A Visiting Demon

    It was late and I was praying, as usual, for the salvation of our nation. I knelt at my desk and prayed for over an hour. “Give me a word, O Lord, a plan. What must we do to turn this country around? What do we do to save the soul of our great nation?”

    That’s when the Visitor arrived. He stepped right through the walls in a ring of tingling light. “Greetings and salutations, Faithful One,” he said – but his voice was soft and effeminate, like a girl. His face, too, was soft, his hair in long, golden curls. “Your prayers have been heard in heaven and I have been sent to you to help you know what you must do in the days to come.”

    “Praise the God of heaven,” I sighed. “And thank you. Please tell me what we can do to preserve the godly government left to us by our forefathers.”

    The Visitor bowed and said, “The first necessary thing is to turn the people from rejoicing in fornication to delighting in continence alone.”

    “Indeed,” I agreed. “Sexual perversion is rampant these days. From the gays and lesbians with their alphabet army to drag shows in public school libraries.”

    The Visitor bowed and continued. “Those who use magic arts must dedicate themselves to the good and unbegotten God.”

    I nodded again. “That’s a strange way to put it,” I said, “but, yes. Yes. They must dedicate themselves to the, what was it? Good and unbegotten God.”

    The Visitor smiled and bowed a third time. “Those who take pleasure in the means of increasing their wealth and property must now bring what they have into a common fund and share with anyone in need.”

    “Now, hold on there,” I said.

    But the Visitor continued without listening. “Those who have hated and killed one another and would not associate with men of different tribes because of their different customs must now, after the manifestation of Christ, live together with and pray for their enemies and try to persuade those who unjustly hate them.”

    But this was too much. I held up my hands to stop him. “Stop. Stop. Stop right there, stranger. Your words, while pious on the surface, are unsettling. Who are you and why have you really come? Answer honestly, by heaven.”

    The Visitor bowed again. “And knock off with the bowing,” I said curtly. “You look like one of those drinking bird toys.”

    The Visitor nodded and said, “Yes. I am sent by heaven to bring you guidance. I am one of the Eudaimonia.”

    “A demon?!” I shouted. “A demon? I knew it. I knew what you were saying was wrong.”

    “Yes,” he said. “A good demon. A happy spirit.”

    I shrieked and screamed, “Away from me. Away. Get out. By the power of Christ, you must depart.”

    But the Visitor shook his head, frowned and said, “Perhaps I am not saying it right? A happy spirit. Allow me to call my sister spirits, Enkratein and Karteria. They will know what I’ve said wrong.”

* The Visitor’s plan is drawn directly from Justin Martyr’s First Apology – written between c. AD 155-157. Eudaimonia, translated “happiness” or “flourishing” is literally “a good spirit.” Enkratein is “Self-Control” and Karteria is “Perseverance”

When Micah Reads Joel and Joel Won’t Shut Up

    The Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month and our Armistice Day solemnities have been neglected. No silence. But patriotic red, white, and blue bunting and recruitment drives. Fly the flag to honor our veterans. And Thank You for Your Service.

    We do not remember.

    Rouse the champions. We’re ready for war. We’re ready to invade, and even the weakling will play the tough guy. Nations be warned. Assemble. We are prepared and we will march. Ply the sickle. Drop the bomb. Multitude of multitudes descending to the Valley of Bad Decisions.

    Plows into swords or swords into plows?
    Which is it?
    Spears into hooks or hooks into spears?

    We are hammered into weapons and beaten down, exhausted by this drive toward our own destruction.

    But there are other ways. There are other paths. Come – we can ascend to somewhere we won’t need those weapons any longer. Arbitrate our differences instead of killing ourselves. Rediscover the laws of love. No longer train our sons, our daughters to kill each other in fields of blood.

Joel 3:9-14, Isaiah 2:4, Micah 4:1-3

Dear Johnny Pentecost: No Better than a Fascist

    Dear Johnny Pentecost,

    My brother-in-law, the one who went to college, says that the modern American Evangelical is no better than a fascist. I tell him that even with his college degree, he’s a fool. What do you say?

    A House Divided

    Dear Divided House,

    Those acquainted with the flow of history into prophecy and of prophecy into history know that a new system of government is coming, already forming in this country. But it is not the communist, socialist, Marxist totalitarianism embraced by the so-called democratic socialists of America. Not even with their legions of like-minded lunatics. Now, I’ve never met your brother-in-law, but the symptoms of his foolishness seem obvious.

    True Bible-believing Christians, like yourself, know what the wise king, Solomon, said. In times of economic collapse and moral upheaval, in times of political gridlock and public disorder, they remember: where one is overcome, two will resist, and a threefold cord is not easily broken.

    What is bound together will hold together in strength. This is our holy mission against their unholy passions. A house divided will not stand. And a people divided will not endure. America will be a Christian nation, one nation under God. The righteous will not pull against one another; they are bound together in common cause. Three hundred million hearts beating together. Three hundred million people like one fist.

    Tell your brother-in-law that the fasces, that bundle of rods, is the symbol of civilization.

    Better he should learn it sooner than later.

Ecclesiastes 4:12

The Pentecost Machine
Dear Johnny Pentecost
Tribulation Trends from Johnny Pentecost

The Grief of Hope

    All shall be well

    Imagine myself wandering the blighted wastes with endless vistas of neglect, between the mountain and the sea. My feet haven’t been dry for days. The nights are long and I have nothing more than a sleeping stone comfort. Deny the night – too loud, too dark, too bright. Imagine myself moving between the now and the shall be.

    And all shall be well

    Dreaming of angels up and down through blackened skies as hammerfall bombs burn crowded cities. Our children used as target practice to defend their rights. By our atrocities will we be known. But the grief of hope is light and ash and smoke through the sour body smell of sweat. Dreaming of angels up and down with a word, a song, slipping as they sigh.

    And all manner of things shall be well

    God lives here, unnumbered love among uncounted loves from all nations, tribes, tongues. The holy city coming down in ragged robes of light. Enter through the mystic door all who are weary, come. Amen. Praise and glory. Who are these who come with tears and bleeding hearts? Who are these who come buckled under weight? It’s you. It’s me. It’s us. God lives here without the scorchwind, without the sun. Amen.

Revelation 7:9-17¹

1The “All shall be well” refrain is borrowed from Julian of Norwich’s Revelations of Divine Love.

What Did It Matter?

    It was noon and the sun was burning high over her head. The sleeping boy tied to her back was listless and moaning. What did it matter? Neither of them had slept well in the heat of these last many days and long sweltering nights. What did it matter? Neither of them had much of an appetite either – but there was little in the way of food in any case. A handful of flour, a bit of oil. Enough for dinner. One last meal, and then to die. What did it matter?

    Her husband, a Phoenician merchant sailor, had drowned at sea a few weeks before the boy was born. Now his wife and son would die of thirst and drought. Was that irony? She didn’t know so she gathered sticks to use as fuel for a cookfire. One last meal and then we die.

    The priests of Melqart, tutelary god of the Phoenicians, had honored her husband’s death as a service to the Lord, protector of the world and ruler of the dark realms beneath. They promised that Melqart would remember his name and would bless his memory. But what of it? They had little when he was alive. They had less now. What did it matter?

    She saw the prophet as she was gathering sticks. She leaned over carefully so as not to disturb the boy. His sleep was restless enough. She saw the prophet coming over the hill as she stood up with an armload of twigs and branches. She recognized him as a prophet immediately. His mantle gave him away – though she didn’t recognize the bead-work patters in the coarse camel hair. ‘Must be a foreign prophet,’ she thought.

    And that thought was confirmed when he spoke. His accent. “Bring me some water, if you will, kind mother.”

    “Mother!” she scoffed. “I’m gathering wood for a cookfire,” she said, “to prepare a meal for myself and the boy, but what does it matter?” She sighed. “Yes. I can bring you a bowl of water.”

    “Food,” the prophet beamed. “Heartily, I could eat if you’d have some to share.”

    She stared at him and his strange prophetic garments. “Who are you, prophet?” she asked.

    “Elijah is my name and Yah is my God,” he answered. It sounded funny when he said it like that. His accent. But she didn’t have reserves of energy enough to laugh.

    She sighed. “I don’t have meat or fish. I don’t have beans or lentils. I don’t even have baked bread to offer you, prophet. All I have is a handful of flour and a bit of oil. I was just about to fry it up for the boy and I to eat before we die.”

    The prophet took her hands between his own and held them into the air as he spoke:

    “The jar of meal shall not be spent,
    nor the oil be found wanting
    not till the day that Yah relents
    and sends the rain upon the earth,”

    “All we have is yours, prophet,” she said again and shook her head. She turned and carried the armload of wood into the house. There she laid the boy on his pallet in the corner of the room and soothed his head. “Quiet, boy. Rest.”

    She stacked the wood into the fire pit and lit it. Then, as the stone set over the fire warmed, she mixed the last handful of flour with the little oil that remained and formed a small ball of dough. When the stone was hot, she put the dough ball on it and rolled it flat. It sizzled as it cooked to a deep golden color. She flipped it to cook the other side. “One last meal, and then to die,” she huffed. “What does it matter who eats it?”

    The boy moaned as she handed the cake to the prophet. “Eat,” she told him. “I must tend to the boy.” As she turned away from the prophet and back to the boy she saw that the bowl that had held the last remaining handful of flour was full again. And the jug of oil, full to the top. She looked back to the prophet who was contentedly munching the fry-bread.

    He smiled and offered a piece of the bread to her. “For the boy. To eat,” he said.

1 Kings 17:7-16