JACK WATCHED HIS POP POP MOODILY. The ancient man -- the oldest man in the world -- didn't look too good today. Kind of gray around the gills. His eyelids sagged. In fact, Jack knew that soon he wouldn't be the Great Grandson of the Oldest Man in the World any more. He felt a little guilty, thinking about the prospect, because his sadness was more based than a little bit on the fact that he would miss this small bit of fame, and maybe that little bit of sadness was a bit bigger than the fact that he was going to miss this old geezer, his Pop Pop, as a real-live person, his own flesh and blood, his dear old sweet Pop Pop. Sometimes it was hard to think of Pop Pop as a real-live person. It was more like he was an, oh I don't know, an entity or something, not a human like Jack himself. Like he was a little piece broken off of El Capitan up at Yosemite, or a Sequoia tree come to life, or, or maybe, I don't know, one of the characters walking straight out of the Bible. It was hard to think of Pop Pop as being a young guy, getting horny over girls, getting in fist fights and stuff, falling in love, having dreams about being something, having real friends through the years and watching them all die...
Jack sighed. Poor old Pop Pop. No one was around who could understand the old geezer. Jack certainly didn't believe that he understood his great grandfather. But he knew that he loved him, his Pop Pop, didn't he? Sure he did. Jack loved the old man. That's the real reason he came here, now almost every day, to listen to the old man's stories -- some of the stories were so goofy Jack didn't even know what they were supposed to be about. Sometimes he thought maybe his Pop Pop thought he was telling stories to babies or something. Jack knew that the old man used to tell stories in church, years and years and years ago. Maybe a hundred years ago!
It was staggering to think that when Jack was born, the old man was already 99 years old! He had lived practically a century before Jack was even born. When he thought about things like this, he felt he didn't even deserve to sit next to the old man. That it was an honor to have such an old man for a relative. Who cared what they said in school, that teacher Mandlebrot and his condescending nonsense, and Janine and her witchy ways. Jack had a grandfather that was the oldest man in the world, and aside from his age, he was really a wonderful, loving man. What a precious life form, Jack thought, someone this old.
He held the old man's hand, as he always did. Sometimes, it was kind of gross, holding Pop Pop's hand, because it didn't even seem like a hand. That it was skin, with muscles and some fat inside, and veins and arteries and a skeleton in there -- no, it seemed more like he was holding a dead chicken's foot or something. But he knew that Pop Pop liked it, holding hands, and sometimes when he was telling one of his stories, that old hand would squeeze his hand with an incredible strength -- Jack would actually wince at the pressure, and he was a big guy himself, lifting weights, on the wrestling team, playing basketball every day. Jack doubted any of his jock friends could squeeze his hand so hard!
"Why you sad, boy?" the old man asked him. Probably he had forgotten Jack's name again, and relation. Or else he was just being affectionate. "You thinking about that little girlfriend of yours? What was she into, again? Witchcraft and stuff?"
Jack looked levelly into his great grandfather's eyes. They were sitting with their backs up against a great old tree way back at the end of the nursing home's property -- this is where the old man always wanted to meet him when he came for his daily visit -- and the old man was looking every day, every hour of his 116 years of age. And Jack couldn't help wonder, was it all a waste? No matter how old you lived to be, wasn't it all a waste? Wasn't it all useless? Didn't everything and everyone just get old and fall apart, like the old man? Everyone he knew had died. And now, he was waiting to die, and probably didn't have long to wait. Of course, Pop Pop was held together pretty good for so many years. But still, he was so light, Jack could probably lift him over his head.
"Don't you think it's all a waste, Pop Pop?" Jack said, feeling like he would cry at any moment, or maybe have to haul out and slug a tree, break a few of his knuckles -- that's how down he felt, sitting with this old man, holding the withered chicken foot in his own young, fresh hand. Back at school a young girl said she loved him and now was running around with the whole football team, and his best friend was trying to get him to smoke crank with him, and the teachers, they were trying to teach him about "civil rights," and he knew another girl younger than himself who had an abortion two weeks ago -- wasn't just everything in the world, like, a total waste?
"That's a very wise question, you know," the old man said.
"It's wise?" Jack said, surprised, because it was the last thing he expected the old man to say. Generally, people said retarded things like: "Oh don't worry about stuff," or "Go do your homework," or "You're too stupid to think about deeper things, go watch cartoons" -- no one had every accused him of being "wise" before.
The old man's tired old eyes looked around the grove, studying the trees. Jack felt again awe that the old guy could even see.
"Everyone has to come around to it sometime, you know. Wondering. About the world," he said in his still strong voice. Boy did he have a deep voice, Jack thought enviously. Usually old men started to sound weirdly like Porky Pig, but not his Pop Pop. "You haven't felt it yet, having someone you know and love very well, just go and die. And they're gone, you know. Nothing of them remains except what you carry around in your brain," he said, tapping his head with his free hand, "and then that too starts to die. With me, slowly, all the memories start to go. But with other people, it's whammo, their head gets emptied by the Big 'A' and then everyone is dead that has died, inside and out. Then you're all alone, locked in a little closet, and it keeps getting tinier and more cramped, the more empty it gets.
"If you have a lot of money, you don't think about it so much. You don't have to worry so much. You have all these things to keep your mind off it. But even rich people have to get around to it sometime, you know, they have to wonder: is anything real? Is anything at all true? Is there such a thing as truth? Hopefully, everyone can come up with the right answer."
Jack leaned into his Pop Pop and put his head down upon the tired old shoulder.
"I know you think you came up with the right answer," Jack said, slowly -- he didn't want to insult the old man, or hurt his feelings. "But how do you know it's the right answer?"
The old man looked at his great grandson and his face lit up with a surprising smile. Years seemed to melt away from his face. He looked amazingly younger. Why, he could pass for (Jack smiled hard and suppressed his laughter) ninety-five or maybe even ninety years of age!
"Great Grandson Jack, love of my life," the old man said, and it was weird, because for this moment despite 116 bone-weary years, the old man was completely here, all of his mental faculties were returned, he was sharp, smart -- razor-sharp intelligence burned from his eyes. "When all of your worries suddenly disappear from your life, when suddenly you realize it doesn't matter that all of the people you loved so much have died -- then you know. God gives you certainty that's beyond any earthly intelligence or wisdom. God gives you peace -- it's called peace beyond all human understanding. When you have that, you know. And that's when joy fills your heart."
The old man's face seemed to be lit with fire. His smile was wonderful to see. There was no acting here. No affectation. The old geezer was brimming full of happiness.
"The joy of the Lord is my strength," he said in a peculiar sing-song rhythm, nodding, squeezing Jack's hand rhythmically -- flex-rest-flex-rest -- with that merciless power.
"Ouch! Back off, Pop Pop, you're going to pop my knuckles out of joint!" Jack laughed, tapping his great grandfather's hand with his free hand. He wasn't kidding about strength -- it was amazing!
"Everybody knows, Jack, everybody knows. Down deep, way down where they know no one can see, they know the truth. It's there. God gives it to them. The most brilliant scientist who goes on and on about Big Bangs and Evolution and stuff, he knows there is a God. And everyone admits it, generally at the end, but that's okay. God is so full of mercy, He even has a room set aside for those people, the ones that laugh at Him, and spit on Him. He has this big old birthday present with their name on it, and the only thing they have to do is nod their head and say, yes, I want my big old birthday present!"
Jack had to laugh at the picture. Sure, it did seem easy. And yes, he had to admit it that at the back of all his doubts and worries and fears, he did have this kind of weird knowledge that there really was a God. But the merciful part, that always gave Jack the willies. Could anyone believe that God was merciful? No way. Uh-uh. Not that. You'd have to be intentionally stupid to think God was anything like kind. To Jack, God seemed more like a monster than anything. A big, muscle-bound, bald Mr. Clean Monster.
"Whatchya thinking about, Jack?" Pop Pop asked, sighing, settling back against the tree.
"You know. How can you say God is merciful?"
"What makes you think He isn't?"
"Okay, Pop Pop. Look at it this way," Jack said, feeling his brain warm up, like an engine being revved. All the lights were twinkling ON up and down his computer. "You remember Granny Rose? Your daughter?"
The old man thought. Uh oh. He could feel the doors shutting down. Not yet! Stay alert. The boy is asking for your help, right now, and if you couldn't accomplish anything else in your life, accomplish this: stay awake. Answer him, truthfully. Keep your brain up. Rose. Rose? Rose...
"My daughter? Rose?" he blinked. Great. No memory of a "Rose." Shoot! He couldn't even remember his own daughter.
"Wait a sec, Pop Pop!" Jack said, knocking himself on the forehead. "No, she was your son's wife! She was your daughter-in-law!"
"Oh, okay," the old man said, distantly remembering a wedding day, Chuck in a tuxedo with tails, his little Chuck -- he could remember lifting him up on the day of his birth, praying in his mind: "I give this baby boy to You, Lord. He's Yours. Keep him, and protect him, Lord! I love You. I don't deserve this baby, Lord. I don't deserve anything. But thank You, Lord, thank You!" Such a memory, so crisp, so fresh, like it was yesterday, the memory, and the prayer, the fresh pink baby in his young strong arms.
"Chuck's wife, Rose, with all the red hair that came down to her butt," the old man said, memories flooding him, his face lighting up, tears filling his eyes.
"Yeah! That's Granny Rose! I've seen her pictures! And she hated your guts, right?" Jack said, remembering all the old stories.
The old man stiffened. Had dear sweet little Rose hated his guts? Did he remember that?
"Well," he began, slowly, "as I remember it -- and my memory is not what it used to be -- she didn't really hate me, no, it was that she thought I was crazy when it came to God, and wanting Chuck to have a relationship with God..."
"Yeah," Jack nodded, "she was an atheist. She never believed in God, did she?"
"I don't think so," the old man said, but he wasn't certain. He seemed to remember . . . way back, a beautiful young girl with cascades of the reddest hair -- her dark eyes flashing up at him, her hands were on him, he could feel her young strong hands right now, and she pushed him into the wall, and she was angry, her mouth flying in angry words . . . what was she saying?
"You feel it too!" she screamed. "You love me, damn it! Stop being such a coward! Stop hiding behind your invisible god!"
Oh my. He hadn't thought of that in years. Rose, his very own lovely Potiphar's wife. He didn't want to remember this, but it was too late now . . . his memory was so weird, like a living thing all apart from him, flaring up to give him the old aches, all over again.
"Rose, calm down, sweetheart, calm down. I love you, but as my daughter. I'd do anything for you, Rose, anything -- I love you as much as I love Chuck, my own son," he said, taking her by the wrists, holding her away from him, but she kept pressing against him, she was so strong, so vibrant, tears flooding her face, shaking in her anger, quivering in her passion.
"No! Liar!" she screamed. "You're lying! You love me the same way I love you! We understand each other! It's always been us! We're the same, you and I!"
It was true, what she said. They had been so close. He helped her change the children's diapers -- he was the one that sang all the lullabies. They were the hard workers, he and Rose, they were the ones that kept the family together. He did love her dearly, and it was too painful to admit, if life had worked out differently . . . maybe, but no, there was their age to consider...
"How can you ruin our lives like this? We can be so happy together -- we belong together! I see it in your eyes, I feel it in your touch, don't destroy us, I love you, I love you!"
He sighed. Yes, on that day, all those years and years ago, he had been tempted. He had sweated, even pulled her body close to his for a brief moment, but then he had pushed her away. He had told her, in no uncertain terms, that it would never happen. That she could have his love, but only his fatherly love, not his passionate love, never his erotic love. And she had stood away from him. Her proud eyes flashed. She stood tall and met him eye-to-eye, her face wet, her hair askew -- they both heaved, out of breath. She had the allergies, he the asthma.
"Fine. We'll live this charade. I'll be here, every day, Papa, every day beside you, and every day I'll know that you're in just as much torture as I am, every day I'll know that you want me, every day I'll know that you're thinking about me -- until the day that you die, and I'll be there, holding your hand, and you'll whisper to me that I'm the one you always loved, and it was the biggest mistake in your life to shut me out!"
And they had lived side by side, for forty more years, and she had been there, every day as her hair turned from flashing red to even more beautiful gray. It had been Rose that comforted him the day that Sylvia died, Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia . . . his first wife, oh how he thought he'd never love again (but he had married again, in fact almost thirty years to the day of Sylvia's death, he married Emily), Rose had rocked him and accepted his grief . . . it was Rose, all those years, his best friend, his daughter, his precious Rose, turning older, and older -- only, it had been him, at her bedside, holding her hand, on the day she died. And she had smiled up into him.
"Thank you," she whispered, in a moment when they were alone, Chuck had gone for coffee, and poor Chuck was already sick and he did not make it back in time for Rose's passing, but he had bent down and kissed her, his precious Rose, on both eyes, and upon her long thin nose, and upon her still-full lips. He kissed her. "Thank you," she whispered, tears misting her eyes, "for having a better brain than me, Papa. Thank you, for everything, for a truly wonderful life."
"Thank you, darling Rose," he whispered in return, his tears falling softly upon her. "Precious daughter, worth more than rubies."
"I always loved you, Papa . . . and thanks to you, I always loved you in the right way," she whispered, Rose did.
"I always loved you, Rose," he whispered, holding her to him, her body so tiny and frail. He had always loved her, and could never quite admit it, even to himself, especially to himself, that maybe his love had not always been in quite the right way . . . that yes, all those years before when she had slammed him into the wall with the strength of a large man, he had loved her, achingly, as much as she swore she loved him, as much as she ached for him.
And she sighed and spoke once more: "I'll see you, Papa, I'll see you..."
"She died before I was born," Jack said, "but Dad always used to talk about her. He always said 'Your Grandma Rose was two parts crocodile, one part wildcat, and all Irish!' And he always told me that he loved Grandma Rose the very best, even more than he loved you, Pop Pop, and he loved you a lot!"
"Yes, your Grandma Rose was an incredible woman, an incredible daughter," he said, slowly, remembering her, remembering everything about her face, remembering her strong voice, and powerful, beautiful eyes. Rose, there she is, so clear in my mind. I thought I had forgotten. The memories are there, always, perhaps buried, but there.
"But she never believed in God. Dad says that she spit on the floor every time someone said anything about God," Jack said, grinning, wishing he could have known an old lady crazy enough to spit on the floor in public!
"Yes, we learned not to discuss religion around your Grandma Rose," the old man said.
"So here's the thing," Jack said. "Grandma Rose was this incredible woman. Everybody says so. That she was the neatest person they'd ever met. But she didn't believe in God. She wasn't bad or anything, was she?"
The old man looked at the young man, thinking. "No," he said, after a while, "no, she wasn't bad. She took care of her kids, she took care of me and your Great Grandma Sylvia. She wasn't bad."
"And yet, if I'm going to swallow all this God bullshit --"
"Jack!" the old man said, and he looked on the boy with real anger, taking on palpable weight, going from an eighty-nine pound geezer to an almost real 200 pounds of heavy muscle.
"I'm sorry," Jack said automatically. Boy, the old guy must have been something in his day. Big. Strong. And how could you expect an old man to understand the way people talk today? Everyone says things like that, they're not even really considered swearing, or cussing. Sheesh.
"I don't mind you saying 'bullshit,' it's a natural by-product and it does pretty well sum up a lot of things in this world that people believe, but it's rude for you to say it in front me -- you have to control your tongue, boy. But don't ever use God's name lightly. His name is serious, and beautiful. You have to cherish the name of Adonai Yahweh El Shaddai!"
Wow. Such passion. In such tired out bones. Whew. Jack wished he could summon up even half of that anger. Half of that love. And it was the same as when he got angry, Pop Pop got bigger, but only, when he talked about God -- "Yahweh" -- his face glowed.
"But I know where you're going with it, but go on," the old man said after a moment, tentatively, thinking deeply.
"Okay, if I'm going to swallow all this . . . fertilizer, okay? This fertilizer that people believe about God . . . poor old Grandma Rose is on fire right now, screaming and shrieking. Her eyes are on fire, and her red hair is on fire, and she's screaming in the worst pain that anybody's ever felt in their life. And she's been screaming in pain for the last fifty years or so, and in fifty years from now, she's still going to be screaming. Fire will be shooting down her throat, and she'll feel it, fire will be going up her butt, and she'll be screaming. And let's say you're in heaven, Pop Pop, you'll be young and happy and eating all this great food and walking on golden streets, living there perfect for thousands and thousands and millions and billions of years -- meanwhile poor old Grandma Rose is still shrieking and screaming, her entire being on fire, in pain, in screaming pain, for eternity! And -- and," Jack stuttered and shook, this kind of thought just made him so mad -- how dare anyone say that God was merciful if He was even now pulling crap like that.
Jack quit. Just forget it. Who needs this crap? He burst into tears. Crying, can you believe it? His poor soul shaking. Boy oh boy what an idiot am I, am I, what an idiot am I.
The old man put his arms about the boy and the boy latched onto him, like a baby onto a nipple. He nearly broke the old man's spine. The old man, hardly able to breathe, held him and rocked him, kissing him on the ears, smoothing back his unruly shock of black hair.
Lord? How do I address this? You have to give me the wisdom. I'm an old, old man, with not too many spasms left in me to go, but You speak through me, okay? Give me the wisdom. Give me the glib, the tongue, the ability to tell him the truth. Okay? Reach out to this precious boy. Help me, Lord, help me. I don't know what to say.
The story appeared, like it always did. He didn't have to mix a bunch of ingredients. He didn't have to sit and ponder. Did God give him this story? Well, it definitely was a gift, his gift, and whenever the Spirit gave the story, it was his duty to speak it...
"This story is a dark story. It's not a happy story."
"Well, this should be weird," Jack said, his tears automatically lessening. Not the usual baby story today, he guessed. At least he wasn't thinking about Janine, and all her -- stuff.
"Ssshhhh, just listen Jack. There was this man. He lived alone. He had no friends. And, of course, he was lonely. So he thought, why not give God a shot. So he prayed. God, give me a wife, the woman who is meant for me, the one that can make me happy. I want to have kids. With her. This special woman. Please. That's what I want more than anything, I feel like I'm on fire for it, please.
"And God said okay. God told the lonely man to walk out of his house, go down the street one block, and put all his clothes in the laundromat on the corner. You know what that is? A place where you take your clothes and pay to use their machines? Well, the man was shocked. He shook his head. It was the stupidest thing the man had ever heard. Here he asks God for a wife, a soul mate, and God tells him to go wash his clothes. And he even had his own washer and dryer -- why should he go and wash his clothes and pay all that money in some stinking laundromat?
"So much for asking things for God. That's what the man said. So much for asking things for God. So instead of going to the laundromat..."
"Oh boy, what an idiot!" Jack said. "Why didn't he just give it a shot and walk down to the laundromat?"
"Ssshhhh, just listen, Jack. So instead of going to the laundromat, he decides he'll go to this bar he knows about. And hey, you know what? He meets a gorgeous woman there, more than he could have hoped for. Gorgeous, just the kind of woman he always wanted to meet. All this beautiful blonde hair, the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, and what a body. And he takes her back to his little place, and for a while it's not so lonely. But things don't work out. So he goes back to the bar and meets another woman --"
"Hey wait, is this some kind of joke?"
"Jack."
"Sorry. Go on. I just don't see what the hell this has to do with God burning people in hell!"
"Jack!"
"Sorry, go on, go on. You know, I've heard jokes like this, Pop Pop."
"Nope. No. Uh-uh. I'm not going to go on, go on..."
"I promise, I'll shut up! Go on, Pop Pop, I want to hear the rest."
"Okay. Where was I?"
"He goes back to the bar to pick up another chick..."
"And for a while his house isn't lonely. They even have a little baby together. But one day she leaves him for someone else. And the poor guy is more lonely than ever. God tells him again, take your clothes to the laundromat on the corner. But if God is going to keep being so stupid why does he need God, anyway. So he goes downtown and picks up a prostitute."
"Oh, this is getting gross."
"That's what he thinks. He's having intimacies with a woman who does this kind of thing with several men every day, any man who has the right amount of money..."
"How much does the hooker charge?"
"Pay attention, Jack. He enjoys his time with the prostitute. It even brings him some of the peace he was looking for. So he starts sampling different prostitutes, paying more for some, getting some cheaper, and soon it doesn't matter who or what he's sleeping with --"
"Only they're not sleeping!"
"Jack, you're not in the correct spirit for this story, boy."
"Just kidding, Pop Pop. I'm interested. Go on."
"And of course, it's obvious. He starts getting sick. He uses the condoms and stuff. But it happens. It always does. He gets crabs first, but that's easy to take care of. Then gonorrhea. Then syphilis. But the antibiotics take care of those. Then -- what's the next one called?"
"Herpes?"
"Yeah, he gets that. And after that, he doesn't care anymore. It gets worse. He goes to the deepest depravities."
"Describe some of those?"
"That's not important. But he gets totally disgusting. He doesn't even treat the diseases anymore. And they're piling up."
"HIV? AIDS?"
"Everything. Of course. And he's dying. His body is eating itself up. He's in constant pain, living out his last few days in the far-gone ward of the hospital. The nurses hardly treat him like he's human. No one comes to see him. He doesn't know where any of his wives or girlfriends are any more, and his one child is gone. Well, after all, he has become a low-down disgusting drug abuser riddled with venereal diseases. He's in terrible pain. Agony. And he's mad, at himself, but mostly at God. You see, he's dying. And it's terrible, he's suffering as he's dying.
"Then, one day, a new nurse enters his room. She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and so unlike the other nurses. She treats him tenderly. She feels bad for him. He feels love coming from her, to him, for him. Unbelievable, that such an incredible looking woman could send out waves of love to him. I mean, come on Jack, he's gross, disgusting, hardly even a person, just covered with sores that ache and ooze. And she is the most beautiful thing he's ever laid his eyes on, such deep red hair, such dark and beautiful eyes.
"She looks at his chart and smiles. Hey, I see by your chart you live on such-and-such street. So do I, just around the corner. And you know that laundromat on the corner? I've been washing my clothes there for years!
"And he knows. Without a doubt. This was her. This was his soul mate. The woman God chose for him. And if he had listened to God, if only he had gone to the laundromat -- his imagination whirls with the years they could have been together, his mind paints the portraits of the beautiful children they should have had together, the laughing little faces, and he sees this beautiful woman and himself, growing old together, turning gray, and then one day she dies as he holds her in his arms, and what a wonderful life God has given them, everything has been worth it for this woman, for these children who gather about him. And he realizes that God is a God of grace, of mercy. He realizes that God really is love.
"Only he did not go to the laundromat. He did not listen to God. He lived out his life his own way, and made a complete mess of it."
Jack flinched. He felt like he was going to toss his cookies. What kind of a crappy story was this, anyway? He was going to have nightmares about this one. What an idiot that guy was, what a complete, awesomely retarded dork.
"And how do you think he feels when the beautiful nurse enters his room? The beautiful red-haired nurse that was to be his soul mate, his wife? He can't even look at her. Even her presence brings him pain. The sight of her. Her voice. Beauty burns him. Everything that is good hurts him, because he willingly chose ugliness. He had reality, but he chose fantasy instead.
"So. Is God terrible? Because the man would not listen? Is the woman terrible, because she is beautiful and perfect to the man? Does the man have any reason to hate God, or hate the woman? Did God force the man to get all those diseases, end up in the hospital rotting away while his beautiful wife-should-have-been is busy filling out charts?"
Jack waited. Thinking. The moment dragged on, the silence heavy. He didn't want to answer. But he felt he had to answer. He felt like he was going to burst into tears again. And it made him think of Janine, that if she were in the story, she would be one of the girls the guy picked up in a bar. Poor Janine, with all her spells and ideas and whacky prayers to earth powers. But no, maybe there was hope for her. Maybe he could help her, some way?
"No. He has no reason to hate God. He has no reason to hate the woman. It was his fault. He should have listened to God," Jack said, and it kind of made him sick to say it, even though he was doing his best to be completely honest. But the world wasn't like that, was it? Like in Pop Pop's story? You didn't get clear-cut choices like that, did you?
"I want you to remember something for me, Jack. If you can't remember anything else I've ever told you, remember this: God is love. That's what the Bible says, and that's what I've learned after a long time alive. God is love, and if you believe that, all the rest of the bullshit goes away. People will want you to push that fact way over into a corner, but no way, that fact doesn't belong anywhere else, because it comes first and foremost, yes it does."
Jack looked at Pop Pop. Whoa, he'd never heard the old geezer say anything like that before -- had anyone even invented the word "bullshit" way back then? They grinned at each other, the teenager and the ancient man.
"God is love, Jack. Do you think God is going to burst into that hospital room, hook the man up to a life-support system to keep him alive, then poor gas on him and set him on fire? So the poor guy lies there in the hospital, kept alive, in pain, burning, and whenever he starts to pass out God rushes back into the room and revives him? Round-the-clock caregivers to keep him alive so he can feel the pain?
"No. God is love, Jack. Do you think God is going to make sure that the man, who made all the wrong choices -- who missed out on the beautiful soul mate of his life -- is kept on continual life support, with gasoline constantly added to the flames, to punish him? Keep it in mind, Jack, always remember: God is love! Keep that in mind and then investigate it for yourself. God is love, Jack, first and last. Don't let anyone trick you to believing anything else about God, Jack, because it'll be a lie, a lie pure and simple."
Jack felt a light bulb flash bright inside his head. He shook his head, pushed the light bulb away. "But what everyone teaches, Pop Pop..."
"You need to go and read those things for yourself, boy. Don't accept what people teach about the Bible. Read the Bible for yourself. You'll find that God is spirit, and God is love . . . but people, made out of clay, always focus on the physical, on the non-spirit side of things.
"The Bible teaches that fear does not come from God, but man wants to scare other men into accepting God, so they make up a whole lot of bullshit that's not even in the Bible. The Bible teaches that God is love, and spirit, and the Father of Light. Man, well even in Jesus' day, man couldn't seem to focus on spiritual things, but only physical things -- Bible says that God sent His Son to save the whole world, but the guys back then were more interested in having a physical king, like right now, you know, to kick Rome's buttocks."
"This was sure a different kind of story," Jack said. He felt deeply moved. But not sad. Not sad at all. Suddenly something about God made sense to him, after all these years. Suddenly God didn't seem like a monster any longer. "I think I get it, Pop Pop."
Did he? Yes, he thought he did. God is love? Was there any way in the world possible for love to torture the beloved for eternity?
"Well," the old man sighed, feeling the darkness close in around his mind. "We're just people, you know. We get it, but then the next day we forget." He patted the boy's hand. "Trust in God, Chuck, not in man. You just keep trusting Jesus, Chuck, it will all work out in the end."
Jack hugged the old geezer, maybe a little too hard. He kissed him on his leathery cheek. "You know it, Pop Pop. You know it!"
If they have taught you that God's Law is bad, how can you trust them? If they have taught you that Jesus destroyed the Law, when He outright promised He did not come to destroy the Law, but fulfill it, can't you see there is a different between "destroy" and "fulfill?" How can you trust such teachers that would alter and seek to destroy the very Word of God Himself? Wake up! The Time is Short. Draw Nigh to God.
Jack sighed. Poor old Pop Pop. No one was around who could understand the old geezer. Jack certainly didn't believe that he understood his great grandfather. But he knew that he loved him, his Pop Pop, didn't he? Sure he did. Jack loved the old man. That's the real reason he came here, now almost every day, to listen to the old man's stories -- some of the stories were so goofy Jack didn't even know what they were supposed to be about. Sometimes he thought maybe his Pop Pop thought he was telling stories to babies or something. Jack knew that the old man used to tell stories in church, years and years and years ago. Maybe a hundred years ago!
