Finiteness is a concept I have never been able to grasp, at least not from a spiritual perspective. Some years ago a pair of Mormons visited my home. It was quite nice, to sit and talk about God in the sun of the front yard while my son danced in the driveway. They gave me “The Book of Mormon,” and said that it and the Bible held all of God’s message for us. I had so enjoyed meeting them, I put off thinking about it.
But the moment I did, I knew I could not be a Mormon any more than I could be a Seventh Day Adventist, or a Catholic, or a Jehovah’s Witness. Though I’d had friends who were, I could not. It is not my path. I can not believe in a single day of judgement. Everyday is a new judgement day to me and we each are judged separately, according to our own knowledge and destiny. I can not believe there is one vision of right and all other visions are wrong. I believe we are each given our own part to play, our own gift to share. I cannot believe that God can be found in one book or three or a million. I believe that God is in every book and tree and grain of sand. Look for God in your heart if you need to, but even there, only a fragment can be found. My God is alive and like anyone living, He changes and grows every moment. I cannot believe that there is one last prophet because He will always have new things to say as He teaches us more and more amazing truths.
I have never been able to believe in death as a final end. When a puddle disappears, some of it joins the clouds in the sky and some is absorbed into the ground. That what death is to me. Sentience traveling as it could not in its earthly shell. It bonds to something bigger, like the cloud and the earth. Eventually it will become a puddle again, through rain and osmosis. It may be changed or look the same, but never was it gone entirely.
Think about history, the world ended for many Eastern Native American Tribes with in a few years of the white men visiting (due to small pox.) Yet a new world was born and though most of the tribes were decimated by decease not all died. They live still with a history and a memory of their lost world. But who can say that world will not return when the time is right. They were one with the land and the land holds their spirits still. Walk barefoot and listen, they are there.
I have had many dreams of Armageddon. People run everywhere, animals stampede. The earth shakes and rips itself apart. Fires flow like rivers. Demons march across the land causing panic. Ancient demigods awaken and demand bloody sacrifice. Yet in every one of these dreams I find I am holding a child or two. My fears tempt me to leave them and run, but I never do. I know these children are the future and I must hold on through the storm. If we are to die we will die together. Often the dream ends there, with me holding children, surrounded by chaos.
A few times though, holding them, loving them, I bow my head and thank God for the life I’ve had. He comes, He quiets the storm. He looks in my eyes and lets me know no harm will come to me so long as I believe. I hold the children close and wonder at how at peace I can feel at the end of the world. That’s when I realize it isn’t the end of the world at all. It is the birth of a new world.