Debunking the Issue: The Sanctity of the Supreme Court

Hey Reader!

I confess: I honestly didn't think I'd be returning to this blog, but recent events have required us to return to the Insurgency.

We're not returning to fight - hopefully not yet. We return to prophesy - to foretell what will come for the things we prize: absolute truth, the sanctity of human life, the beautiful institution of marriage, and the rights of parents to make reasonable decisions for their children. And two persons are threatening what we hold dear.

Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton.

I won't relay to you how they came to be on the ballot. What scares me most (and the reason that I'm reigniting the Insurgency) is that we hear Christians in the streets proclaiming that we must support Mr. Trump to protect the Supreme Court from liberal judges.

Today we return once again to debunk the issue.

Why the Supreme Court Matters

Many people that I respect (and will continue to respect) say that if Ms. Clinton wins the presdiency, she will appoint liberal judges to the Supreme Court. Now this presumes that the US Senate confirms them (and it begs the question as to why we're not hearing more about the senate races this year, but I digress), but I grant them this: they're probably right.

Of course, Pres. Reagan appointed four justices to the Supreme Court (all of them leaning conservative or on the conservative side of moderate), so even if Pres. Clinton got to appoint four justices to the Court, it wouldn't be the first time this has happened. Just the first time that conservatives have been on the other side of the appointments.

Mr. Trump has created a list of possible candidates that are, all things considered, pretty conservative. Some of them (Sen. Mike Lee for example) are people that I may not personally agree with on all the issues (Sen. Lee is a Mormon, and I think that he is incorrect in his perception of Jesus of Nazareth), but I trust him: he does what he says he'll do. I don't require politicians to agree with me, but I do want to men and women in office that I can trust.

So when a friend of mine says that they are concerned about Ms. Clinton becoming the president, I understand - after all, the Supreme Court of the United States is a pretty big deal, isn't it?

Well...

What if it's not? Hear me out.

The Christian Witness in the 21st Century

It is no shock to anyone that there are many people who have...less than supportive...things to say about Christians. They are portrayed as judgmental, condescending, and don't tip well at restaurants right after coming out of the Sunday morning service.

And it's hard to say the media is biased when Christians support a man like Mr. Trump. A cursory glance around the internet will inform you of what he has said and done, and in the name of keeping this page out of the "R" ratings we will not indulge in details here.

But it baffles me how Christians are adamantly defending his statements and actions. Excuses of, "well, it was just talk" (as if "talk" is excusable: the author of James would disagree). Proclamations that "he is a sinner" as an excuse for sin, as if repentance was not required. And this point deserves a bit more elaboration.

The "Repentance" of Mr. Trump

Now in fairness, the man has issued an apology for some of the things he has said. But anyone who had siblings growing up knows that just because someone says the word "sorry" (which, by the by, is not present in the apology) and the word "repentant" are not the same words. It takes one to know one, and I'll be the first to say that I wasn't always repentant when I said "sorry" as a child.

But we can see this also from his actions. A man who is truly sorry for demeaning women, speaking with lewd words, and treating women like property to be abused and assaulted with impunity would (at the very least) close the strip casinos that he has made thousands of dollars from (and, just in case you were wondering, he was the first person to start one in the United States, just in case we forgot). He would speak with greater respect to people, and yet we see him speaking lewdly in both digital and personal venues constantly.

We do not see a repentant man - we see a man who is making a political move as damage control. And it pains me to see people defending such a man while still flying the banner of "The Christian Right."

The Impact: It Hurts Our Witness

And this hurts our witness. I don't blame non-believers who look at this story and think that Christians are hypocritical. Because we are being hypocritical.

If Former President Clinton had said these things, we'd be seeing Christians jumping up and down asking, "Hey: look at this man who demeans women! He is not fit to be president!" We know this because it happened in the 90s.

I was only a boy, but I still remember asking my mom was adultery was, and the painful discussion that ensued afterwards as my parents helped to explain to me what had happened.

But because we're afraid of Ms. Clinton, Christians across the country are willing to turn a blind eye. "Your vote doesn't mean you condone everything they say or do" they say, though it is precisely because of what Ms. Clinton says that they will not vote for her.

I agree with Rev. Al Mohler: never before have I seen so many believers act so hypocritically because of politics.

So what's the answer, Centaur? What do we do?

We must learn to be okay with letting the Supreme Court go.

The Reality of Persecution

Let's be honest: what's the worst that can happen if Ms. Clinton wins? People claim we'll lose the First, Second, and Tenth Amendments. Sure - we'll grant that. Churches may be forced to perform marriages they don't approve of, create bathroom policies they don't want to make, and Christian folk may be asked to make cakes for weddings they don't approve of. Yes, let's grant those too.

What do we have? A world similar to that of St. Paul, St. Peter, St. James - others who died in persecution because they loved Christ more than the laws of Rome. They faced great discomfort, were chased across the known world, and were prosperous in spreading the Gospel because of their witness and testimony.

What we really have on our hands is a case of Christians wanting to avoid persecution. We are afraid that the comfort that we take from our laws will be stripped away, and people will take our money, our businesses, our homes, our jobs, our livelihoods, our freedom, our very lives - which is what's happening right now to our brothers and sisters overseas.

We have a "cultural Christianity" in the United States where Christians tie their American freedoms to their Christian religion: they value their guns more than the doctrine of inerrancy. But for centuries the Church has thrived under the heel of persecution, and is the norm across the globe today.

So I'll be bold and ask the question: "Is it bad if we should find ourselves in a state of persecution?" Is it bad for our witnesses if the "cultural Christians" who love the world more than Christ are weened from our ranks? Is it bad for our witness if people see a love that is stronger than hate finally spring from the Church?

Is it so bad if we must become a people despised and rejected by men, marred beyond human likeness, as our Savior was?

Do we really lose much if we lose the Supreme Court of the United States?

Yes we do. And we must learn to count it all joy.

And that is what the Insurgency will be: a place of joy for weary travelers who love our Maker above our freedoms, our testimony above our comfort, and the approval of our God over the approval of men.

I understand if you don't agree with me. But allow me to be the prophet for a moment: a decision is coming for all of us, and it will soon be upon us. Give heed to how you will answer it.

Watching the stars,

Centaur

"I watch the stars, for it is mine to watch." ~ Glenstorm, Prince Caspian

The Centaur Scrolls: Osteen Theology and Right Doctrine

Hey Reader!

So, I don't usually jump into confrontations like this (hence why it's been a while since I've posted anything here at the How), but after having several conversations with friends on this issue, it's time we finally took a stand against the liberal theology that has been coming from the Osteens.  Lest someone (rightly) call us out here at the Insurgency for not standing for truth, we'd like to take a moment to investigate the dangers of theology not based on Scripture, and why as loving, kind Christians there is a place for proper criticism.

Before jumping into any problems with theology, though, a few ground rules:

1) There will be no name-calling in this post.  Sure, technically the word "heretic" could be used a lot in this post, but I'm refraining from using it because I don't think it's helpful for what we're doing here.  So I'm refraining.  If you have something that would be accurate and true to share along this vein, please refrain as well - I want a civil conversation as we address this issue.

2) If you post on this page, you'd better show up with a sword to a swordfight.  If you don't have Scripture, solidly grounded, taking in the totality of Scripture into your understanding of a passage, you'd be wise to keep your comment to yourself.  You're at the Forge, and sharp, strong weapons is what we specialize in.  So be ye warned: solid analysis and exegesis, or expect incoming fire, :)

So, with this in mind, I'd like to focus on three things in this post.  First, why do we care so much about doctrine, and why would Centaur come out of a semi-comatose state to write on this blog (because I do owe you all an answer to that, :P ).  Second, I'd like to take an in-depth look at the problems with Osteen Theology as expressed by Mr. and Mrs. Osteen, so that we're talking about what they have said, not someone else's paraphrasing or perspective on their theology (though there will be some of that brought in to facilitate a taste for some of the discussion going on in the greater intellectual community), and then I want to end by addressing perhaps the fundamental defense for their statements over the years: "We should love them, not criticize them," because this is a critical question for us to address here at the How - and arguably why this site exists in the first place.

1.  Why Good Doctrine Matters

"Doctrine" is a word that has come under some fire in recent years - people don't like hearing the "D" word because it has come to take on the meaning of "dogmatic legalism" and a propensity to assume that doctrine is always defended in a hostile and "grumpy" manner.  My hope in this post is to break that line of thinking in my defense of a core and critical component of Christianity: the upholding of sound doctrine grounded in truth.

God is truth.  God is love.  And God is One, which means that in Him love and truth are never opposed to each other.  So as we talk about the words and actions of persons - especially persons who have accepted the call as a pastor - there is a need for both love and truth to come together in our interactions with Christians and non-Christians.  Having one and not the other is a bifurcation of truth, and not the truth that Christ has called us to share.

And I want to spend some time at the beginning of this post to talk at length about the critical nature of Mr. Osteen's position as a pastor because it's an afterthought (or missing) from a lot of the articles on the Osteen controversy at present.  As the pastor of a large church, Mr. Osteen has a strong platform to present the gospel to a lot of people (read: over 40,000 people at a time).  And there is no doubt in my mind that people have been blessed by his ministry over the years (with the discussion of "being blessed" and "being filled with truth" being put aside for a moment).  But as a pastor, per what Paul tells us consistently across Scripture, there is a higher calling placed on pastors than just blessing people through their teachings: they are called to carefully and faithfully present the Word.

In 1 Timothy Chapter 3 and Titus Chapter 1, the Apostle Paul spends a good amount of time talking about the proper expectations for an elder/bishop/overseer/pastor (based on your translation).  In 1 Timothy 3:2-7, Paul hits a number of the overall qualities in the person, and it is without doubt that some of these qualities are present in Mr. Osteen (and in Christians who are not pastors or elders).  The questions that are currently being pressed in the media in regards to this list is Paul's command regarding being "able to teach," which is further elaborated on in Titus 1:9: "...holding fast the faithful Word as he has been taught, that he may be able, by sound doctrine, both to exhort and convict those who contradict." (NKJV)

One of the seminal arguments against the doctrine of the Osteens is their desire not to offend, convict, or exhort.  And while on its own a lack of condemnation is not necessarily a sign of poor handling of the Word, when a pastor is constantly seen himming and hawing on points that the Bible is very clear on because he "does not want to offend anybody," and sees his mission as purely "lifting up people's spirits," we have a problem, because pastors are called to do more than just make people feel warm and special.  They are called to exhort (that is to say, to beseech, to urge, to plead, to make uncomfortable that they might grow in spiritual maturity) and to convict because they are in a place of spiritual authority and accountability.  Pastors are used by God to keep the flock in the path of righteousness, and part of their role is keeping their parishioners accountable to walk in truth.

As the son of a pastor (just like Mr. Osteen), one of the things that I appreciated most about my father's teaching on Sunday mornings was the fact that he cared enough about us - that is to say, that he loved us enough - to instruct us on how we should walk, both by reinforcing the need and desire for holiness (more on that in a bit), and also by drawing attention to sins that must be avoided that we might grow in spiritual maturity.  My primary question for Mr. Osteen as I listen to his sermons (and even more so as I listen to his interviews) is how he expects to help people to grow if he never calls attention to their need to reject sin?  He preaches a lot about God's love and forgiveness, but we never hear a word about what they should be forgiven from, let alone the need to turn from things that our flesh loves that are harmful to our spiritual growth.

2.  Osteen Theology: Liberal Theology in a New Light

Mr. Osteen claims that he wants people to love God with all of their hearts, and yet he is very vague on what that means.  This does not surprise us when we understand it within the greater context of liberal theology.  Liberal theology uses the same words as traditional Christianity, and thus it sounds very similar.  The distinguishing mark of liberalism, however, is the focus of the message.

Liberal theology focuses on the actions (and reactions) of man.  If people are offended by something, they avoid it.  There is an unhealthy fear of man - a fear of how people might receive a doctrine, claim, or statement - that causes truth to be watered down, hidden away, or changed so as to make it more palatable to the audience, and thus it is not surprising when people claim that liberal theologians and pastors are "nice people" who are "friends of sinners."

The Osteens fall into this category.  One need only do a cursory glance of interviews with Mr. Osteen to find that it is very difficult to hear him take a stance on anything that might be construed as controversial, and the very manner in which he responds to questions makes you immediately question his firmness on anything else (I don't know whether it is the soft voice with the smooth smile and the slick hair or something else, but you just get that uneasy feeling...).  The only things that he consistently returns to in his interviews and sermons is his personal goal of helping people feel more empowered to do good things, and the fact that God wants us to "live abundantly."  And how does he define this?

Personal financial success.

When Mr. Osteen speaks of "believing" (and especially about "don't stop believing"), it always comes down to believing in your dreams, your desires, your endeavors - never once do we see him encouraging people to submit to a plan created by God, a plan that all too often is different from what we desire in our flesh.

Why do we not see this?  Because it's offensive to say things like, "you need to lay aside what you desire in your flesh - your desire to rise in the company, your hopes for a higher income, your wish to get a new car - and instead pursue the things He desires, which do not always come with greater prosperity here on earth."  Does God grant blessings to His people down here?  Of course He does.  Are some of those blessings poverty (as a means of learning greater trust in God's ability to sustain us), weakness (that we might better understand our need for God's strength to get us through the day), and rejection (because "the world was not worthy of them")?  Of course they are.  But these blessings are completely glossed over by Mr. Osteen - almost as if they are not the promises of Scripture.

And that, my friend and reader, is the heart of liberal theology.  Suffering for Christ is downplayed in the name of prosperity and success, even though suffering for Christ is one of the most helpful spiritual disciplines we can ever experience.  And this makes sense, because liberal theology has a focus on us, rather than a focus on holiness.

And that's the crux of my disagreement with Mr. Osteen: we see him constantly encouraging people to pursue their dreams, but we never see him encouraging his followers to pursue holiness.

3.  Love Endures All Things: Why Respectful Criticism Shows God's Love

Let's make sure one thing is clear before we go any further: it is our desire here at the How to pay as much respect to people as we can when we criticize them.  I've been on the brunt end of hurtful, hateful criticism in my time, and I don't like it any more than the next person.  But let's also make sure this is clear: believing that Christians "should not judge," even under the guise of, "I leave that up to God," inasmuch as it causes Christians to water down Scripture's teachings about things that are clearly opposed to God's holiness and commands in Scripture, is a wrong approach to "Christian love."  To believe that "love" means "never causing someone to be uneasy with error in their life" is to misunderstand both what God's love is as well as the nature of sin.

Sin loves comfort - it doesn't want the soul to grow, to move, to change, because to do so would risk the chance that the person might realize the ugliness of sin and the goodness of holiness.  And any time that a Christian - and especially a pastor - is uncomfortable with making people uncomfortable in their lifestyles, their desires, and their understanding of sin, you can wager quite successfully that you're hearing liberal theology.

The Bible means too much to us to let it be used incorrectly - we don't often come out on topics like this, but this is important enough to take a stand, and we hope that you will stand with us.

Watching the skies,

Centaur

"Will they follow me?" ~ High King Peter
"To the death." ~ Oreius

The Centaur Scrolls: Do Children Belong to Families?

Dear Reader,

I saw this video of MSNBC host Melissa Harris-Perry, who articulates in no uncertain terms, where the secular and liberal left is moving.  In our country and others, this mindset is pervading the culture and mindset of those who will be the future leaders of the world.  Listen in to what she has to say:

We have never invested as much in public education as we should have because we've always had kind of a private notion of children: your kids are your's, and totally your responsibility.  We haven't had a very collective notion of 'these are our children.'  So part of it is we have to break through our kind of private idea that kids belong to their parents, or kids belong to their families, and recognize that kids belong to whole communities.  Once it's everyone's responsibility, and not just the household's, then we start making better investments.

I cannot stress this enough: the time has come for us to act.  Never before has the opposition been this overt about its message.  Glenstorm the Centaur once remarked, "The time is right," and we can see signs in our culture similar to the ones he saw that night.  If we will not stem the tide that is coming, we will fall.

Wherever you are in the world, I encourage you to get involved in protecting parental rights in your nation: we need all the help we can get.

Watching the stars,

Centaur

"We watch the skies for the great tides of evil or change that are sometimes marked there." ~ Firenze, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Part III: Dementia

Synopsis: Dr. Redd and his assistant, Fred Forge, encounter a patient battling schizophrenia.

Dementia

“This is the office of Dr. John Redd, M.T. How may I help you?”

“I'm Daniel, and I need help; we've been to several doctors, but none of their medications work. A friend told me to see Dr. Redd.”

“Alright, Dearie: let's setup an appointment for you for this morning.”

* * *

Fred walked down a white hallway to a thin white door with a keycard swipe and took a seat next to John in the small control room with four viewscreens.

“Dr. Redd, there's a visitor for you, and boy does he seem nervous!”

“Fred, you can call me 'John,' you know,” he replied with a chuckle.

“If it's all the same to you, I think I'll call you 'Sir,'” Fred answered with a smile. “But seriously, have you ever seen someone more nervous?”

“I don't think he's nervous,” John replied. “Study him intently for the next minute: I'll place the time on Screen Four,” he said, setting the computerized stopwatch for 0:60. As the time ran down, Fred wrote his observations on a flowpad, every now and then looking away, as if to think about what he saw:

Fidgety. Muttering. Constantly distracted. Distrusting. Short attention span. Well-kept.

“Well, he's obviously mentally unstable,” Fred replied, as the timer read 0:13, “I think you should take him through the white hallway to the Johnson Room, like you did with Matt Black.”

“Because his condition is similar?”

Fred nodded.

“I disagree,” John replied. “You see, in Matt's case, his mind was unstable due to fear of something he did not understand. This man appears to be agitated by his inability to solve a problem – namely, that problem,” John added, pointing to the screen, as the man spoke sullenly to himself, first looking this way, then that.

“Schizophrenia.”

“Precisely. I'll go out to greet him to get a feel for his trust and willingness to cooperate, while you setup the Richardson Room. Oh,” John added as he prepared to leave, “and put up the Dresden picture, along with the Chariot Heroes picture.”

“Yes sir,” Fred replied, “but what does that have to do with schizophrenia?”

“Nothing,” John replied, “but it will lead perfectly into the means of recovery. What do we know about him?”

“His name is Daniel Green, and he's a sophomore at Marsden College. He claims to have been on various medications on and off for at least five years--”

“Then what we're seeing could be a conglomeration of the trauma he sustained from his medications, in addition to his other problem. That's good to know. Alright: I'll greet him, you stand ready in the room, and when we're done, I expect my coffee to be ready.”

“You know you're not supposed to have two cups – wife's orders,” Fred smirked.

“Now how did you know I had a cup already?” John said with a laugh.

“The stain behind your tie,” Fred replied with a smile. “I had some downtime during those 47 seconds.”

* * *

“Good morning, Dan,” John said as he entered the receptionist area.

“Dr. Redd,” Daniel replied, standing to shake the doctor's hand, “A friend recommended you to me. He said you could help me cope with some of my...eccentricities.”

“Well, Mr. Green,” John replied with a low chuckle and a knowing smile, “I can't do that: teaching you to cope with something that's bothering you is not my style. I would prefer to help you overcome your obstacles, so that your mind can be renewed.”

“Yes! That's exactly what I want!” Dan replied eagerly.

“Excellent! Then follow me,” John said, heading to a black door off of the receptionist area, and taking out a set of keys with nine brass keys and one red key. He sorted through the keys for a little while, selected a brass key, and with a twist-click-creak, he stepped through the door.

The hallway was dark, but one could make out the form of two doors to their right, and one door at the end of the short hallway. John walked up to the final door and opened it, ushering his guest into a small room with soft orange wallpaper, and two pictures on the wall. On the far wall, immediately apparent to the visitor, was a picture of a burning warehouse with planes flying overhead. To his right, Daniel could see a picture of a young man and a young woman in their teens riding in a chariot with their hands clasped and raised. In the middle of the room was a thin pine table with reclining chairs on either side, and on the table sat a black box. John motioned for Dan to take the closest chair, facing both the Dresden Picture and the Chariot Heroes Picture.

“Are you going to begin asking me questions now, Dr. Redd?”

“No, not exactly,” John replied. “You see, I'm not a psychologist or psychiatrist, Dan. I'm not going to ask you questions and give you a diagnosis, or hand you a canister of pills. I don't want to dissect you: I want to dialogue with you.”

Dan's face contorted in confusion. What did he mean?

“I'll explain with an example, Dan. If I wanted to train you to become, say, an accountant: would it be best for me to start by giving you a quiz on your ability to add, subtract, and label particular expenses, or would it be wiser to discuss the different aspects of the company, your background knowledge and past experience, and why each part of the company exists as it does, so that you will be more familiar with the different expenses and subdivisions you will work with on a daily basis? One approach looks into the details of your performance, while the other paints a picture of you for me to examine, study, and help you to modify. The first approach teaches you to cope: you are given a standard set of questions by a professional, who then makes a diagnosis and labels the problem for you – in this case, schizophrenia. My approach gives me a strong sense of who you are and what you should be, so that I can help you move forward. Does that make sense?”

Dan nodded. “So, what do I have to do, then, if you're not going to ask me questions?”

“It's quite simple, actually: on your part, I need you to fall asleep.”

And with that, John rose from his seat, placed his hands on the black box, and slowly lifted the lid. The lights in the room dimmed as he opened it, and the harsh, dissonant sound of a heavy metal tune streamed from the box.

* * *

“Nice work with the lights there, Fred,” John whispered.

“How is it that he didn't even notice me in the room?”

“You weren't in plain view, and his eyes were drawn toward the pictures. Humanity has a tendency to miss things when they're distracted toward colorful, provoking images. Politicians use this frequently in their work too, if you hadn't noticed,” John said with a low chuckle as he took his seat in the empty chair.

“Sir, aren't you going to stand by the box to talk to him?”

“Take the lead on this one: start by addressing him, talk with him for a little, and then I'll enter and introduce you. You've seen me do this several times, so now it's your turn to try.”

“But what if I mess up?”

“We'll wake him up, tell him it was a dream, and start again,” John replied quietly with a smile. “Place yourself in his position, be ready with the siren and bomb sounds, and when you're set to proceed, talk to him. Engage, move at his pace, and whatever you do, don't be afraid to dream.”

* * *

When Dan opened his eyes, the midnight sky above him was lit up by a haze of reddened smoke, rising from the buildings that encircled him. It was only then that he began to hear the flames raging in the buildings around him, and the jolting boom-boom of fresh explosions all around him. Above the haze he could hear aircraft and the steady, searing screech of falling payloads toward the town. He got up quickly, staggering around the city square in fear, trying desperately to find some form of cover.

“Let's head toward the factory,” said a young, assuring voice behind him.

“Who are you?” Dan said, noticing the man behind him. “What's happening here?”

“Your mind is under siege, Dan,” replied a calm, steady voice behind him.

“Dr. Redd!” Dan replied, “Where are we? Are we dreaming?”

“You're in Dresden, Germany, Dan,” John replied. “The city is under bombardment, and will soon be leveled in the wake of an invading army. Come,” he added, pointing to the factory behind them, “the factory's reinforced steel will provide us with greater cover.”

“Is this how you plan to fix my mind?” Dan said in bewilderment and fear.

“I intend to discover the source of the problem, Dan, and Fred is here to help me. Mr. Green, I'd like to introduce you to Fred Forge, my assistant.

“Pleased to meet you,” Dan said, shaking his hand.

“We'd really like to meet your friend, Dan, if he's here,” John replied. “I think he'd enjoy the shelter of the factory, too.”

“Oh, you mean Leonard? He's a bit shy--”

“But we're in your mind, Dan: he's here somewhere.”

“Right: well, I don't see him around anywhere--”

“Don't worry: I'm sure he'll find us.”

* * *

“I never had many friends growing up,” Dan said, after they reached the shelter of the factory, “I was always the last kid picked for sports, was never invited to people's birthday parties, and was generally regarded as 'odd' by basically everyone.”

“So that's how you met Leonard?”

“Yep,” Dan replied cheerfully, “He was always there, willing to talk to me, encouraging me to do this or that, though sometimes he yelled at me and ordered me around.”

“Do you ever tell him not to order you around?”

“I can't talk to Leonard like that: it would hurt his feelings, and I don't want that—”

“But he's taking advantage of you,” Fred replied. “He's enslaving you--”

“No, you don't understand,” Leonard said firmly. “He really cares about me, and wants to be my friend....”

* * *

“Fred,” John whispered, taking Fred by the shoulder. Both were standing by the box now. “I think we should let that line of thought go for now.”

“But he needs to hear it,” Fred replied. “He's being enslaved to this idea, and it's not healthy for him--”

“Yes, he is: but we want him to let go of Leonard naturally, not under compulsion. If only Leonard would show up, we'd have something to work wi--”

“Shhh!” Fred said with an urgent finger to his lips. The sleeping Dan had silently whispered a word, and then turned his head quickly from left to right, looking around himself in the dream. Then his face smiled and looked straight ahead again, whispering the word:

Dan.

* * *

Leonard was sitting on an old desk, with one leg up on the desk, the other dangling off of it idly, with his body hunched over his elevated leg, embracing it in a bear hug. He looked a lot like Dan, though his grin was more mischievous, and like the faint beard on his chin and cheekbones, it never left his face.

“Leonard,” John said, in his usual low, calm, yet commanding voice, “My name is--”

“Dr. John Redd,” Leonard interrupted. “Yes, I know who you are.”

“I'd like to know more about you,” John replied.

“You can ask me anything you wish,” Leonard replied slyly, jumping off of the desk, “...if you can catch me!”

And with that, Leonard took off running down one of the hallways. Dan tore off after him, shouting, “Leonard, he's just trying to help us!”

“No! He's trying to shut me out of your mind, Dan!” Leonard shouted. “He's just like all of the other ones we've seen!”

“Leonard,” John shouted, as he ran after the two of them, his voice still commanding and deep, but no longer calm, “I know what the other doctors did to you: they tried to convince Dan that you are a problem – something to be avoided--”

“And you want to do the same thing,” Leonard shouted.

“No, I don't: I want Dan to approach you on your own terms, and to see you as you are, not as what someone else says you are.”

John paused: Leonard had disappeared as he turned the corner, and was nowhere to be found. Dan was puffing hard and on the verge of breaking down in front of him.

“Where do we turn now?” Fred asked quietly.

* * *

“If Dan goes through too much more trauma, he's going to wake up screaming, and attempt to bolt out of the room,” John whispered. “We need to find a way to get him to reject Leonard on his own terms, before his natural inclination to defend him kicks in.”

“What do you suggest?” Fred whispered back.

“We need to change our location: let's put him in a place where he will think less of himself, and more about the truth.”

* * *

Dan could hear the sound of the bombs dropping on the city, and suddenly felt the factory shake and quiver under a direct hit.

“The city is coming down, Dr. Redd!” Dan cried in fear. “We must escape!”

“There is only one place that the bombers would not hit in this town,” John replied. “They won't bomb the cathedral, just up the road from here.”

“Take me there,” Dan replied weakly, shivering and quaking in fear and hysterics.

As they entered the cathedral, they were greeted by a gangly young man, sitting on the back of the front pew, smiling and holding his leg.

“Leonard,” John started softly.

“Nope! I don't want to talk to you!” He said playfully, and took off toward the door that led to the bell tower.

“Leonard!” Dan pleaded as he took off after him, tears almost welling up in his eyes.

“Dan, let him go,” Fred said softly, taking him by the shoulder.

“Stop it! Just stop it!” Dan said, breaking down in front of the altar. “Dr. Redd,” Dan said, sobbing, “why are you doing this? Stop making him run away. Can't you just leave us alone?”

“Dan,” John replied, returning to his calm voice, “I need your help. I want you to describe Leonard to me: just give me a list of adjectives that best describe him, so that I can distinguish him from you. I need to know why he's attracted to you, and why you're attracted to him.”

“Well,” Dan began, still sobbing and breathing hard, “He--” Dan began, but then trailed off to silence. Dan attempted a few more times to come up with an adjective, then threw his hands up in frustration. “I can't think of any.”

“Because he has no character, Dan,” John replied. “He has no objective form. What he embodies for you is your desire for a companion and friend, and – at times – an image of those who take advantage of your softspoken, unassertive nature.”

Dan was really crying now. “So what do I do? I'm not strong enough to tell him to leave, but I can't keep going on like this forever.”

“Leave it here,” Fred interrupted. “Leave it right here, at the altar, and a stronger Man will take it from there.”

Fred looked up at the cross at the front of the cathedral, and the Man that was hanging on it, with nails in His hands and feet. His head was bowed to His chest, weighed down by searing pain, a broken heart, and hopeless abandonment – not unlike the broken man that was now weeping at the foot of the altar. Dan was filled with the unbelief and skepticism of a broken man who is bewildered by promising news.

“But what if He doesn't want to take it?”

“He already has.”

“And what if I can't let him go?”

“That's a battle you will constantly fight,” Fred said hopefully, “but one that you can win.”

“This doesn't change the fact that I feel alone,” Dan said between sniffles.

“He's ready to change that, too,” John proposed. “And you'll find that He's a much more reliable friend than Leonard.”

“Is it really that easy?”

“There's only one way to find out.”

* * *

“How are you this morning?” John asked the young man in the hospital bed.

“I'm doing much better,” Dan replied. “What did you do to me?”

“I didn't do anything: I helped you face your fears. That's all.”

“John,” Fred said as they returned to the waiting room, “did that job count as hazard pay?”

“Definitely hazard pay,” John replied with a low chuckle, “and do me a favor: get rid of that Dresden picture.”

The Centaur Scrolls: The Removal of "Gender Rolls" in Toys

Dear Reader,

So, I've been thinking about this article for some time now, but after confirming what the Atlantic reports about our favorite country to discuss on this blog - Sweden - I'm becoming more and more convinced that the "tolerance" agenda that is spreading in other countries is getting out of hand, and extending into areas that, frankly, no government should be entering.

I was reading an article in the Atlantic entitled, "You Can Give a Boy a Doll, But You Can't Make Him Play With It," discussing the swath of gender-neutral reforms going through Sweden's toy/entertainment industry.  Looking at what the Swedish Green Party promotes as its "model school," Christina Sommers looks at how the school views its students.  There are no "boys" and "girls" at this school: there are "buddies" and "friends."  She goes on to mention that this preschool threw out all of their toy cars because the boys favored them over the other toys.  So, to curb the increase in favoritism toward toys by a gender, they threw them out.

*Blink Blink*

Now, regardless of what you think about government involvement in conditioning children, we can all agree that the Atlantic is hardly what we would describe as a "conservative fortress" or homestead for traditional family values.  With Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow as its founders, and James Bennet (New York Times, News & Observer, New Republic) as its current editor, this is hardly the "born in the red" conservative crew that is razzed by the intellectual community as standing against "progress" and "children's rights" in the debate over government involvement in the lives of children.  This is one of the reasons that this article stood out to me - it's not from the stereotyped base of support for the arguments found on this blog.

What is more, Mrs. Sommers goes on to describe the greater problem:

Few would deny that parents and teachers should expose children to a wide range of toys and play activities. But what the Swedes are now doing in some of their classrooms goes far beyond encouraging children to experiment with different toys and play styles—they are requiring it. And toy companies who resist the gender neutrality mandate face official censure. Is this kind of social engineering worth it? Is it even ethical? (Emphasis in original)

Her point is not only valid, but critical to our understanding of the internationalist agenda: to what extent can government involvement step in to "solve societal problems"?  Are there lines, and if so, where are they drawn?

Sweden's approach so far has been complete micromanagement of both companies (products, advertising, aims and goals, etc.) and children (what they play with, what they favor when choosing to play, etc.).  As the poster child for the international agenda, this raises flags for all of us in the States who are hearing that there will be "no ramifications" and "no effect" by giving in to the mindset through treaties, statutory laws, and school regulations.  Are these academically honest - let alone morally honest - claims?

I will not continue to elaborate here; you need merely read the Centaur Scrolls to find my opinion on that score.  What I will conclude with here, though, is (ironically) the end of the article: there is hope for those of us who believe in letting kids be kids, and leaving government micromanaging out of it.  The government-approved toy catalog "will almost certainly disappear in a few years, once parents who buy from it realize their kids don't want these toys" (Sommers, citing Prof. David Geary).  Time alone will tell what will happen in that country, but that is not the question for us today.  The question for us is whether we will properly discern what the aim of this mindset and mentality is, and whether we will allow it to enter our culture, wherever that may be.

Vigilance is the price of freedom - stand fast, friends,

Watching the stars,

Centaur

"I set myself against what is lurking in this forest, Bane - yes, with humans alongside me if I must." ~ Firenze, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

Part II: Catharsis

Synopsis: Dr. John Redd is referred by a former patient, Matt Black, to a friend who needs help dealing with anger, hatred, and a broken friendship.

Catharsis

“I’m here to see Dr. Redd,” a young man asked.

“Do you have an appointment?” an elderly woman replied.

“No, but a friend of mine said Dr. Redd could help me.”

“We have a number of people here to see Dr. Redd today, but he seems to be free for the next hour. Your name?”

“Fred; Fred Forge.”

Fred turned toward the waiting room, looking for an empty chair. The waiting room was a perfect square with about twenty chairs set around the walls of the room, with endtables in three of its four corners. The corner without the endtable was situated near the reception desk, with an opaque glass door between the wall and the desk, with a sign on it that read, “John Redd, M.T.”

Against the far wall, a brown-haired woman in a purple dress was reading “Goodnight Moon” to the two children on either side of her. Two girls about Fred’s age were sitting near her, painting their fingernails, deeply engrossed in a whisper-giggle-whisper-giggle conversation, and by the wall nearest him, an older man in a technician suit was dozing softly in his chair.

Fred took a seat near the elderly man, and nervously looked around the room. His friend Matt had shared with him how Dr. Redd used “unconventional techniques” to fix a relationship problem with his girlfriend, Melanie. “It may hurt a little,” Matt had explained, “but it works: he gets to the heart of the problem without digging into your past like most psychologists.” Fred had listened to Matt’s story--what he saw, what he did, and how Dr. Redd had done it--and he was skeptical and fearful of meeting this man.

His thoughts were interrupted by a middle-aged gentleman with graying hair and a steady gaze entering from the glass door. Though his hair color was changing, it was obvious from his form that he was still very strong, well within his prime. His grey eyes rested on the young man, who stood to meet him.

“Fred, I’m John Redd,” he said, walking forward and extending his hand, “I understand one of my patients recommended me to you. How can I help you?”

“Dr. Redd,” Fred replied, “I've had a ‘falling out’ with a friend of mine. I need your help.”

“Come with me,” John replied, walking toward the entry door. Fred hadn’t realized that there was another door, a black door, near the entrance. As Dr. Redd stood near the black door rummaging through his key ring, Fred asked, “Aren’t we going to walk down the white hallway with the fluorescent overhead lights?”

“As I told your friend,” John replied, placing a key in the lock, “there are many ways to enter the mind, and thus there are many ways to enter my office.” And with a twist-click-creak, the door opened, and John motioned for him to enter.

The door opened to a small room with two reclining chairs, situated around a brown oak table, and on the table was a black box. On the wall nearest him, he saw a picture of two Greek soldiers with spears and shields fighting a gigantic boar. On the far wall there was a black picture frame with an impressionist-style painting of a forest in the Rhine river valley. And in the corner, on a small endtable, there was a dark blue glass vase with a single orange rose in it.

“Take a seat,” John said, calm and assuring. “I need to know a little more about your friendship before we begin.”

“Matt said that you don't delve into your patient's past,” Fred said warily.

“I don't,” John replied, seating himself in the other recliner, “I want to know about your present mental situation. What you used to think about him isn’t as important as your opinion of him now. Who he was and what he now is will converge at truth, so the past will be discovered in due time. Thus, I have a few preliminary questions. First, what is your friend's name?”

“Grant,” Fred replied smugly.

“And when I say, ‘Grant,’ are you led toward anger or hatred?”

“Aren't they basically the same thing?”

“Not at all," John replied, leaning forward in his recliner. “To feel anger toward a person is to desire justice for a wrong; 'hate' is to desire pain and torment on another person in order to satisfy my desire for gratification. With anger a standard (either proper or improper) of justice is vindicated, while hatred vindicates my personal desire for revenge, which may be excessive for the crime committed. So when you think of Grant, do you feel hatred, or anger?”

“Anger,” Fred replied, “for a past wrong.”

“Well then, let's examine this past wrong,” John said, rising from the recliner and placing his hands on the black box. “Are you ready?”

“Aren't you going to turn out the lights?” Fred asked.

“Would you like them out?”

“I'll concentrate and sleep better if they are.”

“Then I'll turn them out for you,” he said, walking over to the light switch.

As he clicked the switch off, all of the light in the room disappeared in a soup of darkness. Fred expected to hear Dr. Redd carefully and slowly walk back to the table, groping in the darkness that had instantly descended upon them. But to his amazement, John walked steadily--almost quickly--back to his place next to the table, and Fred could hear the keys rustling as they were removed from his pocket. A twist-click-creak, and the black box was unlocked. And as the lid rose, a soft electronica song began to play, filling the room with the complex yet soothing melody of the synthesizer.

“Dream, Fred.”

* * *

Fred found himself flat on his back--or, at least, as flat as one can be while lying on a large tree root. He lay on the fringe of a small clearing, and above his head, he could see the large, shady branches of an oak tree. Everywhere around him was the varied sounds of what appeared to be an infinite forest. He slowly sat up, expecting at any moment for John to appear behind him, as he appeared to Matt in the bright hallway.

But he never appeared. In fact, nothing in sight appeared to stir or move. Yet everything about him--even the air he breathed--seemed to thrum in restless agitation, as if it was watching him, or something else, with weary and wary expectation. He debated for a moment whether he should explore the dark unknown around him, or whether he should stay where he was, avoiding potential dangers. In the end, he compromised by climbing a banyan tree nearby, hoping for a better vantage point.

From the higher elevation, Fred noticed that while he could hear birds chirping and calling, all of them were hidden from view. The patches of light that hit the forest floor seemed like daisies on a grave, sparse but consistent across the landscape. He could hear the sound of running water, but he could not see it. Fred began to wonder why everything was hidden from sight but present in sound – and it frightened him.

“Matt mentioned that animals and places act differently in the dream,” Fred mused quietly to himself, “and that there is something to be gained from each peculiarity. I wonder--”

Fred’s thoughts were shattered as a loud, piercing grunt and snarl erupted deeper in the wood. Fred clung to the tree in horror as a massive boar, about ten feet tall, came barreling through the underbrush, tearing deep, long gashes in the oak trees with its large tusks as it charged into the clearing near the banyan tree.

The beast sniffed the earth where Fred awoke with his large snout, followed a low, deep growl. It reared its head as if to sniff the air, scanning the trees above him with two large nostrils and two small eyes. Fred's grip on the tree trunk rose with his fixation on the boar, terrified of what would happen to him if the boar discovered where he was.

Their eyes met.

The boar bellowed a guttural scream of fury, and charged the banyan tree full-speed. Fred, looking down at the earth below him, noticed that there was a patch of moss and loam at the base of the tree directly below him. It was now or never. He let go.

Crash.

Fred hit the ground just before the impact, the roots and trunk of the banyan tree quivering and snapping before the juggernaut. Fred took off into the unknown, spotting a large, thick oak tree that might withstand the fury of the boar. At its base, he caught a glint of light from the sun above, and rushed to it to find a spear and shield partially covered with a leather covering.

As the large, black creature searched the ground for a trace of Fred, the young man looked for a branch or eye-hole that would allow him to climb the tree.

“It's too high,” a familiar voice said from behind him.

“Dr. Redd,” Fred said in a panic, “How do we get away from it?”

“I thought you came to confront your problem,” Dr. Redd inquired.

“I thought you meant my anger toward Grant, not a boar with primal fury!”

From the other side of the clearing, they heard a shout from a lone warrior, armed with a spear and shield, charging the beast. Fred started walking forward in bewilderment, which was stopped by a strong hand gripping his shoulder.

“Why is Grant here?” Fred asked in furious amazement, freeing his shoulder from John’s grip with an angry jerk. “This is my mind’s world, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” John replied. “Grant is one of your closest friends, isn’t he?”

“Well, before Michelle, yeah. But since he stole her from me, I’ve hated him: whenever I see him--”

“Hate him, Fred?”

Fred was quiet for a moment, but hot anger still blazed in his eyes as he looked into the calm green pair that studied him

“I don’t know, alright? Seeing him fight bravely against this frightful thing makes the hairs on my back bristle, and my heart beats furiously and vengefully--”

“Like a wild boar?”

Fred swallowed hard. He didn’t want to admit it. But there it was, standing before him.

“Like a boar,” Fred replied slowly, “exactly like a boar.”

“Are you going to help him,” John asked, his calm face turning suddenly stern. “Or are you going to leave him to die?”

Fred looked at the struggle--if it could be called a struggle. The boar was beating its tusks against Grant’s shield, flinging him back several feet on each attempt. Within a minute, his back would be against a tree, and the mauling process would begin.

“I think I’ll enjoy this,” Fred began, and then suddenly cut himself off. He turned back toward John in shock, bowed his head, and added, “Why did I let that out? I don’t usually say things like that--”

“Because we're in your mind, Fred: what you think is apparent here. There's no softening or camouflaging your thoughts in your mind, Fred. That’s why I work here: my patients can’t use pretenses and manners to mitigate their responses to my questions.”

“So you’re interrogating me by looking around my mind?”

“Precisely,” John replied, “though I can also ask you questions directly: are you sure that you only feel anger toward Grant, or is it hate?”

Fred dropped his head again. “You’ve already seen that it’s hate, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t seen you charge that boar to save him yet,” John replied, his voice once again resuming its calm and assuring tone. “That would answer the question.”

Fred looked over the embankment. Grant’s shield was shattered on the ground, and he was staggering against a large oak tree, desperately struggling to ward off the monstrous beast with his spear. His heart sank: why couldn’t the beast just jump and lunge at him? Why couldn’t it just finish him off?”

He checked himself. This is hate. This must be stopped.  Wishing evil upon his friend was wrong, regardless of the fact that he stole Michelle. But I don’t feel like helping him, his mind seemed to say. You don’t defend your enemy.

“I don’t care,” Fred said aloud, responding to his thoughts, “we’re going to save Grant.”

He crawled up the embankment, raised his shield and spear, and charged at the beast. As he thrust his spear at its side, it glanced off of its scaly, bristling body with a sharp ping. It was only then, as he stood up-close-and-personal with the beast, that he noticed that it had scales under its thick bristles, instead of flesh. The beast turned and thrust its massive head into Fred’s shield. The impact flung him a few yards away, and the beast prepared to charge him.

Then Fred heard something strange: the steady tack-tack-tack of gunfire, and the beast wheeled around to charge its new attacker. John stood about sixty feet away near a large oak tree with an MP5 machine gun in his hands. Fred wondered where he found that, but his head rang louder than the bullets being fired into the iron beast, so his questions died away.

The boar charged John, roaring with anger. Dropping his firearm, John spread his hands in front of him, as if picturing the dimensions of a large, flat object. Almost instantly, John was hidden from Fred’s sight by a brick wall, at first cartoon-like, but then real and solid. The boar charged the wall, tearing it to pieces, but tripping over the shards of brick and mortar. Fred turned to see John shouldering Grant's weary body, and bolted with him toward the embankment.

“How did you do that?” Fred asked in amazement.

“Not now,” John replied. “Get behind the embankment.”

As they climbed to safety, Fred’s exasperated voice rose above the sound of John’s now-drawn Glock pistol, “How am I supposed to kill the boar, if I can't puncture it with my spear?”

“Castor and Pollux didn’t kill the Calydonian Boar,” John replied, replacing his cartridge. “The princess Atalanta did. But the brothers didn't let their desire for personal glory get in the way of protecting each other, despite their intense desire to be the victor of the hunt. You have a choice, Fred,” John said, looking him in the eyes, “either to let her go and forgive your friend, or to attempt to win the conquest, and risk the safety of your friendship.”

The boar turned.

“And choose quickly,” he added in a hurry, clicking his pistol from “Semi” to “Auto.”

The boar charged, foam falling from its mouth. Fred grabbed his spear, and as he jumped over the earthen wall, he let out a scream of anger and determination as he charged his fears.

“Beast,” Fred shouted, “This must stop! Michelle is gone: no matter what happens to Grant, Michelle is gone. To hold onto this hate will only destroy us, and if that's what it comes down to, I'd rather die as a man, than live as a monster in my hate. Prepare to die,” he shouted, as he hefted his spear to strike, the beast only meters from him now.

Zing.

An arrow struck the boar behind the ear, turning his course just beyond Fred's body. Fred rolled to the side to avoid the brute's massive bulk, the piercing squeal of the boar ringing through the forest. To his left, Fred heard the beat of hooves against the uneven earth, with a young woman dressed in dark blue on horseback. As the boar retreated, the Amazon continued to assault the boar.

“Michelle,” Fred said, dazed by the sudden change in events.

“Shall we pursue her?” John asked, looking into the distance, but honed on Fred's response.

“No. She's gone – and I need to let her ride on without me.”

“Then sleep in peace, Fred,” John replied with a smile.

* * *

When Fred awoke, he was in the recliner with the lights turned on. He rose slowly, looking for the doctor, and still taking in everything that had happened in his dreams. As he entered the lobby, he saw Dr. Redd sitting next to the woman in the purple dress, reading “The Ugly Duckling” to the small children on their laps. The two girls were done painting their nails, and were talking together until he entered the room. John put down the book, and rose to greet him.

“Fred, I'd like you to meet my family,” John said, pointing to everyone in the room.

Fred nodded toward everyone generally with a shy “Hi,” and then gave John a probing look, full of the questions that he wanted to ask him, but didn't know how to express.

“I know you have questions, Fred,” John said, “and I'd love to chat with you about them. You have a wonderful mind, son, and a better heart behind it.”

“Well, thank you, sir,” Fred replied, “but what exactly did you have in mind?”

“Well, I could always use an assistant,” John answered with a smile, “if you're game.”

As Fred thought about the proposition, one of the girls met his gaze, smiled, and then returned to talking with her sister. He looked back at John.

“Tell me more.”

Part I: Paranoia

Synopsis: A patient comes to Dr. Redd with an uncommon mental state known as Sleep Paralysis. Dr. Redd works with Matt on confronting the issues at the heart of the matter.

Paranoia

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Dr. John Redd. I’m Matt Black.”

The receptionist pressed the intercom and said in her grandmotherly voice, “Dr. Redd, there’s a Mr. Black here to see you. No appointment scheduled.”

“I’ll be there.”

The woman motioned toward the chairs in the waiting room. The young man turned and walked toward the nearest chair, wringing his hands in nervous anticipation. His blonde hair was disheveled and dirty from days without proper care. His eyes had large, black bags under them from lack of sleep and numerous treatments, and his bottom lip was cracked and a little too purple from constant nervous biting. He was dressed in blue jeans and a plain, wrinkled, gray shirt. He sat coiled up on the chair, like a rattlesnake with a drug addiction.

John entered and stopped in the door, scanning the empty waiting room with a thoughtful, proud air. His green eyes settled on Matt, and the lips within the confines of his small, gray, goatee tightened slightly. He walked over to the young man, whose gaze was fixed on the acclaimed Mental Technician.

“What can I do for you?” John said calmly.

“Sir, I’ve seen many psychologists and therapists, but no one has been able to discover what is wrong with me,” the man’s quivering lips said between pleading eyes.

“Well,” John replied with a slight chuckle, “I'm not technically a psychologist. What’s tormenting you?”

“That’s the problem,” the young man said, “I don’t really know what’s bothering me. My dreams are haunted by Something, and when I wake up, I can’t remember what I dreamed about--but I’m agitated from it all day.”

John just looked at him, saying nothing with his eyes or mouth.

“Can you help me?” Matt asked pitifully.

John looked at him with a long, discerning look. He had never seen a patient quite like this before: one who could not even diagnose his own torment, let alone the cause of his torment. He briefly wondered if the man even had a mental problem, even though the symptoms glared at him like an evil stepmother from a fairy tale. There was only one way to know.

“Follow me,” John replied.

The two walked down a long corridor with white walls and fluorescent lights, with a light blue wooden door at the end. The buzzing of the lights and the glare from the walls made the journey a living hell for Matt, whose nerves were already tottering. His agitation was clear as he looked up into the face of the tall man that walked beside him. To Matt’s surprise, John’s eyes were gently closed.

“What are you doing?” Matt asked in surprise.

“Counting steps.”

“What does that do?”

“It helps me remember this hallway better.”

“Why would you want to remember this hallway?”

“You’ll see,” was his short, calm reply.

“They say that you’re the best psychologist that ever lived,” Matt remarked awkwardly, trying desperately to calm himself in that long, blaring hallway. “They say you never fail.”

Silence.

They approached the light blue door, and John reached into his left suit jacket pocket, his eyes still closed, and pulled out a set of keys. On the keyring were ten brass keys, all the same length, with no distinguishing features. Next to the brass keys there was a red key, smaller than the others. John held the keys in his hands, feeling them gently and meaningfully with his fingers. Matt watched in mild skepticism, wondering which of the two of them was mentally ill. Next to this man, he suddenly felt normal--or, at least, understandable by the public at large. But his thoughts were cut short, when John suddenly selected the fourth key from the red key, and placed it in the lock. Twist, click, creak, and the door was open.

“Welcome to my laboratory,” John said, opening his eyes, and inviting his guest in with a wave of his arm. Matt entered, and found himself in a dark blue room which was strikingly bare. In the corner there was a wall-mounted lamp, the only light in the room, next to a small Christmas tree, decorated with tinsel and glass balls, but no lights. There were no windows and no other doors, and there was nothing on the walls save a picture of a lovely woman in a dark purple dress with dark brown hair, pale skin, a small red smile, and an overpowering gaze. In the center of the room, there were two brown reclining chairs facing each other, with a small, white wooden table in between. And on the table, there was a black box, no bigger than a standard briefcase.

“This is a laboratory?” Matt asked, obviously disappointed.

“For my mind, yes,” John replied. “Have a seat.”

Matt took the closest chair, and opened the recliner. As John took his seat, he leaned forward, with his elbows resting on his knees, and stared at Matt.

“For the next three hours, you and I will be embarking on a journey to discover what is wrong with your mind,” he said calmly. “But before we do, I need to know one thing: are you playing a game with me, or do you really need the assistance of a mental technician?”

“A mental technician?” Matt asked, completely confused.

“Yes, that’s what I do,” John replied. “I don’t bring up memories or feelings from your subconscious, like the phonies you’ve already seen: I fix how your mind works. I return it to a proper state of mind. So what I need to know,” he said calmly, as he blinked, “is whether you are really sick, or whether you are pulling my leg. Because if you are pretending,” he added as he sat back in his chair, “this journey could be very painful for you, emotionally and psychologically.”

“This is real, sir,” Matt said, his face now completely white.

“Then relax,” John said, standing up, and placing his hands on the black box. “Are you familiar with hypnosis?” As Matt nodded, John continued, “Because I don’t use it. I don’t believe in drugs, sedatives, or tricks because it creates a false sleep; the mind is not working properly. I need the mind intact and in its proper working state in order to repair it. So, please, sit back and relax,” he said, standing up and walking over to the wall light, “this will not take long.”

“Do we have to turn out the lights?” Matt asked in a frantic voice.

“No,” John replied, “we can leave it on, if it will keep you calm.”

“And does that picture need to stay on the wall?” Matt asked, as he returned the intense gaze of the woman in the picture.

“Yes, the picture must stay. But you need not face that wall.”

Matt rotated his chair as John dimmed the light, leaving just enough light to make out objects, but not enough to discern color or texture. The entire room seemed to blur together as John walked over to the black box. Matt could hear the jingle of the key set, and saw John place a small key in the box. Twist, click, creak, and the box was open.

From the box came the sound of soft, soothing music, like a music box activated by the raising of its lid. Matt wondered what was in the box, but he could not see anything due to the low light and his slowly lowering eyelids. His thoughts began to drift as John took his seat, saying calmly, “Dream.”

* * *

Matt found himself in the white hallway with fluorescent lights which they had walked through just minutes before, but there was no wooden door. In fact, there was no door--nothing existed, save the glaring walls and the buzzing lights. The buzz was louder and the lights were brighter, placing all of Matt‘s nerves on edge in panicked agitation.

“Good morning, Mr. Black,” came a deep voice behind him.

Matt turned, startled, to see John standing behind him in a Kevlar vest, heavy boots, dark cargo pants, black gloves, and a utility belt with magazines, pouches, and a pistol at his left side. It was only then that Matt noticed the sling and pistol pouch over John’s left breast, holding yet another firearm. John still looked at him with the same calm, quiet look.

“What are you doing?” Matt asked in bewilderment.

“What color is my shirt?”

“What?”

“What color is my shirt?” John asked again. Matt hadn’t even thought about the color of John’s shirt up until that point. The rest of the gear had distracted him from noticing it. He thought that he had caught a glimpse of it when he first turned around, but now, as he looked, John’s large arms appeared to be bare.

“You don’t have one,” Matt said.

“Do I not? I remember wearing one--”

“I don’t care,” Matt said, bordering on screaming, “I can’t concentrate in this environment, and I don’t remember you having a shirt on, and I don’t remember it’s color, and you’re just playing with my mind,” he said, bitter and obstinate to the technician’s questions.

“Be still,” John replied, still calm. “Calm down--”

“I won’t calm down!” Matt shouted, running toward John, grabbing him by the arm holes of his vest, “And I won’t answer your questions!”

“Calm yourself,” John replied, as Matt started pushing him toward the wall.

“No! And you can shoot me for all I care!”

Matt pushed him up against the wall, but to his great surprise, John went through the wall as if it was made of gelatin. Matt stepped back in shock.

“Did you think the wall was solid?” John asked, still hidden from view by the opaque white wall.

Matt stared stupidly, confused and agitated. He said nothing.

“Of course you didn’t,” John’s voice continued, “because you weren’t concentrating on the hallway. I know this hallway very well--its consistency, its solidity, its feel--not just its appearance. As we walked through the hallway a few minutes ago, you didn’t concentrate on the door until you were right in front of it. You didn’t notice anything about the walls, only the agitation that they gave you from light reflecting from the buzzing lights. Now concentrate,” John said, stepping back through the wall, “what color is my shirt?”

As Matt looked at him intently, he began to notice a sleeve on John’s left arm. It didn’t surprise him: it could have been there all along--perhaps rolled up at one point. But it was definitely there. It was a dark blue.

“This image--this room--is new in your memory, Matt,” John said, still calm, “which is why it is the first thing that comes to mind. As we journey farther back into your memory, I will need you to focus when I order you. If you do not concentrate, I cannot see what we are working with, and I cannot repair it.”

Matt nodded in agreement, and sat down on the floor, exhausted and ashamed of his outburst. But as he sat down, the white corridor had vanished, and he found himself seated on a patch of grass, with a sunset of orange, purple, and red flames in the background. At the bottom of the hill was a small forest of evergreen trees, and behind him was a large mountain, robed in purple in the fading light.

“Where are we now?” Matt asked, as he turned to John, who still stood next to him.

“We’re still in your mind, Matt,” John said. “Your mind was agitated when we changed settings, sending us closer to the source. I chose the hallway because I knew that it would agitate you. I could have taken you to the room through another way, if I thought it better. But from hereon out, you're navigating our journey. Where we go will depend entirely on your state of mind. So tell me,” John said, kneeling down next to Matt, “where shall we go next?”

Matt looked at the sunset, then at the mountain. The mountain sent a shudder down his back, with its lofty peak, its imposing figure, and its fading light.

“If you fear the mountain,” John said, noting his shudder, “we should investigate it.”

Matt got up with difficulty, beginning to wonder what he would find on the mountain, if it was in fact the home of his fears. He walked beside John, who walked as he had in that hallway, only this time his eyes were open, and scanning the surrounding area like a wary deer. As they reached the base of the mountain, Matt turned to the technician and asked, “If my fear is up there, can it hurt me?”

“It’s been tearing you apart,” John replied calmly, “and I cannot say how strong, cunning, or large it is, because you haven’t told me anything about it. I need you to tell me what you see.”

And with that, they trekked up the mountain along the dirt road that wound around the mountainside. Matt was at his wit’s end, wondering if he should have drafted his will before visiting John’s office that morning. John was still calm, though very alert. As they turned a bend in the road, they found themselves at a circular landing on the side of the mountain, with four white, ancient pillars situated around the clearing, as if to keep watch over the hallowed ground. John softly drew the pistol at his left hip, and kept it at his side as he scanned the landing.

Matt moved to the center of the landing, and from above he heard a blood-curling screech. As he looked up in fright, a large Red Hawk came into sight, darting toward him and swooping down the mountain slope at full speed. As Matt fell to his knees to avoid the bird, the hawk released another piercing screech and then disappeared. As he slowly rose, Matt heard the sound of beating hooves coming from the next bend in the road, and a black horse came into view, flaring and flagging as if from a long journey. On its back there was a woman wearing a purple dress riding side-saddle, who looked at Matt with a piercing gaze. Her blond, blowing hair and light skin in the fading light made her face look violent and quaking, like a coming storm. She dismounted the horse, and started to walk toward the two men.

“Matt,” she said, with a soft, almost whining voice, “Why didn’t you come back for me?”

“Melanie,” he said softly, “I didn’t mean to--”

“You just left me there,” she said, staring deep into his quaking eyes. “You didn’t even give me a second thought. You just ran away.”

“No,” Matt replied quickly, “I’ve thought about you every day--”

“Because I haunt your dreams, Matt,” she said, her soft voice suddenly becoming angry and defensive, “and I’ll keep torturing you, Matt, until you curse the day you met me.”

And with a shriek, the girl before his eyes quickly changed. Her skin became a pale green, leathery and cracked, and her long, soft arms grew grotesquely thin, with claw-like fingers spread wide like a lion preparing to grab its prey. Her mouth was filled with fangs that drooled danger, and her eyes blared red in the coming dusk.

“Shoot her!” Matt called to John, crawling on his back to escape the monster before him.

“Concentrate!” John replied, his voice earnest and harsh, no longer calm. “Concentrate: is this her, or is this a construction of your mind? Is this the real Melanie, or is this the result of your bitterness and fear? Concentrate: think of her consistency, her solidity, her feel, not just her appearance. Shape her hopes, her aspirations, her dreams, her joys, her emotions--everything. Concentrate, Matt.”

Matt closed his eyes, expecting the monster to grab him by the throat at any moment. It never came. He concentrated on the days they had spent together: how she took his order at the diner, then the first time he asked her out, then the shopping trip at the outdoor mall that landed them under an arch to avoid the rain. Then their senior prom, a few months ago, where he got the call that his mother was hit by a drunk adolescent driver, and was in the ICU. He had left quickly--left without Melanie--and had never seen her since. Behind his closed eyelids he started to weep, wishing that he had told her why he left. And when he opened his eyes, he looked around, and saw a very different woman standing above him.

“Good morning, Mr. Black,” the receptionist said in a cheery, grandmotherly voice as she placed a tray on his endtable. Matt found himself in a queen-sized bed in what looked like a hospital room. As he rubbed his eyes, the elderly figure added, “Oh, you have a visitor.”

And as she stepped out, a girl his age with blond hair and thin, soft arms slowly entered.

“I heard you were here,” she said.

“I’m alright, Melanie,” he replied, “I have some explaining to do.”

The receptionist closed the door, and the rest of the conversation was lost.

“How is he this morning?” John asked her.

“He seems to be doing quite well; that crazed look is gone from his eye.”

“I suspect it is,” John replied. “No charge, I think: this one’s on the house.”