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Spiritual Warfare in San Francisco (Part 2)

“The small crack in the principality’s force field has come about because of an orchestrated prayer effort by prayer warriors, fasting and proclaiming Psalm 2:8 and Ephesians 3:10 into the heavens.” He touched his ear. “Listen.”

I heard the combined voices of thousands of intercessors praying: “Lord, we ask You to give us the heathen in San Francisco as an inheritance and a possession for Your kingdom. And in Jesus’ name, we command the principalities and powers to let go of San Francisco.”

He remained silent for a few moments before he picked up the conversation again.

“Now, the good news,” he said. “The crack allows the Lord to send a Special Forces combatant into San Francisco to do some heavy damage on the enemy’s defenses.”

I swallowed hard. A question bubbled up within me.

“A special forces combatant?”

“Jeremiah, you’re the combatant.”

“But – ”

His eyes narrowed.

“Yes?”

“Why not just continue using prayer? It seems to be working.”

“Every battle, every war is different. Jesus, the Commander in Chief, knows best what is needed to bring forth a victory. You need to follow His plan.”

My mind reeled.

“Please, help me understand what I’ve just witnessed.”

“The first woe on San Francisco was a shot across the bow, just to get everyone’s attention. As far as any damage inflicted on the spiritual government over the city, it was minimal. A slight bump in the road for the spirit of depravity. And then, it has been back to normal, business as usual. This time will be different.

“But to truly understand spiritual warfare, you need to remember: Satan was an archangel who understands the government of God. When he rebelled, he became the father of lies and there’s no truth in him. Everything Satan attempts to do is a lying counterfeit of what God does and how God governs.”

He glanced at me, making sure I was on the same page with him.

“Satan’s army wears protective armor just like Christians do, but the demonic armor is the exact opposite of God’s armor. Their loins are girded with lies; their breastplates are unrighteousness; their feet are shod with chaos; they have shields of fear; they wear helmets of eternal doom; and their swords are the lying words of Satan. But there is one important similarity common to both God’s army and Satan’s forces. Can you guess what it is?”

I shook my head.

“Unity,” he said. “Both armies’ success depends on unity. God’s army is unified through faith in God and love of God and the brethren. Satan’s forces are unified in their hatred of God and His followers – and – their fear of God, Satan, each other, and bold believers.

“The crack reveals a successful chipping away in the unity and resolve of Satan’s army by the intercessors’ prayers and proclamations of truth. It’s wide enough now for your upcoming prophetic words to enter through it, and then out into the spiritual atmosphere over the city. There your prophetic words will confront speculations and thoughts that are opposed to the obedience of Christ in San Francisco.”

“Will the spirit of depravity counterattack?” I asked, remembering how the principality increased its barrage right after the crack appeared.

“Yes. All wars are filled with attacks and counterattacks, but your prophecies will provide a needed weapon which the saints can use to fight the good fight.”

He stared at me and the silence stretched for nearly a minute.

“The counterattack will be especially rough for you, but His grace will be sufficient,” he said. “Now, I have some special words for you.”

He told me my instructions and as he spoke, the gift of faith embraced me.

(An excerpt from Jonah by Larry Nevenhoven, ©2012, Amazon eBook)

(Continued in Part 3)

 

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Spiritual Warfare in San Francisco (Part 1)

Time and commissions softened the agents’ attitudes towards me. They turned cordial. Even the Lene girls treated me extra nice. The three continued calling me Junior, but their words contained a ring of admiration when they did it. The spring months passed and the real estate market heated up during the first two weeks of June. Everyone at the real estate office was busy making money.

Then, the angel stopped by my house.

The sun had set, the evening shadows merged into deep darkness. Albert lay on the red tile floor by the refrigerator, his tail wagging back and forth in time to a doggy dream. I stood at the stainless steel sink, washing dishes, and putting them away in the white cabinets when I heard a noise behind me.

“Oh mighty man of valor, how are you?” he said.

I gasped and almost fumbled a serving bowl.

“Fear not,” he said, holding his hand up.

The white-robed angel stood next to the oven, his chestnut hair a mere six inches from the ceiling. He held a gold handled sword in his left hand, with the point aimed downward. His words calmed my fears, even though there was a combat-readiness about him.

He extended his right hand to me.

“Are you ready to go?”

I knew a rhetorical question when I heard one so I offered him my left hand.

Up through the roof, we took a sharp right toward City Hall. The wind whistled through my white tee-shirt and jeans. My feet were bare. I recognized the streets as we passed over them. California Street. Pine Street. Geary Street. Golden State Avenue. Grove Street. At City Hall, he put on the brakes so we hovered a hundred feet above the dome’s pinnacle.

“Tonight, your spiritual eyes will be opened up another notch, to three notches.”

I did not speak.

There was no expression on his face, but I thought I saw a smile in his eyes for a split second.

“So, you remember the rules, huh?” He pointed up. “Look,” he said.

I followed his finger and saw the spirit of depravity sitting on a brass throne blocking a light portal. Once again, the ruling principality continually alternated its appearance between that of a beautiful white angel and that of a monster gargoyle. First one and then the other. The spirit never rested. The hologram ticker-tapes carrying lies spewed out of its mouth toward the earth below, but this time, I observed something else.

Have you ever seen World War II films showing German bombers flying over London and anti-aircraft guns firing up in the air at them? Every fourth or fifth bullet was a phosphorous tracer shell so the artillerymen could track their firing and adjust their aims. The skies lit up with these phosphorous bullets of light heading toward targets overhead.

This was what it reminded me of when I looked up, because thousands of bullets of light ripped through the heavens toward the spirit of depravity. The bullets came out of San Francisco, from other American cities, from foreign lands, and especially out of China and Korea. None seemed off-target. They converged at a specific point on a force field of some kind which shielded the principality. The force field appeared to have a spiritual life to it.

I noticed a weakening in the force field. A small crack appeared. The look on the principality’s face revealed the alarm and terror it felt from the damage inflicted on its protective shield. The spirit reacted by accelerating its ticker-tape barrage upon the earth below.

“This spiritual warfare is being waged by chosen intercessors against the spirit of depravity. Many of the prayer warriors are former gays, lesbians, sexual perverts, women who had abortions, people involved in the abortion industry, and even babies who have survived abortion attempts on them. They have been washed in the Lamb’s blood and delivered from their pasts. Now, they are used, along with others, by the Lord God of Hosts as His air force against Satan’s forces.”

Air force? I thought. The Lord has an air force. Does He have marines? Or a navy, too?

(An excerpt from Jonah by Larry Nevenhoven, ©2012, Amazon eBook)

(Continued in Part 2)

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Geezer Up (Part 15-b)

Jane

Two hours later, I sat in the lobby of Effingham and Effingham between J. C. and Shira. A thin middle-aged secretary with auburn hair typed on a computer keyboard at the receptionist desk in front of us. Off to our left, two suit-clad men sat huddled over their iPads.

“Jane Matthews, Mr. Effingham is ready for you now,” said the receptionist, looking over the top of her reading glasses and pointing to the right. “Go down that hallway and take the first left. His office is the last one with his name on the door. Just knock on the door.”

The three of us stood up and walked past her desk down a cherry paneled hallway. After we turned the corner, Effingham’s office was straight ahead.

“Jane, how are you feeling?” asked Shira.

“Scared to death and like throwing up.

J. C. patted me on the back. “You must be ready for the big game then?”

“How can you say that?”

“Bill Russell, Hall of Fame Boston Celtic basketball center, vomited before every big game he ever played in. His coach thought it was the team’s good luck charm and would not let the team run onto the court until Bill vomited.”

“Thanks for encouraging me…I guess.”

J. C. tapped on the tall six-panel door. A deep voice directed us to enter. J. C. then opened the door and ushered us into an office that in my wildest dreams I could never have imagined ever existed. It was a basketball court with a large walnut executive desk in the right corner. A round table with four chairs sat on one side of the desk and a leather sofa sat on the other. Prints and photos of the Golden State Warriors’ stars hung on the walls.

A tall man wearing a blue Warrior’s basketball warm up suit stood up and pointed toward the round table. He appeared to be in his middle forties, but it was hard to judge his age because of his fit shape and dark hair.

“Hi J. C. and Shira. This must be Jane Matthews, right?” he said, holding his huge hand out to me.

I shook his hand and nodded at him.

“Do you actually play basketball here?” I asked, looking around the gigantic room.

“All the time,” he said. “In fact, my dad purchased the glass backboard and hoop from the Warriors when they moved their games from the Cow Palace in Daly City to Oakland. It’s a one of a kind.”

We sat down around the table. Effingham had a legal pad and silver pen in front of him.

“Okay now, you’re planning on pleading your husband’s right to free speech versus San Francisco’s new hate crime law by taking your case to the media, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you done much public speaking before?”

“No, none at all.”

“Do you have idea what you will say?”

“No.”

“Do you realize the interviewers will infer that you and your husband are hate filled Christian bigots and will paint you as being worse than the most vile member of the Westboro Baptist Church? How do you plan on handling this?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I have no clue.”

He dropped his pen and blew out a deep breath. “So, you want me to help you without letting me know ahead of time what you will say or do? Is that correct?”

Before I could answer, a mantle of boldness draped itself over my shoulders. I smashed my fist on the table without planning to do so, causing his pen to fly onto the floor.

“Listen up, Effingham, the Lord said not to worry about what I would say ahead of time because He would give me a mouth and words which my adversaries would not be able to contradict or resist. I plan on trusting Him. How do you feel about that?”

Effingham’s dark eyes bulged out for a second and then a smile etched his lips. “I think we’ll make a great team. But what I’m really going to do is just stay out of your way and toss you into the toughest lion dens in the city. I pity them. They won’t know what hit them.”

He stood up and shook my hand. “So, give me the rest of today to work out the details. I’ll should have a speaking schedule ready for you sometime tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Do you have a restroom? I think I’m going to throw up.”

(A new sequel to Unhitched Geeser, which can be checked out here.)

(Continued in Part 16…the full series to date can be read here.)

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Geezer Up (Part 15)

Jane

“Okay, what’s your problem?” asked J. C. when we walked into the tiled foyer of their townhouse.

“Nothing,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“Sorry, that doesn’t work with me,” he said. “We can’t help if you don’t open up to us. Now, what’s you problem?”

We walked down a short picture lined hallway and into the family room. I sat down on a soft brown leather sofa while J. C. and Shira sat on a matching one on the opposite side of a glass-topped coffee table. I turned to look out the windows at the Golden Gate Bridge. No fog. Sunny and clear. Traffic seemed light on the bridge for 10:30 in the morning. I turned to face my friends.

“Here’s the deal,” I said, blowing out a deep breath. “The Lord wants me to go on TV, radio, to churches, and wherever He opens the door to defend Dylan’s stand and plead his cause.”

“What a great idea!” proclaimed Shira.

“Not really because I hate public speaking. I just can’t do it!”

Shira moved over next to me and put her arm around me. The gentle scent of her Estée Lauder perfume cajoled my emotions, calming me down a notch or two on my inner Richter scale.

“Jane, what’s the worse that could happen?” she asked.

“I might fail.”

“Really? The Lord would put Dylan’s future into your hands so He could watch you fail. How would that advance the kingdom of God?”

Although still sweet, a different side of Shira emerged at that moment: the exhorter. She had her periscope up, torpedo tubes loaded, and I was in her crosshairs.

“Okay, maybe I won’t fail, but I will most certainly make a fool of myself.”

The words skated past my brain and out my mouth before I could filter them. Shira looked into my eyes and grinned.

“Ah, at last, the truth.”

I wrinkled my nose.

“My answer didn’t sound very good, right?”

Shira shook her head. “No, darling.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay, do either of you know how I can carry out this assignment from the Lord?”

“Hobart Effingham III,” said J. C., pulling his iPhone out of his pocket.

“Hobart Effingham? What’s that?”

“Effingham is a Christian businessman who happens to be the president of the largest public relations firm in San Francisco. A few phone calls by him will land you on the top-rated TV and radio programs in the area. As for churches, I can make some contacts to help you.”

Okay Lord, I thought, here I am. Use me.

(A new sequel to Unhitched Geeser, which can be checked out here.)

(Continued in Part 16…the full series to date can be read here.)

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Geezer Up (Part 14)

Jane

J. C. and Shira sat in the front seats of their BMW while I sat in the backset. Our conversation died off within the first few blocks of driving toward their home on Nob Hill, which suited me just fine because I was arguing with God.

Most people who have met Dylan and me would assume that we must have been cut from the same small town cloth, but nothing could have been further from the truth.

Dylan’s parents were two of the sweetest people who have ever lived. Love and peace permeated every corner of their home. Meal times for Dylan and his sister Darla were filled with lively conversations about what happened during their day. All who sat around the table, even guests, were encouraged to contribute. Family problems were handled in love, rather than anger. Both parents attended Dylan and Darla’s school events, cheering them on from their seats. Because of the loving atmosphere provided by his parents, Dylan grew up to be a confident, loving adult.

By comparison, fear filled our home because of my dad. Although he was a successful real estate broker, he hated his career, his life, and himself. He took out his anguish on my mother, brother, sister, and me. We never knew what would trip his trigger, but when it happened he would turn into a ranting madman slinging four-letter words and accusations at everyone. It usually climaxed with him slapping us around.

Mealtimes? Oh my! These were tortuous occasions for the family because Dad demanded absolute quiet from us while he ate his meal. If for any reason, we children made a chewing noise or squirmed a bit in our chairs, he might smack us and send us to bed, berating us as we left the room. If he did speak and asked a question and then didn’t like our answers, he might slap us across the face right there at the table. Mom always sat in her chair with her head down like a timid titmouse, too afraid to confront Dad or defend her children. Her only solace was a bottle of Jack Daniels hidden behind the cereal boxes in the pantry.

Not only that, my dad attempted to molest me soon after my thirteenth birthday. I fought him off and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. He never attempted to touch me again, but being alone in the house with him caused panic attacks to strike me so that I trembled and struggled to breathe. All I could think about during those times was the day his hands fondled my breasts.

What few friends or boyfriends I had were never invited into my home nor did I ever share the shame and pain I felt in my heart with anyone. Never once! Looking back, I now realize how fortunate it was for me to be a straight-A student because it kept prying eyes away from my life and our home.

My most awkward moment occurred on October 12th of my freshman year at the University of San Diego. My phone rang at 6:35 in the evening while I was writing an English essay at my dorm room’s desk. I answered, “Hello.”

“Hi honey.”

“Oh, hi mom.”

“I have some bad news.”

“Okay, let’s have it.”

“Your dad suffered a heart attack this afternoon and died before the paramedics arrived at his office.”

I did not say a word nor did mom. The dead air space continued between us for more than ninety seconds before I finally said, “Oh.”

Mom closed by saying the funeral arrangements would be made the next morning.

“Okay, mom.”

I hung up, shed no tears, and felt no grief.

Is it wrong to feel like this, I wondered. Then, I continued writing my essay.

Meeting Dylan and Jesus changed me into the woman I eventually have become, but still, I froze up and could not speak in front of audiences. All of my childhood pain and shame came roaring back into my mind. I just couldn’t do it!

So, when the Lord spoke to my heart in the backseat of the BMW, saying, “I want you to speak on TV, radio, in churches, and wherever I open the door, defending Dylan’s stand and pleading his cause,” I shook my head.

“No, Lord, I can’t do that,” I whispered.

Have you ever argued with the Lord? Did you win?

Of course not and neither did I.

(A new sequel to Unhitched Geeser, which can be checked out here.)

(Continued in Part 15…the full series to date can be read here.)

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