You Promised

     Somewhere out in the eastern borderlands, far beyond the trek and ken of warlord kings, in a place cut off and separated – somewhere out in the steep shadows of a valley filled with death, outside and beyond the land of the living – Elijah, the Tishbite, the outlandish outsider, the temporary inmate, foreigner, prophet drank dirty water from a shallow brook.

    “Yah, my God,” he mumbled as he wiped his beard. “I’m hungry. And you promised.” He scanned the sky. No clouds. No birds. Nothing. “You promised.”

    Gone was his proper confidence. He was hiding. Self-discipline and hard work prepared, but here he was: alone and hungry.

    He knew the rebellion. The insult and dishonor of kings, the jealously of queens. False priests and cash for blessings schemes.

    “You promised. You promised,” he muttered.

    Anonymous whispers, rumor and scandal alliance. “Cut him off!” came the echo. “Cut him down!” The alarm. The horn.

    He heard it now. The alarm. The horn. The squawk and caw. Caw. The prophet looked skyward. Two ravens circled above. “You promised,” he sighed. One of the obsidian birds landed to his right. It hopped towards him twice and dropped a hunk of bread at his feet. The other landed to his left, hopped three times towards him, right up to his feet, and disgorged a ragged hunk of rancid meat.”

    Elijah snatched up the bread and bit into it. He eyed the carrion flesh as he chewed. “You promised,” he said again around a mouthful of bread. He swallowed and took another bite. He could smell the cloying smell of rot. What had it been? Rabbit? Goat?

    Pig?

    “Yah, my God,” he mumbled. He swallowed the last morsel of bread and sighed. “You promised.” He knelt down and picked up the rotted meat.

A Daily Resistance – February 3, 2026

    What do we read in the news today? What word? What progress?

    Suspect. Defendant. Convict.
    Without a glance. Without a document.
    Without evidence. Without proof.
    The vivid memory of the cycles of violence
                                        and future cataclysm.

    Nothing changes. Nothing moves. The victors’ fortunes rise while their victims disappear into the hysterical foam of seething waters.

    Shriveled dogs gorged on the blood of murderers and the right purse and proper accounts. Mired in the base exchange of insults and orders. We were warned of deception and of injury. Jesus prophesied of compromised conquerors. The day finally comes.

    Christian shadows moving to the rhythms and tempos of accelerating drums. Faster. Laughing. Faith. Obedience. Ragged obedience to brawlers’ boasts. They are but blind slaves to willful ignorance.

    The wartime pounding of nationalists drums. You saw the changes – in North Africa, and the Middle East, entire suburbs of Eastern Europe. South America and the Caribbean within our hands. You have seen them – delinquent and drunk with wine. Impotent. Incontinent kings and pundit gladiators, pain and blood – manifestly inadequate for their supposed manifest destiny.

    Do not be distracted by the unholy trinity: racism, militarism, materialism – those brilliant baubles, dazzling lights in the sky. I’m asking about the survivors. You tell the story but ignore the facts.

    Close your drugged up eyes
    sleep just long enough to wake up
    somewhere else
    never wake up whole
    never wake up home.

A Fifth Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll: All Means All

     He showed up again, as he does, coming in after I’d come home from work. I was long and tired. The bone spur on my foot has been bugging me recently, causing arthritis in my hallux, exacerbated by damage to the nerves between my toes. But today was tolerable. Mostly. The pain and discomfort didn’t slow me. But showered and dressed in jeans, and a t-shirt, and a skull printed cardigan I felt better. Almost human again. I saw his face in the window with his slightly bulging, hyperthyroid eyes – and that drooping, lazy left eye turned slightly downward.

    He came with geologic and atmospheric convulsions. The sky trembled and the earth rumbled. Hah. Not really. There were no earthquakes, no lightnings. Sometimes his being here feels bigger than necessary. Slightly dangerous. But really he’s just Gunner; he’s just a guy I know with a slightly drooping eye. He doesn’t particularly care for me. He is generally dismissive of me and just about everything I say. I acknowledge it for what it is. He doesn’t worry me. Not too much. I have my reasons for letting him stick around. They are my reasons and nothing of his. And that is enough for me.

    “Be serious,” he said and I knew we’d begun. I didn’t yet know what it was we’d begun, but I knew we were off. “Be serious,” he said again.

    “What’s on your mind, my brother?” I asked him.

    “It’s just that exactly,” he said. Seriously. “I am not your brother. You are a heretic, of course. And not a Christian of any stripe. I know this. You know this. What I don’t understand is why you continue to deny it.”

    “Because it’s not true,” I sighed. “Do you want coffee?” He waved me off but I poured him a cup and he accepted it. And asked for sugar…

    “We come from different traditions,” I began. “Different Christian traditions, but…”

    “No buts,” he interjected. “You’re lost. In your natural body and in the fatty folds of your mind, you are lost.”

    He has in the course of our brief acquaintanceship called me foolish, silly, inept, and satanic. He’s used that one repeatedly. It’s become one of my favorites of his accusations. He could call me contumacious, but I doubt he knows that word. Maybe it’s a little pretentious that I know it… “In essentials, unity; in nonessentials, liberty; in all things, charity,” I said sipping at my own mug of coffee. Outside the wind was ripping around the walls.

    “No. No. Nope. Nothing of Augustine,” he said setting his coffee aside. “Catholics don’t count either.”

    “Well it’s not Augustine. It was…

    “I don’t really care who said it. It’s wrong. What fellowship does light have with darkness? What harmony can there be between Christ and Belial?”

    “And I take it that I am Belial in this telling?”

    “What else would you be? You openly embrace socialism. You belong to a denomination that endorses women pastors and generally accepts abortion. You defend Christless Muslims and the gays and trans… There’s nothing of Christ in you. By the way,” he said picking up the coffee again. “What’s with the skulls. On your sweater. And I saw the cow skulls in the garden out front. You live in death. Christ is life and you live in death.”

    “Ah, just a bit of Memento Mori, I guess.”

    “It’s devilish, is what it is. I keep saying that you are full of inconsistent demons.”

    The wind was slashing through the trees in the backyard. Whistling like one of Gunner’s imagined demons. It’s been so cold this week. And colder still toward the weekend. After another sip of my coffee I said, “No question. No doubt. No fear for you. You are confident -cocksure- that you’ve got theology pinned down, staked out. Lines drawn. Boundaries permanently delineated. Truth fully and finally realized twenty centuries after he said that the truth would set us free.”

    He nodded. Smug. Sure.

    “And I am not. Not sure. Taking truth from myth and wonder from mystery. I believe. I believe and I doubt.”

    “Exactly. This is your error. One of your many errors. But they all stem from this don’t they? You are full of doubt and disbelief.”

    “Well, unbelief, maybe. But not disbelief. Tell me – does all mean all?”

    “What? I’m not interested in word games with you. You twist. You wrest. And none of it’s true.”

    “No game. Does all mean all? Does everyone mean everyone? Whosoever?”

    He set his coffee down again and prepared to respond. But I stopped him. “Nevermind. I just realized what time it is and I need to start preparing dinner. My wife will be home soon. Can we finish this discussion tomorrow?”

    “Yeah. Sure. I forgot – you’re the domesticated one in this house, aren’t you? I bet you do the laundry too.”

    “As a matter of fact I do, but that’s not really either your concern or relevant to the discussion at hand.”

    I asked him to leave. I was tired and uncomfortable. I didn’t need his harassment. But I asked him to meet me again the next day on neutral ground. I invited him to join me for lunch at the Family Diner just up the road.

    There, seated in booth number 24, I waited for him. He slid into the booth and said “Now… What were you trying to say about all not meaning all?”

    “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

    “But,” he stammered.

    “Wait. Just the silence if you please.” The waitress came by and took our orders and we sat in silence for a few minutes.

    We’d each started into our meals when he spoke again. “What were you saying about all not being all?”

    “You’ve got it wrong, brother. All is all. Tell me – will all who call upon the name of the Lord be saved? Or will you deny the testimony of scripture?”

    “No. Stop. You’re twisting. You’re wresting again…”

    “You believe in the universal effects of Adam’s sin, but not of Christ’s redemptive work? All died in Adam’s sin, and all are made alive in Christ. Right? Right? Universal sin. Universal life. All means all.”

    “What?” he sputtered, spitting out a bite of his cheeseburger. He coughed a few times and then choked up a response. “Universalist. Unitarian. I knew it.”

    “Listen,” I said. “I’ve told you before, I’m a Methodist. You know this. And for the rest – I don’t know. I believe. I doubt. And all means all even if I don’t know what that means.”

    He slammed down the last third of his burger and said, “Hell is a place, dude. A place where the fire never goes out.” He snatched up the last of his french fries, dunked them in ketchup and added, “Hell is a place where the worm never dies.” He shoved the fries in his mouth and stood up from the booth. “Remember that.”

    And with that he left the restaurant, leaving me both checks, of course.

He Shall Enter and Flow

 

    The Arab seeks Russia's help, lest all be lost. Russia could be expected to offset rising challenges, far worse than the ambitious plans of rival alliances, especially when their weapons are used in the struggle. 

    And he shall enter and flow, pass over, pass through, overflow the river, overflow the land.