On the other side of the globe, they are jailed for their love of Christ Jesus. Tortured, pierced, decapitated. They get evicted, with nowhere to go. No shelter against desert sun, wind, cold at night. Nowhere to draw water or get food.
They jubilate because of their love for Jesus, thankful for their salvation from sin, death and hell. And they think that free Christians in the West think of them all the time, care for them, love them and pray for them.
In the West, Obama point blank ignored them and their plight. He did not intervene when he saw their persecution. Hilary eas going to add to their burden, than God that Trump had won, if only for this reason, nothing more!
What goes on in the free West?
Will I be saved if the Old Man is fighting fit in me, if I feed it prime steak and the best wine? Does PETRA Band not sing a cool tune about “killing the old man” in you. Is it not Jesus who should be fed instead? How does Hollywood help with that?
Falling asleep to a TV series filled with bad attitudes and fictitional fights. Getting upset about the domestic fights in a fabricated story on a tiny screen at the bedside. Waking up to it, continuing the next day, 5am with the same.
Taking that dark attitude with as the wingman for the day. To lash out at those around you.
No sign of the Holy Spirit, yet Saturdays go into a trance, say “tik tik tik tik tik” in “tongues” and feel spiritually moved. All in the flesh, all for the show, or for self-righteous justification.
Where I live, there is this Christian who does weird things, for a reborn Christian. She refuses to thank the Lord before eating, as she says one doesn’t need to be religious about it. Through Moses, the Lord said we should pray before and after meals, as this would instill in us a sense of gratitude.
In eighteen months, we have eaten most meals together. At two meals, there were no complaints while, at two more meals, compliments to the chef. All other meals are marked by a constant complaint about what is wrong with the food. I may be wrong, but my own idea is that the dining table should never be a place of animosity or confrontation. Conflict tastes bad. It ain’t no spice.
What if she loses her job and end up eating scraps, cannot drive her car but must walk? If walking a kilometre between car and the shop is too much for a healthy person, how would she react to walking with a limp, or crutches, or rolling along in a wheelchair? Would healthy walking then look a tad more attractive? One really can’t but help to wonder.
The Lord has His ways to teach people.
In traffic, while driving in any way other than legitimate, also switching lanes without indicating, traversing solid lines, closing gaps so that others can’t find their way in from an on-ramp. When she occasionally, maybe once in three months, do give someone a gap, she whines, moans and bitches because the other driver didn’t stoop to grovel in gratitude.
Constantly, the finger points, the tongue lashes. Others are shouted at, as they are monkeys, in her unqualified opinion. Joy had left me long ago, as nobody can remain positive and jubilant in such a holy hell.
Literally as wide as she is tall, she does not attempt to bring her weight under control. There is no self-control but rather indulgences as described in 1 Corinthians 5:9-13. I eat Greek salad for desert but the Greek prefers double thick caramel shakes. And it shows.
Such is the gossip that comes from work, the boss, the colleagues, even the clients suffer under a sharp tongue, in absentia. Just nobody can do right, as only one is perfect and don’t you even think the honour belongs to Jesus. No,sirreee, there is one more pure and perfect than that.
Such is the leadership at church, those who don’t just speak in tongues but make the weirdest sounds. Nothing like the typical glossalia. You have to visit a bovine feedlot to get a better idea.
My Muslim friends and a few animists, Buddhists and a Hindu say they can see that God has blessed my wife and I, how anointed we are. At church, we are told that we are in bondage of spirits by such as described. Guess where I prefer to spend my time and with whom.
If we must fellowship with people of faith, what are our options? Trains I travel on, have luxurious lounges with fully equipped bars and the folks do make use of it. I have my coffee. We have a wonderful time together, make friends, I share about my life with Jesus in a language they understand.
The Rasta in the wheelchair, poor as,a dog, rolls up to me, greet me with a “Yah man!” He goes on to say there is only one Jesus and that I should never worry as Jesus is right next to me, always. “Praise Jesus!”, he says, before taking his wheels down the road.
Raj grows his beard, prays five times a day. He says he wants to grow in his relationship with God, only do His perfect will. The world, he says, must wake up to repentance, to make things right with God, as Jesus wants to return. Not bad for a Muslim, eh?
Someone had this catchy tune called Blurred Lines three, four years ago. A very sexy video along with it, making me drool and blush at the same time. The deeper message is that we have choices, that life is seduction but that doing the right thing also is an alternative. When life throws you blurred lines, choose right.
So I visit the coffee shop. A Lesbian traffic officer, a retired Parliamentarian, a thirsty engineer, a photographer, also a handyman, another photographer, a busker, then also a painter and songwriter, a street preacher, the list of regulars is long. We’ve known each other for over a decade. The waitress’s daughter has a cancer. We all pray, whether we are saintly or not, maybe even speak in alternative tongues the navy could interpret. We care, we share, we laugh together, crying is a community thing. That cancer really bothers us.
Yes, there is love in that coffee house. Maybe true church is in the club, or having a coffee amid sharing yarns, or just where love is needed and received.
No sharp tongue required.