Tag: Revelation

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Revelation, by Phillip Hoyle

Some
biblical and artistic revelations combined for me in a most important way, one
that helped me realize the ultimate revelation of God’s love. I begin with the
image of a boy drawing illustrations of several visionary creatures in the
Bible. These word monsters had origins in the apocalyptic literature of the
Hebrew prophets, especially Daniel and several others whose writings were
deemed apocryphal or became part of the extra-biblical collection known as the Pseudepigrapha.
Jesus as a prophet was credited with some such images related to the
destruction of Jerusalem, and due to a fourth century CE decision, the New
Testament ends with one such: the memorable book, The Revelation to John. We
didn’t hear much about these writings in our church until Stan Lecher preached
a meeting one spring. He specialized in prophetic speculation in order to raise
a crowd. The magical world of knowing the future held great appeal and Lecher
knew how to use it. Although in my childhood I was too scared to be interested
in monster movies, I did find these images in the Bible quite intriguing, not
so much for their meanings about the future but simply for their inclusion in
the sacred book. For me, the phenomenon seemed much the same as when I later discovered
the Goodspeed translation of the Bible that used such clear words as ‘rape’ or
the erotic images in the Song of Solomon, or the image of God’s love for Israel
compared with the hopeless commitment of the prophet Hosea to his prostituting
wife. I was fascinated by the unacceptable being found within the content of
the holy. I still am.
So when
sermons got boring I paged through the Revelation and entertained myself by
drawing these wild monsters: for instance, in Revelation 12 a great red dragon
with seven heads and ten horns and ten crowns on his heads and a tail that
swept down a third of the stars of heaven and threw them on the earth and whom
Michael and his angels fought; or in Revelation 13 a creature that rose from
the sea and looked like a leopard with feet like a bear’s and a mouth like a
lion’s and with horns and ten crowns; or in the same chapter another beast that
rose out of the earth and featured two horns like a lamb and the voice of a
dragon. I knew nothing of metaphor and symbol for I was a child as literal as
he could be. I didn’t know what else to do with these visions except to draw
them.
Mom was
interested in my drawings, at least enough to put them in her purse. I don’t
know what became of those scratchings, but I do remember not knowing how to distribute
horns and crowns among the various heads of the angry monsters. Such is the
life of even the most literal of illustrators. Too many decisions, too much
specificity, and the revelations became a problem of literality and meaning.
But my memory of the experience is one of artistic decision making not unlike
what I face now when I am making paintings of centuries-old visions of the Ute
artists of Shavano Valley in western Colorado or of Cherokee interpreters at
Judaculla Rock on the Tennessee River in western North Carolina. I was making such
artistic decisions as a youngster. All those years ago I was an artist and, of
course, a frustrated one just like my son Michael years later when in disgust
he threw away some of this drawings because he couldn’t get them perfect. I
told him then what I wish someone had told the young me, that the art arises from
incorporating your mistakes, trusting that they may be as important to your
work as what you deem ideal. And to imagine that I was thinking somewhat that
way even as a youngster trying to fathom the images and truths of the wildest
symbols in the Bible.
The art is
in the process. For me, the art of living religiously grew to mean being able
to incorporate the common with the holy not to accommodate the sins of my own
life within a vision of a perfect God but rather because the authoritative book
of my religious upbringing declares that the murdering King David was in fact a
man after God’s own heart. My deeply artistic and deeply gay heart knew life
must recognize the good in all, in me. What a revelation!
As I
mentioned before, I still feel that way.
© Denver, 2014
 
About the Author 


Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
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Revelation by Will Stanton

“You cannot judge a book by
its cover.”  This phrase itself is a
hackneyed expression, yet its truth can be applied to many experiences in my
life.  There certainly have been instances
where, based upon surface appearances, I arbitrarily have assumed the quality
or interpretation of a person or situation which, subsequently, proved to have
been wrong or misleading.  Throughout my
life, I also have tended to give people the benefit of the doubt unless
subsequently proved otherwise.  I have
assumed that people are more honest or reliable than they turn out to be, or
more intelligent and better informed than they are.  Too often, I have been mislead by those
people’s own inflated egos, their self-assured behavior, or supposed credentials
or positions of authority.  I end up
being disappointed when they prove otherwise. 
Those repeated revelations should have resulted in early learned
lessons. 
Good looks can be very
misleading, too.  Psychological studies
have shown that tall, good looking people are assumed to be more intelligent,
more capable, more successful, and generally happier.  I admit to having made that mistaken
assumption, too.  We all are aware of any
number of young, good-looking actors, for example, who became very popular and
rich early on, only later to fall prey to some personal calamity such as a
failed adult life of misery, an overdose on drugs or alcohol, dying in terrible
car-crashes, or even committing suicide.
The most dramatic case that
I’m personally familiar with is the tragic case of Ross Carlson whom I met on
the Auraria campus.  Ross was especially
handsome nineteen-year-old, very intelligent, and charismatic enough to have
become a teacher’s pet.  It was easy to
wish to be  as fortunate as Ross.  It turned out, however, that Ross was
suffering from multiple personality disorder. 
He later shot both his parents and later died suddenly of acute
leukemia.  I’m certainly glad that I was
not Ross, despite his exceptionally good looks.   
I recall that, from a very
early age, I was extraordinarily sensitive to beauty, and this certainly
pertained to the human face and form.  I
clearly recall the spring evening when I was only five years old when my
brother and I joined a couple of young neighbor kids sitting on their
lawn.  One boy, only a year older than I,
was physically extraordinary in every way, with his finely formed face, his
sensuous posture, and his graceful movements. 
Looking at him, I was fascinated. 
I actually felt an electric-like tingle in my stomach.  I never really got to know the boy as a
person.  The family soon moved away, and
I never saw him again.  So, all that I
knew of him was his physical self, only the “cover of the book,” not the real
“contents.”  Who knows what he really was
like as a human being or what he may have turned out to be when he grew
up.  His outer appearance may have not at
all have reflected who he was or would be.
This hyper-sensitivity of
mine to beauty most likely had some innate factor, yet I also recall a
potential contributing learning-factor as well. 
For some reason, I never quite felt accepted or loved as a young
child.  This feeling was exacerbated by
my hearing my mother saying, upon seeing one of my neighbor friends or
classmates, “My, he’s a good-looking boy.” 
So, I suppose that I learned that, to be accepted, I had to be (quote)
“a good-looking boy.”
Such a conviction and
preoccupation crept even into some of my dreams.  Throughout the years starting in my late
twenties and thirties, I sometimes dreamed of having the appearance I would
like to have, of being years younger, sometimes perhaps back in college.  If I felt that, at a dream-age of
twenty-four, I was out of place with the younger students, I’d wake up reminded
of the fact that I was not even twenty four; I actually was was in my
thirties.  Perhaps more interestingly, I
often dreamed of being someone else entirely, younger, healthy, athletic, and
good looking, sometimes even of a different nationality.  Youth, health, and beautiful outer appearance
always have caught my attention.
But, outer appearances never
tell the whole story.  In one
extraordinarily curious dream, I saw myself as around sixteen to eighteen, not
particularly tall but lean and compact, very good looking, and with dark-brown
hair.  The peculiar aspect of the dream,
considering that I was in rural Ohio, was that I was trying to appear to be
attractive by dressing as a mock-cowboy. 
In addition to  bluejeans, cowboy
boots, and black cowboy hat, I also was wearing a linen shirt with an
embroidered cowboy design.  In the dream,
I had the distinct emotional feeling that I had dressed in this manner in an
attempt to appear attractive in a young-masculine way.  That dream was so vivid and so peculiar that
I remembered every moment of it.
Some years later when I was
around forty, I traveled back to my hometown to visit my family.  They decided to take a long drive out into
the countryside to a state park where there was a scenic hollow with a path leading
to a waterfall.  The highway ran through
an economically depressed area with a few tiny, neglected villages and miles of
scrub forest and abandoned coal mines. 
The people around there were very poor. 
We arrived at the small, empty parking lot by the entrance to the hollow
and gathered ourselves together to begin our nature-walk.
About this time, a worn,
older-model car pulled in.  As the lone
driver got out of his car, I cast a glance at him and was very startled by what
I saw.  The image presented to me was so
uncanny that I immediately developed a powerful feeling of déja vue.  I had seen him before, but only in my dream
some years before.  The lone figure was a
youth, at most around eighteen, good looking, and with brown hair.  But, what truly stunned me was what he was
wearing.  He had attempted, here in the
middle of nowhere in rural Ohio, to make himself look attractive by dressing as
a cowboy with bluejeans, cowboy boots, black cowboy hat, and, most especially,
a linen shirt with an embroidered cowboy design.  What were the chances of encountering a
perfect match to what I had dreamed years before?   I was amazed.


Then, I felt something
rather disturbing.  Everything about this
youth and his old car with the local license plate spoke of rural poverty.  Even more poignantly, I sensed in this lone
boy a life most likely of isolation in these poverty-stricken hills, quite
possibly with a dismal future of educational and economic disadvantage.  Because of this strange, unexplained
coincidence with my dream, I would have liked to have spoken to him, to find
out who he really was as a person, to discover why he was dressed like
that.  Of course, I felt that I could not
do so.  I was with my family, and they
would not understand or approve of my talking to this stranger.

Then reality set in.  Here was a very attractive person whom I
would like to look like, that, in fact, I even had dreamed about, a mystery
without an explanation.  Yet, that
handsome appearance was only his outer image, the “cover of the book.”  If, by some magic, I had been  transformed into that person, I might also
have ended up in a life of sadness, disappointment, and hopelessness, trapped
in those depressed hills of rural Ohio.
That experience left me with
two deeply ingrained impressions.  Ever
since that day, I have been puzzled by the unexplained memory of encountering
the same attractive person,  uncannily
dressed in cowboy clothes, as I had seen in my earlier dream.  The other was the  reminder to avoid envying those individuals
who appear to be especially attractive, for the lives of those individuals may
not be so attractive as their outside promise. 
You cannot judge a book by its cover.    

© 2
January 2014  

About the Author 
I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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My Revelation/Theatre by Ray S

You may believe that a revelation is some sort of epiphany, miracle, a Bible book with all of its fortunes and predictions. It is just a word until you attach yours or someone else’s content to it; and that includes the scripture.

Well for me, my revelations are the ones that manifest themselves in my weary subconscious at the most inopportune moments. Those times when my body is overcome with fatigue or some physical disorder—that is always the curtain call for all the detritus that’s been hidden away like the curtain that’s drawn back to reveal the Wizard—or in this case all of the thoughts or memories that you have ignored because of varying degrees of guilt, regret, a smattering of self-loathing for good measure, and general lack of good will for anyone concerned.

Each thought negative or it may be just pops up in your mind’s “letter box” under “unfinished business” or just WHY?

None of this procedure does little to set one’s mind at ease; it just seems to amplify the matters.

In the morning waking hours there is an overpowering desire to fight waking up to another dreary routine. This is followed by a reaction to the above that restates how fortunate you are that you have woken. A lot of good that does when you’d just as soon pull the covers up and over your head.

You lie down on your back with your hands crossed over your chest and wonder if you could will yourself out of the present anguish du jour. That would be such an easy solution, leave all of your worries and stuff for them to deal with—but what if this solution wasn’t as easy “you know” die with a smile on your face? The best detriment to suicide thoughts then takes center stage asking how are you going to do it and knowing your record of bad successes that it won’t work and you’ll really be “expletive” (F word).

Somewhere the wee small voice is heard reminding you of what the hell are you so down about? Think of the starving, fighting, dying, and terminally ill out there, and you have the gall to sit on your pity pot. Well, get over it; you’re still breathing, well cared for, etc., etc.

Okay. Okay. I guess you’re right, but why do I still feel this way?

The voice behind the curtain reminds you that you’re a pretty ungrateful SOB, but after all rebuttals it possibly seems that all my subconscious revelations have taken their bows, returned to the green room, waiting for their next “on stage” time; and I can finally get out of bed, put my feet on the cold floor, stand in front of the toilet, and get on with the day.

February 24, 2014

About the Author

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Revelation by Gillian

I do believe that our socially conservative friends, well actually I don’t have any but you get the drift, must be having a bad time lately. There have been a couple of revelations which doubtless crowded right into their worst nightmares.

Jonny Weir

First, we have the Winter Olympics. Much of what was shown on TV was ice skating. Fine and dandy, but,

“Why oh why,” moans my imaginary friend, and I’m sorry, but, yes, he does have a Southern accent, “Did they have to ruin every moment of it by having that dreadful Jonny Weird as a commentator?” 

Yes, I have returned to my childhood ways, or perhaps gone into my second-childhood ways, and created for myself an imaginary friend with whom I can discuss these things, as I lack a real-life socially conservative buddy.

“His name is Weir,” I correct.

Jonny Weir and Friend

“Whatever, he sure as Hell is weird. Dresses like a goddam woman, for Christ’s sake. Lace blouses and all covered in jewels. Jesus! If they must have him do that job they don’t have to show him do they? His hair all primped and curled and piled on top of his head. Shit! It’s indecent. I sure as Hell hope his broadcasts don’t go outside of this country. He’s an embarrassment to this once proud nation of ours. What in Hell would the rest of the world make of us? Is this what we fought for?”

Oh, that’s using we a little loosely, I think. He’s too young to have been in ‘Nam; I know because I created him. By the same token, I know he has never defended his country in any war, much as he encourages everyone else to do so. Were he a Vietnam vet., I would have too much sympathy for him, so I took that crutch away.

“Perhaps not a great shocker to much of the world,” I shrug. “Most of Europe for a start would probably not think a whole lot about it.”

“Yurp. Who cares about Yurp? Bunch of socialist lay-about faggots themselves. This was once a God-fearin’ respectable country. I just don’t get why that goddam NBC allows that guy to dress like that, makin’ a laughing stock of hi’self, preening in front of millions of people. Why ain’t he made to dress right like everybody else? All th’other commentators wear suits and ties and look like men. I mean, for the love of God, if NBC won’t do it then they should be be made to. I never did believe that I would live to see days like this. This was once a law-abiding country. Now anybody can do any goddam thing. We need laws and we gotta to enforce them.”

This, I think, but don’t say, from a guy with a bedroom full of repeating rifles and sub-machine guns or whatever the mass destruction weapons of choice are these days. A guy who thinks the ‘gubmit’ should stay out of his life.

“And then,” he’s on a roll now, and yes, sorry again, but my conservative buddy is definitely a man, “they got all that women’s hockey hoopla. Ice hockey yusta be a man’s game for God’s sake. Now they got women. And we’re supposed to be proud of ‘em with their medals. Be the day when I let my daughter do somethin’ like that.” As I have provided for my imaginary friend with a relatively independent, politically middle-of-the-road, daughter, I smile to myself at his illusion of a power over her which he has long ago lost, if indeed he ever had it. Which, of course, is fuel to his general anger and resentment.

“Shit, they all covered up so you can’t even tell what they are. They ain’t women and that Weird guy ain’t a man. Jeeeesus!”

“Soccer,” I offer, unable to resist the temptation, “Used to be just for men. Now women and girls everywhere play it.”

He snorts in disgust. “Another bunch of lesbians! Don’t fool me if they talk about husbands and babies. They nothin’ but lesbians!”

“Some of them,” I shrug again, “but all those husbands and boyfriends supporting many of these women are, what? Hired actors?”

“Maybe they jus’ fools who think they married real women who fake it for them. Thinka that?”

What I think is we’ve exhausted this topic. Usually I listen rather than talk with my imaginary bud, after all his very purpose is to help me get inside the heads of people who think like him, as best I can; to try to comprehend their thought processes, what drives them.

So sometimes I just cannot resist egging him on, for that very purpose. “There was that college football player last week too ….. Michael Sam …” 

He spits.

“What in all Hell’s wrong with that guy? Apart from being a queer, I mean. Football’s one place left where no sissy-boys allowed. What on God’s green earth he trying to prove? He coulda been drafted pretty high and had a good career ahead and he just shoots hisself in the foot. No NFL team going after him now. Wouldn’t you think being a ni…. bein’ black makes him different enough without he gotta be more different. Not that being black is any problem in the football world. But being gay sure as Hell is. Why didn’ he just keep his mouth shut? Why do they always have to be in my face with that crap? I don’t wanna know. Being gay is nothin’ to do with how he plays football!”

And that, I think to myself, is indeed a revelation. But did he get the irony of what he just said? Sadly, I doubt it.

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.