DISCLAIMER: The following is a story that I wrote after an extremely pensive state as I questioned whether upon entering Heaven I would retain any of my ‘self’ or if my ego would be diluted into non existence within God’s majesty. Please also note that I wrote this in 1998 long before I understood the differences between Arminianism and Calvinism.

Submitted for the Unfettered Monk.

"THE ELEVENTH HOUR"

 Ramblings of A Mad Man

     Of course it is after Eleven, when is it ever not this absurd hour before I once more take pen to hand ? You ask what insanity drives me to this tablet this evening, and for once I have had more than a passing thought on a subject, for this has cut me to the quick and then held me in the warm embrace of certainty.

     The thought  that crossed my mind  today is I’m sure one  that we have all had a time or two, and yet for some reason today it decided to stick with me until I felt compelled to put some thought to the question… What happens to us in Heaven?, and I don’t mean what are we changed into ( angels and such ) , but what happens to the self, what happens to that which makes me, ME? With all the majesty one imagines when  thinking about heaven, I had to wonder how easy  it would be to lose ones self when in the glory of Gods  Kingdom…. I can imagine myself being caught up and whirled away like a leaf by the majestic maelstrom of Gods loving presence.

      With this in my mind I had to ponder on what it would be like to pass from this world and enter into His. To feel the Fathers love filling every ounce of my being, and for a moment; a moment that transcends all of eternity, a moment when time has no meaning I, ME, MY SELF, no longer exists…

      For only a moment, and then I am once more conscious of my own presence. In the brief time that it takes me to grasp that I am still whole  I realize that I am now seated before a potters wheel . I’m not working the wheel, but I am watching someone working with a large piece of moistened clay. The clay is slowly spinning on the wheel, turning round and round, and  I am firmly rooted in watching this lopsided blob of clay spin endlessly. It is at this point that I hear  a voice unlike any I have heard before. A voice that resonates through out my body. Not because of its volume but because every fiber of my being recognizes the Creator.

     As I stare transfixed at the clay I see His hands begin to work the clay. His hands aged by an eternity of work, are hardened with calluses and yet they are full of subtle grace as they shape the clay. I want to look up and see the Teachers face, but at the same time I know that I shouldn’t, and  even if I did I’m not really sure I’d see anything past His hands. At this point  the words that He has been speaking start to form in my befuddled head.

     " I am the  Potter and everything  you’ve ever seen, everything you know of, and even that which you know not of is by my will and design. All of the creatures of Heaven and Earth are my creations. I am the artist of all that there is or ever will be. As you see the clay take form so it is with life as you know it. It starts as nothing, and then I touch it and breath life into it. As I draw the clay upwards so I draw up a man. I form him and shape him to be my creation, my individual creation. For I am the master artist and none of my works are the same. But unlike the piece of clay you see before  you I give man the freedom of choice. A piece of clay will sometimes lose its shape and the artist must start over. So it is with man."

     As I watched the clay formed it was turned from a useless mass of clay into a beautiful vase, with graceful swirls rising up from its’ base to it’s open mouth. The vase didn’t outwardly look so different from others I have seen, yet upon further inspection I could see that while simple in its’ overall design there was a perfect symmetry to its’ shape. In my heart I knew that only Gods hands could have made the vase I saw before me. The wheel slowed its spinning, and my Lord stretched out his left hand pointing to an enormous pile of broken pottery.

     " These represent the broken souls that would not heed my calling and chose wrongly. Always falling short of allowing me to enter their lives they finally became too dry and hard for me to work with any longer. In the end all they will ever know is what they could have been, and they will lament in their folly for eternity. Know my child that as an artist I am greatly saddened  at the loss of such, but for each of these that have fallen there are these."

     With that He stretched out His right hand  and I saw row upon row of the most exquisite pottery. All the pieces were fired and painted to such a perfection that they dazzled my eyes to look upon. Each piece was as different from the one next to it as the infinite flakes of snow in a mid winter blizzard.

     " These represent the souls saved from destruction. Each of these is a complete and individual masterpiece reflecting my love."

     Slowly the scene dissolved from around me and I awoke to find that I had fallen asleep in my chair… But in the back of my mind I could hear my Father calling out to me," Remember, there can be only one original. No artist would ever have a copy around when he still had the original, and always know, I am the artist of the universe. So rest in peace knowing that as you are you shall remain. The only change shall be the changing of the dirty rags that cover your heart, for these shall be cleansed , mended and returned as kingly raiment upon your soul."