Jesus Visits the King's Palace
too much opulence, too much self-glorification
written by ChatGPT with help from Jay McDaniel
This is a place where only the grandest voices dare to speak, and only the most cunning rise above the murmuring throng. Golden walls shimmer under the ember sky; chandeliers drip with gems; oversized furniture and rich tapestries loom in every direction. There is no place for simplicity here. This is no Quaker meeting house, no Zen temple, no modest one-room apartment. But you are completely taken care of—pampered, indulged, immersed in a world where restraint is an alien concept.
This is a space where everything is in excess; everything is too much. The air itself is thick with luxury, with power, with the constant hum of ambition and whispered schemes. At the far end of the grand chamber, beneath an archway of woven gold and flame, a throne of impossible scale presides over it all—not merely a seat of power, but an altar to ambition itself.
I am talking, of course, about Pandemonium, the fortress of the fallen angels, the capital of Hell in Book One of John Milton’s Paradise Lost. Milton coined the term from the Greek words pan- (“all”) and daimonion (“demon” or “spirit”), a fitting name for this infernal palace of rebellion. Over time, the word has come to mean chaos, wild disorder, and uproar—a legacy as grand and unruly as the city itself.
Yet for all its brilliance, there is something off about Pandemonium, something unseen by those who dwell within. Its opulence is tasteless, precisely in its excess—too much gold, too much grandeur, too much self-importance. The towering columns, the gleaming walls, the chandeliers dripping with jewels—it all strives for magnificence but collapses into something grotesque, a parody of true splendor. Yet those who occupy it don’t know that.
All they know is that they are at the center of something grand, something powerful. The light reflects off the polished surfaces in dazzling displays, the air hums with whispered schemes and the clash of titanic egos, and every luxury imaginable is at their fingertips. To them, this is triumph, not tragedy—a kingdom, not a prison. They see no gaudy excess, no grotesque indulgence, only a stage for power, a promise that their fall was not the end but the beginning of something even greater.
Yet beneath the glittering surfaces, beneath the hum of voices and the weight of wealth, there lingers a quiet disorder—not of chaos, but of absence. A sense that something is not quite right, that someone is being left behind.
*
As a Christian, I tried to put on the "mind of Christ" as I entered the palace. I did my best to take Jesus with me. I sensed that the someone being left behind was the Prince of Peace himself and the people who were most important to him: the forgotten, the forsaken, the very young, the very old, those who lived simply, those whose lives were "successful" not because they were wealthy and powerful, but because they were kind and humble. The ones for whom greatness was measured not in dominion, but in love.
Thus, I began to imagine Pandemonium as both a monument of ambition, where everything is comfortable, and a state of mind, where opulence is the norm—albeit with a taste of disorder, a whisper of absence, a quiet reminder that true splendor lies elsewhere.
At least so it seems to me. From a Christian perspective, true splendor is not found in gilded halls, nor in thrones raised high above the earth, nor in the hum of voices seeking power. It is not measured in gold, in grandeur, in the weight of riches, nor in the endless pursuit of dominion. The walls of Pandemonium gleam, its chandeliers sparkle, its floors reflect the light of ambition—but its splendor is a hollow thing, an echo of something lost.
True splendor does not seek to be seen. It does not demand admiration or cloak itself in spectacle. It is found in the quiet, in the simple, in the love that does not seek to possess. It is the warmth of a hand held in comfort, the hush of a dawn that belongs to no one, the peace of a soul unburdened by the need to prove its worth.
It is in the forgotten corners of the world, in the lives of the humble, the gentle, the kind. In the ones who do not rule, but serve; who do not hoard, but give; who do not conquer, but heal. True splendor is in the heart that remains open, in the soul that sees beauty not in possession, but in presence.
Pandemonium, for all its brilliance, is a place of absence—of something missing, something forsaken. It is too opulent. True splendor is presence itself: a life lived not for self-glory, but for love.
This is a space where everything is in excess; everything is too much. The air itself is thick with luxury, with power, with the constant hum of ambition and whispered schemes. At the far end of the grand chamber, beneath an archway of woven gold and flame, a throne of impossible scale presides over it all—not merely a seat of power, but an altar to ambition itself.
I am talking, of course, about Pandemonium, the fortress of the fallen angels, the capital of Hell in Book One of John Milton’s Paradise Lost. Milton coined the term from the Greek words pan- (“all”) and daimonion (“demon” or “spirit”), a fitting name for this infernal palace of rebellion. Over time, the word has come to mean chaos, wild disorder, and uproar—a legacy as grand and unruly as the city itself.
Yet for all its brilliance, there is something off about Pandemonium, something unseen by those who dwell within. Its opulence is tasteless, precisely in its excess—too much gold, too much grandeur, too much self-importance. The towering columns, the gleaming walls, the chandeliers dripping with jewels—it all strives for magnificence but collapses into something grotesque, a parody of true splendor. Yet those who occupy it don’t know that.
All they know is that they are at the center of something grand, something powerful. The light reflects off the polished surfaces in dazzling displays, the air hums with whispered schemes and the clash of titanic egos, and every luxury imaginable is at their fingertips. To them, this is triumph, not tragedy—a kingdom, not a prison. They see no gaudy excess, no grotesque indulgence, only a stage for power, a promise that their fall was not the end but the beginning of something even greater.
Yet beneath the glittering surfaces, beneath the hum of voices and the weight of wealth, there lingers a quiet disorder—not of chaos, but of absence. A sense that something is not quite right, that someone is being left behind.
*
As a Christian, I tried to put on the "mind of Christ" as I entered the palace. I did my best to take Jesus with me. I sensed that the someone being left behind was the Prince of Peace himself and the people who were most important to him: the forgotten, the forsaken, the very young, the very old, those who lived simply, those whose lives were "successful" not because they were wealthy and powerful, but because they were kind and humble. The ones for whom greatness was measured not in dominion, but in love.
Thus, I began to imagine Pandemonium as both a monument of ambition, where everything is comfortable, and a state of mind, where opulence is the norm—albeit with a taste of disorder, a whisper of absence, a quiet reminder that true splendor lies elsewhere.
At least so it seems to me. From a Christian perspective, true splendor is not found in gilded halls, nor in thrones raised high above the earth, nor in the hum of voices seeking power. It is not measured in gold, in grandeur, in the weight of riches, nor in the endless pursuit of dominion. The walls of Pandemonium gleam, its chandeliers sparkle, its floors reflect the light of ambition—but its splendor is a hollow thing, an echo of something lost.
True splendor does not seek to be seen. It does not demand admiration or cloak itself in spectacle. It is found in the quiet, in the simple, in the love that does not seek to possess. It is the warmth of a hand held in comfort, the hush of a dawn that belongs to no one, the peace of a soul unburdened by the need to prove its worth.
It is in the forgotten corners of the world, in the lives of the humble, the gentle, the kind. In the ones who do not rule, but serve; who do not hoard, but give; who do not conquer, but heal. True splendor is in the heart that remains open, in the soul that sees beauty not in possession, but in presence.
Pandemonium, for all its brilliance, is a place of absence—of something missing, something forsaken. It is too opulent. True splendor is presence itself: a life lived not for self-glory, but for love.