I hope you enjoy, and I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas!
Philosopher is dying.

I hear them talking about the fact. But he himself is smiling, counterpointing their sad expressions. " I go to be with Him," Philosopher says simply.
Several minutes later, he is "on stage" for his last public appearance, this one in a large college auditorium that has virtually no seats empty, for Philosopher's fame
is great. No one in the audience realizes how close to death he is. Only the members of his family and his physicians and his pastor are aware. They had
vigorously protested any expenditure of strength on another public meeting, but Philosopher was unyielding.
"There may be one more human being out there whom the Lord wants me to be His instrument in reaching," he told them. " I cannot disappoint my Savior."
And so he sits, in a softly padded chair, looking at the 3000 students, faculty members, and parents waiting to hear him speak.

" I am honored that you are willing to sit and listen to the ramblings of an old man," he says, his voice normally rather thin, and the loudspeaker system has to be
adjusted so he can be heard by everyone. " I want to present only what God allows me to say. I now await His leading." He bows his head for a moment, and the
audience waits patiently. Philosopher finally looks up again, tears trickling down his cheeks. " When I was the age of most of you, I did not know what to believe. How
could I look at that which was so apparently real and physical, with form and substance, so that whatever it was could be touched and held, and say that a white-haired
old man somewhere in the sky created it all by just waving his hands a few times? " I could not accept any of that, for it seemed to me the stuff of delusion, and I had
managed to convince myself that I was smarter than most people,and, as a consequence, certainly less gullible than the 'religious.'
"I started early with this attitude, I must admit. Usually it hits young people later, in college, as some of you can verify, when they are away from the influence of parents."
And he tells them about the years of agnosticism that plagued him, years of careless living, rather like a prodigal squandering everything in rebellion against his father,
except in this instance, he did not even believe that he had such a father.
And then I stood by my flesh-and-blood father's bedside. He had been praying for me all those years. I held his hand, and remember to this day how very cold it was.
"Son,'he said to me. 'I have always been truthful with you, have I not?' I agreed that he had. No matter how much I disagreed with my father, I knew he was incapable of
lying. 'Will you believe me if I tell you that there is a God and that, right now, my hand is in His, just as my other is in yours?' My whole sense of rationalism rejected
what he was telling me. 'Son,' my father continued, 'why have you kept your Bible if you feel that it is nothing but a collection of myths and legends?' I was stunned. How
could he have known that? He might reasonably have assumed that I had thrown it away. 'Son, you marked one passage in particular-- Revelation 21:4---why?' I could
not answer him at first. Who had told my father? A student at college? A professor? But how could anybody have found out, for one thing? No one had access to that
Bible except me, because I kept it locked away.
"My father had been crying until then. Yet even as I looked at him, the tears were disappearing, almost as though Someone were wiping them away. He reached up his
left hand, and I took it in mine. 'I love you, son,' he said, his voice getting weaker and weaker. He had been in a lot of pain over the month or so prior to that. And a few
hours earlier, he had tossed and turned, little cries escaping his lips. But during those present moments, he seemed stronger. His hand gripped mine firmly, resolutely.
His eyes sparkled. 'Dad,' I asked gently, 'how did you know?' He replied, I didn't,' Then he closed his eyes and never opened them again." Philosopher stops briefly,
the memories still poignant, his own tears glistening under the glare of the overhead spotlights. " As many of you know, that passage of Scripture is as follows: 'And God
shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed
away.'
" I wanted to tell myself that it was a kind of delusion, that some special mixture of adrenaline and the medicine had revived him temporarily, and the drying of the tears
was quite natural. But that still did not explain how my father knew about that Bible and that passage. I had marked it only a few weeks before, long after he had been
confined to bed, as a futile hope--at least that is what I considered it to be, an exercise, really--that when my father died, it would not be in a moment of pain, that he would
go quietly. We often argued--perhaps debated is a better word--about matters of the spirit, but I loved him deeply, and to have him slip away on a bed of agony would of
been intolerable for me. I could not have faced that without going off the deep end, as they say. "From that afternoon on, I began a slow climb back to faith. A day, a week,
more time passed, and I came to believe. Skepticism reared up from time to time, a dragon that had to be fought back constantly. I don't think it is every really slain.
I think it retreats in many of us, waiting for events or circumstances or people or a combination therof to resurrect it with special ferocity. Becoming a Christian
doesn't banish the Devil from us for the rest of our days. It seems to me that the evil one is, rather, driven to a redoubling of his efforts when one over whom he once held
sway breaks loose and---" For Philosopher, there is no doubt that Lucifer is the root of evil, the instigator of corrosive doubt, doubt that builds up a thick, high wall between
the sinner and God. He stops for a little while, sips some water, closes his eyes again, while praying, and then is ready for another segment of the evening. I would be
very happy to answer any questions you might like to put to me."
An athletic-looking young man near the front raises his hand, and Philosopher asks him to speak. "Sir, it has always puzzled me as to how God can be in Heaven, and
yet indwelling anyone through the Holy Spirit. How can He manage to be in both of these places at the same time?" Philosopher smiles and says, "I'm very glad we are
starting with the easy ones." There is a murmur of appreciative chuckling in the audience. "I believe we can approach the matter in this way. Take a hypnotist--I don't
approve of hypnotism and so this example is one which I am not entirely comfortable, but it may shed a little light on the answer to your question--this hypnotist hypnotises
you, my young friend, and implants within your mind what is commonly called a posthypnotic suggestion. It might be perhaps to eat pickles at midnight or stand in the
middle of Madison Avenue and shout, 'The Martians are coming, the Martians are coming.'"
Considerable laughter. . .
"But, whatever it is, that urge is now inside you. The hypnotist snaps his fingers and you are now out of the trance into which he had put you. He stays where he is, which
is Fairbanks, Alaska, and you return to your home in Tampa, Florida--many thousands of miles between the two of you. At noon, there days later, you suddenly get
up in the middle of a chemistry class and announce to everyone, ' I know for a fact now that the world is flat. I almost fell off the edge yesterday.'"
There is no laughter this time because the growing truth of what Philosopher is putting before them begins to become clear to those present.
"There we have it, my friend. That hypnotist is still in Fairbanks, and yet you have just acted upon what his spirit dictated to your spirit. In a very real sense, he resides
inside you, and you have just obeyed him."
The teenager continues standing, saying nothing further, pondering the words that have lodged themselves in his mind. He then simply nods twice, and sits down, but
he has been reached, indeed he has been reached.
" I will add that in our relationship with Almighty God, the difference is that He actually is within us, whereas only the hypnotist's suggestion has been implanted. And
also, I hasten to add, for the hypnotist's subject there is really no choice in the matter--he has been taken over, in a sense. God comes in and stays, true, but He
continues to allow us the free exercise of our will. But this illustration, which I heard a number of years ago, is perhaps the closest I personally have ever come to a
compreshensible explanation of what the mystery of indwelling is about."
Philosopher pauses, a jolt of pain hitting his abdomen. He feels abrupty weaker. But he continues, managing the suggestion of a smile. "Surely there are other
questions?"
Another young man, short, bespectacled, raises his hand and Philosopher asks him to stand. "You seem to be saying, sir, in more than one of your books, that Satan
and his helpers are spreading thier influence everywhere. But I thought only God was omnipresent. Would you clear up my confusion?
Philosopher responds without hesitation: "Very simple, actually. Have any of your friends been experimenting with drugs?"
"But, sir---"
"You do not have to name them---just tell me if any have done this."
"I suppose they have."
"Where did they get their drugs?"
"Sir, I couldn't answer that here!"
"It is not my intention to have either you or your friends end up in jail or murdered by some member of the underworld, not at all. What I meant was, simply, what sort
of person?"
"A pusher. . ."
"Your friends obtain their supply from a drug pusher, is that correct?"
"Yes. . ."
"And then what happens?"
"I don't understand."
"What happens after the drug pusher leaves?"
"They take the drugs, naturally."
"I must correct you, young man. Taking drugs is never natural. In any event, I assume they do this sort of activity either through a vein or their nostrils or through their mouth.
Am I right?"
"Yes sir, you are."
"Do they generally buy enough of a supply to last a while?"
"Yes."
"As much as they can afford?"
"I guess you could say that."
"How many of your friends are addicts?"
"Sir, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I fail to see what this has to do with Satan."
"You will, you truly will, and that I promise. How many of your friends are addicts?"
"More than I care to admit."
"It is alarming, is it not, when these friends of yours do become addicts?"
"Yes sir, it is. They're throwing their lives away. I---I try to help them, but it seems almost hopeless."
" And why is that? "
"They can't break the habit."
"It has a grip on them?"
"Oh yes, absolutely."
"And yet before they met thier pusher, it was not like that?"
"Not at all."
"He does not hang around all the time, does he?"
"No, he-----"
The young man pauses, a smile of awareness spreading across his features.
"Sir, you mean that once he gives them the habit, they carry it on themselves. If they don't get the drugs from him, they'll find a supply elsewhere."
"That is precisely what I mean, son. And so it is with Satan. He caused our sin nature from the very beginning. He can hook those without Christ---and even many
so-called carnal Christians--in the same way a pusher hooks a soon-to-be addict. Once the obcession, the addiction if you will, with sex or drugs or money or things
is commenced, all he has to make sure of is that there is a supply around to entice, to maintain the addiction. He does not need his demons for that. He himself is
certainly not necessary in this regard. People aid his awful designs--the Mafia with its drug and pornography and prostitution businesses, for example. As you can see,
so much of what we have around us is inspired by Satan, but he hardly needs to be on call twentyfour hours a day. Advertisers spend billions of dollars to promote
so many sinful desires in order to sell their products that I lost count a long time ago. Satan created this kind of atmosphere, the moral, spiritual atmosphere which
we breath today. A brilliant chap, this Satan, this Devil, this Lucifier, his handiwork saves him a great deal of legwork." The young man thanks Philosopher and
sits down. Next, a girl in the middle of the large semicircular auditorium raises her hand. Philosopher indicates that she can stand.
"Sir, you believe, as you have stated in your books, that most of the media are under demonic influence. Have you had occasion to change your mind about that
outlook at all? "
Philosopher does not hesitate in replying:
"I have not. And there are many reasons. But one of the most compelling is what the Bible terms 'knowing them by their fruits.' What are the fruits of the media?
Promotion of promiscuity is often the stuff of comedy, winking with approval at that which has generated broken marriages, broken homes, diseases that breed
insanity, disablement, and death. And we have the modern spectacle that involves the lifting up of perversion as-----"
Shouting occurs toward the back of the auditorium. A young man is standing, angrily shouting at Philosopher. "Son, I cannot hear very well what you are saying.
Would you kindly step up to the front or at least a bit closer, would you do that, please?"
The young man climbs over to the aisle and walks up to the stage.
"I happen to be gay. And I am offended that you referred to my lifestyle as perversion."
"Oh, did I?"
"Yes, you did."
"But all I managed to say was a single word----perversion. You seem to have filled in the rest of that on your own." Someone snickers, then is quiet. The boy is momentarily
flustered. "But is it not so?" Your books appparently make no secret of how you feel."
"You are correct. But I am far from being the originator of that truth. God is. And His Word is quite outspoken on that subject."
"Sir, I feel that you are wrong."
"But son, that is the trouble. You do not KNOW that I am wrong. Nor do you know, as you undoubtedly believe, that the Bible reflects only the mood of the times in
which it was written. You know nothing of the sort as FACT. You only FEEL that it must be so because you admittedly have feelings toward other men, and these feel
quite normal and decent to you. Therefore, you conclude, there is nothing wrong with them. You use feelings as your guide do you not?
"Yes, that is correct. . ."
"How many times have you been to a dentist over the years?"
" I don't understand the relevancy, sir, of that question."
"Please, would you be willing to humor an old man and provide an answer to my silly little question? "
The teenager nods, then replies, "Half a dozen probably."
"For cleanings, fillings, that sort of thing?"
"Yes sir, once I had to have a root canal done."
"Oh, my, yes! I have had more than one of those. Simply awful business!"
The boy adds, in agreement, " I remember on time, it was so bad, the pain, I---I thought I was going to die."
Philosopher stands, with effort, and walks over to the edge of the stage.
"You mean, son, do you not, that the pain was so awful, so intense, that you FELT as though you were actually going to die? And not as a figure of speech, either?"
"Yes, I----"he starts to say.
"But, lo and behold, you are here now, before God and Man, alive. How accurate were your feelings then?"
The teenager can say nothing. He stands for a second or two, looking embarassed and humbled, and turns to walk back to his seat.
"Feelings are wonderful much of the time," Philosopher says. "Feelings can be God's gift. Anyone who has ever loved---and all of us have---knows what a joy it is to love.
But not all kinds of love are proper. Can we love money and still please Him? Can we love another's spouse and still honor Him? Can we love to see naked images in
a magazine or a film and have God honor that? Genghis Khan loved power; the real Count Dracula loved to impale little children on stakes. A mass murderer named
Gacy loved to lure teenagers to his home and seduce them, and dismember them, and bury them all over his property. More than thirty boys died because he loved
to hear them cry in pain.
"Love can be grand, ennobling, persuading men and women toward the finest acts, the most inspiring deeds, the greatest courage, the most honorable intent. But not
all that is called love is like that. Can you see the truth? And God has said that those who love wrongly and continue to do so will be punished."
The young man, who has not reached his seat, turns around angrily. " Sir, surely you are not referring to AIDS?" Philosopher looks squarely at the questioner.
"Surely, young man, you are not referring to God?" Philosopher bends down and takes off his shoe, holds it out to the teenager. "Do you see that?" he asks.
"Yes, it is a shoe."
"It does not fit very well. There is a place at the heel which is rubbing against my flesh. I noticed just this morning that there is a blister."
The young man is silent, a frown on his forehead. "But I was hasty, wanting to get here on time. While I knew the one shoe presented a problem, I slipped the pair on
without really thinking, my haste overriding my memory and, also, my common sense."
"Yes sir. . ." the boy says a bit impatiently.
"My heel was never meant to have anything rubbing against it that way. But I have a choice. I can switch to a different pair of shoes, and alleviate the problem, or I
can stay with these day after day, week after week, month after month, and at some point I will have worn through to the bone if I haven't caused infection, including
gangrene, in the meantime, followed by a spread of that up my leg and eventually throughout my body if I do nothing, even something as desperate, as extreme as
amputating my leg. If I keep that pair of shoes, and let the infection spread, and my whole body is riddled with it and, my young friend, I die, is that a judgment from
God or the most appalling wasteful stupidity on my part? Please do not lay at the doorstep of my Lord and Savior what your own blindness forces you to ignore."
It is obvious that Philosopher is very, very weak. He walks slowly back to his chair, and almost collapses into it. His family whispers to him that he must stop.
" I must go in a little while." he says with great tenderness to the audience, looking out over the thousands listening to him. "I am very grateful that you have come here
this night. May we make the next question the final one, please?"
Another student, a girl, raises her hand, and Philosopher asks her to come forward. "Sir, as you indicated earlier, you once could not bring yourself to believe in God.
I cannot now, either. Help me, please."
Philosopher speaks, but his voice is barely above a whisper. He motions her to come up to him. She climbs the steps and approaches him. "I am dying, my young
friend. Let me tell you that there is a God, and even as I speak, He is welcoming me into Heaven." He looks at her, his eyes wide, a smile lighting up his face. He
reaches out his hand, and she takes it. "Your father says to tell you that he loves you, and is happy now." Then Philosophers head tilts to the left, the hand drops, and
he is dead. The girl starts to sob as she turns around to face the audience. "My father," she tells them, "died a week ago. The last thing he said--he--he said to me was
that he prayed I-----I-----I would-----would accept the gift of faith and----and---peace that he wanted to leave behind." She leaves the stage as Philosophers doctor rushes
to the still, frail form in that chair. But he is no longer there; that suit of clothes has been shed. His spirit has left his body. Instantly he sees me.
"You have been here from the first minutes?" He asks with awe.
"Yes, Philosopher, I have."
"Are you to take me to my Lord?"
I cannot answer.
He turns and looks upward.
"Jesus," he says. "Oh, dearest, dearest Friend."
And he is gone.