THERE’S A SAYING AMONG THE PREACHERS OF OLD. Come Monday morning—or rather, come every Monday morning, they begin writing their resignation letter.

Not too long ago I had this alluring, lucid dream. I dreamt I cut the umbilical cord that kept me attached to the computerized world—this media saturated augmented false-reality which we are ceremoniously indoctrinated into believing—and then dove into a pool. From underneath the shadow of swaying palms I gazed up at the sunlit world, listening to the aroma of music as it penetrated, like the muffle from a seashell, into the chlorine blue—pretending like all of this…my bizarre interim with the Truther Movement in its variant of patterns…never happened. Come Monday morning, every Monday morning, I sit and relish in that dream. I often contemplate what that moment will be like, after I pull the plug, after I dive head-first in the pool, and then float within the watery underworld watching the bubbles rise past my eyes—just holding my breath, numbering the bubbles, feeling the sensational touch of water as it shrouds every arching curve of my body, and waiting to be left behind from the times I find myself in the world above.

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“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in Him will I trust (Psalm 91:1-2).”

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BEFORE INTRODUCING MYSELF TO PASTOR Dean Odle on the afternoon of November 9, 2017, I had already greeted several other presenters in the room. But unlike Flat Earthists Darryle Marble, Jeran Campanella, Bob Knodel, and Rob Skiba, our story does not end at the first annual Flat Earth International Conference in Raleigh, North Carolina. Oh no—for Dean Odle of Opelika, Alabama, it is only the beginning.

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FOR THE MEDIEVAL COMMENTATOR, HE WAS A LEPER, while some modern scholars’ finger scurvy as the culprit. And it has been suggested that no less than fourteen diseases are attributed to him. Poor Job—as the disease laid hold of his body, eating away at his flesh, the elephantiasis twisting him almost unrecognizably into an object of repulsion, those whom he once called friend had clearly abandoned him. Perhaps he was simply too gruesome to behold, too offensive a misconstrued thought of moral depravity to wrestle with, and maybe they simply worried spread of its infection, or all of the above.  Regardless, there is no evidence that anything was done to heal him or that any kindness was shown in light of this disease, whatever its final diagnosis.

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MRS. HADLEY AND THE KIDS WERE ALREADY IN BED for the night, so we stripped down of everything but our bathing suites and yielded to the potency of a bubbling cauldron. I was almost immediately pressed to a conversation among strangers that I’d hoped to retreat from and which they likely wouldn’t be letting their families in on—once returning home to Melbourne. But I was terrible at hiding. The Ozzies had found me out and learned what I did for a living. My attempt at steering them away from my research into Flat Earth towards an intimate knowledge of Jesus was not a success. And so in the Salinas Valley, halfway between Monterey and Santa Cruz, the glimmering of gold within the embankment of a rolling mist—which seemed to materialize whenever high beams danced sporadically among lanes of eucalyptus—gave way to devilish delight, intellectual grinning, and the stench of gratifying self-flagellation.

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THE MEDIA-MAKER IS a PERSISTENT VIOLATOR of the need to include a globe portrait within their passing narrative—Why? They are incestuously bluffing their way through a make-believe vantage point—the video camera held so far back as to capture the whole of our supposed blue marble as it wanders aimlessly through the sackcloth of space. The documentary genre holds much blame. I have often observed that such glimpses of “the heathen’s globe” predictably beds with the shot I am about to describe. We quickly cut in to the habitual routine of people—all of whom issue from a hodgepodge of cultures—navigating the current of their commuter belt. Both shots are worthy of comparison, as they and the globe are on their way to a feckless job. With such incautious glances at creation from the ceiling of space the media-maker most certainly errs. And yet in light of the Copernican Revolution, particularly the augmented reality which entitles us to a belief in it, this is how our tutors wish that we perceive ourselves—from an ascendancy of which only God has granted Himself permission.

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AN OUTHOUSE IS A USEFUL TOOL FOR THE PROPER DISPOSAL of human waste when no plumbing is made available, but an abominable place to become confidentially affectionate with—or dare I say fond of. I can’t help but wonder if that little shack atop of the grassy knoll; the initials W.C. for a name; complete with a squatting stool and dreadfully small hole for late-night aiming—both of which were generally caked with several shades and textures of fecal batter, as a rule—still stands. From its hill I could gaze immediately east over the thorny caps of yellow-fever trees, which giraffes often congregated under—often dozens at a time—and to Lake Naivasha, with its legion of hippos, perhaps half a kilometer beyond.

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THERE CAN BE NO DOUBT THE APOSTLE PAUL spoke of himself when ascending to the third heaven and—knowing what we do now of the Apostle, having run his race in full—we can conclude with full confidence that God chose the right man for the celestial journey. Paul did not think to publish a book about his rapturous crossing, nor quench our tireless and thankless appetites with what he saw and encountered. If Paul were alive today, there would be no attempts at marketing his story to a larger audience; rubbing elbows for a bigger platform; hiring scriptwriters or delivering to Hollywood a special effects heavy narrative and which was sold in theatrical previews as being “based on a true story.” And yet, the Apostle described more of heaven than almost anyone gives him credit for—or most care to know. It is the true heaven which he himself tasted, and which was penned down in his numerous epistles for the praise or the contempt of the nations. He was handed the glorious doctrine of Christ there, and we should stop to consider how the very foundations of the church have been laid down upon it. Paul’s knowledge of divine matters—including our own, if we place our hope and faith in them—comes directly from heaven.

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WE SHOULD EXPECT A CERTAIN STANDARD of theological comprehension from our clergymen, and agreement—even here on the joyous cosmology. Wherever and whenever the banner of Christ is lifted high, we must make no exception to this rule. Ideas have consequences. That God takes apostasy and false teaching seriously is evidenced by the fact that every New Testament book except Philemon contains warnings about false teachers. The Trinity is an essential doctrine, should one desire to even contend for the faith. The three great ecumenical creeds—the Apostles’ Creed, the Nicene Creed, and the Athanasian Creed—are all structured around the three Persons. If Pastor Dean Odle of Opelika, Alabama were giving a comprehensive oral exam on the nature of the Trinity, then he has bumbled his understanding of it considerably—perhaps even heretically.

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BELIEF IN A PLURALITY OF WORLDS was as instinctive a conclusion to make as the “natural revelation” which fermented mankind’s very foundation of erroneous thinking apart from God’s Testimony. That those distant earths were furthermore inhabited spread rapidly during the dawning hours of the Copernican Revolution—though some might argue the Italian astronomer is not to blame. While Copernicus declared the Earth to revolve around the sun, he otherwise did not alter the accepted framework of Aristotelian cosmology. For Copernicus, the fixed crystalline stars were still bounded by the outermost sphere of the created order. Copernicus was mainly concerned with the arrangement of the Earth and wandering stars in relationship to the sun, and in doing so—rejecting the Bible’s belief in an immovable Earth—he opened up the floodgates of perverted imaginations. One contorted tinkerer of the mind hatches yet another. Astronomy needed new management, and Giordano Bruno was eager to volunteer for the part.

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FIRST THE CITIES OF CAIN—ATLATNIS WE MAY EVEN WISH to include among them—then the Great Deluge, and naturally, as regurgitated human behavior predictably proves, Babylon followed. Egypt, Persia, Greece, and Rome—in that order, most of us are familiar with. How much of western society, I wonder, has been built upon the foundations—even nursed at the bosom—of the occult? Much is my reply. When I sat down with “Answers in Genesis” astronomer Danny Faulkner at the first Flat Earth International Conference in Raleigh, North Carolina last November, I asked him this very question. Let us open up our Bible’s and ponder: which came first? The answer, as one might suspect of Ken Ham’s employees, was undeniably in disharmony with my position.

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MY HEART BETRAYS ME. If I were trying out for a part in male-dominated Shakespearean times, I’d likely play the part of Lot’s wife with tremendous authority and conviction. I know what it is to stand in the blast zone and covet the worldly possessions which could not be hauled away during my evacuation. Much like Achan after the battle of Jericho, I too have struggled keeping my pockets empty of anything but the full armor of God—where carry-on baggage is concerned. How dreadful the temptation must have been for the covetous heart; the cultured, the refined, and the art aficionado; to destroy every brick and stone—even the artisan masterpieces hung upon them—from the ancient cities of the Promised Land. I am more afraid of my own heart than of our Elites and all their wicked schemes. We already know their fate. The architects of western civilization will one day be gathered and thrown into the Lake of Fire. It is me who must be tended to in light of this. I have within this flesh the great deceiver, idolater, and covetor. His name is Self.

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NOT EVERYONE KNOWS WHO CATHY DUNSON IS.  I was somewhat of a little lost puppy when she discovered me half a year ago—though it seems like we’ve been acquainted for far longer than the calendar requires. It was May of 2017. My family and I were staying in Kennebunkport, Maine, preparing to drive up into Canada for the summer. The thing is, my entire readership had almost completely dissipated as a result of coming out about Flat Earth. I was still determined to blog about it, writing to practically nobody—and only because the Lord had asked me to. In a moment of weakness I recall leaving some sad-sap comment below a YouTube video—The Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction channel. Cathy read it. She then left an obscure note on this very blog—something about appearing on a radio show, and would I consider turning my writings into a book? At any rate, after telling her “No!” and then prayerfully dragging my feet for another few weeks, I surrendered to the Holy Spirit. In short, Cathy was a God-send.

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NOT SO LONG AGO I CONFESSED TO A NEWFOUND ACQUAINTANCE my admiration for Mel Stuart’s Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. But more on that in a moment. Suffice to say I was initially taken back to see my name included in the title of a YouTube video—more-so shaken than stirred. I would be lying if I denied my fingers trembled somewhat. Then again, that could have been the coffee. The butterflies in my stomach however were not caffeinated.

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I AM EITHER A BRAVE OR VERY STUPID MAN for agreeing to pen these series of books, as I am still not so old that I shan’t have a few blissful decades left, that is, if I hadn’t done this deed and attached my name to it. I do however see a glaring error in the church—in fact, there are many—and as such do willingly spoil my reputation among the in-crowd, even among family and friends, all in hopes that the Lord might bless my efforts and save a few—or one.