Audio Book Review: The Hole In Our Gospel By Richard Stearns

October 30, 2010 at 4:50 am | Posted in Audiobooks | 1 Comment

“The Hole In Our Gospel” written by Richard Stearns has been released in audiobook format by Christian Audio and is available from them at Christian Audio (http://christianaudio.com).

Richard Stearns has written a book in which he asks a fundamental question:  What does God expect of us?  His answer is what makes up the content of this book.  Mr. Stearns takes us on a journey through his own life from growing up in a dysfunctional and low-income home to CEO, to unemployment, to CEO again–and finally to his current position of President of Worldvision US.   Mr. Stearns cuts right to the heart of the problems of poverty, hunger, disease, and injustice that are ravaging our world using scripture to show us how “the least of these” really matter not just to us, but to God.  Mr. Stearns clearly points out the fatal errors of we “Christians” worshiping God in beautiful church buildings with full tummies while our “neighbors” are cold, wet, hungry and homeless.  You cannot read this book finish it and not be changed by the experience.

It is an injustice to say that Tommy Creswell is the reader of this book.  Tommy Creswell brings his soothing voice and manages to bring to life what was originally written on pages.  Mr. Creswell does a magnificent job of creating the emotion of the moment as we travel through what Mr. Stearns had written.

I, personally, do not have time to just sit and read all the books that I would like to read so audiobooks make my life much easier.  I can take the book with me in the car and play it while I am driving to work or to the store. We need the ability to fill up our commute with good Christian material that will allow us to expand our world and gain new insight into what is going on around us.  Christian Audio meets that need.

To listen to 24 Christian music please visit our internet radio station www.kingdomairwaves.org

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this audiobook free from Christian Audio.   I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255 <http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html> : “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

The God Hater by Bill Myers

October 29, 2010 at 7:04 am | Posted in Books | Leave a comment
Tags:

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today’s Wild Card author is:
Bill Myers

and the book:

The God Hater

Howard Books; Original edition (September 28, 2010)

***Special thanks to Libby Reed, Publicity Assistant, HOWARD BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Bill Myers is an author, screenwriter, and director whose work has won more than fifty national and international awards, including the C.S. Lewis Honor Award.

Visit the Book Specific Site.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Howard Books; Original edition (September 28, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1439153264
ISBN-13: 978-1439153260

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Samuel Preston, a local reporter with bronzed skin and glow-in-the-dark teeth, turned to one of the guests of his TV show, God Talk. “So what’s your take on all of this, Dr. Mackenzie?”

The sixty-something professor stared silently at his wristwatch. He had unruly white hair and wore an outdated sports coat.

“Dr. Mackenzie?”

He glanced up, disoriented, then turned to the host who repeated the question. “What are your feelings about the book?”

Clearing his throat, Mackenzie raised the watch to his ear and gave it a shake. “I was wondering . . .” He dropped off, his bushy eyebrows gathered into a scowl as he listened for a sound.

The second guest, a middle-aged pastor with a shirt collar two sizes too small, smiled, “Yes?”

Mackenzie gave up on the watch and turned to him. “Do you make up this drivel as you go along? Or do you simply parrot others who have equally stunted intellects?”

The pastor, Dr. William Hathaway, blinked. Still smiling, he turned back to the host. “I was under the impression we were going to discuss my new book?”

“Oh, we are,” Preston assured him. “But it’s always good to have a skeptic or two in the midst, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ah,” Hathaway nodded, “of course.” He turned back to Mackenzie, his smile never wavering. “I am afraid what you term as ‘drivel’ is based upon a faith stretching back thousands of years.”

Mackenzie removed one or two dog hairs from his slacks. “We have fossilized dinosaur feces older than that.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Just because something’s old, doesn’t stop it from being crap.”

Dr. Hathaway’s smile twitched. He turned in his chair so he could more fully address the man. “We’re talking about a time honored religion that millions of —”

“And that’s supposed to be a plus,” Mackenzie said, “that it’s religious? I thought you wanted to support your nonsense.”

“I see. Well it may interest you to know that—“

“Actually, it doesn’t interest me at all.” The old man turned to Preston. “How much longer will we be?”

The host chuckled. “Just a few more minutes, Professor.”

Working harder to maintain his smile, Hathaway replied, “So, if I understand correctly, you’re not a big fan of the benefits of Christianity?”

“Benefits?” Mackenzie pulled a used handkerchief from his pocket and began looking for an unsoiled portion. “Is that what the 30,000 Jews who were tortured and killed during the Inquisition called it? Benefits?”

“That’s not entirely fair.”

“And why is that?”

“For starters, most of them weren’t Jews.”

“I’m sure they’re already feeling better.”

“What I am saying is—”

“What you are saying, Mr . . . Mr—”

“Actually, it’s Doctor.”

“Actually, you’re a liar.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Finding an unused area of his handkerchief, Mackenzie took off his glasses and cleaned them.

The pastor continued. “It may interest you to know that—”

“We’ve already established my lack of interest.”

“It may interest you to know that I hold several honorary doctorates.”

“Honorary doctorates.”

“That’s correct.”

“Honorary, as in unearned, as in good for nothing . . . unless it’s to line the bottom of bird cages.” He held his glasses to the light, checking for any remaining smudges.

Hathaway took a breath and regrouped. “You can malign my character all you wish, but there is no refuting the benefits outlined in my new book.”

“Ah yes, the benefits.” Mackenzie lowered his glasses and worked on the other lens. “Like the million plus lives slaughtered during the Crusades?”

“That figure can be disputed.”

“Correct. It may be higher.”

Hathaway shifted in his seat. “The Crusades were a long time ago and in an entirely different culture.”

“So you’d prefer something closer to home? Perhaps the witch hunts of New England?”

“I’m not here to—”

“Fifteen thousand human beings murdered in Europe and America. Fifteen thousand.”

“Again, that’s history and not a part of today’s—”

“Then let us discuss more recent atrocities—towards the blacks, the gays, the Muslim population. Perhaps a dialogue on the bombing of abortion clinics?”

“Please, if you would allow me—”

Mackenzie turned to Preston. “Are we finished here?”

Fighting to be heard, Hathaway continued. “If people will read my book, they will clearly see—”

“Are we finished?”

“Yes, Professor,” Preston chuckled. “I believe we are.”

“But we’ve not discussed my Seven Steps to Successful—”

“Perhaps another time, Doctor.”

Mackenzie rose, shielding his eyes from the bright studio lights as Hathaway continued. “But there are many issues we need to—”

“I’m sure there are,” Preston agreed while keeping an eye on Mackenzie who stepped from the platform and headed off camera. “And I’m sure it’s all there in your book. Seven Steps to—”

***

Annie Brooks clicked off the remote to her television.

“Mom,” Rusty mumbled, “I was watching . . .” he drifted back to sleep without finishing the protest.

She looked down at the five year old and smiled. He lay in bed beside her, his hands still clutching Horton Hears a Who! Each night he’d been reading it to her, though she suspected it was more reciting from memory than reading. She tenderly kissed the top of his head before absent-mindedly looking back to the TV.

He’d done it again. Her colleague and friend—if Dr. Nicholas Mackenzie could be said to have any friends—had shredded another person of faith. This time a Christian, some mega-church pastor hawking his latest book. Next time it could just as easily be a Jew or Muslim or Buddhist. The point was that Nicholas hated religion. And Heaven help anybody who tried to defend it.

She sighed and looked back down to her son. He was breathing heavily, mouth slightly ajar. She brushed the bangs from his face and gave him another kiss. She’d carry him back to bed soon enough. But for now she would simply savor his presence. Nothing gave her more joy. And for that, with or without Nicholas’ approval, Annie Brooks was grateful to her God.

* * * * *

“Excuse me?” Nicholas called from the back seat of the Lincoln Town Car.

The driver didn’t hear.

He leaned forward and spoke louder. “You just passed the freeway entrance.”

The driver, some black kid with a shaved head, turned on the stereo. It was an urban chant, its beat so powerful Nicholas could feel it pounding in his gut. He unbuckled his seat belt and scooted to the open partition separating them. “Excuse me! You—”

The tinted window slid up, nearly hitting him in the face.

He pulled back in surprise, then banged on the glass. “Excuse me!” The music was fainter but still vibrated the car. “Excuse me!”

No response.

He slumped back into the seat. Stupid kid. And rude. He’d realize his mistake soon enough. And after Nicholas’ call to the TV station tomorrow, he’d be back on the streets looking for another job. Trying to ignore the music, Nicholas stared out the window, watching the Santa Barbara lights soften as fog rolled in. Over the years the station’s drivers had always been polite and courteous. Years, as in Nicholas was a frequent guest on God Talk. Despite his general distain for people, not to mention his reclusive lifestyle, he always accepted the producer’s invitation. Few things gave him more pleasure than exposing the toxic nature of religion. Besides, these outings provided a nice change of pace. Instead of the usual stripping away of naïve college students’ faith in his classroom, the TV guests occasionally provided a challenge.

Occasionally.

Other than his duties at the University of California Santa Barbara, these trips were his only exposure to the outside world. He had abandoned society long ago. Or rather, it had abandoned him. Not that there was any love lost. Today’s culture was an intellectual wasteland—a world of pre-chewed ideas, politically correct causes, sound bite news coverage, and novels that were nothing more than comic books. (He’d given up on movies and television long ago.) Why waste his time on such pabulum when he could surround himself with Sartre, Hegel, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche—men whose work would provide more meaningful companionship in one evening than most people could in a lifetime.

Nevertheless, he did tolerate Ari, even fought to keep her during the divorce. She was his faithful companion for over fifteen years, though he should have put her down months ago. Deaf and blind, the golden retriever’s hips had begun to fail. But she wasn’t in pain. Not yet. And until that time, he didn’t mind cleaning up after her occasional accidents or calling in the vet for those expensive house calls. He owed her that. Partially because of her years of patient listening, and partially because of the memories.

The car turned right and entered a residential area. He glanced down to the glowing red buttons on the console beside him. One of them was an intercom to the driver. But, like Herbert Marcuse, the great Neo-Marxist of the 20th Century (and, less popularly, Theodore Kaczynski, the Unabomber of the 1980s) Nicholas mistrusted modern technology as much as he scorned the society that created it. How many times had Annie, a fellow professor, pleaded with him to buy a telephone . . .

“What if there’s an emergency?” she’d insisted. “What if someone needs to call you?”

“Like solicitors?”

“They have Do Not Call lists,” she said. “You can go online and be added to their—”

“Online?”

“Okay, you can write them a letter.”

“And give them what, more personal information?”

“They’d only ask for your phone number.”

“Not if I don’t have one.”

And so the argument continued off and on for years . . . as gift occasions came and went, as his closet gradually filled with an impressive collection of telephones. One thing you could say about Annie Brooks, she was persistent—which may be why he put up with her company, despite the fact she doted over him like he was some old man who couldn’t take care of himself. Besides, she had a good head on her shoulders, when she chose to use it, which meant she occasionally contributed something of worth to their conversations.

Then, of course, there was her boy.

The car slowed. Having no doubt learned the error of his ways, the driver was turning around. Not that it would help him keep his job. That die had already been cast. But the car wasn’t turning. Instead, it pulled to the curb and came to a stop. The locks shot up and the right rear door immediately opened. A man in his early forties appeared—strong jaw, short hair, with a dark suit, white shirt, and black tie.

“Good evening, Doctor.” He slid onto the leather seat beside him.

“Who are you?” Nicholas demanded.

The man closed the door and the car started forward. “I apologize for the cloak and dagger routine, but—”

“Who are you?”

He flipped open an ID badge. “Brad Thompson, HLS.”

“Who?”

“Homeland Security Agent Brad Thompson.” He returned the badge to his coat pocket.

“You’re with the government?”

“Yes sir, Homeland Security.”

“And you’ve chosen to interrupt my ride home because . . .”

“Again, I apologize, but it’s about your brother.”

Nicholas stared at him, giving him no satisfaction of recognition.

“Your brother,” the agent repeated, “Travis Mackenzie?”

Nicholas held his gaze another moment before looking out the window. “Is he in trouble again?”

“Has he contacted you?”

“My brother and I seldom communicate.”

“Yes, sir, about every eighteen months if our information is correct.”

The agent’s knowledge unsettled Nicholas. He turned back to the man. “May I see your identification again?”

“Pardon me?”

“Your identification. You barely allowed me to look at it.”

The agent reached back into his suit coat. “Please understand this is far more serious than his drug conviction, or his computer hacking, or the DUIs.”

Nicholas adjusted his glasses, waiting for the identification.

The agent flipped open his ID holder. “We at HLS are very concerned about his involvement—”

Suddenly, headlights appeared through the back window, their beams on high. The agent looked over his shoulder, then swore under his breath. He reached for the intercom, apparently to give orders to the driver, but the town car was already beginning to accelerate.

“What’s the problem?” Nicholas asked.

The car turned sharply to the left and continued picking up speed.

“I asked you what is happening,” Nicholas repeated.

“Your brother, Professor. Where is he?”

The headlights reappeared behind them, closing in.

“You did not allow me to examine your identification.”

“Please, Doctor—”

“If you do not allow me to examine your identification, I see little—”

“We’ve no time for that!”

The outburst stopped Nicholas as the car took another left, so sharply both men braced themselves against the seat.

The agent turned back to him. “Where is your brother?”

Once again the lights appeared behind them.

Refusing to be bullied, Nicholas repeated, “Unless I’m convinced of your identity, I have little—”

The agent sprang toward him. Grabbing Nicholas’ shirt, he yanked him to his face and shouted, “Where is he?!”

Surprised, but with more pride than common sense, Nicholas answered. “As I said—”

The agent’s fist was a blur as it struck Nicholas’ nose. Nicholas felt the cartilage snap, knew the pain would follow. As would the blood.

“WHERE IS HE?”

The car turned right, tires squealing, tossing the men to the other side. As Nicholas sat up, the agent pulled something from his jacket. There was the black glint of metal and suddenly a cold gun barrel was pressed against his neck. He felt fear rising and instinctively pushed back the emotion. It wasn’t the gun that concerned him, but the fear. That was his enemy. If he could focus, rely on his intellect, he’d have the upper hand. Logic trumped emotion every time. It was a truth that sustained him through childhood, kept him alive in Vietnam, and gave him the strength to survive in today’s world.

The barrel pressed harder.

When he knew he could trust his voice, he answered, “The last time I saw my brother was Thanksgiving.”

The car hit the brakes, skidding to a stop, sliding Nicholas off the seat and onto his knees. The agent caught himself, managing to stay seated. Up ahead, through the glass partition, Nicholas saw a second vehicle racing toward them—a van or truck, its beams also on high.

The agent pounded the partition. “Get us out of here.” he shouted at the driver. “Now!”

The town car lurched backward. It bounced up a curb and onto a front lawn. Tires spun, spitting grass and mud, until they dug in and the vehicle took off. It plowed through a hedge of junipers, branches scraping underneath, then across another lawn. Nicholas looked out his side window as they passed the first vehicle which had been behind them, a late model SUV. They veered back onto the road, snapping off a mailbox. Once again the driver slammed on the brakes, turning hard to the left, throwing the vehicle into a 180 until they were suddenly behind the SUV, facing the opposite direction. Tires screeched as they sped off.

The agent hit the intercom and yelled, “Dump the Professor and get us out of here!”

The car continued to accelerate and made another turn.

Pulling Nicholas into the seat and shoving the gun into his face, the agent shouted, “This is the last time I’m asking!”

Nicholas’ heart pounded, but he kept his voice even. “I have already told you.”

The man chambered a round. But it barely mattered. Nicholas had found his center and would not be moved. “I have not seen him in months.”

“Thanksgiving?”

“Yes.”

The car made another turn.

“And?”

Nicholas turned to face him. “We ate a frozen dinner and I sent him away.”

The agent searched his eyes. Nicholas held his gaze, unblinking. The car took one last turn, bouncing up onto an unlit driveway, then jerked to a stop. There was no sound, except the pounding music.

“Get out,” the agent ordered.

Nicholas looked through the window. “I have no idea where we—”

“Now.”

Nicholas reached for the handle, opened his door and stepped outside. The air was cold and damp.

“Shut the door.”

He obeyed.

The town car lunged backward, lights off. Once it reached the road it slid to a stop, changed gears and sped off. Nicholas watched as it disappeared into the fog, music still throbbing even after it was out of sight. Only then did he appreciate the pain in his nose and the warm copper taste of blood in his mouth. Still, with grim satisfaction, he realized, he had won. As always, logic and intellect had prevailed.

 

Keep The Pigs Out By Don Dickerman

October 28, 2010 at 4:23 pm | Posted in Books | Leave a comment
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It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today’s Wild Card author is:
Don Dickerman

and the book:

Keep the Pigs Out

Charisma House (October 5, 2010)

***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Book Group | Strang Communications for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Don Dickerman, an ordained Southern Baptist minister, has directed an evangelistic ministry to prisons since 1974. Don received an anointing from the Lord Jesus to minister in the areas of deliverance and healing and has seen many lives transformed through his ministry. Prior to answering God’s call to Minster in prisons, he pastored churches and worked as an evangelist. Don is a graduate from a Baptist seminary and is Spirit-filled and anointed with an exciting ministry both to prisons and churches.

Visit the author’s website.

Here’s a book trailer for the the first book about keeping the pigs out, When Pigs Move in:

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 240 pages
Publisher: Charisma House (October 5, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1616381396
ISBN-13: 978-1616381394

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

A Vision
Within a Dream

During a nighttime dream, I saw a huge winged creature hovering in the sky. It was more like a vision within a dream than a dream. The sky itself was bright and clear, and there were no clouds. The scene was somewhat tranquil. The bird-looking creature was brilliant in its appearance. It had a neon glow to it. The best way I could describe this creature is that it looked very similar to the mythical griffin—a legendary creature with the body of a lion, the head of an eagle, and the wings of a dragon. It was huge, white with a green-and-gold glowing outline. This was a splendid creature with great beauty, somewhat majestic in its appearance. It was so magnificent that it almost seemed expressive of worship. It appeared that either someone was seated on the creature or was part of his being. He had a bow in his hand.

Now, before I proceed with this vision within a dream, I feel I must qualify what I am sharing with some personal knowledge about myself. I am a conservative Christian. I am a licensed and ordained minister through Southern Baptist churches. I would say that I’m a pretty normal guy. I dream every night, but generally not about spiritual things. I dream about life happenings, you know, just regular stuff—high school, sports, or not being able to find where I parked my car. Like most dreams, that’s all they are, just entertainment as we sleep. I don’t try to figure out if a dream has some significant meaning. I’m a very basic guy, and what qualifies someone to be a dream interpreter anyway?
I proceed with careful forethought and biblical analysis in these areas. I guess I’ve seen and heard too many false prophecies and false words. I would say I am spiritually cautious, and I “try the spirits” to see if they are of God (1 John 4:1, kjv). I desire Holy Spirit discernment, and I despise deception. Often I reverently say, “God, if You are going to speak to me, give me something clear. Don’t ask me to figure it out or to make some kind of spiritual application. Just make it plain for me.”
This particular enlightenment came like a vision within a dream. It was like a flash amidst other things I was dreaming about. I could not tell you what else I dreamed about that night, but I could draw you a picture of this vision—it was so vivid. It is difficult to tell how high in the air this creature was, perhaps fifty feet. It was somewhat low in relation to where clouds may be.
On the ground beneath this celestial creature was a herd of sheep. The sheep were huddled together on the side of a hill. The hillside was a beautiful green color, and the rolling hills somewhat reminded me of Ireland. The sheep were near a fence, and it was as if I were viewing this from across the fence. There seemed to be acres and acres of rolling pasture, almost like a golf course, but it was pasture. The sheep were all together near the fence. It was not a great number of sheep, maybe twenty-five to thirty.
The sheep had the faces of men; I hope I can describe this so that you get a glimpse of it. I realize as I’m sharing this that it may sound like I think I’m Ezekiel or a prophet of God. I am neither. I’m just a regular guy. However, in this vision each one of the sheep had the face of a man. Each face was different; it was like I was gazing into a small crowd of people. All of the sheep seemed very sad, some of the faces were bleeding, and some had tears in their eyes. They just stood there.
The creature from the sky pointed his bow at them and shot what seemed to be hooks or barbs into their flesh. The sheep appeared not to know where this attack was coming from, and they put up no defense. They only looked at each other. They all seemed to be bruised in different ways. They just stood there and took it. Each of them had the countenance of having been beaten and bruised. They seemed to have no leader among them. There was no shepherd in the vision. They were vulnerable and ignorant of the assault. The vision was brief but indelible.

The Dream Come to Life

The following night I was a guest preacher at a church in rural Fort Worth. I had actually forgotten the dream until I made a turn on a country road to get to the church. I saw a small herd of sheep huddled near the roadway fence. Immediately the dream came alive. Tears came to my eyes as I recalled the dream.

As I think about that dream today, I think how difficult it is for our modern society to relate to biblical accounts of sheep and shepherds. I don’t know if I’ve ever even touched a sheep, and I know I’ve never met a real shepherd. It is clear, however, that God’s Word compares believers and true followers as sheep, sheep of His pasture.

Then Jesus said to them again, “Most assuredly, I say to you, I am

the door of the sheep. All who ever came before Me are thieves

and robbers, but the sheep did not hear them. I am the door. If

anyone enters by Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and

find pasture. . . . I am the good shepherd; and I know My sheep,

and am known by My own. As the Father knows Me, even so I

know the Father; and I lay down My life for the sheep.”

—John 10:7–9, 14–15

The words of Jesus in John 10 say that believers are the sheep of His pasture and that He is the Good Shepherd. Man can only come to God through a door, and that door is Jesus. Actually, the proper way to enter any place is through a door. God’s Word unmistakably compares believers to sheep. Psalm 95:7 says we are the “people of His pasture, and the sheep of His hand.” Again in Psalm 100:3 it says, “We are His people and the sheep of His pasture.”

In my dream all of the sheep were bruised, and the hurt was visible in their painful expressions. That is such a picture of the church today. Virtually all of the sheep in the church today are carrying wounds. Most don’t know how to defend themselves and are really not sure how the wounds got there. Having a shepherd that does not lead is like having no shepherd at all. Sheep know how to follow, but they don’t know how to fight. Jesus did not leave us defenseless. He left us with His Spirit and His Word. It is the call of the shepherd to equip us to stand.

I want to expose some of the “wiles” of the demons and how they access our lives. We cannot responsibly act upon things we do not know. Having no knowledge makes us extremely vulnerable. Ignorance gives great advantage to the demons. For the most part, Christians do not know because the demons have done a good job of keeping the information out of the pulpits and classrooms. It always amazes me at how Christians retreat when the D word is mentioned. Why is deliverance so difficult to discuss?

Why are people so quickly offended or intimidated by the subject of demons? Why can’t you talk about it? Why is the subject so unapproachable? I believe it is because of ignorance, or because of nonteaching and false teaching. Those Christian leaders who do talk about it have often made it to be something it is not, and that does great damage.

It is difficult for me to understand how a preacher can open his Bible and preach fifty-two Sundays in a year and never mention the deliverance and healing message of the Gospels. I don’t see how that can happen. I don’t see how a seminary can instruct their Bible students for three years and never prepare them for dealing with sickness or for engaging demon spirits. I honestly don’t get that. How can you sit in Sunday school and Bible classes most of your life and not be taught the reality of demonic activity in the life of believers? Would you agree that the demons have done a good job of keeping Christians in darkness? How can this be? Is it willing ignorance?

Second Peter 3:5 talks about deceived people who “willfully forget.” Willing ignorance—I believe that is what it is. It is a conscious choice not to preach or teach the scriptural truth concerning the work of demons. What else could it be? Why else would it be? Isn’t that like being dumb on purpose? I don’t mean that in an unkind sense; we have been and are being duped by a message with a lack of truth and power.

In the walk of spiritual freedom, there are things we need to do to remain free. As important, maybe even more important, are things we should not do.

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