The Second Comforter

In a little town with one well and one bakery, there lived a steward named Caleb who was famous for being “reliable.” People said it the way they say “stone” or “clock.” If you put work in his hands, it came back finished.

So five masters hired him at once.

The first was Master Ledger, who loved straight lines and hated surprises. “Your virtue,” he said, “is keeping everything counted. No waste. No deviation.”

The second was Master Trumpet, who lived for applause. “Your virtue,” she said, “is being seen doing good. Give generously, but make sure the giving glitters.”

The third was Master Hearth, who wanted warmth above all. “Your virtue,” she said, “is making everyone comfortable. No one should ever feel upset around you. Smooth the air.”

The fourth was Master Compass, who believed in causes and crusades. “Your virtue,” he said, “is loyalty to what matters. Take a side. Burn your neutrality.”

The fifth was Master Mirror, who was endlessly hungry for admiration. “Your virtue,” she said, “is pleasing me. If I am happy, you are good. If I am unhappy, you are failing.”

Caleb bowed to all five. He bought a new notebook. He color-coded it. He promised each master their virtue.

For a while he managed, by sprinting.

He counted flour for Ledger, but Trumpet demanded he donate bread to the poor at noon with a parade of witnesses. Hearth insisted the poor be served first so no one felt shame, while Compass demanded the bread go only to “the deserving” (as if hunger came with paperwork). And Mirror wanted Caleb to bring her the first warm loaf, still breathing, because “after all I’ve done for you.”

Caleb began living in the cracks between commands. He woke earlier. He slept later. He learned to nod while being scolded, to apologize while being right, to smile while being emptied out. He became a man made of errands.

Then the well ran low.

A dry week arrived and the town started rationing water. The bakery’s ovens could still burn, but dough could not be made without water, and water could not be conjured by sincerity.

Caleb went to the five masters and said, “The well is low. We must choose what to bake, how much, and for whom.”

Master Ledger snapped, “Bake less. Save resources. Reduce giving.”

Master Trumpet said, “Bake more, and make it public, or what is the point of virtue?”

Master Hearth said, “Bake enough for everyone to feel safe, even if it means you go without.”

Master Compass said, “Bake only for those who support the right things.”

Master Mirror said, “Bake what I like, and don’t you dare look tired while doing it.”

Five mouths, one throat.

Caleb tried to obey them all at once. He measured smaller loaves, then baked extra. He gave away bread quietly, then announced it loudly. He fed everyone first, then filtered them. He saved water, then spent it. He pleased Mirror first, then tried to hide that he had.

By sunset there was no bread left, no water left, and no Caleb left. He sat on the bakery floor with flour on his knees like gray snow, and he realized something with the clarity of thirst:

These masters were not merely demanding. They were incorrigible. Each believed its demand was the definition of “good.” None could be persuaded by the others, because each considered compromise to be corruption.

He was not serving five masters.

He was being divided into five servants.

That night, Caleb walked to the well and listened. Not for water, but for himself. He put his palm on the stones and felt his own pulse, stubborn and quiet, like a small animal refusing to die.

And he said, aloud, to no one and to everything:

“I am not a tool. I am a person. I am the baker.”

In the morning he did something that looked, from the outside, like rebellion.

But it was actually adulthood.

He called the five masters to the bakery and placed five small stools in a semicircle, the kind used by toddlers learning to sit. Then he placed one sturdy chair behind the worktable and sat in it.

The masters frowned.

Caleb lifted a finger, not in accusation but in boundary.

“One at a time,” he said. “Inside voices.”

Master Ledger opened his mouth. Caleb held up a hand.

“Ledger, I hear your fear. You’re afraid we will run out. You can sit beside me while I measure water. You don’t get to yank the bowl out of my hands.”

Ledger blinked like someone hearing the word fear for the first time.

Caleb turned to Trumpet.

“Trumpet, I hear your hunger to inspire. We will announce what we’re doing once, clearly, without theatre. You don’t get to set my worth by the volume of the clapping.”

Trumpet bristled, then pouted, then sat.

He looked at Hearth.

“Hearth, you want comfort. That matters. But comfort without truth becomes a blanket over a fire. We will be kind, and we will also tell people ‘no’ when ‘no’ is real.”

Hearth’s eyes softened, then watered, then she nodded.

Caleb faced Compass.

“Compass, you care about meaning. But when you turn hungry people into symbols, you become a knife calling itself a map. We will serve bread to bodies, not to ideologies.”

Compass started to argue. Caleb didn’t argue back. He just waited. The silence was a boundary with edges. Compass eventually sat, grumbling.

Last, Caleb turned to Mirror.

“Mirror, you want devotion. You will not get to punish me for being human. If you need worship, go find a temple. This is a bakery.”

Mirror laughed, sharp and brittle. “You’ll regret this.”

Caleb nodded. “Maybe. But I will be here to regret it, instead of disappearing.”

Then he stood, rolled up his sleeves, and wrote a simple rule on the chalkboard:

“We will bake within the limits of water. We will share what we can. We will not pretend limits are sins.”

And something strange happened. The five masters did not become kind. They did not become wise. They did not stop wanting what they wanted.

They stayed themselves.

Incorrigible.

But for the first time, their demands became inputs instead of chains.

Ledger helped him ration. Trumpet helped him communicate. Hearth helped him treat people gently. Compass helped him keep purpose. Mirror… Mirror sulked, then tried flattery, then tried anger, then eventually grew bored when Caleb stopped feeding the drama.

Because toddlers will tantrum forever if tantrums buy them steering wheels.

Days passed. The well remained low, but the bakery steadied. People trusted Caleb, not because he performed perfection, but because he practiced coherence. He became the kind of man who could disappoint someone without collapsing, who could be firm without being cruel, who could serve without being owned.

And one evening, as Caleb carried a loaf to an old widow who couldn’t walk to the bakery, he understood the hidden hinge of the whole story:

Serving one master makes you a servant.

Serving five masters makes you a ghost.

But becoming the steward of your own soul makes you real.

And once you’re real, you can handle the masters the way you handle toddlers: with clear rules, calm repetition, and the steady refusal to negotiate with shrieking.

Moral: Masters are incorrigible and their demands conflict. So don’t try to become a perfect servant. Become a whole person. Then manage the five like toddlers: listen for the need beneath the noise, set boundaries without drama, and keep your hands on the wheel.

It’s been more than a decade since “My Testimony” (2013), “My Advice” (2015), and later “Almost 10 Years On” (2023).

Short version: I still believe I met Jesus. Not “I had a sweet feeling once,” but I met Him. And over time it has felt less like, “I briefly encountered a distant Cosmic CEO,” and more like:

“Oh. We’re actually friends. He knows me. I know Him.
And He’s the one quietly nudging me toward this softer tone, the apologies, and the more universal, open-handed way of talking.”

If you’re wondering, “Has Dan gone soft and wandered off from Christ?” my honest answer is: I feel closer to Him now. The pull toward humility, kindness, and a bigger circle of grace feels like it’s coming from Him, not away from Him.

My gratitude has me trying to tell the truth about that.

1. What hasn’t changed (and who’s in the room)

Some anchors are still there, and now I’d add: Jesus is standing behind them, photobombing every serious picture I try to take.

A. I still believe in a Reality that loves

Call it God, Christ, the Light, the Good Shepherd, the Cat Lover. For me, that Reality still has a recognizable face and voice: Jesus.

He doesn’t show up every day in visible glory. But the friendship stuck. I still experience Him as:

• unembarrassedly fond of me,
• completely unthreatened by my confusion,
• and very insistent that I become kinder, less tribal, and less sure that my little club or map is “it.”

B. Experiential knowledge still matters

I still think it’s meant to be real. Not just ritual, meetings, or theory. Whether that’s one seismic event or a long string of quiet encounters, I believe we’re invited into an actual relationship, not just an abstract subscription.

From my side of it, what’s changed is how I talk about it: less sales pitch, more:

“Here’s my very weird life with Jesus. Take what helps. Ignore the rest.”

C. Practical love is still the metric (and He won’t shut up about it)

In the older posts, I stressed “practical Christianity” — feed the hungry, clothe the naked, take care of the stranger.

That hasn’t gone away. If anything, I now feel Jesus nagging me more about:

• how I talk to my kids,
• how I treat my ex,
• how I talk about people I disagree with,
• how much I let fear, resentment, or self-pity run the show.

If there’s a “best buddy” feel to this, it’s here: He ribs me. He will not let me hide behind mystical fireworks while I’m being an ass in my private life.

2. What has changed (and why I think He’s behind it)

A. Certainty vs friendship

In 2013–2015, I wrote with a lot of confidence about:

• what is “absolutely necessary” for salvation,
• the sequence of angels → Second Comforter → etc.,
• and a fairly tight LDS-centric map.

I don’t hate that earlier version of me. I was faithful to what I’d experienced. I still believe the experiences were real.

But as the years passed, the friendship deepened and the sharp doctrinal edges started getting filed down. What I feel from Jesus now is more like:

“Yes, I really came. Yes, it mattered.
No, you don’t need to turn that into a universal checklist for every human on earth.
Let people breathe, Dan. I love them too.”

So now:

• I still believe He can and does reveal Himself literally.
• I no longer believe my particular journey is the yardstick for every other soul.
• I’m more willing to say “I don’t know” where before I pushed hard for one metaphysical picture.

Oddly, that shift feels less like betrayal and more like obeying Him. Friendship with Jesus, as I experience it, has been Him gently prying my fingers off the steering wheel of everyone else’s story.

B. Bronze Age Bibles, Iron Age Jesus… and a Digital Age Friend

Here’s another way my thinking has changed, and I honestly feel like this shift is also coming from Him.

• The Bible comes out of Bronze–Iron Age tech and culture: herds, temples, blood sacrifice, kings, empires, tribes.
• When Jesus walked around in 1st-century Palestine, He was teaching into an Iron-Age operating system. Those were the symbols on hand: sheep, coins, mustard seeds, Roman crosses.

He used the tech and metaphors of His time on purpose. That doesn’t make the Bible garbage; it makes it contextual. It’s revelation in a world of swords and scrolls.

But if that same Jesus walks into our world now, He’s got another 2000 years of tech and symbols available:

• networks, code, the internet, quantum physics, trauma therapy, systems theory, neuroscience, AI, ecology…
• and all the new languages we’ve developed for relationship, attachment, power, and healing.

The sense I have of Him now is:

“Of course I used fig trees and fishermen then. That was the tech on hand.
Why would I stop speaking just because you invented satellites and smartphones?
Let Me teach you with your symbols too.”

So when I talk about:

• resonance,
• frequency,
• coherence,
• attachment wounds,
• nervous systems,
• multiverse metaphors,

I don’t feel like I’ve left Jesus. I feel like I’m letting my same old Friend teach with new-age tech instead of locking Him into stone knives and scroll metaphors forever.

The core hasn’t changed—love, mercy, courage, truthfulness—but the user interface absolutely should. If we’re still insisting everyone meet Him only in Bronze Age imagery, we’re the ones stuck in the past, not Him.

C. Practical Christianity vs spiritual flexing

In 2015 I warned: don’t chase altars and titles while your family is in distress.

Since then, life has been a fairly merciless practicum:

• a long, painful divorce,
• co-parenting with real conflict and grief,
• dealing with my own anger, depression, and exhaustion,
• trying to be emotionally available to my kids in the middle of all of that.

Here’s the part that feels very “best friend Jesus”:

He never uses my past spiritual fireworks as a guilt trip. He doesn’t say, “You saw Me, so why aren’t you performing better, idiot?” It’s more like:

“Okay, you’ve seen Me. Cool. Now:
Go apologize.
Go listen to your kid.
Go be kinder to your ex than she’s being to you.
Go make the world suck a tiny bit less today.”

He seems stunningly uninterested in me winning theological arguments and deeply interested in whether I will choose mercy when it costs me.

So if the tone of this update feels less triumphant and more human, that’s on Him too. He seems to really like the human stuff.

D. Movements, maps, and group madness

When I first found books and ideas that echoed my experiences, it felt like, “Ah, someone else has seen this. Here’s a map.”

Jesus, for His part, seemed fine with me using the map—until the moment the map started trying to morph into the brand, the club, the final authority.

Then the sense I got from Him was more like:

“Use what helps. Drop what doesn’t.
Don’t outsource your conscience to anybody, including people who talk a lot about Me.
Don’t turn your experience with Me into a ladder.”

So:

• I still respect sincere seekers in every movement and tradition.
• I’m just far more cautious now about:
  • groupthink,
  • spiritual one-upmanship,
  • and “we are the ones who really get it” energy.

If something I wrote in the past pulled you deeper into that kind of mentality, rather than deeper into humility and love, I regret that. From where I stand with Him now, that’s not what He’s after.

3. To those who found my earlier posts helpful

If my old writing helped you:

• trust that God/Christ is real and knowable,
• feel less alone in your own spiritual experiences,
• or gave you hope that “knowing God” isn’t reserved for a tiny elite—

I’m genuinely grateful.

Jesus still feels to me like Someone who wants to be known, and not just by a handful of people with dramatic stories. He’s oddly normal in the best way: patient, funny, persistent, unhurried, stubbornly personal.

Please keep:

• expecting Him (or the Love behind all things) to be near,
• seeking your own direct relationship,
• and measuring everything by whether it leads you toward more love for real, annoying humans.

Just add this:

• You are not required to reproduce my narrative to be “okay” with Him.
• You are allowed to be on a very different trajectory and still be deeply beloved.
• The way He works with you may look nothing like the way He worked with me, and that’s fine by Him.

4. To those who felt harmed, pressured, or weighed down

If my earlier posts:

• made you feel like your quiet, simple faith was second-class,
• pressured you to chase intense spiritual events,
• made it harder to leave abusive dynamics, because you thought “enduring the path” meant staying stuck—

I’m sorry.

My intent was to share hope, not to strap heavy packs onto already-tired shoulders.

From where I stand with Jesus now, I believe He is very much in favor of:

• you leaving abuse,
• you setting boundaries,
• you caring about your mental health,
• you not sacrificing your humanity to live up to someone else’s spiritual template—including mine.

If anything I wrote pulled you in the opposite direction, please feel free to throw that part away. Keep what leads you to greater honesty, gentleness, and freedom. Drop the rest. I don’t think He’ll mind; I think He’ll applaud.

5. So where am I now?

This is my best attempt at a snapshot:

• I still believe I encountered Jesus in a literal, overwhelming way. It has been hard for me to reconcile that with what I want in a science based rational perspective.
• I still encounter His presence and guidance— more woven into daily life. I’m still learning the New Way to Live. _{(seriously, omg it’s so groovy but there is so much <insert borderline inappropriate fangirling here> but <clears throat> Ahh hum. Completely totally serious stuff going on. No silly stuff. <snort> Y’all can’t see it, but I’m tots making the straightening my tie motion, which means it’s all legit. But seriously. Anyone else out there? Tips? Garden monks only. Not really into the Warrior Monks – no offense intended, I’m going for a caste swap.)}
• I’m more open to multiple layers of explanation (spiritual, psychological, neurological) and I don’t see that as disloyalty. It’s more like exploration.
• I’m less certain about metaphysical details and more certain about His character: kind, stubbornly loving, inclusive.
• I’ve become more universalist, because that’s where His gravity seems to pull: toward a bigger mercy, a bigger circle, a bigger “all.”
• I no longer think He’s limited to Bronze/Iron Age imagery. I think He’s actively trying to speak “digital age” to us—using our science, our psychology, our tech—and He’d really like us to stop pretending He’s stuck in goat-sacrifice mode. The time of tribalism and scapegoats needs to end.

If I had to boil down what I think He’s asking of me these days, it would be:

1. Tell the truth about what happened, without drama.
2. Tell the truth about where I was wrong or too rigid.
3. Make amends where my words hurt people.
4. Keep choosing small acts of love over spiritual performance.
5. Let Him update the metaphors and the “tech,” while trusting that the core—love—hasn’t changed.
6. Trust that in the end, Love wins bigger than any of us were taught.

6. A blessing, from someone who thinks Jesus is grinning over your shoulder too

If you’ve read this far, here’s what I wish for you—whoever you are, wherever you fall on the belief spectrum:

• That you will discover, in some way that makes sense to you, that you are deeply known and deeply loved.
• That you will find yourself nudged—gently, persistently—toward more kindness and less fear.
• That you will not mistake spectacular experiences for the only proof of God, nor dismiss quiet goodness as nothing.
• That you will become curious, not terrified, when old metaphors crack and new ones arrive.
• And that you will come to suspect, as I do, that the mercy of Christ / Love / God is much wider, higher, and stranger than our ancient maps—and that He’s delighted to keep updating the software.

If my 2013 self was the guy shouting, “He’s real!” from the mountain top, this version of me is more like:

sitting on a porch step with Him at the end of a long day,
watching the sun go down,
trying to be a decent dude and neighbor,
and slowly realizing He’s the one who’s been softening my edges and upgrading my metaphors all along.

That’s where I am now.
And as best as I can tell, it’s exactly where my Best Friend wants me.

Ten years is coming up soon—a month and a few days away. I know the number is essentially arbitrary to the universe, but as the upcoming anniversary approaches, I can’t help but think and talk about it. On this equinox morning, I’m ready to expand the conversation a bit. I don’t think I’ll talk much more beyond this as the rest is personal.

Autumn is my favorite season. It is the season of gathering and harvest. When the light diminishes is when the lightworkers get busy. No one needs lightworkers when it is noon. It is when it is dark that bringing light is most needed.

I feel like this is autumnal appropriate.

Climbing the Fiery Mountain.

Looking back, the main thing I’ve noticed is how cyclical things are, like climbing a path cut around a mountain. Each pass around the trail has similar views with slightly different perspectives.

I think of that first blast of fiery, furious love—so intense that the first reaction is to clam up. But then, we get comfortable in it, let down our fear, and learn to walk in the fire. It’s like adjusting to the light from the dark. It takes a while to see, and even longer to feel comfortable. Like Daniel in the fiery furnace, we are tested by our trials. But if we have faith and courage, we can emerge stronger and more resilient.

Fire is a powerful force, but it can also be a tool for transformation. It can refine us and purify us, making us more like the gold of which we are made. In the same way, the fire of love can transform us. It can melt away our defenses and reveal our true selves. It can help us to become more loving, compassionate, and forgiving.

I am grateful for the fire of love that has burned in my life for the past ten years. It has made me a better person.

I hope that in the next ten years, I can continue to grow and learn in the fire of love. I want to become more like the Daniel, who trusted God even in the midst of the fiery furnace. I want to become more like the gold that God is and I am, refined and purified by the fire.

And most of all, I want to become more loving, compassionate, and forgiving. I want to be a force for good in the world, spreading the fire of love to everyone I meet.

The Good Shepherd; The Cat Lover.

Jesus, the Good Shepherd, showed compassion and love for humanity by his mortal life and death on the cross. He is a Master we can trust like a cat trusts its owner. He will always love us and care for us, no matter what. Most of us don’t herd sheep, but lots of us have cats. Imagine us as the cats and Jesus as the Cat Lover.

I am grateful for Jesus’ love and sacrifice. He has given me a new life and a new hope. He is the source of my strength and my courage.

I pray that in the next ten years, I can grow closer to Jesus and become more like him. I want to be a reflection of his love and compassion to the world.

I pray that the fire of love will continue to burn in my heart and in the hearts of all people. I pray that we will all become more loving, compassionate, and forgiving. And I pray that we will all come to know the love of Jesus Christ, the Good Shepherd.

Please do not get stuck on the names of Jesus or other spiritual figures. Instead, focus on what they represent—the universal force of love and compassion. We are all capable of experiencing this force, and it is what unites us all.

Do not try to judge God. We are incapable of fully understanding just how strong and strange his love is. Instead, trust in his love and allow it to transform you. The fire is fine. You can trust Him.

A Life of No Regrets — The Key.
If you focus on compassion and love, you will have a life of no regrets. You will be free from the burdens of anger, resentment, and judgment. You will be able to live each day with a clear heart and a open mind.

When you are compassionate, you see the world through the eyes of others. You understand their pain and their suffering. You are able to forgive them, even when they have wronged you.

When you are loving, you give to others without expecting anything in return. You are kind and generous, even to those who are unkind to you. Make the world a little less suck. Every day. Just a little bit less sucky.

Living a life of compassion and love is freeing. It frees you from the negative emotions that can hold you back. It allows you to live each day to the fullest and to experience the joy of life. It is as close to the way God lives as we can manage here.

I am grateful for the opportunity to learn and grow in compassion and love. I know that if I continue to focus on these qualities, I will have a life of no regrets.

I hope you will join me in living a life of compassion and love. It is the best way to live.

Doubting or Faithful?

Doubting Thomas is often portrayed in a negative light, but he was actually a man of great faith. He was so committed to the truth that he refused to believe in the resurrection of Jesus without evidence of the highest quality.

In John 20:24-29, Thomas tells the other disciples, “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”

A week later, Jesus appears to the disciples again, and this time Thomas is present. Jesus invites Thomas to touch his wounds and to believe. Thomas falls on his knees and worships Jesus, exclaiming, “My Lord and my God!”

Jesus then says to Thomas, “Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

Thomas’ story is a reminder that it is okay to doubt and to ask questions. We should not be afraid to demand evidence of the highest quality before we believe something. In fact, it is important to do so. Thomas wouldn’t have met Jesus otherwise.

However, we should also be open to the possibility that there are things that we cannot fully understand or explain. Thomas was blessed because he was willing to believe in Jesus, even though he didn’t have all the answers.

I think that doubting Thomas is a role model for us all. He shows us that it is possible to be both skeptical and faithful. He also shows us that it is important to seek out evidence of the highest quality, but that we should also be open to the possibility of things that we cannot fully explain.

Wrapping Up — No Fear.

In 1 Corinthians 15, Paul writes about the resurrection of Jesus Christ, calling it the “victory over sin and death.” He says that “the last enemy to be destroyed is death” (v. 26). Jesus’ resurrection gives us hope that we too will be resurrected to eternal life, free from sin and death.

John 3:16 says, “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” God’s love for us is so great that he sent his Son to die for our sins. When we believe in Jesus, we are forgiven of our sins and given the gift of eternal life.

1 John 4:8 says, “God is love.” God’s love is the foundation of everything he does. He loves us unconditionally and forever.

Fear is the opposite of love. When we are afraid, we are not trusting in God’s love for us. But when we know that God loves us and that he has conquered death and sin, we can have perfect peace.

Post Script.

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”