09-25-2013, 08:04 AM
Finally, their philosophies diverged. At John's admission of his master, Jensen's brows turned deeply downward. It was a small error that Jensen felt the urge to highlight, but he remained quiet regarding the assertions. The Holy Spirit does not reside in them all, only those that ask for it, or hadn't rejected its presence.
What darkened his expression, however, was not the misspeak, but the chain reaction of thoughts erupting one painful explosion at a time as a result. Salvation is forever. Justified by grace alone? Does the Holy Spirit remain with me? Was I never saved? Does rejection equal free will? Predestination?
He was standing at the edge of a familiar abyss, peering down into the darkness so fervently, that there was little left to regard what was happening in front of his face. But there were no answers down there. Only silence and shame.
John readied his departure, but Jensen remained seated, watching with red eyes and remaining quiet. The librarian collected the ancient Bible, and as priceless as it was, Jensen found himself torn between following it and following John. Or do nothing.
He swallowed a resolved breath and hurried after John. The man's pace resembled more of a flight rather than a departure, but from what did he flee? Jensen? The suited stranger? Or some unwelcomed truth revealed in his studies? Jensen surely understood fleeing from the things one fears most. In his haste, Jensen left unshelved all the items he himself had pulled and as a result, the librarian shot him a malicious glare on his way out. Jensen's return expression was full of silent apology, but there was little he could do about it now. He pushed against the doors and met the sunshine of Moscow's summer sky outside.
He caught up with John, "Wait, please." He wasn't sure whether to address him as John or as Doulou.
His lips parted, but no speech emerged. Honestly, Jensen didn't know what to say. Only that a hundred questions, each tainted with the color of doubt, buzzed wild through his mind.
Finally, his dredging the muddy waters of his mind produced something of a request, "I'm sorry. I didn't handle that well. Can I buy you a cup of coffee or something?" His shoulders fell, heavy with fatigue that caffeine was unlikely to cure, but the gesture was social rather than physical. Men shared thoughts easily when also sharing a table.
As he spoke, the heavy drawl of a pronounced accent emerged, wide and sprawling as the Texan horizon itself, full of slowly spoken twang that charmed thousands of lost souls into his trust. Oblivious to how fully he gave himself away by voice alone, he continued. "I'd like to hear your theories, though I can't say I'm a believer anymore. Maybe I can help?"
His hands fell to his side. If John fled once more, he was resolved to not chase again.
What darkened his expression, however, was not the misspeak, but the chain reaction of thoughts erupting one painful explosion at a time as a result. Salvation is forever. Justified by grace alone? Does the Holy Spirit remain with me? Was I never saved? Does rejection equal free will? Predestination?
He was standing at the edge of a familiar abyss, peering down into the darkness so fervently, that there was little left to regard what was happening in front of his face. But there were no answers down there. Only silence and shame.
John readied his departure, but Jensen remained seated, watching with red eyes and remaining quiet. The librarian collected the ancient Bible, and as priceless as it was, Jensen found himself torn between following it and following John. Or do nothing.
He swallowed a resolved breath and hurried after John. The man's pace resembled more of a flight rather than a departure, but from what did he flee? Jensen? The suited stranger? Or some unwelcomed truth revealed in his studies? Jensen surely understood fleeing from the things one fears most. In his haste, Jensen left unshelved all the items he himself had pulled and as a result, the librarian shot him a malicious glare on his way out. Jensen's return expression was full of silent apology, but there was little he could do about it now. He pushed against the doors and met the sunshine of Moscow's summer sky outside.
He caught up with John, "Wait, please." He wasn't sure whether to address him as John or as Doulou.
His lips parted, but no speech emerged. Honestly, Jensen didn't know what to say. Only that a hundred questions, each tainted with the color of doubt, buzzed wild through his mind.
Finally, his dredging the muddy waters of his mind produced something of a request, "I'm sorry. I didn't handle that well. Can I buy you a cup of coffee or something?" His shoulders fell, heavy with fatigue that caffeine was unlikely to cure, but the gesture was social rather than physical. Men shared thoughts easily when also sharing a table.
As he spoke, the heavy drawl of a pronounced accent emerged, wide and sprawling as the Texan horizon itself, full of slowly spoken twang that charmed thousands of lost souls into his trust. Oblivious to how fully he gave himself away by voice alone, he continued. "I'd like to hear your theories, though I can't say I'm a believer anymore. Maybe I can help?"
His hands fell to his side. If John fled once more, he was resolved to not chase again.