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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True Love

The power of the prophets, the foundations of every great relationship, True Love. Solomon sighed, the Heavenly Father never lets down his own, he might rebuke them, teach them, spoil them occasionally, but he always acts out of love.

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Addict Central

Darn, the buzzer goes, the alarm clock buzzes, who could be at the door, she clambers out of bed, bumps into the chair, what time is it, she wipes her eyes, clearing, the buzzer goes again, I’m coming she shouts, she knows the voice; frantic words are muttered outside, you have a ten o’clock and you are behind, she fumbles with the lock. The door opens, she retreats to the kitchen, the kettle is set to work, her assistant is done up to the nines, darn, she looks better than me. She opens the press, where are the pain killers, she has a brain rush, you need to order more of these, she holds up the noisy container, two or three loose tablets left. Then she thinks to herself, the sleepers, they are getting low too

, and there could be an emergency, she dismisses the thought, the time she dropped the container on the bathroom floor, and how sticky they were when she tried to pick them up. What about the anxiety stuff she thinks. Her assistant says nothing for a few minutes, she has been through it before, addict central.

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.

Needles

She runs in the door, has a mind filled with anger, she is going to upset the first person she meets, she is as primed as an atom bomb, wants to destroy and do nothing else, a habit she formed, a bit of self a bit of life, needle them they said, what is that.

The image, the pin prick, the drop of blood, the mixture heated over the spoon, the wired vein, the plunge, and that sinking feeling. A long way from the lawyers office, where Mr Big and his educated lawyer conduct their affairs. Expensive brands cut leather shoes, bleached teeth too, a far cry from the uneducated addict, sitting in slum land, taking what he or she can get, used as a toe rag, out of sight of family, they have already forgot.

Needles, the stone in the shoe, the little annoying journalist who wont give up the story, the ache in your heart, the feeling that wont go away. She needles everyone.

Solomon smiled, there was a lot of joy about, the eyes told their own story, many held smiles, a few wore frowns. the needle he surmised, help from above. To imagine that your life really counts, and you are not a statistic after all, despite what you have been forced to believe, in order to stay alive.

How the miracles of olden times, needled the Spiritual leaders of those times. He is stealing our flock, they listen to him, we have to do something about it. 2,000 years later, they are still listening, amen. You have to needle them sighed Solomon, same way you prod at times, amen.

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

Mother and Child

The line is getting close to the check out, she holds her daughter’s hand tight. In a few hours, she will be in another world, a little frightened the way all new visitors feel, when they are somewhere new. Young, too young, she rebelled and ran away from home, that was ten years ago. twenty six now, with a three year old child, she made friends with the first man that seemed okay, she is wiser now, back then she was on the run. She reflects while she stands inline, her life has changed, the small hand in hers, a new responsibility. To be free from the influence, her boy friend so controlling, she hated the life, maybe that’s how a mother feels. She looks at the small human being holding her hand, her life line to the world, yes, that’s me she says to herself. Why has this child taken over my life; she laughed when she heard of friends with children on the way, the way they acted, pretending she imagined; how can one person have such a hold on your life.

The desk assistant smiles when she proffers her pass port. She reaches over the desk, catches sight of the little girl;. going to a new world she says with a smile. The little girl looks at her Mother, hopeful.

Solomon sighed, how many were on the road to freedom across the world. Compassion, love and charity, the very basics required of all those who called themselves believers, amen.