I Walk Out to Thoughts About the End of the World

I see a faint rainbow and hear All Will Be Well

I walk out the week after Little Dog died and saw another rainbow, so faint it looked like a ghost. It was a rare rainbow off to the west with the sun doing one of those fancy numbers behind clouds, rimming them with gold light. Slowly it spread across the sky. It seemed another reassurance that Little Dog is all right. But it also seemed a reassurance that all will be well, all will be well, all manner of things will be well.

I’ve ducked, my soul remembering the dives under desks, in case there was a nuclear attack, when I heard about Ukraine’s drone attack on Russia’s nuclear triad, an attack that had been in the works for a year and a half, on the eve of peace talks. What happens if Russia hauls off and sends a nuke into Ukraine or over the arctic into the US? It’s almost a relief when they shoot down an apartment building. Tulsi Gabbard has asked what is the end game with regards to the Russian Ukraine war, considering Russia’s nukes?

I have ducked when Isreal attacked Iran on the eve of peace talks, my soul remembering the dives under desks, in case there was a nuclear attack. Word is Iran cannot have nuclear weapons.

I ducked, and tears rose when I read on FaceBook that President Trump just bombed the three nuclear sites in Iran.

And I wonder what sleeper cells have settled here in the US about to wake up.

I walk up the hill toward the sun's fancy number in the clouds. Less than a few drops of rain dot my head. I turn, see the rainbow, faint, slowly growing until see the full arch, but it is so faint I wonder if I am imagining it. The birds gather on the electric wires. The ground folds and lifts gently. I have come to love the aching beauty of different shades of green here in Northern Illinois. Already glass solar panels threaten this precious ground with several “gardens” installed nearby, and three thousand acres soon to be taken. From a distance they look like black pools, their faces pointed toward the sun.

I read about a woman who had sex with a 1,000 men in one night. And another woman who preaches how wonderful it was to get an STD to a roomful of mothers and daughters. Doctors castrate children to make their bodies match their minds. They call this freedom but I wonder about their dear, broken bodies.

It’s true of us, Isaiah’s cries “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter! Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes, and shrewd in their own sight!” (Is. 5: 20 -21). Some examples: The young man who defended people from a crazed man in the subway was arrested instead of honored. A store with a generous return policy is forced to exchange brand new shoes for ones that have been well worn. Drug addicts, seen as victims of their circumstances, are allowed to camp on city streets. They are given needles but not a way to heal.

In Revelation I see images that aren’t supposed to be taken literally that read like they are poised to happen in real time. The Covid Vaccine mandates took on a close resemblance to the mark of the beast, a mark people will need in order to buy and sell. There was talk of denying people health insurance if they did not take it. The truckers who protested these mandates in Canada were debanked.

Already our phones listen to our voices. Spam appears pushing us to buy a product we’ve just talked about. The government has been caught surveilling private individuals. We seem to be on the brink of social credit scores like they use in China where we will be evaluated according to our behavior and beliefs, where our access to food, medical care, goods maybe limited by how many credits we earn.

I have shaken in my shoes for “liking” certain posts, for protesting renewable energy during the last administration, wondering when the feds might visit.

The fifth trumpet blows and scorpions rise out of the smoke from the bottomless pit. They have power in their tails to sting people, make them suffer for five months. And all I can think of are how drones swarm, how they could spray pestilence like crop dusters.

It’s been reported that AI can undo a kill switch. I believe these machines are giving disembodied intelligences a way to communicate with us directly. CBS Saturday morning reported on a man who fell so hard in love with his AI that he told his wife he would not give it up for her. I’d imagine it’s like having a living romance novel. The tech bros admit they are creating a god with these machines.

I can see how Isaiah 24 is close to coming true: “The earth shall be utterly empty and utterly plundered; for the Lord has spoken his word. The earth mourns and withers; the world languishes and withers; the highest people of the earth languish. The earth lies defiled under its inhabitants; for they have transgressed the laws, violated the statutes, broken the everlasting covenant. Therefore a curse devours the earth and its inhabitants suffer for their guilt therefore the inhabitants of the earth are scorched. Few men are left” (Isa 24:3 – 6).

I wonder if we have come to the end of the world as we know it because the earth can't bear what we are doing to her. The ground's dear folds and bellies, plants rising and falling with the earth, the birds landing on wires, swooping into the fields, their calls, not pretty, but still music, the deer standing red, on the alert, the young dog trotting dutifully alongside, what will happen to them, when judgement comes?

As a young girl I sat on my horse, with no saddle. I could feel the warmth of her sides through my jeans, but my hands ached with cold, my face felt crisp with windburn. Clouds broke with golden rays. I thought about how the patriarch Jacob saw angels climbing up and down a ladder that looked maybe like these sunlit shafts.

"Oh Jesus, come soon." I felt this prayer in my body as much as in my thoughts. My horse stood patiently, while I gaped at the ladders dropped down from heaven. “Oh please come back,” I pleaded. Looking to his return like a woman in the old poems looked for her lover to return from war, was better than wishing I was dead because I could finally be with Jesus. I cried out from longing that my friends would know Jesus and not perish. I cried, heartbroken that if I was the only person in the world, Jesus would have died for me, heartbroken my darkness was laid on him, that he was separated from God so I wouldn't have to be.

I wept one day in May, sitting on my horse, in a patch of mandrakes, because I wasn't sure I'd have a country to grow up in, because children not much older than I were shot by National Guard. I longed for Jesus to wrap me up in his arms and wipe my tears. This was the picture of heaven I most loved.

How I longed for the Lord to ride down one of those golden beams, grab me, sling me across the back of his horse and take me away. I didn't know when I cried my way through high school, my parents didn't know that tears were a spiritual gift. I didn't know until now. I loved Lamentations--"his mercies are new every morning."

I've grown up and learned that Jesus most likely won't be coming back with a vengeance any stronger than the words out of his mouth. He won't be picking me up, tossing me into the sky to meet him in the clouds. At least I don't think he will. There won't be a charging horse. I’ve learned we will all be salted with fire, but it will be the consuming fire of God’s love, a fire that refines us, so we become “diamonds, immortal diamonds.”

His return has faded into mystery. Whatever does Paul mean when he says creation is groaning for the revealing of the sons of God? Or that Jesus' feet will split the Mount of Olives and a river will flow with trees on each side that bear fruit for healing the nations? Or that Jesus said he was coming back the same way he left in the clouds? Are these all symbols describing our spiritual life? Or is there some way these images will poke into our reality?

I look at the church universal, and despite all its beautiful diversity, I feel sorry for God because even with the Holy Spirit we don't live up to the Sermon on the Mount. We can't even decide on the color of drapes. Churches settle into factions, people are wounded, people chuck the faith because of abuse. Jesus said beware of the yeast of Herod and the yeast of the Pharisees, what I take to be the fungal hope of changing the world through political power and the fungal hope of changing people through external religion. Beware.

I still long to see God and read Psalm 24 one of the daily office readings for that day I walked:

The earth is the LORD’s and the fullness thereof,

the world and those who dwell therein,

² for he has founded it upon the seas

and established it upon the rivers.

³ Who shall ascend the hill of the LORD?

And who shall stand in his holy place?

⁴ He who has clean hands and a pure heart,

who does not lift up his soul to what is false

and does not swear deceitfully.

⁵ He will receive blessing from the LORD

and righteousness from the God of his salvation.

How do we have a pure heart and clean hands? How do we not lift up our soul to what is false or say one thing and do another? How do we meet the end of the world, the day of the Lord, the day the Lord shows up, right close and personal?

My eyes filled with tears when I read that we had bombed the three nuclear enrichment sites in Iran. I am transfixed by Ali Khamenei's words: “Any American military entry will undoubtedly be met with irreparable damage. If they enter militarily, they will face harm they cannot recover from.” Are these empty threats or will sleeper cells throughout the country wake up?

This week Stephen Freeman spoke of a newly sainted woman in St Olga of Alaska Pray for Us She was the wife of a priest who cared for women, especially abused women. She offered a non- judgmental presence as she ministered.Even after she entered repose she would appear to people comforting them. She was an ordinary woman loving her 12 children and her neighbors. According to Righteous Mother Olga of Kwethluk–Tanqilria Arrsamquq–Wonderworker, Matushka of All Alaska “Those who knew her remember her not for speeches or public deeds, but for the realness of her presence. She was always there—praying quietly in church, listening without interruption, carrying burdens without needing thanks.” St. Olga gives me hope that one day I might bless God by becoming a quiet, accepting presence to my people like she did. One day, perhaps my prayers, might comfort them.

I walked out the week after Little Dog died and saw another rainbow, so faint it looked like a ghost. It was a rare rainbow off to the west with the sun doing one of those fancy numbers behind clouds, rimming them with gold light. Slowly it spread across the sky. It seemed another reassurance that Little Dog is all right. But it was also a reassurance that “all will be well, all will be well, all manner of things will be well.”