“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).”


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


THE HAMMER FELL ONLY DAYS BEFORE the first annual Flat Earth International Conference in Raleigh, North Carolina, where my book, Avoid Science Falsely So-Called, was expected to premiere. My publisher announced it would now be a posh promoter of the Gnostic Sophia doctrine—that is, the feminine Holy Spirit. The book which I had written stood firm upon the reformers call of Scripture Alone. My publisher, particularly its founder Zen Garcia, promoted Scripture—I would come to learn—but only if and when interpreted by an additional library of ancient esoteric texts. Appropriate for a company which calls itself Sacred Word. To learn of that and his promotion of the serpent seed doctrine, among a plethora of others, I was heartbroken. Zen Garcia preferred hidden knowledge, and I was inadvertently holding hands with a heretic. The Apostle Paul made no exceptions to the rule when he wrote: “Abstain from all appearance of evil (1 Thessalonians 5:22).” To keep in line with the ministry of a Gnostic, even as a lucrative business partnership, would betray everything I believed and stood for—most importantly my Lord.


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.


I AM AMAZED AND BEWILDERED THAT SOME OF YOU—in fact, many—have defected from the faith of our fathers; from Him who called you by the grace of Christ, in favor of perverse gospels. That this Geocentric-Flat Earth awakening is Biblically sound and yet saturated with HTD’s—“humanist transmitted diseases”—remains an abhorrent truth which we must come to terms with rather than simply ignore. The dilemma before us will not so easily go away. Their numbers are growing with militant strength. But their ranks, however self-enlightened, are drenched with the most eternally-gullible of ironies. Despite proudly labeling themselves “Truthers”—and therefore acting the part as gatekeepers of truth—they are what our spiritual fathers would once rightly refer to them as—apostates. They have left the church. Many have in fact rejected what they once believed and now stand in rebellion against the Creator. It is nothing short of a rebellion against truth itself.


MARK SARGENT HAS A PROFESSIONAL BACKGROUND in playing video games. He’s also trained people extensively in proprietary software. In 2014 he began an investigation into Flat Earth, and according to his own bio—where I’m pulling this information, Sargent released a series of YouTube videos titled “Flat Earth Clues” the ensuing year. I’ve never watched a single episode, but his viewership is well noted. Many in fact have come into the Flat Earth movement as a result of his clues. I am confounded however at the number of Christians who remain devoted to him. The thing is, oddly enough, Sargent advocates a view that our world is a simulation—as in, we live in a video game. When recently interviewed by Russell Brand, he even referred to our enclosed system as a “snow globe” on someone’s desk. By the way, has anybody else noticed that Sargent is anti-Christian? What I cannot and will not stand for is Sargent’s stoic admission that he believes the “so-called” Creator of heaven and Earth, whom he designates as a computer programmer, is lazy.


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.

Avoid Science So Falsely Called (5x7)

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.