Tag Archives: Race War

Prayers Against Upcoming Race Wars in America (11/7/2017)

Twenty years ago, I had a vision of a race war hitting America. It was a haunting vision in that I saw bands of black youths armed with AK-47s attacking wealthy suburbs. They slaughtered families and burned down homes. The black youths gave each other high-fives with each new murder.

Once prosperous neighborhoods were burnt to the ground with bodies everywhere.

Terrible scenes, right? It gets worse!

The police and politicians could not handle the race war because they also had racial problems in their midst. Their racial divisions ended up negating their effectiveness. So, they did nothing.

Then, in the last scene of the vision, I saw white armies attack America’s inner cities, shooting down black male youths. The end result was the loss of of most of black America’s young males.

John Paul Jackson prophesied the following:

There is anger going to be erupting. There is violence going to be in the streets. Rich houses and neighborhoods are going to be invaded. The Robin Hood mentality, “What’s yours is mine,” is going to spread and all you’re going to be seeing in [some] multimillion dollar neighborhoods is chimneys left standing and burnt chars of the houses. Violence is going to be so prevalent that police forces are not going to be able to take care of it. And even the military forces will only be able to take care of it in the urban areas and not the rural areas. Not even all the urban areas will be taken care of. It will be so wide spread. (Prophecy can be seen here.)

Can we stop this from happening? Maybe. Maybe not.

My prayer today:

Lord, we cry out to You for the dry bones in the inner cities of America that they would hear the Word of the Lord and that You would breathe Your Spirit into them. (Based on Ezekiel 37:4-5, 14)

What do you think and has the Lord spoken to you today?

Join with me on Tuesdays to fast and pray for American believers’ eyes to be opened.

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Black Mothers Choose Life For Your Sons (Part 3)

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If I had not been there, I would not have believed what happened, not in a million years.

That particular Saturday morning was Farmer City’s annual Sidewalk Sales Extravaganza. Crowds of people filled the streets of the downtown business district. All checked out the sales bargains lining the tables in front of retail stores. Brown jersey gloves were three pairs for a dollar at Hesston’s Hardware. Dollar General sold Handi-Wipes for seventy-nine cents a package.

Though the city was populated with nineteen hundred tight-fisted Norwegian and German-Americans, these blond-haired, blue-eyed conservatives liked nothing better than saving a buck or two.

My little concession trailer sat on the street in front of the courthouse. Popcorn, snow cones, and cotton candy were hot items for the first two hours. Sales slacked off around 11:30 a.m.

I took a break and stood outside the trailer, smoking a cigarette, when I saw the stranger heading toward me. And if ever a fish was out of water, it was this man. An African-American in Farmer City. His pockmarked face was covered with four-day stubble. A jagged scar stretched from the base of his neck to his left ear and he wore a black Oakland Raiders’ sweatshirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing gang tattoos on his bulging forearms. Plus, he had the thousand-yard stare of an ex-con.

As he passed by, he nodded at me.

“Hi, how are you?” he whispered without breaking stride.

Being curious, I turned to watch him.

He walked over to a green bench in the city square and climbed up on it. Then, he cupped his mouth with his massive hands.

“Hey, everyone, listen up. I’m holding a healing crusade in Jesus’ name this morning. So, if you need a miraculous healing, come over here,” he shouted.

People stopped what they were doing and looked at him. They had to be wondering who he thought he was, an Oral Roberts or some other evangelist like that. But believe it or not, the crowd moved toward him as if he were a Pied Piper.

An eighty-year old lady scooted her walker up to the front of the group. She looked up at the stranger.

“Okay, sonny, let’s see you do your stuff,” she said with arched eyebrows.

A slight smile etched his chiseled face. He jumped down, and in one continuous motion, he grabbed the walker and flung it onto the lawn, saying, “In Jesus’ name, be healed. Now, dance for Him.”

The crowd gasped as she teetered there, her weak legs straining to hold her up. A man reached to grab her, but the African-American slapped the Good Samaritan’s hands away.

“Don’t help her,” he said. “Let the Lord finish His work in her.”

A few in the crowd booed the African-American, but he paid them no attention. He knew what he was doing.

Then, it happened. A big smile lit up the lady’s face. She straightened up, kicked one leg up in the air, and then the other. She followed with a scissors kick, using both legs at once. Tears streamed down her face as she lifted up her hands and danced on the sidewalk, praising Jesus for the miracle.

People instantly formed a line in the street. Some were young. Some were old. There were cripples, amputees, cancer sufferers, heart victims, mentally ill, and numerous others who were afflicted with some malady or another. They waited patiently for the stranger to pray for them.

As the black man moved toward the first person in line, an arm reached out, and grabbed his shoulder. The stranger stopped and turned around, looking into the face of a blond-haired man wearing a black suit.

“Yes, may I help you?” he asked in a deep voice.

“I’m Reverend Adam Johnson, head of Farmer City’s ministerial board,” said the man. “We don’t believe you should be holding a healing crusade just yet. No one knows whom you are accountable to. Allow us to check out your credentials. And if everything turns out okay, you can hold some healing meetings in one of our churches next week.”

The smile on the African-American’s face dipped downward.

“To whom were you referring when you said we?”

Reverend Johnson pointed to six men dressed in dark suits, standing under an oak tree behind the bench.

“Those are the other pastors on our board. And like most pastors, we just want to protect our flocks from unknown strangers like you.”

The African-American put his hands under the armpits of Reverend Johnson, picking him off the ground. He tossed him as if he were a basketball over the bench at the other six pastors. The clergy reached out their arms and cushioned Johnson’s fall to the ground.

The stranger stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, as if he were deciding further action against the group. Fear crept into the seven pastor’s eyes. They stepped back away from him.

“Don’t you ever get in my way again! I came here to hold a healing crusade for Jesus this morning and people like you are not going to stop me. Do you hear me?” he proclaimed, pointing a finger at the pastors.

They nodded in agreement at the man’s words and fled the city square.

The stranger then turned around and began praying for people.

What happened next was unbelievable. It was as if Jesus Himself was holding a healing meeting in Farmer City. Everyone received his healing, no one left in disappointment.

When the stranger finished, he walked away. A few tried to stop him, but he shook them off.

“Just thank Jesus and give Him the glory, okay?” he said over his shoulder.

But as he headed toward me, he slowed down and stopped a few feet away from me. He eyed me up and down for a few seconds as I puffed a cigarette. Our eyes locked, but neither of us spoke.

I looked away.

The burning love and compassion in his eyes made me feel like I was standing naked in front of him. He knew the type of man I was and yet, he still cared about me. Why? I do not know, but I wanted to know.

When I looked again, he was gone.

(Excerpt from Deceived Dead and Delivered by Larry Nevenhoven, © 2013, Amazon eBook)

 

(Continued in Part 4…the full series to date can be seen here.)

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Black Mothers: Choose Life for Your Sons (Part 1)

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Does anyone remember Catherine Quinn?

She was a widowed mother and would still be an unknown woman, except for her decision on July 31, 1981, which echoed her name across Ireland, Great Britain, and the whole world.

Four years earlier, Catherine had watched her nineteen year-old son, Paddy Quinn, sentenced to fourteen years in the H-Block of Maze Prison in Northern Ireland for his part in a failed Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA) ambush against a British Army unit. Upon entering prison, Paddy became an active participant in the IRA protests against being labeled criminals, rather than paramilitary prisoners.

Those IRA protests escalated into the 1981 Irish Hunger Strikes, beginning with a man named Bobby Sands who started his food fast on March 1, 1981. During Sands’ hunger strike, he was elected to British Parliament as an Anti-H-Block candidate. Sands’ election, hunger strike, and eventual death brought world-wide attention to IRA’s demands and a surge in recruitment activity. 100,000 people attended his funeral.

Other IRA prisoners joined the Hunger Strike at staggered intervals after Sands, in hopes of applying the heaviest possible pressure on Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and the British government.

When Paddy began his food fast on June 15, 1981, four men had already died and five others were at various stages in the strike. Paddy told his mom not to intervene if he fell into a coma. “You either back me or you back Maggie Thatcher,” he said.

On July 31, Paddy Quinn fell into a coma after forty-seven days and could no longer make decisions for himself. Six men had died on the hunger strike and three others hovered near death in the prison hospital. All were considered heroes and martyrs because IRA fervor was at its peak.

Authorities ushered Catherine Quinn into Paddy’s hospital room where she saw his emaciated body being wracked by epileptic twitches. She walked over to him and leaned down, whispering into his ear, “Paddy, I love you and can’t let you die. God has a plan for your life.”

Medical aides stepped in and saved Paddy’s life.

Even though four other men died after Catherine’s decision, the rest of the families intervened and the 1981 Hunger Strike ended with ten dead and twelve survivors.

So, was Catherine Quinn considered a hero?

No, not at all!

She was considered a traitor and turncoat to the IRA cause. Her son Paddy was angry with her. Her neighbors shunned her. The mothers of the ten dead hunger strikers hated her for tarnishing their son’s martyr’s deaths.

Yet, she didn’t care because she loved her son and believed God still had a plan for his young life.

Hey, black mothers, are you willing to be ostracized by your neighbors and families for loving your sons enough to do whatever you have to do to save their lives?

(Continued in Part 2)

 

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