Chapter 406: Epilogue: A Tea Gathering

Epilogue: A Tea Gathering

“What do you think our world is like?”

“Good question.” Raymond moved his chair closer to the fireplace and used a spoon to scoop sugar and cinnamon into the boiling goat’s milk.

When he was still in Dunling, he had never been particularly interested in such warming drinks. Perhaps it was due to entering middle age, reduced outdoor activity, and increasingly cold weather—his habits had gradually changed.

Sugar, calories, and a touch of psychological comfort could stir the body and mind, helping one better endure this topic that would not end anytime soon.

“It begins with Genesis.

“Before all existence, there was only the Heavenly Father—formless, eternal, full of wisdom. He created all things without materials, without hands, without tools—only by His word.

“The Lord said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. This light was not sunlight, but the Lord’s manifestation, marking the first moment of time. From chaos arose order: day and night separated, time flowed, the world divided into above and below—the dome above, the waters below receded, revealing land.

“The Lord placed luminous bodies in the dome: the greater to govern the day, the lesser to govern the night, and countless stars arranged in fixed orbits, embodying eternal rhythm.

“With the world’s basic rules established, the Lord commanded the earth to bring forth living creatures—plants, birds, and beasts, each according to its kind, filling the skies, oceans, and land.

“Thus, all things interdependent, the world’s order complete, yet one question remained: who would reflect His wisdom, share His joy?

“So the Lord shaped man from the dust of the earth, breathed the breath of life into his nostrils, and he became a spirit, capable of thought and creation.

“Thus, man differs from other creatures—he is the product of the union of above and below. The soul is born inclined upward toward the Heavenly Father; the body is destined downward to return to matter.

“This also explains why those immersed in desire find it hard to ascend to heaven: sensory desires arise from the body, an extension of its downward nature. Submitting to them obscures the soul’s upward tendency, preventing return to its source—the Lord.”

He lifted the goat’s milk pot from the fire, gripping the still-warm handle, and poured it slowly into each cup. Steam rose from the rims, carrying a faintly pungent sweetness, like burning wood shavings in the air.

He blew away the steam, took a sip, then suddenly shifted tone: “Likewise, clinging to life and resisting its end is also a kind of ‘bodily attachment.’

“Alleviating suffering and offering care is proper. But excessive obsession with bodily survival—born of fear, pride, or fixation—forcibly preserving life against nature’s will obstructs the spirit’s return to its origin, and is an act of probing the Lord’s power beyond His will.”

His words carried implied meaning. It seemed that, despite his busy duties, the abbey’s abbot had not lost his sensitivity—he still sensed things never spoken aloud.

But that was hardly surprising.

A priest who had nearly died and then recovered, witnessed by numerous monks and believers, should have been declared a miracle and publicly proclaimed. Yet it was quietly passed over.

All involved maintained silence—no need to ask whose orders that was.

Combined with the recent unexplained relocation of the laboratory and the redistribution of supplies, it was hard not to suspect something was amiss.

“If the Heavenly Father did not wish me to succeed in healing, I could never have known the method.” The doctor, rarely interested in doctrinal debate, now seemed genuinely engaged—or perhaps he too was troubled by similar questions, seeking answers: “If I know the method but cannot use it, why did the Heavenly Father grant me this knowledge?”

“Perhaps my actions align with some hidden will?”

The assistant nodded in deep agreement. His experiences in medical work had given him great satisfaction; he had personally witnessed many patients deemed hopeless improve through persistence. He found the “go with nature” attitude hard to accept.

“Reason is a lamp, not a path,” Raymond replied without hesitation—whether from deep theological training or prior preparation, it was unclear.

“A lamp does not distinguish good from evil—it only shows you what is there, not where to go. Like walking at night with a lantern, seeing farther and clearer does not mean you must choose your own direction. We must still walk the path the Lord has given us.

“If you mistake the lamp for the path, relying on your own small light and straying from the road, you will still be lost in darkness.

“The brighter the light, the more likely one is to make this mistake. Morrison is exactly like that—overconfident in his own views, believing the path protects him less than it constrains him, and so he arrived at the very outcome he least wanted.”

Having known each other so long, he no longer reacted emotionally when his faith was questioned—he simply stated his views calmly.

In fact, such debates had long been routine; he could almost predict the other’s next words.

As expected.

The doctor eagerly posed the key question: “But how do we know which choice is the path the Heavenly Father has given us?”

“The Lord’s will is not often revealed, but traces remain. If your actions stem from kindness, grant dignity, and bring light, then you walk the right path.”

“Isn’t that too subjective?”

The answer was already prepared: “Spirit is the Lord’s breath. Thus, though humans are limited, we are naturally endowed with the ability to discern good from evil. Look inward, and you will naturally hear His voice.

“Even a person un-baptized, never having entered a church, can still do good—this proves that God’s righteousness and reason live within him, merely unrecognized in full.”

“So… you believe there is a natural morality—or order—existing in all things, inherently ‘good’ from the beginning? A foundational worldview?”

“Yes.” Raymond affirmed this cautiously, “Otherwise, what do you think?”

“On this point… at least on this point, I agree. Judgments of right and wrong ultimately rest on one’s understanding of the world.” Kraft held his cup, watching the milky surface slowly cool, covered by a thin film of solidified milk.

The topic had circled back to its origin. Raymond finally sensed, faintly, that today’s conversation was not casual—it was Kraft trying to say something.

Like many who came to the church, they did not seek faith itself, but answers within it.

“Six months ago, I might have said strange things—like the earth is a sphere, or stars are distant suns. The Church didn’t really care about a few eccentrics, as long as they didn’t loudly spread such views.”

Bringing up unrelated matters was usually a setup for the real point.

Raymond suppressed his urge to argue and fell silent, doing what a clergyman most often did—listening.

“But now, I believe the Scriptures are right—even closer to the truth.

“The world has layers, divided into above and below—but ‘above’ is not overhead, and ‘below’ is not underfoot.

“The latter is material, tangible, perceivable by the senses; the former is something… metaphysical—a place, a concept, more ethereal than spirit or soul. Our understanding of it is merely one facet projected into consciousness.”

“Have you been studying doctrine with great success lately?” It was hard to imagine such reasoning coming from someone whose Bible was still nine-tenths new.

“No, no, no—but here, between us, there is a small disagreement.” Kraft shattered Raymond’s illusion.

“The Scriptures say the distinction between above and below stems from the Heavenly Father’s creation—a result of will. I believe above and below are primordial; so far, I don’t know whether any will created this state.”

“Sounds like eternalism,” Raymond remarked. “There have been such ideas within the Church before—claiming God is not the Creator but the eternal structure of the world. Now they’re heresy.”

“But within ‘above’ and ‘below’ exist wills—accurately speaking, separate wills.” The speaker continued, his words growing increasingly fluid and bizarre.

“Not personified wills—perhaps ‘tendencies’ is a better term. They are influences cast by something immensely vast. They are not the entirety of above and below, but to us, these tiny middle beings, they might as well be the whole world—like a pond to the fish living inside it.”

“These two wills have no goodwill toward us—or any other thing. Nor do they harbor malice. It’s like you bump into a stranger, both of you tumble into a sewer, both scrambling for a foothold to climb out.”

“We—unluckily—are that disposable stepping stone. Because we possess both body and spirit, we suit both upward and downward movements.”

“I don’t know exactly how long it will take, but as their available power grows, it will only accelerate.”

“Now, suppose you raise your lamp and see this scene—what direction would you choose?”