There are too many theologians, like little volcanoes, spouting their theologies, each speaking something different until Christianity is like a babble of voices; contradictions, stupidity, oversimplifications, and silliness reign supreme.
One eminent theologian says Christ will come before the millennium, another cleric, sporting degrees like the leaves of autumn, says he’ll come after the millennium. Preachers confidently affirm that we shall be snatched away in a secret rapture while other preachers say Christ will come openly. Radio evangelists, tele-evangelists, preachers, theologians, scholars, clerics, learned men and women squabble among themselves while we shake our heads in bewilderment and turn away in disgust; does it really matter when or how He will come? Can’t they speak with one voice? Do they have ants in their pants?
Confusion and contradiction!
With all of this incessant babble from people who think they know something, why, on earth, would you want to read another account of Christ’s second advent? Because, while they pretend to be informed, I proclaim my total ignorance.
That’s right, the difference between me and preachers, theologians, evangelists, etc., is that I know I’m ignorant while they don’t or won’t admit it.
I’ve done something most of them haven’t, I’ve actually studied the Bible and believe it speaks for itself, doesn’t need interpreting, and can be understood by the average jerk such as myself. And I believe it speaks with one voice.
When on earth, Christ spoke in parables or stories. We’re all children at heart. We all like stories, otherwise why would Hollywood spend so much time, money, and talent making movies?
I’ve written a book. Its called the Portrait Gallery and you will find it on this web page. Its about people like you and me, doing ordinary things Its sensible, easy to read, entertaining. It presents facts and fallacies concerning Christ’s second advent then leaves you to make up your mind what’s right and wrong, which is the way Christ intended in the first place. We don’t need a bunch of people telling us what the Bible says. Our teacher is the Holy Spirit, the supreme authority on things Biblical and eternal.
There are a whole bunch of other neat stuff here too. Browse around, you might actually find something interesting.
You know something else, Christ ain’t half so bad after you get to know him! I like him, he’s a neat God.
I’ve provided a sample section of my book. This chapter is about a prostitute who lives in Chicago and has dreams. Even though I created her, she’s a neat person, if a bit kinky. I think you’ll like her and the other people who inhabit the Portrait Gallery. Read far enough and you’ll find someone who looks just like you and me and your crazy sister and weird brother.
Happy reading!
Allen.
Eva awakened with a start. A nameless specter had terrified her. Glancing about the room she saw nothing but her normal surroundings. An eight by ten foot room, scarcely large enough for a double bed, chair, dresser, and wash basin, worn and dirty rug of an indistinguishable color, a dirty window, and dim light bulb in a cracked ceiling fixture were her familiar surroundings. The green cracked plaster walls, the smells, and choking clouds of cigar smoke from the man in the next apartment were reassuring. Nothing here to cause the terror that awakened her.
Eva relaxed and lite a cigarette. Drawing the smoke deep into
her lungs, she puffed contentedly, trying to remember her dream.
What was it?
Her head ached. That didn’t help her
recollecting ability. She rose and poured some warm water into
the basin. Wetting a wash rag, she ran it around her neck. This
gesture seemed to relieve the stifling heat that overwhelmed her
naked body. Drying off, she slumped into the frayed, over stuffed
chair, resumed her puffing, eyed the over head light malevolently,
and tried to concentrate.
Her gaze fell upon the form of a drunken
man laying upon the bed, one arm draped over the pillow, the other
groping for her body, to drunk to notice that she no longer slept
beside him. His pants and shirt were crumpled in the corner while
she shoes and socks were scattered about the room, testifying
to their owner’s haste in removing them. He had fallen asleep
without so much as ascertaining her name.
But what’s in a name. They didn’t
care about her and she didn’t care about them. The nameless
men passed through her room, paid a few bucks to despoil her,
took their pleasure, grabbed their trousers and shirt and departed
without so much as a thank you ma’am, or see you later, honey.
She leaned back in the chair avoiding the
protruding springs and stared at the ceiling as if looking for
inspiration. Puffing on the cigarette she tried to recall her
dream.
A hill top. That’s it. She was standing
on a hill top somewhere in the mountains. A lonely spot among
the mountains and desolate wilderness. The birds were at rest,
the crickets had stopped their nocturnal singing, the winds were
wrestles, and fear pervaded everywhere, but fear of what?
The hill was crowded, judging by the low,
whispered conversations on every side. Although she could not
see anyone in the dense darkness she felt their presence. She
felt something else, also. The presence of a nameless terror seemed
to hover over the crowded hill. Listening intently she could make
out some of the conversations. They were whispering as if they
feared being over heard but they were alone.
They were praying. This revelation overwhelmed
her with shame and guilt. She hadn’t associated with Christians
for many years. Not since that day, nearly a generation earlier,
when she left him. This also troubled her. Why would she be standing
upon a lonely hill top, deep in the forest at night with a bunch
of faceless people who were praying?
A matronly woman of 52, Eva lacked any outstanding
feminine attributes such as the younger girls possessed. Broad
of shoulder, narrow hips, a waistline gone to seed, stout legs,
and long, wispy blond hair, she appealed to a lower class of clientele
who were destitute of the means necessary to retain the services
of the more attractive girls. Dark brown eyes, her complexion
faded from lack of sunshine, premature wrinkles appeared around
her eyes and forehead and a barely perceptible double chin did
not fail to elicit any but a casual glance from men who might
chance to pass her on the street. Blood red fingernail polish
and lipstick did not enhance her faded charms.
Eva extinguished her cigarette and reached
for a dirty bathrobe. Covering herself, she rose and tugged at
the drunken man’s foot urging him out of bed.
“Come on, honey, its time to go.”
“Ah, Eva, can’t we have some more.”
“Toots, get off my bed and out that
door before I call Stanley.”
The man yarned, burped, groped about the
bed, found nothing, rolled over and fell on the floor with a thud
and a curse.
Eva drooped the shirt and pants on top of
him, watching in mild amusement as he struggled into his clothes.
Fumbling with his shoes, he caught sight of her in the dim light.
Staggering to his feet, he advanced upon her bathrobe. Side stepping
his clumsy outstretched hands, she opened the door and propelled
him into the hall.
“Ah, Eva,” he protested, “can’t
we go around again.”
“Not tonight, honey,” she replied,
slamming the door and hearing a thud as he fell to the floor where
he would remain until the morning, sleeping off the effects of
a quart of Jack Denials.
Remembering something, she reached beneath
the mattress, extracted the man’s wallet, opened the door
and tossed the empty billfold between his feet.
Double the price. Not bad for an evening’s
work. She was satisfied as she deposited the extra cash in the
special account within the Bank of Eva deep beneath the mattress
where it nestled contentedly beside a few other bills received
or liberated from other nameless male visitors who had passed
through her room that evening and on many previous evenings.
The heart made her head ache. Drawing aside
the venetian blinds, she gazed at the street below. Even at 2:45
A.M., there was a constant hustle and bustle in her neighborhood.
There was Grant, the pusher on his favorite corner, servicing
an upscale customer in a late model car, and Ashtray on the make
across the street, and Amelia who lived in the apartment down
the hall. Cute little girl from Nevada. What a shame she had to
end up here, she could do better elsewhere but then maybe the
same thing could be said of her, Eva mused.
She shuddered. Who would have a 52 year
old woman in her condition. Dropping the blinds, she lite another
cigarette, drank some tepid water, sank back into her chair and
wondered if she would have another customer that evening.
She listened to their prayers. Heard their
pleading, their groans, felt their terror and anxiety. What were
they praying about and what was she doing there? A few snatches
of conversation entered her ears.
“O, Lord deliver your children.”
Deliver from what, she thought?
“Dear Father, we plead night and day
with thee.”
Plead for what, she asked, scratching herself?
I hope that last guy didn’t leave any unwelcome visitors.
“Your saints cry unto you day and night.”
Crying, she didn’t hear any crying. Strange.
“Come quickly, Lord Jesus.”
These bits of conversation bothered her.
Jesus! That name troubled her, also. For the last twenty years,
she had deliberately and stubbornly put out of her mind any memory
of that name but here it was, in her dreams, bothering her again.
Could she never forget? Would she never loose the memory of that
day, twenty years ago, as she drove away?
She squirmed in her chair, dropped the cigarette
but into a dirty ashtray, sighed, glanced at the ceiling, whipped
off the perspiration and waited for her next customer.
Dreams or no dreams, she had work to do.
They could wait.
Her next customer was a skinny, freckled
kid from the university. She remembered him from several previous
visits. He was rather kinky, even for Eva’s taste, but she
couldn’t be fastidious, not in her profession, so she opened
the door with a smile and a freshly lit cigarette.
“Hello, Bobby,” she enthused.
“Come back for more?”
Bobby entered the room and wrinkled his
nose which bothered Eva.
“Can’t stand the smell. I can’t
either.”
Bobby undressed, scattering his shoes and
socks across the floor, like a man in a hurry to get onto something
more enjoyable.
As she pleasured him, she detected the faint
smell of marijuana on his breath. Why can’t these men and
boys ever visit her without some form of stimulant or narcotic
as a crutch? They were either high or half drunk. Was she that
offensive that they needed these substances.
Reclining upon her bed, Bobby stroked her
body and satisfied another boyish desire. Laying his head between
her breasts, he gazed at her with those big, brown boyish eyes
of his that reminded her of another boy in a far off place and
time.
She enfolded him in her arms, gently caressing
his forehead as a mother would do with a feverish child, then
smothered it with lip stick kisses. He snuggled deeper into her
embrace, pressing his face into her breasts, feeling her smooth
and tender skin, and sighed contentedly.
Boys, she thought, beneath their macho image,
their all boys in need of a mother. Taking a puff on her cigarette,
she gently stroked him, feeling his tremble of pleasure. Savoring
her power to please and comfort these wayward youth bent upon
a night’s forbidden pleasures, Eva relaxed and closed her
eyes.
There rose before her mind that strange
dream and its terrifying impressions. Again, she could hear those
whispered prayers ascending around her like wisps of vapor on
a dark evening. She involuntarily shivered in the cold air, folding
a garment about her for greater protection against the evening
breezes, and listened more intently.
“Dear Lord, we plead with you for deliverance.
Lord, come quickly, your faithful children cry for deliverance.”
How strange, she mused. She had experienced
nothing in her childhood or adult life that could account for
this dream. Despite their prayers, fear seemed to hang over this
hill top like a fog. It seemed that these faceless voices were
praying as much that the mist be removed as for deliverance, but
deliverance from what? Glancing about her, at the hill top and
enshrouding darkness, she could see or hear nothing to cause fear
or anxiety but these emotions emanated from the praying voices
as clearly as the noon day sun. They were afraid of something,
mortally terrified of some shadowy form or substance but she could
see nothing.
“Come on, Honey, Eva’s tired,
time to go.”
She eased him off her breasts, handed him
his shirt and pants and saw him to the door.
The few dollars he offered her she tucked
securely in the bank of Eva beneath the mattress. After he left,
she filled the basin. The first faint glimmer of dawn filtered
through the blinds. How many more she wondered, before I’m
too old for this occupation. Then what?
Laying upon the bed she lite another cigarette
and puffed introspectively at the ceiling light. She couldn’t
get the seen out of her mind. Those strange voices, how terrifying.
Eva slept while below her apartment, Chicago
awoke to another day of commerce, some legitimate and some illegitimate,
not knowing the lateness of the hour nor caring.
Such evil filled the room and spilled onto
the streets below. An evil presence hovered over Eva, savoring
every moment of her working evenings with a hellish delight. Eva
often felt his presence, but mistook it for stifling heart, hunger,
or some other nameless sensation.
But there was also another presence in that
filthy room. Although she could not discern his form, either,
nor was aware of his watchfulness, a loving and kind personage
stood over her prostrate form. He guarded over her night and day,
watched her coming and going and brooded over his beloved child
with an infinite tenderness
As she lay sleeping beneath the sheet, despite the waves of heart radiating off the front of the building as the sun rose, she was the object of controversy. She slept fitfully dreaming of terror and prayers mixed together in a puzzle of incomprehension unaware of her mortal peril.
Almost universally, people believe that the advent of the third millennium will bring portentous events The world is in foment, vast arsenals of weapons are being stockpiled, political corruption is rampant, economic instability is stalking many nations and regions of the world, ancient rivalries are being renewed, and blood shed threatens to erupt at a moments notice. Many believers and non-believers alike, suppose that it is time for Christ to set up his temporal kingdom.
Will Christ return, will his second advent herald the beginning
of a new world order; will the world disintegrate into political
and economic crisis, or will things continue as before? Are we
facing a millennium of peace and safety, unparalleled tranquility,
or does nuclear war threaten? These and other questions are answered
in the Portrait Gallery, a fictionalized account of the second
advent of Christ as seen through the lives of its protagonists.
The Christian world has long awaited the end time or last days,
the fulfillment of the prophecies of revelation concerning the
second advent or Christ and the destruction of sinners. The Portrait
Gallery is not a theological or doctrinal dissertation or collection
of dry sermons, but a lively readable account of the lives and
loves of those living at the time of the end of all things, commonly
referred to as the end time or the last days.
The Portrait Gallery traces the lives of individual people from
the present, 1998, through the various human conflicts that proceed
Christ’s second advent, through the great tribulation, the
play and counter play of human passions as they come into conflict
with the grace of Christ and the work of the Holy Spirit. Vastly
important spiritual issues are explained and illustrated, so vital
and grand that they will affect the entire human race. Personal
decisions are made for or against Christ, until the entire human
race has made its final decision.
When all is in readiness, then Christ returns to claim his trophies,
his righteous children, and to issue rewards to the blessed and
to the wicked.
The eternal home of the righteous and the eternal reward of the
wicked are illustrated. Universal themes and unseen Biblical truths
are brought to life in the lives of ordinary people. Passions
are kindled, crises erupt on all sides as the issues in the Great
Controversy are fought to a conclusion by Christ and his angels
and Satan and his angels.
Mountains quake, volcanoes erupt, bombs explode, millions perish
in the final conflagration that engulfs the world. Christ is seen
as victorious in the battle for the hearts and souls of earth’s
billions while Satan is finally unmasked as the great deceiver.
Never, outside of the Bible, has there been so grand a presentation
of eternal truths set before the reader in such a fashion as contained
in the multi-volume Portrait Gallery. Only the Bible and a few
other inspired books surpass, for magnificence and scope, the
themes and issues presented in this fictionalized account.
The reader alternately will be enraged and humbled, saddened and
exalted as the story unfolds. Mysteries, that have plagued the
mind of the average layman will vanish before the light of Biblical
truths. Perplexities and uncertainties are laid aside as the Bible
comes to life and Christ is seen as every man’s Savior.
The story does not end with Christ’s second advent, but follows
the characters to their final reward, both the righteous and the
wicked. The earth is recreated, after sin and sinners are destroyed
in hell, and the capital of the universe is established on this
once rebellious planet. You are an eye witness to the final scenes
in the Great Controversy as you watch God recreate the destroyed
earth and restore it to its Eden glory.
Adam and Eve once again stroll through their beloved Garden of
Eden. Martyrs, of all ages, relate their stories of faith. The
disciples are welcome guests in your home, as they thrill you
with their stories of life with Christ, and their martyrs death.
Old familiar Biblical characters come to life and describe their
lives and hopes glimpsed but only faintly in the Bible.
So grand is the scale of this narrative that many volumes are insufficient to relate it all. Join George, Grace, Billy, and LuCinda Ballard, Glendon and Maggie McKenzie, Humbolt, Uncle Charly, Ada, Amanda; Eva and Clyde Glendenning, Marsha and her mother, and dozens of other remarkable characters as they confront or are confronted by the ultimate decision. Agonize with them over their destiny. See the good and the bad vie with each other for the supremacy. Witness shameful defections from Christ and glorious victories over the forces of darkness as Satan and the Holy Spirit wage war in the hearts and minds of common people like you and me.
May the Lord bless you as you read this account of the second
advent of Christ and may it inspire you to trust the Lord as never
before during the end time events and the last days.
Allen A. Benson
PS. This manuscript represents a work in progress. Ultimately. Please bear with me if errors appear in the text.
The Portrait Gallery is copyrighted 1998 and is registered in the U.S. Copyright officer. No portion of this material may be reproduced in any form for any reason. As additional materials become available or revisions are made to the exiting test, they are also copyrighted and subject to the same restrictions. This material is presented here for your reading enjoyment only and subsequently may be published in book form.