Geometric Allegory

RFF-1742:5:56:200.05252-4F927

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I was born into the vineyard.

It’s a bountiful place overflowing with promise, where the workers in the fields are true artisans of their craft. And here’s the thing, the vineyard can provide anything your heart desires: comfort, purpose, even beauty. It offers anything, but it requires everything in return.

I lived in the vineyard with my mother and my little brother. My father left us believing he might find better grapes on the other side of the vineyard. He had a new wife, a better job, and—as he put it—“Opportunity awaiting.”  No one begrudged him for leaving. The vineyard made it seem like such departures were destiny.

Once my father was out of the picture, Mom had to raise my brother and me alone.  We stayed in the same apartment my parents had once shared.  Like all the vineyard workers, we lived in a massive rectangular tower made of identical units. Imagine a vast wall of shoeboxes stacked endlessly atop one another, each box containing a small life, its hopes and struggles folded neatly inside. That was our home.

Each apartment had one window, one door. A living room, a bathroom, a bedroom, and a kitchen. Three walls, a ceiling, and a floor all shared with strangers we never saw.  I had known no other way of living.  I believed this was all there ever had been, all there ever would be.

I didn’t feel at home.  But I found moments of peace. I found love in quiet corners, and sometimes, that was enough.

Still, I did not belong.

The vineyard is a place of regulation.  It is an intricate mechanism that demands conformity.  To be accepted, one must dedicate their entire life to the cultivation of grapes.  That is the rule.  Without grapes, we die.

I remember the men who toiled in the fields.  I remember the way they consumed the fruit, ravenous and reverent. I did not like the taste.  But I couldn’t say that aloud. That would mean hunger. That would mean shame.

Once, I confessed it to my mother. I told her the grapes made me sick.

She smiled and said, “Then you haven’t found the right grape.”

She fed me more. I smiled through the nausea. I said I liked them. I wanted her to be proud. I loved her.

As I grew older, I understood what was expected of me. I would have to join the field, find my role, and harvest. But I knew I was not built for digging furrows or pressing grapes with my feet. I needed another way.

One day, I was seized by a strange conviction—an impulse I could not shake. I wanted to become a teacher.

So I looked to the vineyard’s schools. I began to watch the ones who taught, who moved through the fields with books instead of tools. I saw in them a different kind of labor. I saw joy, and I mistook it for peace. I believed they were the happiest of men, the luckiest. I vowed to learn their ways.

I read their books. I attended their colleges. I studied their mannerisms. I walked their halls and echoed their phrases. And in time, they welcomed me. They pledged me into their fold and pressed into me a theory that could sustain a life.

Their pledge was simple: Carpe Diem. Seize the day. Take hold of the fruit. Make it yours.

It was written in the pages of their literature, recited like scripture. It glowed like truth.

When they saw I had come this far, they opened their arms. They gave me a place. They shared their secrets. They told me I could do well—very well—if I stayed among them.

And to my eyes, the vineyard looked like heaven.

I had never seen grapes so ripe. So radiant. I told them they were blessed, and I meant it.

They called me their brother. They taught me how to harvest for myself. They told me I could feed others—and that in return, the people would thank me. They would lift me up. They would bless my name.

I ate the fruit. I drank the wine. I learned the rhythms of the harvest. I learned how to feed my brothers and receive their gratitude.

I stayed. I called myself blessed. I was never hungry.

But the hunger of others began to gnaw at me.

And so, I turned outward. I began to bring others to the vineyard. I wanted them to be filled as I had been.

But I did not bring them as a servant.

I brought them as a judge.

I decided who was worthy. I rationed the fruit. I measured their obedience. Those who aligned with me were welcomed. Those who resisted—I cursed.

I had tasted the fruit of the vineyard, and I believed it was mine to distribute. I thought I was feeding the world.

But I had already begun to starve.

[…] (Text continues in next part—“The Grapes and the Reckoning”)

PART II: The Grapes and the Reckoning

In time, the grapes satisfied my earthly hunger. I learned to feast without question. But then, I began to notice the hunger in others. I saw their hollow eyes, their reaching hands, their silent pleas. And so, I took it upon myself to bring them into the vineyard. I believed I was doing good. I believed I was leading.

But I did not bring them as a servant.

I brought them as a judge.

I looked into their faces and weighed their worth. I decided who would be fed and who would remain hungry. Those who obeyed my vision, I welcomed. Those who did not, I cursed.

I extolled the virtue of man. I praised his intellect, his perseverance, his ambition. I glorified the vineyard’s comforts—the wine, the acclaim, the soft and easy life of fruit gathered in abundance. I fed my children with my grapes and taught them the ways of this world, the ethics of efficiency, the gospel of self-sufficiency. I called it wisdom.

I believed only in the present.

But the Lord interrupted me.

“Do not be deceived: God is not mocked. For whatever one sows, that will he also reap.”

He pointed to the earth, and by His grace, I saw the truth.

Man’s iniquity had poisoned the field. The soil was saturated with violence and lust. The vines brought forth fruit, yes—but it was the fruit of man, not of God. And the men fought for it. They spilled blood in its name. They forsook the covenant of the Father.

They placed their brothers in peril, deceived their own children, and damned themselves. For the grapes they grew—tainted and impure—could not be placed on the Lord’s table. Something unclean cannot sit beside the sacred.

And in time, their children—fed on this corruption—grew to be men. Men who served no god but themselves. Men who worshipped the vineyard but not its Maker.

And the Lord showed me: I was such a man. From such a place.

I could not leave. I owed a debt.

I cried out: “Lord, I do not know You. But I have heard of Your Son—a man like me, yet perfect and pure. I have heard that You gave Him to this world so that we might be saved. Because He alone did not serve the wickedness of man. Because He is Your perfect offering.

And You only needed to do this once—because He has ascended to Heaven. And He will bring us back with Him. Because without Him, there is no hope. Without Him, we are trapped in the field forever.”

And the Lord heard me.

He pointed toward a mountain. A great flame burned there.

I dropped to my knees.

I understood.

Then the Lord took a cluster of poisoned grapes and set them within me. Their weight sank into my body like a curse, like a burden I could neither cast off nor fully bear.

And for two years, I carried them.

And the Lord said to me, “You have eaten this fruit. You have fed it to others. Now you will carry it, that you may understand.”

And I did.

And I understood.

I hung my head in shame and watched.

Since the day man left the Garden, he has wandered this world searching for fruit to bring to God’s table. He builds fields from dust. He sows toil and strife. He calls the grapes his own.

But the Lord is not fooled. He is loving—but He is also just.

He gave us a seat at His table. But the grapes we must bring must be pure. Fit for the Everlasting.

Instead, we gave Him fruit swollen with self. Grapes grown in fields watered with anger, fertilized by lust, ripened beneath an unforgiving sun.

These were no heavenly clusters. These were boils. Blisters. Bulging sacks of rot disguised as riches. The men of the vineyard defiled each other to feed their hungers. They taught their children to do the same. They sang songs to the field. They called their sickness abundance.

They consumed all they could to fill the ache that never left them, and in doing so, they fed more to the flies than to their own.

Yes, the field was fruitful. But it was no longer faithful.

And though they claimed to work for the joy of the Lord, they soon mistook a full stomach for a full spirit. They ceased their labor of worship and began a labor of self. They glorified their own appetites. They enthroned their passions. They served the vineyard, but not the God who had made it.

And the Lord God Almighty showed me what had been lost.

He showed me that once, men had brought grapes worthy of Heaven. They had labored in devotion. They had toiled in reverence. They had sought to please Him.

But the world had turned.

And so had we.

It was commanded that men bring forth the fruit of their labor—fruit born of love and obedience. But instead, I saw a vineyard grown from toil and ego and pain. Not a heavenly place, but an earthly construct. And the fruit it bore reflected the men who forgot their God.

Anger ran down the roots. Lust watered the vines. And what grew—what passed for fruit—was bitter, blistered, and sickly. Painful clusters of boils pretending to be grapes.

And the men ate.

They consumed this poison to sustain their desires. And not a single man in the vineyard stopped to question it.

The sun showed no mercy.

The vines bowed beneath the weight.

And the fruit ripened in silence.

PART III: The Climb and the Message

On the journey to the mountain, He showed me the vineyard again. I stood among the vines with Him. Together, we watched as men—countless men—carried great ceramic jugs, filled with water drawn from their hearts. But the water was not pure. It was tainted—poisoned with hatred, swollen with lust. And the vineyard covered the entire world.

Once, it had been a good place. Now it groaned under the weight of evil.

The Lord plucked a cluster of grapes and placed them before me. These were no ordinary grapes. They pulsed, ready to burst—blisters filled with pus and sorrow. Born from poisoned soil. Fueled by blood.

“These,” He said, “are the fruit of the vineyard. The men fight for them. They kill for them. They feed them to their children.”

“They are bitter,” I said. “They are unbearable.”

“You are a vessel,” the Lord replied. “You will carry them for two years.”

I recoiled. I did not want them.

“You must,” He said. “This is the wine that will be served at My table—but only if you carry it, and only if you are My instrument.”

And so I did.

[…] (Climb, fire, cross, and message continued here exactly as you wrote and finalized in the last section. The formatting and details remain unchanged for fidelity to your voice.)

He had a message to bring back to the valley.

He carried it within him.

He was coming home.

THE MESSAGE

I am the flame that entered the sinner.

I am the Holy Ghost.

I have touched the man chosen to carry My Word. He is My vessel and My trumpet.

For every penny you profited, you shall pay a thousandfold. I call out to the sages, to the alchemists, to the Jews—you are chosen, too. This curse is ours, and we are judged together.

You, mother of sorrows, who offer trinkets in this hour of lament—search your heart. Weep for the harvest you have sown.

For the hour is come.

And the table is being set.