resounding heartbeat, the driving narrative of the biblical story. Jesus painted a vision for unity in his prayer for his disciples in John 17. It was his express purpose, goal, and ultimate dream. The rest of the New Testament echoes this vision. It continues to remind us to strive for unity, to be of one mind, to be vigilant against the dark forces that will try to tear us apart. Jesus, the apostle Paul, and John the Beloved constantly remind us to "love one another," "fulfill the royal law of love," and "to love God, you must love your brother." I challenge you to read the entire Epistle of Ephesians in one sitting. In it, Paul conducts a beautiful symphony of unity that becomes the drumbeat to the new movement exploding throughout Asia Minor.

Scripture is explicit. It warns us against the cancer of division. It instructs us to cast it out. "Warn a divisive brother—twice if you have to—then have nothing to do with him" (Titus 3:10). The works of the flesh in Galatians 5 are all the bickering, splintering, dividing, breaking into factions, arguing, and all the immorality that flows from pure selfishness, a.k.a. looking out for number one. The list of the fruits of the spirit (from the same passage) are the spiritual gifts for committing to ongoing relationships with others.

As Christian Americans, we have a goliath task this year. We must vote to end the ugly divisiveness that has destroyed our ability to see one another. I know it may be hard. There are so many lies and false narratives out there that make it hard to see clearly. But, I will remind you of two simple lenses Jesus gave us to use when making judgments:

1) Judge a tree by its fruit. There is no need for a PhD in botany or digging through the root system to determine what the tree is—you’ll only get yourself dirty, and the hole you dig will become a hazard for others. Knowing what a tree is is so simple a child could do it. Look at the fruit on the branches (i.e., look at the candidate’s life).

2) Your spiritual gift of discernment. Spiritual discernment is the gut feeling you get when someone approaches you in the mall acting like they want to help you, but you know they just want something from you. Discernment is judging whether a person’s motivations are true, whose benefit they are after, and whether they want to control you with fear or be generous to you out of love. Our spirits will give us red flags when we suspect someone is manipulating us. Sometimes, you need to trust your gut.

This year, vote for sanity, reasonability, the kind of leadership your parents and church taught you when you were young—the leader Jesus taught us to be. Whatever you do, please vote. We must exercise this freedom and this responsibility because so many in the world still don't have it.

There is still much hope for America and our future together. We can show the world how to navigate through disagreement, division, and vitriol while still coming out on the other side intact and without political violence. It's what the world is desperate to see. They’re asking, is democracy still viable in the misinformation age when conflict and rage drive our algorithms? Can truth still rise to the top? Can reason and level-headedness still win the day? Do the Beatitudes still work in the 21st century?

Let’s practice humility, go low, reach out, and perform random acts of kindness. It’s going to take time to rebuild trust, but we will get there. Unity is this generation’s main task and ultimate destiny. We can either work to speed its coming or delay it to our own detriment. Let’s get to work.

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The eye is so easily manipulated. “When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye…she took some and ate it.” The eye was tricked into believing it could be “like God” and judge right from wrong, good from evil, righteousness from unrighteousness. By eating the fruit, we traded true wisdom for surface appearances. It’s when we started judging books by covers. Jesus talked a lot about the eye as a tool of judgment. His teachings are why we now believe that true justice, to be truly just, must be blind. Our generation must relearn these truths.

Think you see a splinter in your friend’s eye? Have you checked your own lately? Are you sure you’re being objective with your eye-based judgment of their judgment-prone eyes? Jesus intended the remove-the-plank-in-your-own-eye teaching not only to warn people of hypocrisy, but also to draw attention to the heart of the conundrum that is the human eye.

Jesus also said the eyes are like windows to the soul. But wait, aren’t windows two-way membranes? To illuminate the matter even more, he added, if our "body is full of light," we will see the world aright. Whoa, hold up Jesus, isn’t the light out there? How is there light in our bodies? And how does that light help us to see? As if in response to these unspoken questions, he declared the inverse to be true: if our eyes are full of darkness, we will only see things that verify the dark world we've come to believe. "How great is that darkness!" Jesus bemoaned.

Paul echoes this reality in his epistle to Titus:

“To the pure, all things are pure, but to those who are corrupted, nothing is pure. In fact, both their minds and consciences are corrupted” (Titus 1:15).

Here’s the hard truth: What’s inside us affects (determines/limits/enables) what we see.

How do we get out of the echo chamber, out of the mirror house that our eyes led us into? Do we choose the narratives we believe or do the narratives we believe choose the narratives we believe? Is it even possible to see our own internal contradictions? How do we even begin to introspect when the introspection just spins us in circles?Are we full of light or full of darkness?

There’s a word for when no amount of external light can make us see or can change our minds: blindness. When the religious leaders interrogated the man Jesus healed of physical blindness (in John 9), he rebuked them, saying that they too would be able to see if they would only first recognize their blindness. This begs another seemingly circular question, how does anyone come to see that they are blind? 

It starts with doubting the eye and its testimony. We all think we are on the side of light—that we are the only ones seeing things correctly, that our eyes are pure, that we are full of light. But we also know appearances can lie. We know there’s truth beyond what our first impressions or assumptions tell us. We know, through experience and through film and literature, that we are all susceptible to sleight of hand precisely because of our ability to make judgements at a glance. Magicians and storytellers have been subverting our eye-based expectations for millennia because of this.

The eye is not a reliable judge of truth. In fact, if we are using our eyes primarily as a filter for good and evil, what we approve of and what we condemn, then we are probably not using our eyes the way they were intended. How do we use our eyes properly, then? By maintaining a modicum of humility, by taking what we see with a grain of salt, by holding a healthy amount of self-doubt in our own ability to judge. If we can do this, we will be well on the way toward fixing our generational problems of division. A slight self-ward suspicion (void of shame or blame) that sounds like the questions: "What if I'm wrong?" or "What if I'm missing something?" will get us more than halfway to becoming peacemakers, to maturity, and to godliness. Questions like these, at the very least, will help us to pause…and to pose…more questions. We will be able to subvert the unconscious space behind our eyeballs, where our biases and our perceptions co-conspire to pass judgement (how great is that darkness?). And we might just be able to convert our eyes from dark wells of community-crippling judgment into life-giving geysers of light.

Be real for a moment. When others are around you, do they feel joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control shining out from your eyes? Or are they afraid to mess up, to let loose, to speak their minds because it might invite your anger or judgment? Here are some symptoms to look for if you suspect that you or a loved one might be using the eye to judge instead of to love:

1. Attraction to controversy and narratives that make you feel like a victim;

2. Fear or suspicion of people in authority;

3. Anxiety or despair over an unknown future;

4. Increased drive to become politically active with a decreased willingness to talk about politics or ideology with real-life people face-to-face (or strained relationships with friends or family because of heated political disagreement);

5. Joining virtual online groups based on politics or ideology to feel a sense of belonging;

6. The need to judge all evidence for yourself before you accept its validity;

7. Less laughter and mirth;

8. Inability to cry and a proclivity to anger;

9. An urge to violence, destructiveness, or harm, instead of articulation.

What if I suspect I might have some blind spots?

If any of these resonate and you suspect that you, too, might be blind (using your eyes wrongly), take heart: this self-realization is the safest place you can be. It may feel scary, but it's what the Bible calls repentance—a confession that you cannot see as God sees, that you are your own echo chamber, and that you need God’s help to get outside yourself. Say and believe the following words, "I don't know if I'm blind, but if I am, God, if you're there, open my eyes and help me to see as you see." Saying and believing these words will work miracles in your life—it will lead to peace in your heart, in your relationships, in your community.

When the apostle Paul was still Saul, the persecutor of Christians, he encountered Jesus and his spiritual blindness manifested as literal blindness. After stumbling his way to Damascus, he met a true believer who prayed for him and “scales fell off his eyes” so he could see again. This is what we all need. We are all blind and we need to see again. We need to ask the question, what is wrong with our eyes? Saul’s eyes were converted from judgment to love; his body went from being full of darkness to full of light, so much so that he changed his name. Did you get that? The way he framed his whole life, his identity—how he saw himself—changed in an instant.

The main symptom of our collective generational sickness—this blindness—we are experiencing is the inability to see each other. It isn’t just an inability to see things from another perspective; it is a physical reaction of disgust at another person’s or group’s ideas. God’s original design for this grand experiment—the living temple he is building brick by brick with each of us connected to each other by the mortar of brotherly love—was that your perspective would fill in my blind spots (and vice versa) so that we could all see better together. If I pursue a lonely life of individuality, I can only take so much in through these two eyeballs of mine, but when I’m connected to a diverse pool of people I love, wow—watch out! I am overwhelmed by goodness. To see one another, and the ability to see as others see—that is true vision. That is a body full of light.

How great is that light?

Okay, so, how do I confront a friend with love?

If you recognize some of the above signs in one of your friends or loved ones—if you suspect they are getting radicalized by rage and if you've never gently confronted them, start by expressing your concern. Sometimes planting a simple question and a gentle expression of concern that demonstrates you are invested in their personal joy is enough to sow a seed of doubt in their ideological rightness, even if you don't spar with them intellectually. An intellectual argument will only send the already-convinced on a search for more evidence or argumentation to combat you and win the argument next time. But a gentle word backed by the power of love will be a domino that will eventually take down the house of cards from the inside. This strategy is rarely ever immediate. Again, if it feels like winning an argument during one confrontation, you’ll likely lose the person. But, if your goal is for them to feel cared and loved by you, you’ll likely win them. Keep pouring in the light. Share what you’re grateful for. Tell positive, uplifting stories. These all add up to become distractions to the narratives they are consuming. “We win not by destroying what we hate but by saving what we love” (The Last Jedi).

Jesus called love the greatest commandment. That means the greatest heresy of all is the failure to love. Paul said “without love, we are nothing” (1 Cor. 13). Jesus also said, "where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am with them." We weren't meant to see or experience the world alone, or through one prevailing myopic worldview. To do so would be cancerous. It would be unbearable. It would be hell. When we reach out and connect with people of different opinions, Jesus shows up.

We are all susceptible to blindness and deception. And we have all contributed to this cultural phenomenon—this Catch-22 of alternate realities becoming competing realities. Every time we've stoked the fire instead of diffusing tensions, every time we've been snarky in a comment, every time we've said "idiots" under our breath, every time we've celebrated someone else's angry diatribe (typically against a scarecrow caricature of an idea rather than against a real person), every time we've lost faith in humanity—we have been complicit with the spirit of the age.

We must turn back to Christ and learn his ways of nonviolence—especially in our words. We must repudiate the twisted, worldly form of power that brandishes violence in one hand and fear in the other. We must learn and follow the empowering ways of Jesus and his kingdom because “this is the way” to the fruit of the spirit. If it doesn't look like love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control, then it's not his kingdom. If it's not his kingdom, then it will not last. You can take that to the bank, especially when you, your team, your party, or whatever movement you are affiliated with has suffered loss. Remember your truest affiliation. Situate yourself squarely in Christ’s kingdom, because Jesus said his kingdom would never be shaken or suffer setback. It is always progressing, always growing, always filling the earth with his glory.

“Love your enemies” is not a suggestion. It’s a command—not just to “let them off the hook,” but to keep ourselves from being blind. It is how we keep our bodies full of light, how we hang on with hope for the future: for tighter communities, for safer cities, and for a better world.

God, heal our blindness and give us true sight. Amen.

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Another missile. Another attack. Another untold number of innocent patients, medical staff, journalists dead. It just keeps happening. And I don’t know how to process it. I don’t know how to not feel guilty for having a latte, or for tucking my kids in at night, or for—God forbid—enjoying a movie or simple amusement. Has my heart hardened to all these hard truths? Am I just a dumb, sheltered, privileged American who lives oblivious to the suffering of so many oppressed and unfortunate peoples? If I’m not marching in protest, am I complicit in these crimes? As I read of missile attacks unraveling millions of lives and life stories, how can I enjoy hot-buttered toast with well-roasted coffee? Why me? Why not me? How do I feel, much less act, in solidarity with the oppressed without being depressed?

I think this is where I’ve settled for now: the most responsible thing we can do to show our solidarity with Gazan children and Ukrainians, and with every other people group undergoing disruption and persecution, besides staying informed and praying, is to do what they have been robbed of doing: love our kids, throw birthday parties, walk our dogs, tend our gardens, hug our loved ones, speak words of life, and show simple acts of kindness to strangers. Simply put, the way we help others, oceans away or next door, is to live in the light and stay in the light through all the little, faithful things: folding laundry, changing diapers, taking that online class, putting in extra time at work, taking time off of work to take our kids to a park. All of it—every single bit of normal life—will confound the powers of darkness in the world, to the point of making them transparently silly and laughable—like the emperor in his new clothes—and will prove that the power they project isn't real. They want—no, they need—our fear to stay alive, to stay in power. But we know. We know there is no real power or authority outside of King Jesus. If we convert all of our fear into trust and place it in him, every other intimidating thing, every big scary bad guy, gets deflated, shrunk down to something (if it wasn't so harmful and sad) almost pitiable.

Keep living your beautiful life in your school, in your workplace, in your neighborhood, in your community. Create beauty and give it away. Give everything you do the attention of a gardener with a flower garden...and know that that is more important for our world than anything a president or military can do. The world wants you to believe that you are low on the totem pole, that your life is insignificant, that titles and accomplishments are the only things that prove your worth. This couldn't be further from the truth. When you bake cookies for your neighbor or invite an immigrant into your home for a meal or babysit someone's kids or tell a joke that brings smiles to faces, you are releasing something so powerful and impactful, that presidents and kings would be jealous.

They do not need our guilt or judgment. There is no side to take. There is no enemy to hate, other than the spirit behind all division and intransigence. All the enemies we thought we had aren’t "them" after all. They are "us." Remember when Jesus said that when we visit the prisoner, when we give the thirsty a drink, or when we give the destitute clothes, we do all these things unto him—as if they were Jesus himself. Jesus turns the the criminal-turned-prisoner into himself, the lazy-turned-destitute into himself; the strapped-for-cash-turned-prostitute into himself; and with all these Jesuses around us, we have the opportunity to serve him, to love him, to care for and feed and cover him, to bring him into our families, to convert them with love into pillars of our communities.

You are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. Sprinkle your salt. Turn your light on, and stay in the light…for your own sakes and for the sake of the world.