Many are the afflictions of the righteous: but the Lord delivereth him out of them all.
KJV
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
beyond grace
beyond grace:
"School of the Prophets
Exam Time "
Rob DeLuca, from His Way Church International in Auckland, New Zealand is the 'prophet' who 'prophesied' the Great Florida Healing Revival' into existence. Or so those who don't buy into the notion of a 'self-fulfilling prophecy' might say."
Read full article here:
http://beyondgrace.blogspot.com/2008/07/school-of-prophets-exam-time.html
"School of the Prophets
Exam Time "
Rob DeLuca, from His Way Church International in Auckland, New Zealand is the 'prophet' who 'prophesied' the Great Florida Healing Revival' into existence. Or so those who don't buy into the notion of a 'self-fulfilling prophecy' might say."
Read full article here:
http://beyondgrace.blogspot.com/2008/07/school-of-prophets-exam-time.html
Friday, July 25, 2008
Drinking at The Black Hole-By Bryan Hupperts
Drinking at The Black Hole
By Bryan Hupperts
bryanhupperts@hotmail.com
The din of the jukebox, the familiar smell of sleaze, the hustlers and the hustled all swirling madly together like a slithering shadow silhouetted against the cheap Christmas lights that twinkled unmerrily around the trim of the bar; such is the ambiance that is The Black Hole, the place I drink to nurse my sorrows and feed my demons. It’s a hopeless dive but its home.
All my life I’ve searched for the perfect drink, the one that would satisfy. I started bar hopping in college. My first haunt was Darwin’s Folly where I wasted my educational opportunity sucking down Blind Monkeys till I couldn’t think straight. Post-graduate, I became a regular at the Flesh Factory, inebriating my soul with the house specialty drink, a Blind Lust. One sip of that poison and you burn for hours finding neither relief nor fulfillment. And the more you drink, the more you burn.
To quench the fires that come from doing shots of Blind Lust, I got sloshed a bit at The Purple Wino. Their house drink is called a Flaming Fury, a volcanic swig that rages uncontrollably. In the end, I decided I preferred my vengeance ice cold rather than in a hot, drunken frenzy. Some drink to forget but I drink to remember.
That’s how I fell into The Black Hole.
Every bar has a specialty drink, their signature house concoction that puts them on the map. Like a sports team or a band you identify with and adopt, the Black Hole became my bar. Why? Their house specialty was my perfect poison. One sip of that familiar spirit, a venom called a Seething Grudge, and I knew I was home. No one can hold a Seething Grudge like me.
It’s so intoxicating, you can sip away the hours while the shot glass never seems to empty. It carries you away back to old offenses, real and imagined, to betrayal and disappointments, leaving a bitterness of regret in your gut no antacid can quell.
There are some drinks that can swallow you.
A Blind Lust can set the body aflame, but a Seething Grudge ignites the soul. More potent than an Oblivion from Dante’s Inferno, you can nurse it for countless hours and, the more you nurse it, the more potent it becomes. Sure, a Seething Grudge is an acquired taste that’s repugnantly bitter to swallow but, as they say, better the devil you know.
My loveable slosh of a college roommate had a motto: “If you’re at odds with God, make peace with your bartender.” Mine can pour three fingers of stout, instant therapy and, if it doesn’t work, I am usually too drunk to care. On this fateful day, my bartender called in sick so a temp was brought in to serve.
I watched the Stranger cross the room, pick up a towel and put it on his arm like a well-heeled servant, and step behind the bar. My bar. “The usual,” I said more out of boredom than habit.
“I’ve come with a new drink offering. Taste and see that it’s good,” said the Stranger.
New drink? Uh-uh. My bar. My rules.
“The infamous toxin of choice here at The Black Hole is a Seething Grudge and right now I need a double,” I said tapping my fingers on the bar, glaring at the upstart bartender. My fellow lounge lizards murmured in agreement.
“Sorry,” grinned the Stranger, “but I’m here to offer you a new drink.” He glanced at the Christmas lights, and said with a wry smile, “You might say Christmas has come early.”
He ignored the jab and set a line of shot glasses up on the bar then pulled a carafe from nowhere and began to pour. Is this new drink on the house? The Stranger replied, “Yes, but only because I paid for it in full. Please drink freely. Others who have tried it call it a Sweet Release. Drink up. It’s free.”
Free? Nothing’s free, I said flatly, and he shrugged, suggesting I take his offer on faith.
You can’t get a Sweet Release from The Black Hole. It’s just, just… wrong, a violation, an intrusion into my personal hell. And the old adage is dead wrong, too: misery hates company. I wanted to be left alone to drink so I threw the barkeep an angry look and demanded my Seething Grudge. He assured me again that what I really needed was a Sweet Release. Why not try it? After all, he was buying.
“You don’t look like you’ve ever been hammered in your life,” I said, dismissively sizing him up. “Have you ever had a Seething Grudge?”
The Stranger shook his head No but said he once gotten totally hammered in a contest in another black hole of sorts when he deliberately chugged a vile concoction called a Sinners’ Lament down to its bitter dregs. “Loosing sucks,” I admitted. He nodded in agreement but replied, “Actually, I won.”
OK, he had me confused but curious. If this was a challenge to a dirking contest, I was in. “OK, I’ll taste it to see if it’s good. Give me a Sweet Release.” He pushed the shot glass at me and I noticed odd scars on his wrists as if he’d been… hammered… with spikes. Very weird. In total seriousness, he said, “Drink this and you’ll never thirst again.” It’s that good? Fine. As I raised it to my lips, I had to ask, “That time you say you got hammered, was there a prize at stake?”
The Stranger looked on with triumph in his eyes as I slowly drank away the darkness in my soul with every healing drop of his Sweet Release. He said softly, “A prize? Yes. The prize is you.”
Bryan Hupperts © 2008
www.SheepTrax.com
By Bryan Hupperts
bryanhupperts@hotmail.com
The din of the jukebox, the familiar smell of sleaze, the hustlers and the hustled all swirling madly together like a slithering shadow silhouetted against the cheap Christmas lights that twinkled unmerrily around the trim of the bar; such is the ambiance that is The Black Hole, the place I drink to nurse my sorrows and feed my demons. It’s a hopeless dive but its home.
All my life I’ve searched for the perfect drink, the one that would satisfy. I started bar hopping in college. My first haunt was Darwin’s Folly where I wasted my educational opportunity sucking down Blind Monkeys till I couldn’t think straight. Post-graduate, I became a regular at the Flesh Factory, inebriating my soul with the house specialty drink, a Blind Lust. One sip of that poison and you burn for hours finding neither relief nor fulfillment. And the more you drink, the more you burn.
To quench the fires that come from doing shots of Blind Lust, I got sloshed a bit at The Purple Wino. Their house drink is called a Flaming Fury, a volcanic swig that rages uncontrollably. In the end, I decided I preferred my vengeance ice cold rather than in a hot, drunken frenzy. Some drink to forget but I drink to remember.
That’s how I fell into The Black Hole.
Every bar has a specialty drink, their signature house concoction that puts them on the map. Like a sports team or a band you identify with and adopt, the Black Hole became my bar. Why? Their house specialty was my perfect poison. One sip of that familiar spirit, a venom called a Seething Grudge, and I knew I was home. No one can hold a Seething Grudge like me.
It’s so intoxicating, you can sip away the hours while the shot glass never seems to empty. It carries you away back to old offenses, real and imagined, to betrayal and disappointments, leaving a bitterness of regret in your gut no antacid can quell.
There are some drinks that can swallow you.
A Blind Lust can set the body aflame, but a Seething Grudge ignites the soul. More potent than an Oblivion from Dante’s Inferno, you can nurse it for countless hours and, the more you nurse it, the more potent it becomes. Sure, a Seething Grudge is an acquired taste that’s repugnantly bitter to swallow but, as they say, better the devil you know.
My loveable slosh of a college roommate had a motto: “If you’re at odds with God, make peace with your bartender.” Mine can pour three fingers of stout, instant therapy and, if it doesn’t work, I am usually too drunk to care. On this fateful day, my bartender called in sick so a temp was brought in to serve.
I watched the Stranger cross the room, pick up a towel and put it on his arm like a well-heeled servant, and step behind the bar. My bar. “The usual,” I said more out of boredom than habit.
“I’ve come with a new drink offering. Taste and see that it’s good,” said the Stranger.
New drink? Uh-uh. My bar. My rules.
“The infamous toxin of choice here at The Black Hole is a Seething Grudge and right now I need a double,” I said tapping my fingers on the bar, glaring at the upstart bartender. My fellow lounge lizards murmured in agreement.
“Sorry,” grinned the Stranger, “but I’m here to offer you a new drink.” He glanced at the Christmas lights, and said with a wry smile, “You might say Christmas has come early.”
He ignored the jab and set a line of shot glasses up on the bar then pulled a carafe from nowhere and began to pour. Is this new drink on the house? The Stranger replied, “Yes, but only because I paid for it in full. Please drink freely. Others who have tried it call it a Sweet Release. Drink up. It’s free.”
Free? Nothing’s free, I said flatly, and he shrugged, suggesting I take his offer on faith.
You can’t get a Sweet Release from The Black Hole. It’s just, just… wrong, a violation, an intrusion into my personal hell. And the old adage is dead wrong, too: misery hates company. I wanted to be left alone to drink so I threw the barkeep an angry look and demanded my Seething Grudge. He assured me again that what I really needed was a Sweet Release. Why not try it? After all, he was buying.
“You don’t look like you’ve ever been hammered in your life,” I said, dismissively sizing him up. “Have you ever had a Seething Grudge?”
The Stranger shook his head No but said he once gotten totally hammered in a contest in another black hole of sorts when he deliberately chugged a vile concoction called a Sinners’ Lament down to its bitter dregs. “Loosing sucks,” I admitted. He nodded in agreement but replied, “Actually, I won.”
OK, he had me confused but curious. If this was a challenge to a dirking contest, I was in. “OK, I’ll taste it to see if it’s good. Give me a Sweet Release.” He pushed the shot glass at me and I noticed odd scars on his wrists as if he’d been… hammered… with spikes. Very weird. In total seriousness, he said, “Drink this and you’ll never thirst again.” It’s that good? Fine. As I raised it to my lips, I had to ask, “That time you say you got hammered, was there a prize at stake?”
The Stranger looked on with triumph in his eyes as I slowly drank away the darkness in my soul with every healing drop of his Sweet Release. He said softly, “A prize? Yes. The prize is you.”
Bryan Hupperts © 2008
www.SheepTrax.com
Monday, July 21, 2008
Killing the Heir to Possess the Vineyard-By George Davis
Killing the Heir to Possess the Vineyard
By George Davis
http://awildernessvoice.com/KillingTheHeir.html
People were so excited about what God was doing through the whole body (Head plus body), that they came early and went home late. I have never seen such corporate excitement before or since. ...It became apparent that all this threatened the leadership, so they set out to bring things in tow. They announced the following Sunday that it was time to get things back into order.
Years ago, I was to be licensed as a pastor, by a denomination that I will not name. The previous week had been a blur of activity, as the district supervisor shuttled Charlotte and me around the vast state of Montana, showing us the "churches" that were in need of a pastor. On the day of the ordination God spoke to me saying, "If you will give this up and walk away, I will show you what true ministry is." I walked away, realizing that the concept of ministry I previously held was not true ministry. All I had left was God's promise, "I will show you what true ministry is."
Sunday, July 20, 2008
A Chess Game with the Devil-By Bryan Hupperts
July 19, 2008
A Chess Game with the Devil
By Bryan Hupperts
bryanhupperts@hotmail.com
A senior pastor was sent a challenge to play a game of chess. The anonymous note said, “Victorious One: You are an undisputed Grandmaster. You’ve beaten your fellow servants frequently. You played against other senior pastors and won. Now, come play me.”
Game day came and the senior pastor found himself seated across a chess board from none other than Satan himself. In this knockout tournament, the pastor drew white winning the right to begin first. The devil grabbed the white piece from him and said arrogantly, “I always move first.”
Each set up their pieces and began to formulate strategy. The senior pastor was nervous but confident and declared to the enemy, “I will win. I have the mind of Christ.” Then the devil smiled a devilish smile and said, glancing at the senior pastor’s side of the board, “I cannot outwit the mind of Christ but you I will easily beat.”
The first match was on. Satan played with cunning and strategy and it became quickly clear the senior pastor was outgunned. Satan moved a pawn in gambit striking from the flank and taking an unguarded rook. Loss piled upon loss. No matter how valiantly he tried to respond, no matter if his moves were rooted in sacrifice or power, the senior pastor blundered. Every move he made seemed to benefit the adversary.
The chessboard carnage was brutal and the senior pastor was finally humbled to desperate prayer. The devil laughed as he cried out, “Lord, I need wisdom. I have your mind yet I am being outplayed, outmaneuvered, and beaten at every turn. Why, Lord. Why”
They played to endgame and the dreaded word was pronounced: checkmate.
The stunned senior pastor watched his king fall as he listened to the enemies’ taunts and, though he felt he had failed God, he humbled himself further crying out all the more for wisdom. How do you beat a master tactician and swindler like the devil? When the 2 minute warning sounded, he began to reset his side of the board for the next round. He was weighed down by a sickening dread when suddenly the Holy Spirit of God came upon him and said:
“Review the board.”
The senior pastor looked at the enemies’ pieces: pawns aligned on the front row with rooks, knights, bishops, queen and king in the back. Everything was in perfect military precision waiting for the strategic battle to commence.
The senior pastor then looked at his side of the board. He had the same pieces: pawns, rooks, knights, bishops, queen and king. He noticed, as if for the first time, that things were askew. Mentally reviewing the rules of engagement, he realized he had placed a pawn where a rook should be, a knight in the place of a bishop and, as he thought back on the failures of the first round, he saw that even the queen was occasionally out of place taking over the kings’ role. These foolish blunders were done at his command.
And the senior pastor had an epiphany. He had all the right pieces but many were serving in the wrong place on the board in roles they were not empowered to play. “I have played like a fool,” he said aloud. “I am only a servant and not the Master of the game.” He began to rearrange the board setting the pieces, kingside and queenside, into their rightful places. And the chessboard transformed into a battlefield.
The devil looked at the repositioned board in alarm. His eyes narrowed and he said slyly, “Perhaps, senior pastor, your first strategy was right. Move those pieces any way ‘ole you wish. After all, you’re in charge, right? I must have gotten lucky the first round; that’s all it was, just dumb luck. You’ve played your brothers in Christ and beaten them all.”
The pastor knew his cagy opponent was only seeking for an opportunity to devour him again, and replied, “I did beat my fellow servants and I was wrong to do so. Today, I repent. Devil, you did not defeat the mind of Christ. You only defeated me. I see now it is not mine to tell a piece how to serve not is it mine to dictate anyone’s destiny or calling. My role is to help all to work together in their unique giftings for the advancement the kingdom of God .”
The devil’s face went ashen and he said, tempting the pastor to pride, “You are the Grandmaster, the senior pastor. You decide what people should do and be!”
The servant pastor smiled humbly as he placed the last pawn in correct position. “It occurs to now that to have the mind of Christ in operation in my life and ministry, He must be the senior pastor and I must be the undershepherd. I will rely on his leadings to beat you. And, as you yourself so wisely said, you cannot beat the mind of Christ.”
The devil began to panic and said, “No, go back to your nepotism. Your church has always been run like a family business with you, your family, and your friends in charge. This could go badly for you. You will no longer be the senior pastor. Why give up your power?”
And the undershepherd servant pastor said meekly, “Christ alone is the senior pastor and it was never mine to dictate who serves where or how. Each piece must move in the light it is called to just as He himself is in the light. It is his kingdom, not mine.”
He continued, “The board was out of order. I was out of order. Christ is now our Senior Pastor and divine order has been re-established. I neither submitted myself to God nor did I resist you at first play which gave you first-move advantage. I will not be so foolish again. And now,” he said, redirecting his attention to the strategically placed pieces on the board, “let us pray for guidance as we play for victory. Christ himself will lead us as our senior pastor and Grandmaster!”
This match was to be played to sudden death. The devil raged for he now knew his time was short. And the battle was on.
Bryan Hupperts © 2008
http://www.sheeptrax.com/
A Chess Game with the Devil
By Bryan Hupperts
bryanhupperts@hotmail.com
A senior pastor was sent a challenge to play a game of chess. The anonymous note said, “Victorious One: You are an undisputed Grandmaster. You’ve beaten your fellow servants frequently. You played against other senior pastors and won. Now, come play me.”
Game day came and the senior pastor found himself seated across a chess board from none other than Satan himself. In this knockout tournament, the pastor drew white winning the right to begin first. The devil grabbed the white piece from him and said arrogantly, “I always move first.”
Each set up their pieces and began to formulate strategy. The senior pastor was nervous but confident and declared to the enemy, “I will win. I have the mind of Christ.” Then the devil smiled a devilish smile and said, glancing at the senior pastor’s side of the board, “I cannot outwit the mind of Christ but you I will easily beat.”
The first match was on. Satan played with cunning and strategy and it became quickly clear the senior pastor was outgunned. Satan moved a pawn in gambit striking from the flank and taking an unguarded rook. Loss piled upon loss. No matter how valiantly he tried to respond, no matter if his moves were rooted in sacrifice or power, the senior pastor blundered. Every move he made seemed to benefit the adversary.
The chessboard carnage was brutal and the senior pastor was finally humbled to desperate prayer. The devil laughed as he cried out, “Lord, I need wisdom. I have your mind yet I am being outplayed, outmaneuvered, and beaten at every turn. Why, Lord. Why”
They played to endgame and the dreaded word was pronounced: checkmate.
The stunned senior pastor watched his king fall as he listened to the enemies’ taunts and, though he felt he had failed God, he humbled himself further crying out all the more for wisdom. How do you beat a master tactician and swindler like the devil? When the 2 minute warning sounded, he began to reset his side of the board for the next round. He was weighed down by a sickening dread when suddenly the Holy Spirit of God came upon him and said:
“Review the board.”
The senior pastor looked at the enemies’ pieces: pawns aligned on the front row with rooks, knights, bishops, queen and king in the back. Everything was in perfect military precision waiting for the strategic battle to commence.
The senior pastor then looked at his side of the board. He had the same pieces: pawns, rooks, knights, bishops, queen and king. He noticed, as if for the first time, that things were askew. Mentally reviewing the rules of engagement, he realized he had placed a pawn where a rook should be, a knight in the place of a bishop and, as he thought back on the failures of the first round, he saw that even the queen was occasionally out of place taking over the kings’ role. These foolish blunders were done at his command.
And the senior pastor had an epiphany. He had all the right pieces but many were serving in the wrong place on the board in roles they were not empowered to play. “I have played like a fool,” he said aloud. “I am only a servant and not the Master of the game.” He began to rearrange the board setting the pieces, kingside and queenside, into their rightful places. And the chessboard transformed into a battlefield.
The devil looked at the repositioned board in alarm. His eyes narrowed and he said slyly, “Perhaps, senior pastor, your first strategy was right. Move those pieces any way ‘ole you wish. After all, you’re in charge, right? I must have gotten lucky the first round; that’s all it was, just dumb luck. You’ve played your brothers in Christ and beaten them all.”
The pastor knew his cagy opponent was only seeking for an opportunity to devour him again, and replied, “I did beat my fellow servants and I was wrong to do so. Today, I repent. Devil, you did not defeat the mind of Christ. You only defeated me. I see now it is not mine to tell a piece how to serve not is it mine to dictate anyone’s destiny or calling. My role is to help all to work together in their unique giftings for the advancement the kingdom of God .”
The devil’s face went ashen and he said, tempting the pastor to pride, “You are the Grandmaster, the senior pastor. You decide what people should do and be!”
The servant pastor smiled humbly as he placed the last pawn in correct position. “It occurs to now that to have the mind of Christ in operation in my life and ministry, He must be the senior pastor and I must be the undershepherd. I will rely on his leadings to beat you. And, as you yourself so wisely said, you cannot beat the mind of Christ.”
The devil began to panic and said, “No, go back to your nepotism. Your church has always been run like a family business with you, your family, and your friends in charge. This could go badly for you. You will no longer be the senior pastor. Why give up your power?”
And the undershepherd servant pastor said meekly, “Christ alone is the senior pastor and it was never mine to dictate who serves where or how. Each piece must move in the light it is called to just as He himself is in the light. It is his kingdom, not mine.”
He continued, “The board was out of order. I was out of order. Christ is now our Senior Pastor and divine order has been re-established. I neither submitted myself to God nor did I resist you at first play which gave you first-move advantage. I will not be so foolish again. And now,” he said, redirecting his attention to the strategically placed pieces on the board, “let us pray for guidance as we play for victory. Christ himself will lead us as our senior pastor and Grandmaster!”
This match was to be played to sudden death. The devil raged for he now knew his time was short. And the battle was on.
Bryan Hupperts © 2008
http://www.sheeptrax.com/
Saturday, July 19, 2008
To My Fellow Bloggers « Theology Today
To My Fellow Bloggers « Theology Today:
"The other day I was watching a guy attempt to teach his wife how to play tennis. The dude didn’t even know how to hold the racquet let alone play but he was acting and talking like he had spent his life on the tennis court. I see this quite a bit…..people without a clue what they are talking about acting like they know what they’re talking about yet lacking a clue.
I’m starting to see this same thing in what is known as the “Christian Blogosphere”….folks who pretend to know what they are talking about yet totally lacking a clue and leading innocent sheep into the ditch because they have no clue as to what they are talking about."
Read full article here:
http://phillyflash.wordpress.com/2008/07/19/to-my-fellow-bloggers/#more-177
"The other day I was watching a guy attempt to teach his wife how to play tennis. The dude didn’t even know how to hold the racquet let alone play but he was acting and talking like he had spent his life on the tennis court. I see this quite a bit…..people without a clue what they are talking about acting like they know what they’re talking about yet lacking a clue.
I’m starting to see this same thing in what is known as the “Christian Blogosphere”….folks who pretend to know what they are talking about yet totally lacking a clue and leading innocent sheep into the ditch because they have no clue as to what they are talking about."
Read full article here:
http://phillyflash.wordpress.com/2008/07/19/to-my-fellow-bloggers/#more-177
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