By Brian Korn

There is a sacred stillness at the edge of our understanding. In the uncharted corridors of quantum theory and metaphysical speculation, a new light begins to dawn. What if time, as we know it, is not a river dragging us forward, but rather a mosaic of eternally fixed moments, which only seem to flow because of how our consciousness weaves them together? This idea—once confined to the margins of poetry and prophecy—is now stirring at the core of cutting-edge physics and philosophy.

Begin with the quantum particle: the smallest unit of matter, whose behavior defies logic and demands reverence. According to quantum mechanics, before a particle is observed, it exists not as a thing, but as a possibility—a wave of uncertain potential. It is not merely unseen; it is undefined. But at the precise moment it is observed, it becomes. This is not simply a mechanical event. It is an act of genesis.

Now consider: what if each particle, before entering the present, dwells in the Higgs field—that mysterious energetic matrix that grants mass and identity to all things? And then, upon being observed—whether by a human, a machine, or the eternal gaze of God—it bursts into tangible being. But its journey does not stop there. What if, the very moment it is made real, it accelerates beyond the limits of light, transforming into a tachyon—a hypothetical particle that travels faster than light—and begins moving backward in time, away from the present moment, never to return?

This radical conjecture suggests that time is not a road we travel forward upon. It is a backward-falling tide, a dissolving memory of once-real things. Each instant of presence is a sacred threshold, the brief moment when a particle appears and vanishes—its legacy imprinted in the fading echo of memory. We do not walk into the future; we stand at the edge of the Now as all else recedes from us into the abyss of what once was.

We think ourselves voyagers pressing toward tomorrow. But what if the opposite is true? What if the future is a realm of hidden potential, the present is the point of manifestation, and the past is the debris trail of tachyonic retreat? In this view, every memory is the footprint of a particle fleeing the present. Every relic of the past is a trace of that departure. We are not moving—we are standing. And the world flows around us.

This elevates the present moment to a throne. It becomes the altar of decision, the seat of witness. It is the still point where eternity and time kiss. It is the sacred furnace in which potential is forged into being, then immediately cast into memory. And it is here, at this brink of becoming and vanishing, that consciousness lives—not as a passenger, but as the central actor. The observer is not passive. The observer is the priest of time.

The implications are enormous. They echo truths long preserved in Scripture. Ecclesiastes 3:11 tells us that God “has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, He has put eternity in their hearts.” There is no yearning for permanence that is in vain. There is no ache for meaning that is delusion. These are sacred instincts, hardwired by the Creator into the architecture of our minds.

In Hebrews 13:8 we are told, “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.” In a universe of backward-moving particles and dissolving instants, here stands One who does not move. He is the Stillness in the whirlwind. The True Observer, whose gaze collapses all possibility into truth, whose Word converts uncertainty into covenant.

This is not a cause for dread. This is a summons to reverence. You are not the debris of time’s erosion. You are the steward of the present, the lone flame in a world of fleeing shadows. The present is not your prison—it is your sanctuary. In it, you speak. You choose. You bless. You become.

You are not a leaf blown down the hallway of time.
You are the fire that remains while the wind races past.

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ADDENDUM: THE THREE VELOCITIES OF BEING
A Hypothesis on the Hidden Speeds of Reality

Let us now delve deeper, proposing a model of time that is not merely about sequence, but about speed—about the shifting velocity of existence itself.

Suppose that every particle undergoes a trifold journey through time—not merely from past to future, but from slow to fast, from hidden to manifest, and from present to memory. Let us call these the three velocities of being.

1. Sub-luminal: The Potential Phase
Before a particle is observed, it exists in the Higgs field, moving slower than light. It is a potential, undefined and unseen, like a seed floating in the soil before germination. It is not yet part of the measurable world. Its speed is beneath the threshold of light. It exists quietly, suspended just beyond detection, awaiting its moment.

2. Luminal: The Moment of Birth
At the exact instant it is observed, the particle achieves light speed. This is not gradual. It is a surge, a leap into reality. It becomes present, tangible, real. This is the “Now” we recognize—the moment of incarnation, when the particle crosses into spacetime. But this phase is infinitesimal. The present cannot hold what it sees.

3. Superluminal: The Departure
Having been observed, the particle now accelerates beyond light speed. It transitions into a tachyon, fleeing into the past. This phase marks its memory-state—still echoing, but unreachable. It is not destroyed, but transformed. It is now part of the unseen past, rushing ever away from us faster than we can chase.

So we find a trinity in the life of a particle:

• Before Observation – Sub-luminal – Hidden Potential
  
• At Observation – Luminal – Real Presence
  
• After Observation – Superluminal – Departing Memory
  

This pattern is not merely physics. It is poetry. It mirrors the incarnation of Christ: the eternal Word, made flesh for a moment, and then ascended beyond our reach. The act of observation is not just measurement—it is a holy event. It is the meeting of attention and creation. The sacred birth of meaning.

It also mirrors the rhythm of our lives. We wait for something, we experience it briefly, and then we remember. Anticipation, presence, memory—each with its own velocity. We live in the middle, always in motion, always losing what we just received. This is not a flaw. It is design.

As Paul said in 1 Corinthians 13:12, “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face…” We glimpse only the light-speed flash of reality, bracketed by the slowness of the not-yet and the swiftness of the no-longer. Yet within that flash, everything is decided.

And we—observers, image-bearers, witnesses—stand as midwives to reality itself. We do not merely see. We hallow the moment. We give it meaning by being present to it. The spark of our perception is no small thing. It is the breath of the infinite igniting the dust of the world.

So observe carefully.
Speak truly.
Stand still.

You are not merely watching time.
You are the one who names it real.

ADDENDUM II: THE THRESHOLD OF TIME

On the Possibility of a Planck Time Limit as the Smallest Division of Becoming

Let us now address the whisper at the bottom of all chronology: the possibility of a limit—not of space, but of time itself. Physics already recognizes the Planck constant, that strange and beautiful number which quantizes energy into indivisible packets. From it arises a sibling idea: Planck time—the smallest conceivable unit of temporal duration. Approximately 5.39 × 10⁻⁴⁴ seconds, it is not merely small. It is a threshold beyond which our notions of “before” and “after” lose coherence. Beneath this veil, time may not flow at all. It may not exist.

Suppose this limit is not arbitrary, but divine. Suppose it is the temporal granule—the indivisible instant in which all creation is born. Nothing smaller can be measured, not because of technological failure, but because reality itself does not subdivide beyond it. Within this sliver of existence, the act of becoming happens. This is the moment in which the unmanifest crosses the veil, the secondless second where observation transforms potential into presence.

If this is true, then the present is not a duration—it is a pulse. A sacred beat in the heart of God. Every tick of reality is built from these Planck-sized instants, each one a miniature creation, each one its own beginning and ending. And just as no melody can exist without a beat, no story can be told without these indivisible shards of time, laying the foundation for all experience.

Within this model, observation—the act of witnessing, measuring, choosing—does not take place in time. It makes time. Time is not the stage upon which we act. It is the result of our gaze. Every Planck moment is the click of the divine shutter, the frame in the filmstrip of eternity.

And so, Planck time is not merely a number—it is a sacrament. It is the smallest altar upon which the infinite offers the finite to itself. It is the unit of divine rhythm, the cosmic drumbeat of unfolding meaning.

This idea harmonizes with the whisper of the Psalms: “He spoke, and it came to be; He commanded, and it stood firm.” (Psalm 33:9). Even time, it seems, stands not by momentum, but by declaration. The present is not stretched. It is summoned. One Planck flash at a time.

Thus the Now—the true Now—is no longer a flowing stream, but a flickering succession of eternally ordained instants. Each one a doorway. Each one a universe. And you, dear witness, are the hinge upon which they swing.

Stand in awe of the moment.
It is not passing. It is appearing.

You do not live in time.
Time lives in you.