I’d been visiting
the Library for years before I figured out what it was. It’s easier to tell you
what it’s not than what it is: I guess most significantly, it’s not a place, at
least not in any sense of location.
The Library is a
place in my imagination where God and I meet. But oddly, it doesn’t seem to be
an imaginary place; it’s just that the imagination is the way to get there.
Some folks describe these kind of things as “a visit to the third heavens.” OK.
Whatever. I suspect we’re both talking about the same thing, and I suspect that
neither of us is completely familiar with the best vocabulary to describe a
non-locational location.
The library is a
large room; it belongs in a very big, very old, stately mansion. Its thousands
of books are neatly aligned on dark shelves, and between dark paneling (is it
walnut?), both of which stretch from the thick, crimson rug over the dark oak
flooring, to the sculpted ceiling far above. It’s the kind of room where you’d
expect to find a couple of ladders on wheels to reach the top half of the
bookshelves, but I’ve never seen a ladder in there. In fact, I haven’t yet
taken a book off of the shelf.
The quiet in the
room is tangible, nearly physical. I’m not sure I could work up a good worry in
that place, but why would I try? The peace could be cut with a knife, but why
would you cut it? There is no hurry there, no pressure there, either to do or
to be something that I’m not already doing and being.
I generally see the
room from somewhere near the center, and until recently, my attention has
always been drawn to the middle of the long wall in front of me. There’s a
fireplace there, and it’s a big one, and I’ve never seen it without a bright
and cheery fire crackling in it, giving light and warmth – more than merely physical
warmth – to the whole room.
There is no grate,
no grille, no glass doors to separate us from the fire, but the floor in front
of the fireplace is stone tile, not hardwood, and it’s been laid well. There is
a round, emerald green rug over the stone floor and its presence infers the
union between the two chairs there. Tall, remarkably stately, dark leather
wingback chairs, face the fireplace, the chairs are clearly for conversation,
and serious conversation at that. It’s evident that those who converse in these
chairs are working together towards a goal, never – not ever! – working to change someone’s opinion or position. The unity
between even the chairs is remarkable, but then this is a remarkable room.
Often, I’ll take
the seat on the left, and as I sit, I’m embraced by the welcome of the warm
fire, and simultaneously, I’m strengthened and focused for the work to be done
between us. I’m beginning to become familiar with these conversations. For a
long time, they startled me, even shocked me. The first time I sat down and saw
Jesus across from me, next to me, I was undone! We’ve met many times now, and
while it may never be “old hat” between us (I don’t actually aspire to that),
I’ve grown comfortable in our time together.
And what a time it
is together. We visit like close brothers, for that’s what we are. Not separate
from the visiting and family talk, but in its midst, more troubling topics
arise. I’ll often bring up something that has been hard to understand or difficult
to carry, and that’s where I first began to understand “the counsel of the
Lord.” He listens, asks insightful questions (I’ve never asked why my
omniscient elder brother needs to ask questions, but it comforts me when he
does), and we share the matter together. In that place, while we’re visiting,
next the blazing fire, I begin to understand the matter from Heaven’s
perspective, from the perspective that my ever-loving brother sees the matter,
and I am strengthened. The matter is not less – in fact, it’s often greater,
once I’ve understood it from his viewpoint – but the burden is better, like a
comfortable load that I can carry for long distances, instead of the crushing
weight it had been earlier.
There have been
times when Jesus brings a matter of his own concern into our conversation. I expected
that it would be an issue that I need to change in my own life, and
occasionally it is, though there is never any of the condemnation that I used
to expect there. Occasionally, he brings to my attention a matter relating to
someone dear to me – my family, my close friends – and he gives me insight,
which brings with it a power that changes the troubling matter into a place of
peace strength, though I’ve learned it may be a long transition.
From time to time,
and this is not an every-day affair, he will bring up an issue that is not well
known to me and is not even within my power to influence. We’ll discuss it, as
before, and it’s clear that while he never asks me to do anything with these,
yet he is asking my opinion, my counsel, on the subject. I’ve stopped asking
myself questions about why the Only Begotten Son would seek my counsel; it has
confused me, but I’m growing to understand how seriously he takes the matter of
my participation in the kingdom he and I are inheriting.
Occasionally, it’s
Father who’s in the other chair, and in those times, very often my chair is empty, because I’ve crawled
up into his mighty lap, rested my head on his bushy beard, and for a good long
time, I just breathe deep of his fragrance: campfires and a good cigar, fresh
cedar and fertile soil, rich leather and bright wildflowers: the fragrances of
life and depth and truth. I love his smell. Often, my free hand finds its way between
the buttons of his wool shirt and rests in the midst of his wooly chest. I listen
to his strong heartbeat; I feel his beard and my hair stir in his warm breath
as we rest together.
We have the same
conversations, really, as Jesus and I do, though we may not bother with actual
words. We visit, we tell stories, we boast about people we both know, and dream
about the future together. I share my burdens, and come away with strength, he
brings up matters about my growth, about the circle of his children that I
influence, and occasionally, other matters, and we … well, we counsel together
about them all. In all matters, I know I’m heard, I know I’m trusted, and I
know that the matter – whatever it is – is less important than the love we
share together.
Some years ago,
Jesus caught me before I sat down, and he took me to a new corner of the room.
It was in the right-hand corner, behind where I usually view the room from, and
there was something there that I hadn’t expected: it was a tall, oak, judge’s
bench. He took me around the far side of the bench, and up the stairs behind
it. But rather than sit down himself, he sat me in the great chair behind the
bench, and when I sat, I was wearing black robes, I think I had a white wig on,
and I had a wooden gavel in my right hand.
I’ve learned –
well, more honestly, I’m learning – to trust him in that place, and so I didn’t
resist him, though my sitting in that chair was more of a novelty that first
time than it was about actually judging anything. Since then, I’ve begun to
learn some things about judgment, how important it is, how powerful it is, and
especially how good it is.
It seems that the
really big judgments, he’s kept for himself; I’m new at this after all. I’ve
been charged with judging my brothers and sisters, but judging from Heaven’s
perspective, from the perspective of a king who’s madly in love with them, who’s
unreasonably proud of them, who’s amazed and overjoyed with their every step of
faith. So the judgments that I’ve been invited to pronounce are about God’s
favor on his children; I’ve been charged with finding them guilty of pleasing
their father, and sentencing them to be loved and adored for all their natural
lives, and beyond, if they’re willing! It’s better work than I first feared it
would be; I’ve actually come to love that bench.
But some of the
judicial work has been darker than that. One day, I was praying intensely for a
dear sister against whom hell was having a measure of success. Jesus
interrupted my sober work and brought me around to the stairs and up to the
bench. I could see more clearly from up there, and with his help, I saw the
cloud of miserable, filthy, little spirits that were harassing my sister.
“Judge them,” he said, and as he spoke, I began to understand. I began to
recognize their crimes, their trespasses, their rebellion against their
rightful king and his rightful representatives.
As I identified
them – the spirits and their crimes – I spoke the name, and as I named each
spirit, it was as if the gavel moved on its own, gently tapping, “Guilty as
charged” to each charge; with each tap, a beastie was bound. Soon, I got into
it, reaching into my spirit for the discernment of each spirit and shouting its
name, its crime. The gavel would bang and the demon was bound. This was more
judgment I could get excited about.
I needed to be
careful, in my exuberance, to still judge accurately, according to what was
true, not merely because I felt bad for my sister’s misery: this was a matter
of justice, not pity, and it was a mighty justice that was handed down that
day, and other days like it. I’ve developed the opinion that the judge’s bench
is an excellent place for intercession.
I still visit the
room often enough. We sit next to the fire and share the business of the
Kingdom. Not infrequently, I’ll climb up to the bench to pronounce one judgment
or another. I cannot say I’m used to this – how does mortal man get used to
partnership with the immortal? – but it’s become familiar, comfortable like the
well-worn stock of a favored and trusted hunting rifle. We do good work
together.
There was one day,
though, that I still shake my head about. It happened some years back, and I’m
only now beginning to understand what may have actually gone on.
The visit started
rather like any other: I was in the middle of the room, looking at the leather
backs of the empty fireside chairs, and I was startled: Father somberly walked up
to me, and he was looking very
serious: he was garbed in a rich black judge’s robe, and his eyes were as
intense and alive with fire as I’ve ever seen them. With his eyes fixed on
mine, he slowly opened his robe. I was surprised to see a red plaid shirt
underneath, but before I had opportunity to react in surprise, he pulled a
shotgun from the depths of his open robe, and handed it to me. Startled, I took
it from him and glanced at it. Yep, that’s a shotgun, all right.
I looked up again,
and now the robe was gone, and with it, the stern look from his face. Instead,
he sported a red hunter’s cap and a huge
grin, and he held up a shotgun of his own. Movement caught my eye, and I saw
Jesus, similarly attired with plaid shirt, red hat, grin and shotgun. Father
asked, “You ready, Son?” but before I could answer, the air above our heads was
suddenly filled with demons, their leathery wings flapping franticly as they
zigged and zagged about the room.
Father laughed
mightily, hoisted his shotgun and fired; a demon exploded into a black cloud.
Jesus cheered and blasted another one. Soon all three of us were shouting and
hollering and laughing uproariously. And blasting demons to tiny black dust. Shotgun
blasts were interspersed with shouts of encouragement, great fits of laughter
and the soft splatter of the demons shards. They had met their maker, and it
had not gone well for them. He is a very good shot, actually.
I had enjoyed this
experience so much that I hadn’t stopped to ask what it meant until recently;
the answer wasn’t particularly surprising; something about “casting down
arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God.”
But the experience was, frankly, a great deal of fun. “Spiritual warfare” and
“fun”: two concepts I had never expected to put together.
That hunting party
only happened the one time. I think it was more about teaching me a lesson than
a regular part of our business in that place. He’s a good teacher, by the way:
I’ve never forgotten that experience, though I’ve been slower to learn its
lesson.
The intimacy of
counsel by the fireplace, though: that’s a part of our regular work together,
governing this kingdom that we’re inheriting, as is the judgment from the
bench.
