The California Collection/TheCaliforniaCollection.cdr/his086/diary.lzh/DIARY.TXT

Text File | 1991-06-30 | 12KB | 245 lines

DEV:Diary of a wounded God  by Justin Long

   The First Week Of December

   December 1, 1988

   My little creation spins on. My little gem world, my love, my
beauty--Earth lives! Yet, with living comes dying: scores on scores
starved today. Oh, my love, why did you have to choose the emptiness of
Evil? Why did you contaminate your wondrous world with the darkness of
sin? Did you not understand the nature of the one thing I did not
create? The darkness that existed before creation, the darkness so
different from light: oh, my children, that is nothingness! It is an
empty avoid apart from me, my love, my power, my blessings... and this
darkness you chose--this darkness Lucifer made so beguiling--this
darkness is nothing, and it is to naught that your sin will lead you.

   My children! we could have lived and loved each other with a love
you now barely even have a taste of as you clutch each other in the
back seats of cars and on the warm, salty sands of Pacific islands.

   You sold your love for a taste of the fordbidden. You don't
understand love must be given to be of value. The only reason I gave
you the Rule was so you could freely choose to love me. My children, my
children, why did you rebel?

   The days passed by so quickly. It seemed I'd no sooner breathed live
into you than you stood and shook your fist in rebellion.

   Rebellion caused by Lucifer. Lucifer, who was once my beauty, once
my minister. Cursed be your days, Satan, scum of all creation! Men fear
you now, but one day my people shall emerge victorious, and then you'll
be the laughingstock of all my domain! You, you who thought your puny
finite frame could overthrow the living God! You have become evil
through and through, and you shall be nothing but a dwindling speck of
darkness. I am the LORD! I shall win. You brought my children low, and
you shall be visited by my wrath, and then where shall you stand?

   But my children, my children--why do you hate me?

   December 2, 1988

   I sent a soft, cold rain across America today. As usual, the reviews
of my action were mixed, but almost always negative. The farmers
grumbled, calling it "too little, too late." Others were upset that it
ruined their outdoor plans.

   But my little flowers need their drink! My grass needs its
nourishment! My children, must you always be angry with me?

   There were some, and one in particular: a little girl named Amber.
She was only eight, and she stood in the porch of her home, staring up
at me. "Your rain smells so good!" she said, "but my
kitty--Jackie--she's out in it. She doesn't like it very much. Could
you find her and send her home? I'm afraid she's lost."

   Her mother called her inside just shortly later with a slightly
irritated tone in her voice, but I was moved by the child. She asked!
She really asked me! Oh, it felt so good to be trusted. I called
Michael, the great war angel himself, and sent him after the cat. I
laughed a little at the bemused, slightly uncertain look on his face.
He'd battled Lucifer in the war for heaven centuries ago--and now he
was sent chasing a cat? But Amber had made herself special to me. She
made me happy, and I almost forgot the grumblers and complainers.

   December 3, 1988

   Snow in Canada! Ah, such a lovely sight--angels dancing on the
pristine mountains, singing their praises before me. In a small
village, young children are engaging in a friendly snowball fight: it's
about the only kind of fight that is friendly any more.

   A young boy climbed the summit of the mountain, clambering from rock
to rock much like the mountain goats. There he stood, taking in the
serence silence, the endless sky, the beauty of the view. He smiled,
and I smiled with him.

   Yes, my child--it is beautiful! It is incredibly beautiful. And just
wait until you see a mountain in my new earth--a mountain that sin has
not touched. And wait until you see a mountain flower, perfect and
without curse. Come listen to the birds that flitter in my gardens, and
taste the crystal water that flows from my brooks. For once you have
smelled heaven, and seen me, all else will pale in comparison.

   As the sun dipped under the horizon, spilling reddish-gold rays
around him, the young boy smiled, and a single tear dripped down his
cheek. He was caught in the awesome beauty.

   "This must be what heaven is like, " he whispered. Oh, no, my child.
Heaven is infinitely better.

   But I have to agree--this is quite lovely, and there'll never be
anything quite like it. That's just the way of my creations: down deep,
they are always unique, beautiful, and amazingly neat.

   December 4, 1988

   Little Charity is not living up to her name; even now she sits with
her friends, hands reached out to touch a Ouija board. Spirits of
oppression are around her, grinning evilly--but she cannot see them;
she is completely impressed by the board's power to answer her
questions.

   My child, my child, you are so confused by the arguments about
whether these boards are hoaxes or not; you are so intrigued by the
power, yet guilty by what others tell you of demonic oppression. Can I
give you a far more convincing argument?

   When you seek peace for the future, why can you not ask me? Is it
because I don't use boards or dice? because I don't shoot flames or
make tables leap? because I don't whisper in fog or speak in an audible
voice? because I don't cause shadows to jump on the walls? must I put
on a show for you? I have in the past, and it didn't help. Remember
Israel? I arranged a tremendous display at Mount Sinai: fire, and
smoke, and anyone who touched the mountain died -- but still they did
not believe. When the signs disappeared, when their crutch was gone,
they no longer believed.

   I can speak directly to your spirit. One to one communication
between the most powerful King that ever lived and you. You,
personally! I want to. I want to talk to you. If you quiet yourself,
and put aside all this hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo, I'll come, and walk up
beside you, and whisper things in your heart. I can reassure you. I can
love you. I can bring peace, and joy, and real freedom.

   But you want spells and hexes, power to trip, to stab, to kill. Why?
Because I have forbidden it? Do you think I am hiding something of
great value? My power is the power of life, and I give it to those who
have proven themselves responsible; who have refused the lure of death.

   Oh, child, please put down the Ouija board. Come talk to me. Please?

   December 5, 1988

   Jared had an argument with his parents today; it was a pretty bad
one. He exploded in anger, left the house, jumped in his car, and went
driving. Cruising the beachfront streets, he found a girl about his own
age-- nineteen-- and offered to give her a lift. She jumped in his car,
and they "cruised" around for a while longer, then at her suggestion
they stopped at a deserted section of the beach.

   With the radio whispering gently alluring music, Jared became, in
his mind, a man.

   Oh, my child. This is not the way I meant it. I gave humans eros. I
made sex--but what about the love? what about the love? have all of you
forgotten everything that love means? Do you not love me because you
can't "make love" with me?

   My children--the physical joining is a symbol, a parable, a "like
this" for a much deeper spiritual joining. That spiritual joining
happens every time you "make love, " as you call it. There are some who
are linked to fifty, sixty, maybe a hundred different people, and they
are suffering for it.

   There must be commitment! You say you don't need to sign on a
"dotted line"; you say you're commited to each other, that you love
each other--but if you do, then why won't you verbalize it? Why don't
you make a promise in front of witnesses? You aren't afraid to make
love, but you are afraid to make covenants. I made one--why can't you?

   My children, my children, love is so many things, and so many
feelings. But you can't live by feelings, because yours were designed
to go up and down, to leap up and fade out. When the feelings are gone,
there has to be a commitment to keep you going!

   December 6, 1988

   How can they sit there and say I don't exist? These humanists, these
athiests, how can they just sit there and say their creator doesn't
exist? I don't understand. I made the stars. I made the trees. I made
the ants and the mosquitos! I placed everything in perfect harmony.
Even their computers tell them this couldn't have happened by chance.
Yet they persist in this belief that I'm not here.

   Is it because if I am here, they must own up to what they're doing
wrong? Sandy admits if she REALLY believed in me, if she really
believed my son is coming back, she wouldn't be doing what she's doing
now. If she thought my son were to return tomorrow, she wouldn't be in
the back seat of that car tonight, drinking Jack Daniels and smoking
cocaine. But she knows he won't come tomorrow--the signs aren't in the
right place, her youth group advisor tells her--so she's comfortable.
She can always beg forgiveness later... maybe next week.

   So if she knows I'm not coming back tomorrow, what must these
athiests think, when they don't believe I'm coming back at all?

   My children, my children, this ideology built around my "return" is
such incredible nonsense! Of course, I'm coming back in BODY . . . but
in spirit, I'm watching you right now. I'm all around you. Do I have to
be present in seeable form to be grieved at what you're doing?

   Some of you think I'm an infinite "force"; a life-field that hugs
amorally around you, not caring what you're doing so long as you're
promoting this feeling you call happiness. Others think it's all
chance, the throw of the dice. Even those of my church aren't really
AWARE, don't really BELIEVE I'm a person with feelings!

   Oh, my children, I was the first to be happy, I was the first to
cry. I ache with your heartaches.

   You want to be omniscient? Do you think you could handle being
all-knowing? How would you like to walk through the streets on a busy
night and know everything going on in everyone's head? How would you
like to be hurt by four billion people, intentionally, every second of
the year for six thousand years?

   So why do you hate me? Why do you ignore me? Why don't you love me?

   December 7, 1988

   A day of rest. The seventh day. Whether it's Saturday or Sunday,
what difference does it make, little ones? The point is to work six
days, and rest one. Do you think your little bodies can handle constant
work?

   Greed is such a curious thought. I wonder if they would be so greedy
if they could see things the way I do: like a whisper, or a vapor. Gold
decays before my eyes. Paper money rots. Diamonds last a little while
longer, but not much, and then they crack and fall apart.

   All these things they love last only a little longer than they, and
then fall apart. What's left? Only what they store in heaven: memories,
and ideas, and understanding, and love. Lots of love. Love for me, for
what I've done for you.

   Greed. They are my children; as princes in my kingdom they own
everything I have made--and yet they're greedy.

   As to the contents of this manual, I will make no attempt at
explanation nor justification. How I came to possess them is my secret,
and must remain so. Whether they are authentic or not is left to the
one reading the material.

   I will only say that I believe in a personal, infinite God who
demands each individual be accountable to Him for moral change--but
what is more, I believe in a God who cares and loves His own very
dearly. I think this document shows quite clearly the depths of both
His justice and His mercy.

   May you love Him as much He loves you, for that is truly all He
desires.

   Copyright 1988 by Justin Long, all rights reserved.