Pages

google analytics

Friday, March 27, 2015

Rejoice and Sin!






I found this hymnal ("a hymnal for all services with accent on youth") tucked away in the darkened corners of one of our church closets.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Chalk



Who Is the Little Horn? A Note from Dr. Tarrec


My friend, Dr. Tarrec, did something very strange today.  He left his home, which he almost never does, to slip the following scrap of writing into my mailbox.

***

Who is the horn that is making war upon the saints?  Who is this horn sitting in a position of power, and why does he hate us?  He confuses himself with the whole, his opinion with the creed, his power with grace.  And he takes it out on those who surround him.  With enmity, hostility, and persecution.  And this, he has convinced himself, is God’s noble will. 

Like a beast with the smell of blood in his nose, the little horn demands attention, demands respect and salutes.  The little horn insists upon decorum and loyalty. He breathes out threats and ultimatums.  A pastor, a leader, a wolf.  A beast enjoying respect proportionate to his rank.  He has eyes – many of them, scattered across his domain.  But he is blind, as blind as any who will not see.  He has a mouth like a man, but he speaks like a worm.


“Halt!” he cries, “This far and no further!”  This ordained prince, this commissioned Machiavelli rules the winds.  But he cannot stop the progress of the saints.  He is absurd.  He waxes exceeding great, but he is a fool. 

He prospers. Yes.  He wins.  The saints are martyred, the heads are chopped.  But two more rise up behind. One saint speaks to another and to another.  How long shall this vision prevail?  Not long. How long? Not long.

For Us


The crowd,
holding branches,
shouted, “Hosanna! Blessed
is the one who comes from the Lord
for us.”



This is my first attempt at writing a Cinquain.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

An Interview with John the Apocalyptic Schizophrenic -Part 2

The trail of blood through the centuries is an unerring and infallible mark of their activity.  It covers a period of six thousand years of history.  Metatron, aided by Melancthon, have traced a $500,000 wire transfer from the bank of Commercial Finance in Geneva, Switzerland.  They are contending against a massive organization of terrorist operatives within the Mainstream Media.  Religious, or more accurately, Irreligious persecutions in Tunisia and England are linked by this same trail of blood money.  These are acts of terror and tiresome lectures, a satanic sign in this contemporary dark age.  Look for the Ankh sign in her face-an ankh cross symbolizing sexual intercourse.  The mainstream media does not see the evil here.  They are blind. Oblivious.

The Second Amendment was granted to us by God.  I have, you have, we have a God given right to bear arms.  The amendment is divinely inspired-inerrant and infallible.  An inalienable right, and not for illegal aliens, sneaking into this country to steal our jobs and our women.  You are an enemy under an umbrella, kicking me in the teeth.

There are machines that can help you to meet attractive women, sensual women.  There’s music and they sing…it’s great. You’ll love it.  I’m not a poet.  I write in FORTRAN. I compose in Cobol.  What was she wearing?  She wears the sun and the moon.  She is clothed in the sky.  She hides in the desert where she imagines that she is secure.  The machine pursue her.  It is now or never, close upon the point of no return. Your world is on fire.  Your world is on fire. Can you see what is happening to her?  It is a disaster.  The whole world is on fire.  This is why she flees: she is soft and beautiful. She is brittle.

The prophet-the TRUE prophet- is honored to be mocked on the internet.  He has a feeling.  He has an intuitive appreciation of these things.  Korean pop stars are completely unable to answer the questions that he asks.  The AntiChrist will stand trial in a US court – but not today.  Today is he being held back by the prophets Enoch and Elijah. 

MONDAY: And these signs shall follow them that believe; in my name shall they cast out lawyers and other devils; they shall speak with new patronizing tongues.  They shall take up serpents.  They shall swallow swords and snakes, and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick and they shall recover. 

Interviewer: Do you believe this?
John: Should I?  Dr. Domitian says that he’s been bitten, that he’s survived over 446 snakebites…but no. I don’t think I believe him.  There’s death in the box.  Painful death and long lasting tissue damage.
Interviewer: So you don’t believe it?
John: No.  I think Dr. Domitian has been lying to me.  He lies.  I don’t trust him.

TUESDAY: The flood did not kill all living things.  The deluge that missed some of the Nephilim.  Did they cling to the sides of the Ark?  Did they escape on an ark of their own construction? 

The Great Mother, Babylon, came in remembrance before the Lord God, an apostate, rebellious woman in purple and scarlet.  Myriads of precious stones were scattered at her feet, silver strands were spun into her hair, and flakes of gold drifted through the air.  Despite this, the price of Gold on the worldwide market is in decline.  She is the mother of harlots, drunken with billions of dollars in blood money disguised as foreign aid.

This is a cause of wonder to John.  He cannot understand it.  It is beyond him.  He is astonished, for the angels said nothing to him about her.  Why wouldn’t they tell him?  Did they forget?  Or were they hiding her from him.  And if so, what else were they keeping secret.  He trusted them.  They were his friends.  No one else would visit him, talk to him like they did.  And now he discovers that they’re keeping secrets! Lying to him! Misleading him!

The beast that he saw was and is not swimming up from the bottomless abyss into perdition.  This world is hell.  When that lizard breaches the surface and steps one scaly foot upon dry land, he is setting foot into hell.  And here in hell, this hell, there are seven hills and seven kings.

Interviewer: What does that mean?  Seven hills and seven kings?
John: I don’t know.  They told us about it at school, something about Rome?  There was a dictator, a triumvirate, and an empire.  Oh, and the pope. Right? 
Interviewer: I don’t know. You tell me, John.  That’s why we’re here.
John: Overthrow the government is always money in the bank.
Interviewer: What?
John: Money in the bank. But I’m broke.

WEDNESDAY: The UFO was an abandoned Russian satellite.  Its booster rockets failed to fire and it dropped out of orbit, crashing into the Pacific Ocean sometime early this morning.  I’m seeking a presidential order to have all the pertinent surveillance systems audited for errors and malfeasance.  I just need one hour, one hour of power with the Beast.  The Kingdoms of Europe have already given their unanimous support for this investigation.  Why won’t the president drop the pretense and let us know what is going on?  They shall hate the harlot and make her desolate and naked and eat her flesh and burn her with fire.  Is one hour too much to ask before all of this? 

When the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers. The list of possible targets is disturbing.  Air Force patrols have been placed on high alert.  Unidentified planes (not to mention UFOs) will be shot down without warning or hesitation. 

Make war with the Lamb.  Make war with Cuba and Puerto Rico.  But for God’s sake, try to appear impartial.  Make the Whore desolate, strip her naked, and leave her abandoned on an inflatable life boat on the waves of the Pacific, drifting aimlessly without food or fresh water, but don’t take sides against the family.  Don’t disparage the country.  Never, on any consideration, oppose the interests of this great organization.

Tortured and depleted uranium fuel rods are inadmissible.  We will burn her with fire, with Thorium. Thorium glows blue when it is superheated.  Widespread panic and chaos, darkness and corruption-this is the theology of the end of days.   Relics of prophecy, discarded remnants of the reformation.  Her virtue is weak, yet she is convinced of her invincible righteousness. She retains in her barely covered bosom a desire for ecclesiastical worship-the prick of the little horn and she bleeds.  She bleeds, but she will burn. 

THURSDAY: Her Spiritualism is astonishing.  The real people of the world are astonished, but it is her elemental power.  She calls upon the wind, the water; she calls upon scorched earth and fire-the fire that will eventually consume her.  We have intercepted cellular calls between her and her agents in Kuwait.  All available American carriers are already on route to the Gulf of Suez. But put substance over shadow and you will drive out the counterfeit sheep.  She is clothed in ribbon and wires found in dungeons of stake and blood.  She wears the Pope’s tiara.  She wears the number 666, and she wears it with pride.  It is not the number of a man, it is her number.  She was offered the hereditary government of Egypt and Syria, from the Gulf of Suez to the Lake of Tiberius.  The Ottoman fleet is returned to safe harbor.  And where is the Sultan’s independence? GONE! Who has the Ottoman Empire in her smooth hands?  Her well-manicured nails are already tracking down our spine.   

Make a note of these judgments: the events that will transpire under the thunder of the sixth trumpet.  Call Anastasia. Ask her if you doubt, but make note of these judgments.

The worship of devils-all demons and dead men deified-will be brought into the light.  Idols of silver, statues of gold and brass, little gods carved of wood, and stone, and water, all of them exposed to the sun.  Wars need to be declared in public if they are to be legal wars.  No jus in bello in the dark, in secret.  Murders, sorceries, pretend miracles, fornications and thefts – this is not at all humorous.  We are not laughing.  Manifest Destiny was an undeclared war trumpeted in every newspaper from coast to coast.  Hordes of Saracens and Turks were loosed upon the world as a scourge and punishment are nothing compared to what we deserve.  Men suffered but we do not yet know the lesson thereof.

I’ve been following the angle of prophecy, but I think that I’m lost.  I stumbled somewhere in Daniel’s 70 weeks.  The little horn, tin horn dictator shouting in my ear, “And some of them of understanding shall fall. To try them, and purge them and make them white, even to the time of the end.”  The Red Mass appears here. I’m white with fear. Bloodless. Pale. I’m white, not clean.

Interviewer: Tell me about the year A.D. 1798.
John: What can I say?
Interviewer: I don’t know, John.  What can you say?
John: The year 1798 started on a Monday… by the Gregorian calendar, anyway.  It was a Friday by the Julian calendar, but I don’t think that means anything.
Interviewer: Anything else?
John: I think that was the year that Saint Helveticus hid from the French in Geneva and Napoleon defeated the Ottomans near the Pyramids.  I can’t tell if that was a good year for the French or not.

It has been said by those who have examined French records that France is one of the ten horns that gave their power and strength to the beast, filling France with bloody carnage and horror.  Well supplied infidels and survivalists with guns have barricaded themselves within their Iowa farmsteads.  They are making graves for themselves and for our children.  They are bringing down the wrath of man, employing wicked men to tarnish the glory of God.

Behold!  Let the third woe come quickly.  The fearful second woe has passed, but we cannot long endure the sounding of the trumpets, neither can we withstand the flash and bang of flash-bang grenades with light seven times brighter than the sun.

John: Did I tell you that the prince of hell, Satan himself, is fully aware of his failure? 
Interviewer: How do you know this? 
John: Because I’m him.
Interviewer:
John: It’s me. I’m him.  I’ve read the owner’s manual. I’ve read the ending; I know how this all turns out.  I am trapped in a corner, raging against the heavenly foes arrayed against me.  I know the mystery of iniquity.  I know how to pretend and prevaricate.  I am God- this is what I will tell you.  I am the mongrel son of perdition.  I was conceived in sin. I live in the hidden recesses of the wind. I was spewed out of the serpent’s mouth, born of deluge of water and foul spirits.

I have no children. And God! if that isn’t a relief.  They, the children I don’t have, won’t inherit this curse.  My brother, though, will take the throne, sending his ambassadors out and presuming to call himself the new sovereign. 

Did you know that a prophetic year is only 360 days? The other five days - those missing days are stampeded by an innumerable horde of horses ridden by Turkish warriors the color of fire, the color of jacinth, the color of brimstone-that is sulfur.  Red. Blue. Yellow with a star in the center of their heads.  The riders discharge their firearms from horseback in a cloud of smoke. The artillery of Mahomet.  I remember Goths, the Huns, the Avars, Persians, Bulgarians, Saracens, and Russians, Turks, and Kazakhs.  They were all reduced to rubble and rune by the cannons, hostile violence, the sound of musketry, the smell of blackpowder smoke, collapsing towers mixed with blood.

Interviewer: Tell me more about the angels that visit you.  Do you see the Archangel, Michael?
John: Just the once.
Interviewer: Gabriel?
John: No.
Interviewer: How about Raphael, Uriel, Raguel, Remeil, or Saraqael?  … Why are you looking at me like that?  I read.  I know things.
John: No.  I’ve never met any of them.
Interviewer: Which angels have you met?
John: Phenanthrene, Chrysene, the Twins: Pyrene and Benzopyrene, and Ovalene.
Interviewer: Ovaltine?
John: Ovalene.  He has orange hair and likes deep-sea diving.  He swims down around the hydrothermal vents.  Chrysene dresses in gold and always smells like pine.  The Twins smoke incessantly.  And Phenanthrene is nearly insoluble in water.
Interviewer: Nearly?
John: Nearly insoluble.

I once saw 240,000 meteors falling above the horizon of Boston.  The firmament descending in fire and hail mixed with blood.  Never did rain fall so thick, never a snowstorm so dense as these stones from space.  I lay on the ground, prostrate, speechless.  How was it formed? Of what was it composed?

I have no weapon against idolatry.  No cannon. No rocket. No sword.  I can only write, making scribbles on scraps of loose paper that I lose in my pockets. Illegible. I am unarmed. Powerless.




The views, comments, statements and opinions expressed on this Web site do not necessarily represent the official position of The Salvation Army.

ShareThis

Related Posts with Thumbnails