Home Random Page


CATEGORIES:

BiologyChemistryConstructionCultureEcologyEconomyElectronicsFinanceGeographyHistoryInformaticsLawMathematicsMechanicsMedicineOtherPedagogyPhilosophyPhysicsPolicyPsychologySociologySportTourism






Hell Returns to Church

 

The following Sunday I attended church as usual with some embarrassment and shame for what had happened the week before. All week long I had felt the demons’ anger toward me. But I had had a taste of the goodness of Jesus, and for the first time the inescapable truth of the awful mess I was in came to me with a shuddering fear.

During Bible class, I was glad no one mentioned anything about the fiasco at the altar. And it was this that helped me to understand the love of Jesus in others. When the service started, I went and sat in my seat, taking in the presence of God while the worship team lifted up their voices in praise. What a good day to be alive.

When the music ended, we all sat and the associate pastor took the podium. But before he even said a word, I began to feel that same rage and sickness again. Something swirled behind me, around me, in me, and I ran to the altar for help.

As the pastor started his message, a pair of hands reached for his throat—my hands. Instantly, every able-bodied man in the congregation flew out of their seats in one mad rush to protect their pastor, to tear me away from him. It was the same scene happening all over again. In the huddle, the associate pastor tried praying for me, but I was too busy tossing grown men about.

Ushers flew off my back effortlessly. This was not what I had come to do, but they, the demons that had possessed me again, came for revenge a second time around. They were in full control of me. Hell came to church that day.

A fear I had never known raced through my mind as I realized Satan had no intentions of letting me go. He intended to make me his forever, whether I liked it or not, whether I served him or not. At that moment I cried out to Jesus. Not with my voice. My lips were stitched shut again. But within my heart—the place where only God hears.

A wall of men tried dragging me out of the sanctuary into the hallway, away from the altar, away from those who came to church that day, but burning hot energy surged through me, and more people tumbled away. A moment later, the intercessory prayers of the people began taking effect, and I was hustled out of the gym, subdued by the wave of men determined to see my deliverance. They called this type of prayer “spiritual warfare.”

A legion of demonic spirits seeped out of me like air gushing from a balloon, and when everything was calm again, someone got a seat for me and I slumped into the chair. The pastor approached.

“John, how do you feel? Is everything okay now? Don’t worry, everything’s going to be all


right.”


 

What would I tell him? How could I explain that what I had just done was not really me? It


was them, my so-called friends from the dark side coming to lay claim on me. I waited for an


onslaught of questions, but instead what I got was a surge of the love of Jesus, a wall that would keep me from doing more damage that day. I was so humiliated, so ashamed of my uncontrollable actions. What label had I earned from these people? One thing was clear. If I didn’t break the contract, I could count on the bounty-hunting demons visiting me again. The question was when.



To my surprise, I found myself back at church the following Sunday yet again, seeking answers to the awful ruckus I had created two weeks in a row. But something positive had happened in my life; otherwise I would have been attending a demonic service at the other church I belonged to that day.

At the end of another service, all the men of the church banded together and marched toward me. But it wasn’t to tackle me to the floor. It was to present me with a gift. Tony, the man who had followed me to the bathroom after my first outburst, handed it to me and said, “The Lord has impressed upon our hearts to bless you with our congregational sweatshirt.”

A warm feeling came over me. The men of the church considered me one of them. I choked back tears and the overwhelming feeling of acceptance that came with it. The blue sweatshirt was designed with the church’s logo. It had my name embroidered on the front, and on the back a Roman helmet and gladiator’s sword stood out beneath the arched word “Warriors.” They told me it was a text from the Bible—Ephesians 6:17: “Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.” The message was clear. If I put on the helmet and wielded the sword the way I was supposed to, I would be able to withstand the attacks of the devil and his demons.

How could it be that people who didn’t know me would show me this kind of love, knowing I was a devil-worshipper and not one of them?


 

 


Date: 2015-01-11; view: 676


<== previous page | next page ==>
Demon-Possessed in Church | Jesus Takes Me to Hell
doclecture.net - lectures - 2014-2024 year. Copyright infringement or personal data (0.008 sec.)