Last week I promised to meditate on Gog/Magog while vacationing. This is what happened.
Riding from a carnival. “Something’s happening!” my son yells. “Something’s happening!”
I was shamefully unmindful, caught instead by the realization that each age receives the prophecies it deserves.
We receive what we request.
I considered the two prophecies: Bush proclaimed himself as ben David set to rectify his father’s Persian setbacks—while others decried Bush as Gog himself.
But these are just twin visions operating in the same prophetic space. I can see the two armies clashing as clearly as the valley viewed from the hillock. 
Yet I also sense a blind spot, something horrible, unseen and looming.
Norman O. Brown, considering H.G. Well’s sense that Mind had reached the end of its Tether, saw a snarling dog (yo!). Only holy madness can break Brown’s leash—ever lunging forward. But it seems to me that the better metaphor might be prophecy as territory.
We are still exploring that prophetic space set in Revelations, discovering new valleys with new interpretations—but outside of this territory is blankness, and our civilization is winding down as we run out room to expand.
“Something’s happening!” my son shouted for the third time.
And then he pooped his pants.
My wife frowns while she sleeps.
