The Piebald Advent Dissolved by a Rainbow

Rev. Dr. Douglas Blake Olds (Ret.), December 26, 2025


The Piebald Advent is finished. Christ has been returning on the clouds (Rev. 1:7-9) that few have either been allowed by algorithm to read, or could be bothered to do so. Satan has been eclipsed, the Antichrist identified and misadventured by a seasonal overlap.

I am commanded to announce the eclipsing Day of the Lord: comes the flood of judgments of Noanic proportion (Amos 5:24). An “everflowing stream” of righteousness that leads to life. Those who survive the accounting meekly inherit what endures on earth (Matt. 5:5). Those who do not are not raptured into pie-in-the-sky. Substrate accountability matters, not algorithmics.

 

Boxing Day reveals Proverbs 13:22 where some theives of the night come lockboxed for punishment, others to be unboxed.

2024 Christmas Eve I wrote:

MUDDY CHANNEL RUNOFF INTO BAY (12242024)

Zone of mixing kicking up a horse’s mane And ever gasping, nose lashed fleck—by Who’s below, ever swept?

Driving north on the highway,

The intermittent drizzle and shifting clouds Reveal understories of a rainbow struggling To defragment and give birth to wholeness.

Each shifting cloud, by wind above my seat,

Reveals new partial panes, arcs ebbing, joining, dissolving, Each wiper moment like a thumb leafing

Through a text of sky.

This fingered sunlit wind: can it, Will it reveal its full horizon?

Can yet, never yet—the Christmas Eve.

Is this rodomontade of metaphor nature’s relentingless messaging— Our gods ever shuffled by Spirit

In moments to arrive by history’s rest?

 

Last Boxing Day I wrote

AURA ABOUTING 12262024

Today is our un-Boxing day,

which from now on is a dancing day. Pugilism’s posture inverting:

Switch out your spear’s raising, your partner’s arm now lifting by Her lead and hand,

and drop your shield unwonted

to cradle her waist, to you press her gently.

 

 

And as your heels foursoming ventures unsquaring, they trowel for where provident seeds find root.

Perichoresis eternally (s)plays its

intending

flowering by us today.

 

On December 23, 2025, I wrote:

Piebald Advent

The salmon are returning--
A congregant raised
his prayer of thanks.
The atmospheric river swells overhead
and we roll down the car window
to hear the peepers
mingle against the interior-gathered raindrops.

This plucking morning aligns
fluting protests of
wing-bleating geese,
their misshapen bellows
drain the misty grey grain
of its dawn.

I’ve been jiu-jitsu’d before:
project idiocy onto a target—
and if that one turns it away,
move the conversation
to armaments.
(It always serves
to reflate punctuated expertise.)

For those yawped Penning
the Pin to cushions
of impasse, tragically made to seem precious—

And now ours at cros-swords,

as the fusillades
of peepers
and tailed salmon yellow flickers
tickle sky-dropped olives—

the enemies are vanquished;//

 


Yesterday, the rainbow north of my house was uneclipsed--Sun spirit shuttling into a mirrored landscape.

 [Source: Douglas Blake Olds, December 25, 2025. View to north from his deck with Mount Burdell rising on the right (east).]

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