2 Nephi 8

If you’re trying to be righteous, listen to me. Look up from under that rock where you’re stowed, the one that covers the pit you dug for yourself. Think about Abraham and Sarah—old-timey, I know, but sometimes you have to get back to your roots. Judaism is a garbage dump and God is the salvage-master. He’s going to clean up the landfill of your religion, just like watering desert till it turns into another Eden. You’ll hear laughter like you’ve never heard, folks shouting “Thank you!” and singing “Praise God!”

God again: Listen to me, stick your ears up to my lips so nothing gets lost. I’ve got laws for you. Nearness is where they start. Feel my arm: that muscle is for you. And with it I’ll pull you in like fish on the line. I’ll sweep up the islands into continents of grace.

Look up, look around, it’ll all burn up and shrivel, sky and ground, beasts and humans, fields and orchards. All gone someday. But my salvation, never. My goodness is indestructible. I can’t be abolished.

If you love me and listen to me and serve me, stop shaking when people mock you. Those people are doomed to be moth-food and worm-dessert. But if you stick with me you’ll last.

Stop oversleeping. Or, let me change the metaphor. Get real in all the real sense of getting real. I made the ocean, says God. The ocean, for heaven’s sake (pun intended). You can sail on it but I made it.

Which brings up this: the people I save from around the world will sail home to Jerusalem. They’ll look like they’re wearing crowns hammered out from joy. They threw depression overboard like a rotting barrel.

What business do you have being afraid of idiots? I’ll mow them down like weeds. So don’t forget me, the architect and foreman of the earth’s construction. You’re afraid every day. What a waste.

Meanwhile, the lonely are scrambling to get back, to climb out of that self-dug pit I talked about. They’d do anything just to get back the ocean. But I have news for them. You’ve already heard it. (Hint: Who made the ocean?)

I’ve put my words in Isaiah’s mouth. His words will shade you with comfort, while I’m out replanting the world and digging footings for the new kingdom. You’re my people. Time to wake up to that fact, despite all the threats I’ve made along the way. You’ve drunk some pretty bitter wine, I know that.

(I know I’m repeating myself a lot. I get so frustrated at you ignoring me.)

You’ve drunk my anger like a cup of stale wine I’ve rung out of a rag. Sorry about that. You’ve felt lost like children at the market. You should have been holding my hand.

There are two prophets to keep your eye on. All the others have fainted in your streets. These two prance insanely like wild bulls, whipped up by my words. You think you’ve seen my anger? These two feed on it. I’m not going to say their names. But you know who they are.

Okay, all of you who’ve gotten drunk on that wine I mentioned, I’ll sober you up with some spiritual coffee—or hot chocolate if you’re averse. Then I’ll give that bad wine to people who ragged on you and bent you over to ride on you or spread you out on the street to drive on you like cobblestones.

Get up and preen a little with some nice clothes. Because I’m locking up the gates to your neighborhood. Blow the dust off your furniture. Throw the leashes you’ve been wearing into the trash.