The Throne Room

He shows his guests around the fabulous drawing room, it’s filled with art works that you usually see in museums, he purrs as he explains; well I bought the Michelangelo when I made the deal for the..I bought the Van Goff a year later, the guests edge closer to the paintings, they want to get the smell, it’s overpowering to be surrounded by such power, well, the art pieces are not worth fifty or a hundred million, even if there are those who will pay the price, it’s the feeling of supreme authority, the fever of power, it’s so stimulating. In the company of such a power filled human being, it’s intoxication, and Mr Power knows this too well, and now that he is getting older, showing off to his friends is one of his hobbies. Did you see the way they react he says later that night, when all alone with his butler, his wife left him for the golf instructor a few years before.

While they gurgle with excitement, each of them wanting a private audience, this man can change lives, all they want to do it is imitate him. Change lives, change my life it seems, their mantra. Imagine, the lives we imitate in the pursuit of happiness. Solomon sighed, a happy breakfast; in the company of friends, food cooked with care, and no shortage of refills when the coffee is near the end. Solomon made tough decisions in his time, but there was one decision he had no choice over, the night the Great Spirit arrived, proof of divine help, the ultimate award. The riches of this world will be coveted by others, but the riches of Heaven, will be,

a love that is shared. Old Mean bag and his trophies, would leave a legacy of resentment, nothing more, as sure as sure is, when he moves on, those left behind, will gladly spill blood in order to get their hands on those trophies.

 

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Young Turk

Hair greased, slicked back, he is not attitude, he does not recognize authority, not of the human kind, his goal is heavenly, has seen his home village destroyed, the pain and trauma, the cheap words of world leaders, after every atrocity,  they have been saying the same thing for years, pass the book, let the next set of leaders take the chance, see how long will they last, meanwhile plan for retirement, and a comfy living, while observing the harm, from all their inaction. Did Jesus say the same, words are great, prayers too, but without love in actions to support, what were you anyway, an empty vessel, a lot of noise and nothing else, as for those long winded applauded speeches, just yellow paper now, faded as the dreams were, the hopes raised that never flew. The Young Turk does not intend to suffer that fate. He is patient, he intends no harm, and will do his thing, he does not want to loose the heavenly connections, that is what has been happening, these last fifty years. The Young Turk has ideas of his own, prays it straight, and when he does, the help always arrives, no fool him.

So many refugees on the move, so many trying to find a home, clean water, it used to be all over the place, why did we have to pour poison into the water; well, the child in rags playing in the rubble, forever hopeful. Solomon sighed, may the schemes of extremism and those who plan such things, implode of the extremists, amen. can’t we just accept we are different at times, amen.

Solomon sighed, he told the health professional a few details of Life in the Spirit, the struggle between the material and eternal life. Well, it’s not easy being a believer sometimes; it puts an onus on you.

Boy Buys Gun

You can’t be serious, paying fifty dollars for that; you can only get off a hundred rounds per second, a MP987 will do twice that. The boy sighs; you want to protect your family don’t you, the other kid nods, I’m listening his look says, give me more. Automatic cleaning and can run for three hours without heating up, which means you could hold off the army for at least three hours. Other kid does the math, for 24/7 cover, you’d need, he stops. I’ll take two he says. The other kid gives him two tokens, the game is on, it’s called boy buys Gun. In the old days, they played with toy pieces, men with rifles, plastic, games. Years later, they are watching the drama, when boys buy guns.

where do all those ideas come from, but who needs a rapid firing weapon; those in war zones I guess.

Why Should We Fear God? — Just Call Me Pastor… a re blog, all that old stuff is true, and it heals too, just imagine it.

Quote

A couple of days ago I found a site on YouTube that arrested my attention. SermonIndex.net contained portions from the sermons of six preachers whose ministry together spanned more than half a century in different locations. Whatever their geographic locations, their sermons had a common theme. With one voice, they contended that there was a […]

via Why Should We Fear God? — Just Call Me Pastor

Emeute, Civilizations and Victor Hugo….

You can have petty arguments that blow up into full scale revolutions, the harm you think your putting an end to, only to realize later the bigger hole you have built for yourself, thereby the merry go round of harm spins faster, the eye for an eye mentality that so many hold so dear, ends up destroying happiness and causing even more harm everywhere, the very goal you had when your started your emeute, as Victor Hugo would say, an end to it. Retaliate, how we hear those words, we have to avenge ourselves, we have to get even, we will lose face, how many wars were started with that mindset, nations and tribes emotionalized to the point of frenzy, while the voices of reason were drowned out.

Solomon sighed, it was refreshing to hear the comparative remarks of Donald Trump, who decided not to avenge the so called hurt caused in the Arabian Gulf, be it a blip, be it a bonfire started by a child, two tribes didn’t go to war, and reason was used, when the expected response didn’t occur. Emeute, struggles that can be solved without blood shed, you just have to listen.

Solomon was reading the literary classic of Victor Hugo, pages of rhythm, written 150 years ago, explaining how the world had to learn from it’s past. Many years later, after so many social changes, the core of the book, still holds. Hugo, Thanks for making the effort, amen. Having encountered the Spirit, Solomon had his own reasons for listening; we are under the Holy Radar, what a great feeling, amen.

It’s a matter of time….

The trouble is it never changes, the same things happen over and over, Amo is listening  to his friend, they are enjoying a coffee at a favorite coffee shop. The two friends are mulling over the times, they are near their end, it’s a matter of time Amo says. His friend smiles, the two of them are not what they were, the limbs are worn, and the eyesight is fading, but they have been friends a long time. They are discussing the end of days, not theirs, that’s a given, its the new world to come that excites them. A lot of new voices are rising up, and there has been many signs, as written in the books of old. Could it be true Amo says, he is excited. The second plane landed on the water, and all survived, the names in the press have an ancient heritage to them, there are changes going on in places no one could have considered, and a TV character is now the president of the United States.

His friend smiles, his head leans left, a smartly dressed young woman passes, just out of his age range by fifty years, Amo leans left too, those were the days, then adds, that New Guy too, at least he’s got serious medical help. Another young woman passes, her head at an angle to the ground, bent over, she is reading her phone, how does she do that without falling over. Amo laughs, it’s good just being able to walk.

Solomon sat at another table, the conversation wagged his ears, he wasn’t spying, he was learning. A matter of time, Ezra said it, or was it the angel, when the time comes, the birthing process begins, a serious of signs, the soft warnings, then it gets closer. It reminded him of a spiral. A matter of time, why not invest in Spirit, he sighed. Given the changes going on, the human race could do with more credit in those hidden places, it’s a matter of time.

Village Meltdown

You wont believe it, druggies on every corner, I was propositioned by a young woman, beautiful, she is injecting herself, you probably know her from school, the towns people are afraid, it’s madness over there, even the cops are afraid to go near the place. Solomon looked at the expression on the face, the one doing the talking, he was the listener. Foils on every alley, needles too, he listened to the voice, it was the run up to the election, and the speakers party was the strong arm of hope, Solomon listened on. How the masters of misery try to create the worst thoughts, frightening the sheep, a tried and trusted method of getting your attention, so listen..

You have to listen in the context of the times, same way politicians and poll shakers do a test before they announce the real news, they gauge your reaction. Everyone from Islam is dangerous, every Mexican is a rapist, every Irish man is a drunk, every white man a saint. The boy cried wolf sighed Solomon, when the danger is real no one will believe him. It was a mute point, there were many signs in the Sky, results, polls, national intrigues, unstable leaders, trumpet calls, as Ezra said in the book he wrote 2,7000 years before, before the coming of the new world. Solomon hoped those who were trying to divide opinion had been reading the signs, it applied to them as well, the village meltdown.