Soul Matters: Book Three: Towering Confusion

Phil ate dinner with Betty, his wife, who was a plump woman with bobbed blonde hair. His two children, Bobby and Donna, had returned to college after Spring Break. Consequently, the house was quiet, clean and empty. The dinner table was especially empty.

Phil missed the bubbling energy young adults brought to a room, their insatiable curiosity, their irrepressible humor, their idealism, and easy egalitarianism. It was also cover for him, as it kept Betty’s attention off the dangerous changes Phil was going through.

Betty, fresh from shopping with her friends, wore a lavender blouse and designer jeans. On her feet were leather sandals with colored flowers engraved along the straps. She sat easily at the table and chatted in a musical voice.

She filled him in on her busy day. Of particular note, the flower club was slowly sorting out the effects of the power struggle on the board of directors, and everyone seemed to be getting along much better.

Phil listened with some enthusiasm, because it was expected, but his mind kept drifting back to Manuel and the chaos going on in heaven. He suppressed a grin and refocused on Betty.

She was saying, “I’m so glad you helped us. Your idea about active listening was just the ticket. The executive committee looked it up on-line, and the process was simple. We were able to get through some very trying conversations and arrive at consensus on how we will be running our club.”

“Glad to be of help,” Phil responded modestly.

The topics ranged after that. The kids were doing well at school. Donna had always done well, and now Bobby was finally asserting himself. The church auxiliary was having a bake sale. And so on.

Phil eventually pushed back his chair and announced he was going to his study to meditate.

Betty paused in her ramblings to glance with curiosity his way, “You haven’t done so in months. I thought your new hobby of surfing would replace it.”

Mildly surprised she noticed, Phil said, “No. I just took a break for a while.”

“Well,” she frowned. “I hoped it was a permanent decision. You know what they say about meditation, dear. It opens channels.”

Phil smiled at her in a reassuring way and said, “It may be, but we still have free will. No demon can take our free will.”

She stood to clear the table and sighed, “I hope you’re right.”

Phil smiled to himself as he turned towards his study. ‘If she only knew,’ he thought. He had already been to Hell, been to various locations in ancient times, dueled with archetypes, defied the Devil, and, more importantly, had his entire fundamentalist belief-system shattered. On its broken riprap, he was hoping to build a road to his own awakening in Spirit – at least his not always in control hippie-self so hoped. His yuppie-self preferred the status quo.

The only trouble he could foresee with his adventure in Spirit was his bumbling guide -- the Archangel Manuel. But then, he had pretty much lost confidence in the whole lot of angels anyway. True, they served their purpose: ‘good’ angels prompted man to evolve; while ‘bad’ angels provided man the necessary challenges to get to the next levels.

The fallen angels accomplished their task, naturally, by tempting man back into the Flesh. When a human could successfully ignore those temptations for a higher level of consciousness, the ‘good’ angels rejoiced and showered the human with ‘blessings.’ Usually this shower was not immediate, and often those ‘blessings’ were not perceived as such in the short term. The ideal was to know the higher estate as its own reward.

Phil stepped into his study, but didn’t switch on the lights. A street-light’s reflected glare enabled him to find the large, black leather pillow he sat on for meditation.

Situating himself in a cross-legged position, he exhaled deeply to begin the process of emptying his mind. Then he recited his old Transcendental Meditation mantra to begin moving into a deeper state. Finally, he brought the sound of the Universe itself into his whole body, ‘Ah-um.’

In the now dark emptiness of his mind, a portal opened, and he stepped through to Manuel’s garden patio.

The walled patio was densely packed with trees, shrubs and blooming flowers. On a small patch of grass, inset marble stones for a walkway led to a marble bench. As he faced the bench, a tall fountain, gurgling water, was to his right. A blank wall, with low growing flowers, was to his left.

Manuel popped in out of the air and said, “Glad you could make it. They’re waiting for you.”

He put his hand on Phil’s shoulder, and the two of them began flying -- at least, to Phil, it seemed like flying. Out through the clouds that formed the patio roof, then high above the level of Physically Manifesting Spirits (or PMS for short). They flew towards the center of the wheel-like structure the angel abode looked like. Phil knew from before the spokes of the wheel were long rows of apartment-complexes where angels lived. He also knew somewhere on this level, beyond the gray wall of clouds encircling it, was the Compound of Evil. There were other Compounds on this level. There was also a huge parking lot for retired masks of God. Here, though, in the Compound of Angels, there was only the space-station-looking structure housing the angelic host. Phil looked for changes in the landscape passing below him, but couldn’t detect anything.

They arrived at the hub, which was a series of domed structures -- some eight or ten of them. They flew through the roof of one and into a bustling scene of angel activity.

Platforms were arranged on levels around an empty center. It looked like a twenty story mall. Angels were coming and going through the central shaft, in and out of the domed roof, and between the platforms. The lighting was dim so that the screens the angels worked from were clear and bright. It definitely was a hive of focused activity.

Manuel guided Phil towards a raised platform near the top. There a dozen angels were looking at, what seemed, a holographic representation of the celestial world.

They landed on the platform, and the others turned to greet them. Phil lowered his eyes, because the impact of angelic presence was like a flash-bang grenade. He experienced this unpleasant sensation during his ‘coke-years’ It happened as the inaugural event of a police raid. However, the person who approached him didn’t have angelic presence.

“I’m Metatron,” the person said. “And I’m not an angel. Or rather, I’m an honorary angel. There are two other honorary angels here, as well. Sandalphon and Rhamiel.” Metatron gestured towards the two figures behind him.

These two men bowed slightly to Phil, who returned the bow.

Metatron continued, “The angels with us are: Michael, Gabriel -- whom you already know, Uriel, Kamael, Haniel, and the twins Irin and Qaddism. We are of the Sarim, the Ruling Council. In total, there are about thirty of us. The others are on assignment.”

With the introductions complete, Metatron gestured for Phil to approach the hologram and said, “Please accept our thanks for agreeing to aid us.”

“I’m honored at the invitation,” Phil replied. “If you would brief me on the situation, please.”

“Of course,” Metatron replied as they neared the table.

Phil appraised his ‘team’ as they drew near. The honorary angels wore robes, as did the angels, but the humans didn’t have the disturbing auras. Metatron was the tallest of the group, but he was thin and slightly stooped at the shoulders. Sandalphon had a chin-raised arrogance. Rhamiel was also thin, short, and nondescript. The seven angels wore distinctive auras. Gabriel’s he knew from before as a pale rainbow radiance. The auras of the others were tinged with silver, gold, orange, bronze, light blue, and violet.

Metatron was speaking, “We have named this project, Operation Jehovah. Since it’s the name this mask of God prefers, we considered it a fitting title.”

Then the chief of the Sarim pointed to the hologram and said, “The PMS level has many subdivisions. You have mostly confined your activities to the angelic subdivision. The Compound of Evil forms its own subdivision. The general archetypal entities have their own realm in another subdivision. There are other locations as well that aren’t important to our task.”

Phil could track these locations on the three-D map and wondered how large the PMS level was.

Metatron continued, “When a mask of God develops to the point where it needs its own realm, we provide him or her with a realm in either an existing subdivision or in the archetypal subdivision itself. For example, as you already know, the Christian Devil has a portion of the Compound of Evil assigned to him as Hell. Is this clear so far?”

Phil nodded his head while he continued to study the 3-D map.

“When we were in the process of expanding Jehovah’s realm,” Metatron went on in a patient, modulated voice, “he somehow became aware of these other locations. Immediately, he demanded lordship over them. Of course, we could not allow him access to those realms. However, angels cannot refuse direct orders from any mask of God -- hence, our current problem.”

Metatron’s sedate manner was reassuring, but Phil could sense his deep worry over the escalating situation. However much the elder may have wanted to blurt out its extent, he restrained himself.

Instead, he continued with his detailed briefing, “The majority of humans on this level are we few and those who occupy Hell or one of many Heavens. We can, therefore, assume Hell’s millions will be of no help, and those in any given Heaven are loyal to their mask of God. Most of the truly discarnate humans are on other levels preparing for either transcendence or reincarnation. Again, they are of no help. Of those other humans who occupy this level, they are all engaged as spiritual mentors, translators, ascended masters, soul-friends, and the like. Again, we cannot mobilize them to deal with this threat because of the havoc it would wreak to their important projects.”

Phil didn’t know there were humans on this level who acted as teachers to humanity. But then saints had to go somewhere, he surmised. Why not the Physically Manifesting Spirit level?

Metatron was still speaking, “Neither can we solicit help from other levels of Spirit. Neither have we received direction from Sophia or En Sof. It seems this crisis is one we must resolve ourselves. And we cannot. I fear we have too long been dependent on the organization the angels developed, and we have lost the ability to creatively solve problems. In sum, we have done what we know how to do, and it hasn’t worked. Jehovah is loose on the PMS level and remaking it to what he believes it should be.”

Phil stood amidst the concerned angels and humans, looking at the hologram and considered the complexity of the problem. With no answers coming from Sophia, who as God’s Wisdom lived in the Void, nor from En Sof, which was the Hebrew term for the ultimate God (AKA: the Great Mystery), the heavenly host was left to its own moribund resources.

Had this been a restructuring of another corporation his company bought out, the Sarim would be fired. Such an option seemed remote. Still, there was some leverage available.

Phil spoke to Metatron, “As I recall, there are more masks of God within the Judeo-Christian tradition.”

Metatron answered, “Most certainly. There are El Shaddai, Yahweh, the New Testament Father God, and of course, there is Allah. Sadly, all the fundamentalists of all three religions have inadvertently combined their efforts to produce Jehovah. He draws from all of them. Consequently, he developed a constituency much greater than any mask of God in recent memory.”

Although this was a startling bit of information, Phil could immediately see the logic. Even so, he asked, “Couldn’t you have those other masks of God confront Jehovah?”

Metatron smiled, “We tried it. Jehovah declared them false gods and attempted to banish them to non-existence.”

“Okay,” Phil muttered. After a moment’s thought, he asked, “Just how many masks of God are there?”

Metatron frowned for a moment, then said, “Counting the Aztec, Dravidian, Egyptian, Mayan, and Hindu; the Gnostics had a few, as did the Kafir; there was the Mesopotamian group, and all the others. It adds up to a little more than two hundred. To date.”

“You couldn’t mobilize all of them, could you?” Phil wondered with scant hope.

“We thought of it, but realized there would be no reason for them to band together in any common cause,” Metatron said. “They may all be masks of God, but they are also ethnocentric to the core.”

They drifted into silence as Phil contemplated the problem. The process he used was to carefully acknowledge each bit of information, as unemotionally as possible, then let each fall into his unconscious. Then, borrowing a trick from vipassana meditation, he silently held the question in his mind until something surfaced.

“Belief,” he spoke out loud. “What is the role of belief in Jehovah’s power?”

Metatron raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise, but instead of answering Phil, turned to Manuel, “What system were you using to teach him how to navigate around here?”

Manuel answered, “The Lipan Apache one. He’s got such an analytical mind, it seemed the only one he would relate to.”

Metatron’s brow furrowed as he thought, but soon his brow cleared to say, “It’s the one with a trail, steps leading down to an archway, then into a walled area with a sacred middle ground --”

“That’s the one,” Manuel interrupted. “He’s only gotten to the arch so far.”

Metatron nodded his gray head and asked, “As I recall, the system defines belief in relation to the Nature level and faith to the Spirit level.”

“It does,” Manuel agreed. “But, so what? Jehovah was created by worship, not belief.”

“Maybe so,” Metatron said, “but it is worship limited by belief.”

As he saw Manuel’s aura flash with the colors of recognition, Phil butted in, “I don’t get it.”

“At some level, you do get it,” Metatron replied. “Put simply, the depths of one’s belief dictates the limits of one’s ability to worship.”

Phil caught on, “However big a cup I own is how much water I can have.”

“Furthermore,” nodding his ancient head, Metatron said, “belief is a powerful agency, but only in the Nature and Physical realms. You have found Jehovah’s weakness.”

“Why didn’t we see it?” one of the other angels grumped.

Phil noticed their auras flickering through a series of solemn shades.

“How can you take advantage of this weakness?” Phil pressed.

“We will need to use a god or goddess who embodies the Nature and Spirit realms,” Metatron said. “As you might say it, it’s how we trump his play.”

As the reasoning for this became a little clearer, Phil thought the idea too simple to be overlooked by them. He was apparently still missing something.

“Didn’t you already know Jehovah only represented the Nature level?” he asked.

“On the contrary,” Metatron smiled a stiff smile, as if it was something he rarely did. “We assumed he represented both. He used to in Biblical times. But you are right. This manifestation of Jehovah cannot contain Spirit, because the people who worship him have no faith.”

Not much was clarified by Metatron’s comment, Phil thought. They were using the terms ‘belief’ and ‘faith’ in ways he didn’t comprehend.

Manuel must have been reading his mind, because he explained, “We never got this far in your education. But the crash course on faith is to think of an exhale. Every time you breathe out, it’s an act of faith -- that there will be more air when you inhale.”

Metatron added, “Every time you give away God’s grace, more will flow into you.”

Phil could see how this might be, but how was it different from ‘belief?’

Again Manuel read his question and answered, “Belief is more about the capacity to do something. Like picking up a car to free someone trapped beneath it.”

“I see,” Phil said. “So Jehovah is empowered with a certain capacity, but he is not empowered by grace.”

“Correct.” Metatron said softly. “That capacity, however, is dedicated to manufacturing the conditions for the End Times. He does so up here, while his followers are doing it on Earth.”