The City Was Not Worthy of Them

    It was barely noon or just after, but already the sky was dark. I shivered and hurried on, eager to reach the city before whatever calamity this celestial portent indicated, but the earth lurched and I fell sideways and stumbled to the ground. I smacked my face against a stone and tasted blood. I spat and saw my blood in the gravel and the dust.

    The earth shook again and I screamed as rocks careened down the hills around me, cracking in half and breaking. A cavern opened in the hillside in front of me. And the wind whipped up. I heard a voice shouting – calling for God, though I could not make out the words.

    And from the newly opened crevasse there came a morbid parade. I saw the bodies of many holy ones walking forth. Their flesh still bore the marks of the pillory and the scourge. One carried her decapitated head in her arms. Another severed torso pulled himself along with his arms as his legs walked alongside. One young man had thorns in his eyes. They wore sheep and goat skins. They were bruised and emaciated. Some still had shackles on their wrists and ankles. I heard the clank of their chains as they marched out of the earth. I smelled flowers as they passed.

    “Media vita in morte sumus,” I stammered as these lively dead entered the holy city ahead of me. And the city was not worthy of them. “Speraverunt et liberasti eos.”

Matthew 27:51-53

But What of the Water?

    Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. Do you work here? Can you help me? I’m looking at this rice and what I want to know is – has it been genetically modified? No. I know about that label. But what about the stuff they don’t label? The man on the radio was talking about how scientists are putting bull DNA into the rice. You know, hooves and horns and all. I didn’t really understand that. Something about a lactose intolerant condition. Enzymes, I think. So, I’m trying to determine if this is that bull beef DNA rice, ‘cause if it is, I don’t want it. I don’t want anything changing my genetic material.

    How rude! How dare you speak to me like that. I’ve been shopping here for fifteen years, and I’ve never been treated so rudely. I insist on speaking to your manager, young man.

    Hang on. Listen to me for a minute. Before Satan showed up in the garden, he’d already ruled nations. He’d been thrown out of heaven, fallen to Earth, corrupted governments, and led nations to slaughter. Pre-adamic ritual slaughter. We know from Apollonius the Egyptian that the Earth is at least one hundred and fifty-thousand and seventy-five years old. More or less. And the first fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil was a corrupted fruit from a wicked tree.

    Do you hear that? Is that the civil defense alarm? The tornado siren? Is it the regular test? Today’s not Wednesday, is it? We’ve had so many tornadoes recently. More than I remember when I was a girl.

    Did you hear about that murdered Catholic priest across town? It’s a conspiracy run, I tell you. I don’t have much need for the Catholics with their Roman popery and their idolatry. But all these premeditated acts of religious defiance are getting out of hand.

    What we need is prayer and clean living. Or prayer and fasting. Though all the modern Bible translations leave that verse out. Do you know why? Do you understand what they’re doing to our Bibles?

    What we need is prayer. And when we pray the angels hear us, and they hearken to our words. Talk to the angels and the angels listen. Talk to a mountain and it will obey. Jump itself into the ocean if you tell it to. The science of it is bizarre. It makes no sense, but it makes dollars, if you know what I mean.

    And what is happening to the totality of this body. My body? That’s what I want to know. The totality of this body needs healing. Deep frequency healing of the body chaotic. It’s the frequency of the stars. They’re singing a recalibrating symphony – the song of the Father. The spirit calls us into the song, and into the dance. Spinning. Twisting. Twirling.

    Now I’m dizzy. Let me sit down for a second. Whoa. Whoa. Okay. Thanks. Sorry. It all got away from me for a bit there.

    You’ve got to remember that we’re more than seed puffs in the wind. We’re made of dust sure. And the angels are made of pale, trembling fire. And the wind is the breathing Spirit of God. But what of the water?

Timothy – or Current Occupant

    I found the letter in my mailbox when I got home from work, addressed to “Timothy – Or Current Occupant,” so, as the current occupant of this address, I opened the envelope and read it.

    “Dear Friend and True Child of Mine in the Faith. Grace, and Mercy, and Peace from God to you.

    “You hold in your hands a way to change your life. For the good! Are you willing? Are you interested?

    “First you must ask yourself this question: How do we get rich? Blessed in the city and in the country? Richer going in and richer coming out with enemies fleeing in seven directions?

    “It’s true of course, that religion does bring some profit. Godliness with contentment is gain, as they say – but only for those who are content with what they have. Food and clothes are enough for some, but they haven’t received this unique invitation.

    “And the love of money, yes? The love of money is the root of many kinds of evil. Not money itself. You know this. I know you do.

    “People like you, who want to be rich, must be aware of the trials they will face, the traps of foolish ambition that await them. For some, a relative few really, have wandered away from the faith, piercing themselves with sorrow.

    “But you, you are…”

    I stopped reading there. I’d read enough. I wadded up the letter and threw it away.

1 Timothy 6:6-10

Echoes of a Trusted Psalm

    Here is a trusted psalm, held up to the light of bare bulbs hanging from the untiled ceiling. The words of the song echo from the cold, rough stones of the room.

    Do not love the world.
    Or what is in the world – cursed confusion, secret fraud and corruption in every generation. Car accidents and other roadblocks. Angled and wrong.

    If anyone loves the world – the familiar noise of a shattering empire under one imperial flag -
    the love of the Father finds no home there.

    Because what there is in the world – lying, stealing, cheating, mistreatment of others, murder, dismembered bodily desire, the lust of disordered eyes, and the pride of parties in possession
    is not from the Father.

    The bottles on the wall rattle. Electricity hums and the lights flicker.

    It is the world
    and the world of disordered desires, accumulative abominations, acquisitions again and again
    is passing away in a burst of fire.

    But the echoes of the psalm ring forever and ever.

1 John 2:15-17

For the Liturgy

    For the liturgy, King David and his religious officials and worship leaders established a school of prophets trained in the songs of the Lord played upon the harps, lyres, and cymbals. These are their names and divisions:

    Asaph, singer and songwriter, and his sons:
    Zaccur – who sang of love’s open door.
    Joseph – cleaning up the air, making it easier to breathe.
    Nethaniah – who thought it better to dwell alone in the wilderness, but moved to Jerusalem nevertheless.
    Asharelah – who had a rottenness in his bones, a cancer, but sang ever and on.
    They all prophesied under the king’s direction.

    Jeduthun, spokesman for unguarded truth and his sons:
    Gedaliah – dripping, dripping on a rainy day.
    Zeri – who kept his eye on the ball.
    Jeshaiah – was a welcome distraction from one little mistake.
    Hashabiah – took a turn for the worse.
    Matthithiah – who was honest about a deep hurt in his heart.
    Under their father, who played upon the harp, they prophesied to all who would sing along.

    Heman held up a hand with his family:
    Bukkiah – an angry storm over the lake.
    Matthiniah – blamed himself for things that were never his fault.
    Uzziel – lived in cynical times of terminal irony.
    Shebuel – loosed the bands and unbound heavy burdens to let the oppressed go free.
    Jerimoth – stood in the corner, listening.
    Hananiah – a safe haven for freedom.
    Hanani – always asked for the truth.
    Eliathath – with a tenuous relationship with sleep.
    Giddalti – like lazy clouds and loose dying leaves.
    Romamti-Ezar – a wildfire in the dark.
    Joshbekashah – waited and waited and waited and waited.
    Mallothi – knew the end of the thing from the beginning.
    Hothir – a devoted friend, dependable in the varying seasons of life.
    Mazioth – was left holding the bag when the lights went out.
    All these - and there were a great many of them, weren’t there - were the sons of Heman, the king’s seer, and they, along with three unnamed sisters who sang like the breaking dawn and dying day, played the trumpet and the trombone and sang to the accompaniment of cymbals, lyres, and harps for the liturgy of the house of God.

    Asaph, Jeduthun, and Heman trained in the songs of Yahweh, with their brothers and sons, all two hundred and eighty-eight of them, junior and senior, masters and students alike. I remember their voices. I am still singing their songs.

1 Chronicles 25:1-9