"Peace is dead", or a nonbeliever looking at some scripture

http://www.cnn.com/2006/WORLD/meast/07/15/arab.league/index.html

So.

And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see.

And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.

I'm not particularly a believer in or quoter of the Bible, but John of Patmos did have the best language I've ever heard for these kinds of times that seem to strike every few generations, so indulge me . (And, incidentally, missles are falling on a little place called Armageddon, so it's hard not to at least think of this.)

Peace is dead. The maniacs of three messianic corruptions of religion have killed it.

Now is a new age of war. Of wrath. Of ruin. Of widows and orphans, of maimed and crippled survivors. Whatever latent gene kicks in when we're overpopulated or too fat and happy has begun its rein of horror and bent men's fingers to war and their brains to bloodshed and hate.

And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see.

And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.

The sword is unsheathed and blood is being spilled. We stand right now on a precipice, looking over at the abyss we have fallen into so many times before. The mistake dispensationalists make is believing that John's dream talked about a single time in the future when the world would end; instead, he wrote with the knowledge of one who lived through times when men in power lose love and faith and hope, as a warning to all generations that they will keep striking.

And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand.

And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine.

(Keep in mind a penny was a day's wages when these translators were working.) Israel and Hezbollah and Hamas fight for bread and water. There is not enough water there to irrigate everyone's crops. Someone has to go hungry, because there are too many people there. Southern Lebanon has water, so Hezbollah occupies it. Samaria has water, so Israel occupies it. Galilee has some water, but not enough. Rwanda and Darfur were bread and water wars too; expect them also in south-central Asia within a generation.

Jealous eyes, however, watch these fighters to see that they do not hurt the oil...

And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

("Green" is a more literal translation of chloros than "pale", but I think the idea is that it's a sickly horse, if my 2 years of Classical Greek can be bent to service on John's Koine.)

Death is riding today, and Hell rides behind him. We have opened a door I fear to look beyond.

The IDF and Hezbollah. Two mirrors of each other. Puffed up bullies who fear above all that their foreign friends will believe them to be weak.

The US and Iran. Two mirrors of each other. Messianic religious leaders scraping through just enough support from a terrified populace to push for more control of resources both countries are already rich with.

Iraq. A mirror shattered by these other players, reflecting only its own bloody shards in an unending regress of hatred, each reflection turning redder and redder.

I don't believe in prophecy as a message from a personal God predicting the future; I do believe that some people in history have been gifted in finding language and images that speak below the consciousness to those nameless forces that drive us. The horsemen, Conquest, War, Famine, and Death, certainly fit that bill.

Peace may not be quite dead. We may step back from this pit, catch our breath and recoil in horror from what we have unleashed. Then slowly, reluctantly, the horsemen will return to the buried parts of our souls that they came from. But then maybe this is one of those ordained times when every drop of blood from the lash of imperialism and occupation must be paid for by blood drawn from the sword.

If this is so, if reason and the desire for peace have abandoned the men who rule this world, then there is a heavy debt outstanding, and my survey of history shows it will be paid in full. I fear to think what that will mean for me, for my friends, for people I don't know in far-flung parts of the world.

The horsemen are riding. The only things they fear are faith, hope, and love. People fight when they have no faith in one another; when they cannot believe that the other does not mean them harm. The men in charge of our government, certainly, have no faith; they cannot see any action except in the dark balance of power and advantage, and they cannot believe that gains can be made without someone else losing. After faith can come love, the recognition that another's worth is not in his or her utility to us, but in his or her very nature.

But before faith, and before love, in madness and horror, those of us who are given these times to live in must hold fast to that greatest of virtues, the light that led Cato out of Hell to greet Dante and Virgil, the last gift of the gods that Pandora released after she loosed so many ills on the earth. If we will not step back, if this is spreading as we fear it is, then there is only one action we can take: hope.

I believe in God, but I have serious questions about what inspired the Book of Revelations. It doesn't fit with the spirit of Jesus' teachings. We have no idea really who wrote it. Was the person just some schizophrenic? It's full of wonderful images. It's great poetry. But the reader's interpretation is what gives it meaning.

That is to say, we might as well call the author "John". He (or she) clearly did not write for his (or her) own fame or gain. John, the very name of anonymity (and it was in those days, too), is enough.

Why is the land between the Mediterranean and the Hindu Kush the eternal graveyard of empires? To the extent that I take any comfort here, it is in the fact that humanity has seen and survived these very troubles, in these very places, before. I only wish there were not so many innocents living there.

:kick: