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Monday, November 10, 2014
An Early Peek At What's Cooking for Christmas with John 3:16 Books
Friday, November 7, 2014
A Taste of Friday First Chapters with Holly Michael and Crooked Lines
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About the Book:
On the shores of Lake Michigan, Rebecca Meyer seeks escape.
Guilt-ridden over her little sister’s death, she sets her heart on India, a
symbol of peace.
Across the ocean in South India, Sagai Raj leaves his tranquil hill station home and impoverished family to answer a higher calling. Pushing through diverse cultural and religious milieus, he labors toward his goals, while wrong turns and bad choices block Rebecca from hers.
Traveling similar paths and bridged across oceans through a priest, the two desire peace and their divine destiny. But vows and blind obedience at all costs must be weighed…and buried memories, unearthed.
Crooked Lines, a beautifully crafted debut novel, threads the lives of two determined souls from different continents and cultures. Compelling characters struggle with spirituality through despair and deceptions in search of truth.
Across the ocean in South India, Sagai Raj leaves his tranquil hill station home and impoverished family to answer a higher calling. Pushing through diverse cultural and religious milieus, he labors toward his goals, while wrong turns and bad choices block Rebecca from hers.
Traveling similar paths and bridged across oceans through a priest, the two desire peace and their divine destiny. But vows and blind obedience at all costs must be weighed…and buried memories, unearthed.
Crooked Lines, a beautifully crafted debut novel, threads the lives of two determined souls from different continents and cultures. Compelling characters struggle with spirituality through despair and deceptions in search of truth.
First Chapter (attached)
Purchase Info:
One
The End of Childhood
All you need is the plan, the road map,
and the courage to press on to your destination.
~ Earl Nightingale
Rebecca Meyer
White Gull Bay, Wisconsin
Summer 1985
It didn’t occur to me at the edge
of the pond that I’d broken the sixth commandment, actually committed murder. I
was busy working out a deal with God, swearing to Jesus I’d become a nun if He
helped me breathe life back into my baby sister’s limp body. At the time, it
didn’t matter that I wasn’t Catholic.
Now, a week after the funeral, Mama
set me straight while flipping pancakes in the kitchen. “Daddy blames you for
Kara’s death.” She said it like I’d let the milk spoil because I hadn’t put it
back in the fridge, but the weight of her words cemented my bare feet to the
green linoleum.
She reached for a platter and set
it under the open window. The morning sun highlighted old stains, batter
spills, and cracks on the brown laminate countertop. A cool morning draft
rustled the faded yellow gingham curtains. Mama got a deal on that material
from Woolworths before Kara was born. Along with curtains, she sewed four
sundresses for each of my sisters and me. It wasn’t fair that the fabric was
still with us, fluttering over the sink, yet Kara came and went as quickly as
the wind.
Mama transferred pancakes to the
plate.
My plan to breeze through the
kitchen and escape the house unnoticed should have succeeded because for a
week, I’d been a ghost. None of the people in the house—my parents or any of my
brothers and sisters—spoke to me. I’d lived a cloistered existence with my blue
notebook and unsettling thoughts.
Now, I only wanted to sit under the
maple, read the Kara stories, and wind back time.
I tightened my arms around the
notebook, holding it to my heart like a talisman, as if my words of love for my
sister could erase the raw sting of truth in Mama’s words. Since that day at
the pond, I’d been carrying that notebook everywhere, even sleeping with it. In
my lake of sadness, in my whirling murky thoughts, those sacred pages had
become my life preserver.
Mama snapped the griddle knob off
and faced me. “We left her with you that morning. She was only seven.” Her
words rushed out in a seething whisper. My shoulders fell and hope slid from
them and disappeared out the kitchen window.
Only a month ago in my white cotton
confirmation dress, I cited the Ten Commandments and professed my faith at St.
Andrew’s Lutheran Church.
So confident. So holy. Mama baked a
cake.
Now, because of me, Kara was dead.
I tugged a loose string on the frayed edges of my cut-offs, then looked back up
at Mama. Her short blonde hair was a tangled mess. Her red-streaked eyes shot
angry darts laced with sadness. C’mon Mama. Don’t you get it? The deep muddy
waters consumed Kara. She’s gone, but I’m here, still drowning.
I ran my big toe over a rip in the
linoleum, wanting to bolt, take off and run as far and fast as my long legs
would carry me, but Mama’s eyes told me she had more to dish out. I sucked in
my breath, stuck out my chin, and met her stare, my five-foot eight-inch frame
matching hers. I could take it.
But she walked away, left me
standing there. Every fiber in my soul told me to run after her, beg
forgiveness, and cling to her legs until she hugged me and told me everything
would be okay. That’s what mothers were supposed to do. But no longer a child,
those days were over. I winced when the slam of her bedroom door, like a gavel,
sentenced me.
“Becca, bring the pancakes.” Tom
rose from the dining room chair and waved his fork.
“Hurry up!” Bobby pounded a fist on
the oak table. “I’m starved.”
At least one thing at home remained
the same; after morning barn chores, my brothers only cared about food.
My limbs loosened. With shaking
hands, I grabbed the platter, set it on the table, then tore up the stairs—two
at a time. I didn’t look at my brothers. They probably blamed me, too.
In my bedroom, I kicked a pile of
dirty clothes and hit something solid, a tennis shoe. I crouched and peeked
under my bed. The other. Good.
I kissed the notebook, then stuck
it under my pillow. I’d started writing Kara stories in it a week before she
died—the funny and intuitive stuff she’d said and done. I even taped her photos
inside the pages. How could I have known to do that right before she died?
Tugging on my shoes, I wondered if
the Holy Spirit had prompted me to create the Kara notebook when I was still a
child of God. He’d visited me once. I remembered Him, not ghostly and elusive,
but someone so real. Someone who loved me.
When I was six, He came to me in
the meadow. I danced and sang for Him. I couldn’t see Him, but He was there. In
my yellow butterfly dress, I laughed and twirled with the dandelion seeds, my
blond hair bouncing in the breeze as I basked in His immense love. I stretched
my hands high and offered songs of thanks for the Creator of the ladybugs, the
zippy dragonflies, and the warm summer sun.
God knew me. I knew Him.
But that was then.
I rested my foot on the vanity
bench, tied my laces, then looked into the mirror. Eyes dull and ringed by dark
circles stared at me, not my bright green ones. Since that day at the pond, I
slept in fitful interludes in the hallway in front of the door, me and the
notebook with my pillow and a blanket.
I wanted to sleep in my bed, but
Kara and I had shared the room since she was born. Every night she left her
bed, crossed the room, stood beside me, and called my name until I woke and
lifted the covers, inviting her in.
Standing outside the door each
night, my fears would grow and shrink me from a teenager into a child, scared
Kara’s ghost would come knocking.
What if she came to my bedside and
called my name? Would her eyes have the same accusing stare as Mama’s had? Did
she hate me, too?
Chills tickled the back of my neck.
I yanked the other shoestring tight, then fled downstairs and out the front
door. At the end of the driveway, I turned and ran past the silos toward Lake
Michigan. Tears blurred my vision as I ran past fields and farmhouses, cows and
cornfields, apple orchards and cherry trees. I ran past evergreens, Indian
Paintbrushes, Queen Anne’s Lace, and Black-eyed Susans. Fuzzy cattails poked
from marshy lowlands.
Miles later, when grassy ditches
turned sandy and the scent of pine replaced the earthy smell of cow manure, I
slowed. At Evergreen Lane, I shoved the bad stuff out of my head, leaned
against the weathered fence post, and kicked off my shoes.
Summer bungalows loomed over the
tops of cedars on both sides of the gravel pathway that allowed public access
to the beach. A few silhouettes—like mannequins in store-fronts—faced the lake.
Who were they? What did they think? And where would they fly back to before the
first flakes of winter fell? Those lucky visitors came to the peninsula of
White Gull Bay to escape from places I’d never been, places I’d always longed
to run to.
The whoosh and trickle of the
whispering waves beckoned me to the shoreline. Gulls screeched and circled
around dead glittering minnows. Chilly water rolled over my feet and lapped my
ankles.
I scanned the beach for glass
stones, bent over and picked up a round flat black one. I tried to skip it, but
it sailed straight into a small cresting wave. No luck today.
A long ship crept across the
horizon, cutting a path between the cerulean sky and the blue-green lake. Next
week, Daddy would be out there sailing on one of those iron-ore freighters. He
only came home when November gales churned the icy waters and during spring
planting and fall harvest—and for a death.
I watched the vessel disappear
until guilt rode on the waves like bobbing driftwood and landed on the shore
before me. Daddy would miss Kara sitting on his lap on the John Deere. I didn’t
blame him for hating me. I didn’t blame Mama. Kara was the baby, the ninth. I
was the seventh. Seven wasn’t a lucky number.
My legs quivered. I sat, hugging my
knees. Tears plopped tiny craters in the sand. I was guilty. A sinner with no
hope because it was worse than anyone knew. I couldn’t admit to anyone all that
had happened at the edge of the pond. How could I say I knew Kara would die
that day and I did nothing to stop it? How could I talk about the way I freaked
out and ran away when I saw her form in the murky water, even though I knew I’d
find her there?
My childhood was over.
“Where do I go from here?” A wave
rolled in and nearly swallowed my small voice.
Ignoring the plaintive cries from
the screeching gulls, I stood, straightened my shoulders and looked to the
horizon. Only two more years of high school. I’d plan. Work hard. I had one
thing going for myself. Everyone considered me the smart one because I got good
grades and read a gazillion books. Yes, I was smart, smart enough to figure out
my escape. I’d find a place of peace, far from White Gull Bay and the awful
stuff I’d done.
Then, I’d find someone, somewhere,
who’d love me.
Sagai Raj
Sheveroy Hills, Tamil Nadu, South India
Summer 1985
“Sagai, wake up. It’s time.”
He opened his eyes. His father,
kneeling on the dirt floor beside his reed mat, held out a small tin cup. Sagai
reached for the milky sweet coffee. In the soft glow of the hurricane lamp, he
sat, sipped, and glanced around the room at the curled, sleeping forms.
His father struggled to his feet
with a grunt. Limping since last year’s bicycle accident at Little Lake, he
hobbled toward the door, lifted the metal latch, and disappeared into the
predawn darkness. Sagai admired the elder man’s quiet noble manners, his wise
words, and the kindness he showed toward everyone. Had he caused his worry?
He slid his hand under his mat and
pulled out the invitation. After a month at camp, he’d been chosen. He’d been
carrying the postcard around for a week, praying his father would give his
blessings. Time was running out, school would begin soon, and his destiny did
not lie in Sheveroy Hills.
Soft snores from his mother and
siblings filled the room. He stepped around them, kissed his fingertips, then
touched the Sacred Heart of Jesus picture on the wall by the doorway, as he did
every day.
In the small courtyard, the cow
mooed and shifted, full with milk. “Don’t worry Muttura Madu, you’ll be milked
soon.”
He stepped beside his father,
almost shoulder to shoulder now. Appa heaved a deep sigh, then turned and faced
him with an outstretched palm.
“Appa?” Sagai rested his hand on
top, then his father covered it. An unspoken message of love. Top hand covering
and protecting, the bottom holding and supporting.
“You’re my seventh child. Seven is
a good number, a heavenly number. My hope was that you, the smart one, could
become a doctor and help the family—”
“But—”
Appa raised a finger. “—but God has
a different plan.” His tone sounded peaceful, accepting. “Now, run along.”
He let go of the breath he was
holding. “I may go? Truly?”
“Yes, son. You may go. You will
leave on Saturday.”
Sagai bent down and touched Appa’s
cracked calloused feet. He pressed the postcard to his pounding chest, then
returned to the house and tucked it in the edge of the framed picture of Jesus.
He rushed outside, said goodbye to his father, and stepped onto the narrow
cobblestone road. Unable to hold back any longer, bubbling laughter rose from
his chest and escaped into the misty morning air. He raised his arms toward
heaven as he ran, thanking God for this true blessing.
For the past eight years, God’s
love had pulsed through his soul, fueling his zeal as he ran the four miles
each way, every morning. God’s love came with the morning’s rays, His kiss in
the whisper of a breeze on hot afternoons, His presence in the mist that
settled over the Tamil Nadu hill station at dusk. And as Sagai sloshed through
pounding rains during monsoon season on roads reduced to muddy footpaths, the
Lord never left his side.
Now, Sagai’s smile wrapped around
his heart and traveled to his feet, hastening his momentum. The five o’clock
Muslim call for prayer reverberated in the hills when the road became packed
dirt. The chants, low and monotone, interrupted the lulling crickets and broke
the sleepy quietness of the night. He ran over another hill, then down, leaping
over slushy mud holes in low areas.
A cock crowed. Another answered,
encouraging dawn to break. They always crowed right before his half-way
point—the Hindu shrine. At the base of the huge Banyan tree with its
intertwining aerial root vines dwelled a Hindu deity, a huge cobra coiled in a
snake pit. A shock of hair tacked to the tree indicated a recent exorcism.
Instead of speeding past in fear of the snake striking his legs, Sagai stopped.
At age fifteen, about to leave home forever, he shouldn’t shake like a small
child at this place.
Today, he would defeat his fear.
Under the dim streetlamp, he forced his gaze into the ebony eyes of one of the
two angry soldier statues that guarded their deity. A tongue sticking out from
the huge oblong face challenged him.
Frowning, he looked from one statue
to the other. “You two aren’t so frightful.”
A rustling in the bushes shot a
jolt of fear through him that rattled his bones and made his heart nearly thump
out of his chest. He tore past the shrine, made the sign of the cross and sent
a flying prayer to Jesus. On the way back, in daylight, he’d look those
horrible fellows in the eye and tell them he wasn’t frightened of them or the
snake.
Alongside the old stone fence
dripping with purple bougainvillea, he ran. Tamil hymns blasted from homes and
out of church doors. “O Jesus you are my
all. O what a joy…” Only the Protestants could shower the streets with
their hymns like that. The tune stuck in his head all the way to Little Lake,
where dawn had painted a pale orange streak over the calm surface.
Fascination and fear of Little Lake
slowed his pace. Last month his cousin happened upon a dead body floating in
the water. The source of life-giving water lured suicidal villagers as well as
recreation-seeking Brits and rich Indians who came to Sheveroy Hills for
holiday. Their grand bungalows stood like jewels around the lake.
He often wondered what their eyes
beheld when they looked out from their fancy homes. Did they see his cousin,
the boatman who offered a leisurely ride for two rupees? Did they notice Sagai
and his brothers catching fish for Amma’s curry? Where did these visitors
return to when God breathed His peace into them from this fertile hill station
of monasteries, convents, and spirituality centers?
Bells chimed from the tower of the
Catholic mission church, alerting Sagai. Six chimes meant he must arrive at the
silver Mahatma Gandhi statue in the town center. He ran…one…two…three…faster…four…five…and
six. Gandhi came into sight.
He ran past the statue, past Jackfruit
trees, past cypress entwined with pepper vines, and orange groves. A grey stone
fence, now speckled with tiny blue flowers continued to snake along the curvy
pebbly road. At Pullathachimedu, Pregnant Ladies Hill, he sped by the resting
stone. No time to rest. The bell at the novitiate gonged. Fifteen minutes to
go. The white steeple spiked over the top of the umbrella trees, sliced with
morning sunbeams and decorated with bright orange flowers.
Reaching the wicket gate just in
time, he witnessed nearly one hundred novices in habits, slightly bowing and
silently processing, two by two, into the church. He slipped in after them.
Mosaic tiles cooled his tired bare feet. Thanks to God and his landmarks, he’d
made it on time to assist Father Louis at Mass.
In the sacristy, Sagai tightened
the cincture rope around the red cassock, then pulled on his white surplice.
When a very small boy, he had held mock Mass at home. Amma would pin one towel
to his front and one to his back—his chasuble. Circles cut from cardboard
served as the host, fruit juice as wine. He’d light two candles and arrange
everything on a small table. Vijay, his younger brother, acted as altar server.
By age six, he had memorized all of the prayers of the Mass.
Now, ready for the real service,
Sagai knelt before the crucifix and promised to stay on his path toward
holiness and keep all of God’s commandments. He rose when Father Louis arrived
to vest, and handed the priest his cincture, stole, and chasuble.
After the service, Sagai shuffled
his bare feet in the dirt at the wicket gate, watching the retinue of nuns file
into the refectory. Waiting made him feel like a beggar. If he left, Sister
Mercy would think her daily offering of a few slices of bread was not
appreciated.
Peals of laughter drew his
attention across the road. The private school had already begun their quarter.
Two enormous lion statues guarded the compound beside the white pillars that
shot up to a high arch where St. Alban watched over the village hill station
atop a golden dome. Fenced in by black wrought iron, school children—Brits and
rich Indians—in suit jackets, ties and long pants, trickled out of the
dormitory for breakfast.
Sagai slid his hand inside his
shirt where the two buttons were missing, then tugged the frayed edges of his
faded shorts, patched in the back. Sometimes after serving at Mass he’d watch
the boys put on leg pads and knee guards, and use real bats on their lush green
field. At his school, on the other side of the village, they used a flat stick
and played cricket barefoot on a rocky uneven patch.
Hoofs tapped the hard packed dirt
road. A cow plodded past.
Sagai rubbed his rumbling stomach
and returned to the wicket gate. He was tempted to pluck fruit from the guava
tree, or at least pick up one of the many that lay on the ground rotting, but
that would be stealing. A sin. The cow, not knowing better, could eat the
fallen fruit. He should not.
He knelt and picked up a small
round stone and rolled it in his hand. Perfect ammunition. Those pesky monkeys,
now awake and watchful, were known thieves. Would knocking one of those
screeching troublemakers out of a tree be a sin? Before he could ponder
further, a young novice approached, smiling.
“For you.” She smiled and handed
him a package.
“Thank you.” An entire loaf of
bread. Enough to share with all at home. Sister Mercy must have asked her to
give it to him. The novice bowed, nodded, and walked away.
Before he could run, Sister Mercy
marched toward him. She eyed the loaf tucked under his arm. Her nostrils
flared. Smack. Her palm cracked against his cheek.
“Thief!”
“No, Sister.” He pointed, blinking
back tears. “That novice gave it to me.”
Sister Mercy wagged her finger.
“Even so, you know that I usually give you bread. You should not have accepted
it.” She snatched the loaf from Sagai and thrust her slices at him.
He turned and ran all the way to
Little Lake without stopping, horrified he’d be branded a thief. Would his
future lie in jeopardy?
On the grass beside the water, he
stared at the bread. He never went to church to get free bread. He went to
serve. He rubbed his cheek. A monkey eyed him from a rock. Sagai tossed the
bread. “Have it. I don’t want it.”
He wouldn’t mention the incident to
anyone. He prayed that Sister Mercy wouldn’t report it to Father Louis.
A flat black stone caught Sagai’s
eye. He skipped it on the lake. One, two, three, four times it bounced before
sinking. Lucky day. He leapt to his feet and ran toward home. God would make
sure his dream came true. He’d been chosen. He would go to seminary and become
a priest. His older brothers and sisters dropped out of school by seventh
standard, but surely Vijay would do the needful—finish school, and go to
college. He must. Someone had to take care of the family. His place was no
longer in Sheveroy Hills.
About the Author:
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Holly Michael, published in various magazines, newspapers, and in Guideposts books released her debut novel, Crooked Lines. She and her husband, Anglican Bishop Leo Michael, regularly travel from their home in Kansas City to India. She enjoys watching football, especially when her two sons are playing—Jake (NFL) and Nick (Rajin’ Cajuns). She also has a lovely daughter, Betsy.
Connect with Holly:
Twitter: @HollyMichael
Newsletter, please sign up. http://eepurl.com/5vTLP
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Member Book Review - He Who Has an Ear by Laura J Davis
Laura J
Davis
January 2014
ISBN: 9781492125051
Print $8.99, E-book $2.99
Biblical
Exposition
More than two thousand years ago the Apostle John
had a vision he received from the Lord. He was told to write seven letters to
the churches of Asia Minor. Out of the seven churches only two received
commendation from the Lord. The rest were letters of warning. Compromise and
disobedience, combined with a lack of knowledge of the Word of God, has placed
the 21st century church in a precarious situation. These letters to the seven
churches are a message for this generation during these last days. He who has
an ear will know what to do and act accordingly.
My Review: Insightful and well documented and
researched book dissecting the Revelation of the Seven Churches for today’s
meanings. Having just been in Ephesus, I appreciated the effort Davis went to
make these places come alive for contemporary readers. It’s always tricky to
make connections between popular current movements, people, and trends to
Biblical prophecy. That very issue of expectation and assumption has been going
on since the first Promise, however. Davis points out historical theories and
why people thought/think what they do about the Christian faith and how to
practice it.
Included in each chapter are check lists about
the characteristics of the churches, calls to action and contemplation,
questions and dialog interspersed with segments of the Scripture. My Kindle
copy has a little formatting trouble with spacing between sentences, but it was
not terribly difficult to read.
Monday, November 3, 2014
God is Doing Awesome Things in Nepal Through the John 3:16 Marketing Network
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Friday, October 31, 2014
A Taste of Friday First Chapters with He Who Has An Ear by Laura J Davis
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ABOUT THE BOOK: More than
two thousand years ago the Apostle John had a vision he received from the Lord.
He was told to write seven letters to the churches of Asia Minor. Out of the
seven churches only two received commendation from the Lord. The rest were
letters of warning.
Compromise and
disobedience, combined with a lack of knowledge of the Word of God, has placed
the 21st century church in a precarious situation. The letters to the seven
churches are a message for this generation during the last days. He who has an
ear will know what to do and act accordingly.
Who
the Seven Churches of Revelation are Today
By
Laura Davis
1.
Who Are the Seven Angels?
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W
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ho or what are the seven churches of
Revelation? Are they still in the world today? Were the seven churches in Asia
Minor real churches or do they represent a type of church (i.e.: Catholic,
Baptist, Pentecostal, etc.)? Are the warnings relevant to this generation? Are
they for each of us as individuals? As we look carefully through the letters of
Revelation, we will discover the answer to all these questions and more.
But before we can get
to any of the letters, we must determine who the angels were that the letters
were written to. It has been suggested that the angels represented the head or
bishop of each church. Others suggest the angels were actual celestial beings
that stood guard over these churches. First, let’s look at the word in both
Hebrew and Greek.
Angel in Hebrew is Malack and means messenger. Angel in
Greek is angelos and also means
messenger. So, what kind of messages do angels bring?
1.
They bring
good news (Luke 2:8-14; Luke 1:26-38).
2.
They also
bring bad news (Genesis 19:15).
3.
They
communicate God’s will to men. (They helped reveal the law to Moses [Acts
7:52-53] and served as the carriers for much of the material in Daniel and
Revelation).[i]
4.
They give
instructions and act as guides (Matthew 1:20-21; Acts 8:26; Acts 10:1-8).
5.
They
strengthen and encourage God’s people (Matthew 4:11; Acts 5:19-20; Acts
27:23-25).
The most important thing about angels is that they continually praise
God and carry out His commands. They ascend and descend to earth frequently.
(John 1:51; Genesis 28:12; Revelation 7:2). We cannot see them, but they are
here watching over us for God and, I assume, reporting back to Him on how we
are doing (Job 1:6).
Besides being messengers for God, angels have different jobs. For
example:
·
God has used
angels to provide for physical needs such as food for Hagar (Genesis 21:17-20),
Elijah (1 Kings 19:6), and Christ after His temptation (Matthew 4:11).[ii]
·
They act as
protectors (Daniel 3-6; Matthew 2:13).
·
They can
deliver people from danger. They released the apostles from prison in Acts 5
and did the same for Peter in Acts 12.
·
They care
for God’s people at the moment of their death (Luke 16:22).
There are
also different types of angels:
- Cherubim (Ezekiel 1)*
- Seraphim (Isaiah 6)
- Archangels—We know of two, Michael (Daniel
10:13; Jude 9) and Gabriel (Daniel 9:21; Luke 1:19; 26).
*For the
record, there is nothing in the Scriptures to indicate cherubim are cute little
babies. In fact, the reaction of most people who saw angels was to fall down in
fear, not reach out and say, “Coochie-coo!” The cherubs you see on Valentine’s
Day cards and at Christmas are from the minds of their human creators.
Before the
edict was given to write to the churches, John saw the following in his vision
in Revelation 1:12-16:
I turned around to
see the voice that was speaking to me. And when I turned I saw seven golden
lampstands, and among the lampstands was someone like a son of man dressed in a
robe reaching down to his feet and with a golden sash around his chest. The
hair on his head was white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes were like
blazing fire. His feet were like bronze glowing in a furnace, and his voice was
like the sound of rushing waters. In his right hand he held seven stars, and
coming out of his mouth was a sharp, double-edged sword. His face was like the
sun shining in all its brilliance.
It’s no
wonder that, in the next verse, John “fell at his feet as though dead.” But
Jesus touched him and said not to be afraid and then in verses 19-20 He said, “Write, therefore, what you have seen, what
is now and what will take place later. The mystery of the seven stars that you
saw in my right hand and of the seven golden lampstands is this: The seven
stars are the angels of the seven churches, and the seven lampstands are the
seven churches.”
To be clear,
John wrote about the past, the present, and the future. Then Jesus explained
the mystery of the seven stars and the seven golden lampstands. The seven stars
are the angels of the seven churches and the lampstands are the seven churches.
While the
appearance of angels was usually frightening enough to make people fall to the
ground, these supernatural beings sometimes took on human form. (In Genesis 18,
Abraham welcomed three visitors who appeared as men.)
According to
Strong’s Concordance, the word for
messenger and angel were used interchangeably. For example, in Malachi 2:7 we
read, “For the lips of a priest ought to
preserve knowledge, because he is the messenger
of the Lord Almighty and people seek instruction from his mouth.”
Again, the
Hebrew word for angel, Malak, means
messenger. It should be no surprise to learn that the word messenger in Hebrew is also Malak. If we read the verse above with that in mind, we get, “For the lips of a priest ought to preserve
knowledge, because he is the angel of
the Lord Almighty and people seek instruction from his mouth.”
Does that
mean our pastors are angels? Not in the real sense of an angel, no. However, it
does reveal how important God considers those who bring messages from Him,
either through His Word or through prophecy. People, therefore, should not be
so quick to say, “I have a message from the Lord,” unless they are very sure it
is the Lord who is sending it and it lines up with the Bible.
While it is
possible that each of the seven angels referred to in Revelation are actual
angels disguised as humans, I think it is more plausible that they are the
elders of the churches. It would make no sense for John to write letters and
send them to real angels. For that matter, why would Jesus have John write
everything down when the angels were always before Him in heaven?
In addition,
we must also remember that John was writing to real churches during his era.
The fact that these letters have been preserved for us is just a bonus. No, it
makes more sense that the angels are the messengers in the church who will read
the letters aloud to the congregations and thereby, bring forth the message
from God.
Now, here is
where confusion sets in. After the apostles died, other men who had known them
took up the reins to keep the church functioning. Catholic tradition suggests
there was a bishop for each church. For example, Ignatius was the bishop of
Antioch; Polycarp was the bishop of Smyrna; Timothy was the bishop of Ephesus;
and so on. However, there is no mention in the Bible that Timothy was appointed
as a bishop, not by Paul or anyone else. In fact, there are no scriptural
references that say each church should have one man as a bishop. The truth is,
the role of a bishop over the church did not start until at least 154 A.D.,
more than fifty years after the Apostle John died. That’s plenty of time for
wrong doctrine to enter the church.
Therefore,
the angels referenced in the letters to the seven churches could not be bishops
because one bishop for each church did not exist at the time the Apostle John
wrote Revelation. And since most churches today don’t have bishops in the
formal sense like the Catholic Church, how do these letters relate to us? Who
are the bishops of the church today? We’ll discuss that in the next chapter.
To
purchase He Who Has an Ear visit www.tinyurl.HeWhoHasanEar
[i] Dr. John Bechtle, “What is the Job Description for an Angel?” Christian Answers Network Website, URL http://christiananswers.net/q-acb/acb-t005.html#9
[ii] Dr. John Bechtle, “What is the Job Description for an Angel?” Christian Answers Network Website, URL
http://christiananswers.net/q-acb/acb-t005.html#9
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Laura J. Davis is
a former singer/songwriter who took to
You can contact Laura
through her website at www.laurajdavis.com and join her for a
Bible Study at www.believersbiblestudy.com.
Available through
Amazon on Kindle at http://tinyurl.com/qzbygms and in
paperback at http://tinyurl.com/q5c38u6.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Friday, October 24, 2014
The Gift of Books to the Orphans of Nepal
Orphans of Nepal receive books from #John316author s @AuthorMRoth pic.twitter.com/MW05DhxX9q
— Lorilyn Roberts (@LorilynRoberts) October 24, 2014
Today was the most moving yet. We spent a couple of hours reading with the children.
I was amazed at how well they read English, their sweet spirit, and their excitement of receiving the books.
They hung on every word as I shared with them how I received most of the books, through the generosity of John 3:16 authors.
I have many more pictures and videos to share. Please be sure to follow the blog so you don't miss future posts on this amazing trip to the ends of the earth.
A Taste of Friday First Chapters Dead Dreams by Emma Right
About the Book:
When eighteen-year-old
Brie O’Mara accepted Sarah McIntyre into her life to be her roommate, she
entertained only the best of hopes for herself. Despite her long work hours and
tedious jobs, Brie was working on saving for a better future. Best of all, Sarah
was an heiress and more than generous with her money. Brie was about to be the
envy of everyone she knew. Her dreams of making something of her life, of going
to acting school, maybe even of rekindling her friendship with her high school
sweetheart, might just come true. What more could she hope for? Especially
since Sarah was more than willing to share her fortune. Or did she hide an
ulterior motive behind promising big dreams to Brie?
Dead Dreams, Book 1, a
contemporary young adult thriller and mystery is a Gold award winner in
Readers’ Favorite, young adult mystery category.
Dead Dreams, Book 1,
the suspense and mystery continues in Gone Missing (Dead Dreams Book 2)
Buy on Amazon
First chapter
Prologue
They say each dead
body, a human corpse, has a scent all of its own, a sweet-sour smell. A cadaver
dog picks up the odor as clearly as a mother recognizes a photo of her child.
Of course, I wouldn’t know, for I am no dog. I might as well have been, the way
I’d stooped to yield to my basic instincts. My mind wandered to her, what her
unique smell would be when, and if, they ever were to find her.
vvv
After what
happened, I decided to write out the events that led to that day, and details,
in case I’d missed something, or might need it for defense, or in case they
found me dead. My relatives might need to piece together the things that had
spiraled out of control, if they wanted to put me to rest, to forget me
altogether. That would be least painful for them. I nodded to myself as I sat
in the car. I thought of my most favorite girl in the world: Lilly. At least
Lilly’d have my dog, Holly, and Rosco, my teddy, to remember me by.
My friends used to call
me Brie, short for Brianna. But, I could hardly count anyone a friend any more.
I’d have to resort to back-watching if I wanted to survive.
Chapter One
It started on a warm
April afternoon. Gusts of wind blew against the oak tree right outside my
kitchen balcony, in my tiny apartment in Atherton, California. Sometimes the
branches that touched the side of the building made scraping noises. The yellow
huckleberry flowers twining their way across my apartment balcony infused the
air with sweetness.
My mother had insisted,
as was her tendency on most things, I take the pot of wild huckleberry,
her housewarming gift, to my new two-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t really new,
just new to me, as was the entire experience of living separately, away from my
family, and the prospect of having a roommate, someone who could be a best
friend, something I’d dreamed of since I finished high school and debuted into
adulthood.
“Wait for me by the
curb,” my mother said, her voice blaring from the phone even though I didn’t
set her on speaker. “You need to eat better.” Her usual punctuation at the end
of her orders.
So, I skipped down
three flights of steps and headed toward the side of the apartment building to
await my mother’s gift of the evening, salad in an á la chicken style, her
insistent recipe to cure me of bad eating habits. At least it wasn’t chicken
soup double-boiled till the bones melted, I consoled myself.
I hadn’t waited long
when a vehicle careened round the corner. I heard it first, that high-pitched
screech of brakes wearing thin when the driver rammed his foot against it. From
the corner of my eye, even before I turned to face it, I saw the blue truck. It
rounded the bend where Emerson Street met Ravenswood, tottered before it
righted itself and headed straight at me.
I took three steps
back, fell and scrambled to get back up as the vehicle like a giant bullet
struck the sidewalk I had only seconds ago stood on. The driver must have lost
control, but when he hit the sidewalk it slowed the vehicle enough so he could
bridle his speed and manage the truck as he continued to careen down the
street.
My mother arrived a
half minute later but she had seen it all. Like superwoman, she leaped out of
her twenty-year-old Mercedes and rushed toward me, all breathless and blonde
hair disheveled.
“Are you all right?”
She reached out to help me up.
“Yes, yes,” I said,
brushing the dirt off my yoga pants.
“Crazy driver. Brie, I
just don’t know about this business of you staying alone here like this.” She
walked back to her white Mercedes, leaned in the open window, and brought out a
casserole dish piled high with something green. Make that several shades of
green.
I followed her,
admittedly winded. “Seriously, Mom. It’s just one of those things. Mad drivers
could happen anywhere I live.”
She gave me no end of
grief as to what a bad idea it was for me to live alone like this even though
she knew I was going to get a roommate.
“Mom, stop worrying,” I
said.
“You’re asking me to
stop being your mother, I hope you realize this.”
“I’ll find someone
dependable by the end of the week, I promise.” No way I was going back to live
at home. Not that I came from a bad home environment. But I had my reasons.
I had advertised on
Craig’s List, despite my mother’s protests that only scum would answer “those
kinds of ads.”
Perhaps there was some
truth to Mother’s biases, but I wouldn’t exactly call Sarah McIntyre scum. If
she was, what would that make me?
Sarah’s father had
inherited the family “coal” money. Their ancestors had emigrated from Scotland
(where else, with a name like McIntyre, right?) in the early 1800s and bought
an entire mountain (I kid you not) in West Virginia. It was a one-hit wonder in
that the mountain hid a coal fortune under it, and hence the McIntyre Coal
Rights Company was born. This was the McIntyre claim to wealth, and also a
source of remorse and guilt for Sarah, for supposedly dozens of miners working
for them had lost their lives due to the business, most to lung cancer or black
lung, as it was commonly called. Hazards of the occupation.
And then there were
cave-ins, which presented another set of drama altogether, Sarah said.
I sat across from her,
the coffee table between us, in the small living room during our first meeting.
“So, that’s why you’re not on talking terms with your family? Because of abuses
of the coal company? ” I asked.
We sipped hot cocoa and
sat cross-legged in the crammed living room, which also doubled as the dining
space. I’d never interviewed anyone before, although I’d read tips on the
Internet.
“I just don’t want to
be reminded anymore,” she said, twirling her dark ringlets round and round on
her pointer finger.
“But, it’s not entirely
your dad’s fault those people died of lung problems.”
“I guess, but I just
want to get away, you understand? Anyway, I’m almost twenty-one now. That’s
three years too late for moving out and establishing my own space.” She took
tiny sips of the cocoa, both hands cupping the mug as if she were cold.
I walked to the
thermostat and upped the temperature. A slight draft still stole in from a gap in
the balcony sliding door I always kept open a crack to let the air circulate.
“So, your family’s okay
with you living here? In California? In this apartment that’s probably smaller
than your bathroom? With a stranger?”
“First off, it’s none
of their business. Secondly, you and I won’t stay strangers.” Sarah
flashed me a grin. “Besides, I’m tired of big houses with too many rooms to get
lost in. And, have you lived in West Virginia?”
I shook my head. The
farthest I’d been was Nevada when we went for our family annual ski vacation.
“I heard it’s pretty.”
“If you like hot, humid
summers and bitter cold winters. So, do I pass? As a roommate?”
She looked about at the
ceiling. I wondered if she noticed the dark web in the corner and the lack of
cornices and crown moldings. I was sure I smelled mold in the living room, too.
But I wasn’t in a position to choose. Sarah was.
“As long as you’re not
a psychopath and can pay rent.” I returned her smile.
“I don’t know about the
psychopath part.” She shrugged and displayed her white, evenly-spaced teeth.
“But here’s my bank account.” She tossed me a navy blue booklet with gilded
edges and with golden words “Bank of America” on the cover.
I fumbled as I caught
it and was unsure what to do. “Should I peek?”
“Go on.” She gestured,
flicking her fingers at me as if I were a stray cat afraid to take a morsel of
her offering.
“No secrets. I can well
afford to pay rent. And, I’m a stable individual.”
I flipped the first few
pages and saw the numerous transactions in lumps my parents, who were by no
means poor, would have gasped at. The last page registered the numbers: under
deposits, $38,000. My eyes scanned the row of numbers and realized that the sum
$38,000 came up every sixth of the month.
My mouth must have been
open for she said, “You can stop gawking. It’s only my trust fund. It comes to
me regardless of where I am, or where I stay. So, do I make the cut?”
I handed the bank book
back. We discussed the house rules: no smoking; no drugs, and that included
pot; no boyfriend sleepovers or wild parties, which was a clause in my
landlord’s lease; and Sarah was to hand me her share of the rent, a mere $800,
on the twenty-eighth of every month, since I was the main renter and she the
sub-letter.
She didn’t want
anything down on paper—no checks, no contracts, and no way of tracing things
back to her, she’d stressed a few times.
She fished in her Louis
Vuitton and handed me a brown paper bag, the kind kids carry their school
lunches in. I peeked inside and took out a stash of what looked like a wad of
papers bundled together with a rubber band. Her three-month share of the
deposit, a total of twenty-four crisp hundred-dollar bills. They had that
distinct new-bank-notes-smell that spoke of luxury.
I gulped down my hot
chocolate. “Why all the secrecy? I hope your parents will at least know your
address.” I said as I wrapped up the interview. I could understand not wanting
her parents breathing down her neck, but as long as they didn’t insist on
posting a guard at the door, what was the harm of them knowing where she lived?
Sarah glanced about the
room as if afraid the neighbors might have their ears pinned to the walls,
listening.
She leaned forward and,
her face expressionless, said softly, “My parents are dead.”
Author Bio:
Award winning author
and copywriter, Emma Right, is a happy wife and homeschool mother of five
living in the Pacific West Coast. Besides running a busy home, and looking
after too many pets, she also writes stories—when she is not behind the wheel
driving her children for various activities. Her books have won literary
awards. She hopes her stories will help empower young adults and children, and
instil the love of learning and reading. Ms. Right worked as a copywriter and
has won national and international advertising awards, including the
prestigious Clio. Learn more about Emma Right and her books at emmaright.com
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