Divine Dice

It's NaNoWriMo! That means significantly fewer blog posts this month for me. And slightly out of date posts as well. This one's about Halloween. I know, been there done that. But the story has little to do with the holiday, and is only getting more relevant as I ruminate on it. 

As a rule (I use the term loosely), I like to take anything people in my realm of influence have deemed secular, demonic, anti-christian, or any other label that's supposed to suggest I steer clear, and advance the Kingdom with it. 

Recently, my husband and I started playing a game called Magic: The Gathering. We particularly like to play at our favorite pub because inevitably, other Magic players light up at the sight of their favorite game being played in public. This a game for nerds and dweebs. People have been scorned and ridiculed throughout child and adulthood for playing this game. And it has a particularly unsavory reputation in the Christian clubs. Most players don't like to broadcast themselves outside their safe zones. We love drawing people out of hiding, engaging with them and watching their eyes light up because we are as weird as they are. And we're not afraid to show it. 

Harry Potter taught me about being a friend and the gift of service. Game of Thrones is teaching me about ruling (or about how not to rule) as a Queen in Heaven. I do Yoga, because I hear Dad speak more clearly when my body, mind, and breath are synchronized. Any time, any where, give me something the Church clubs have rebuked and I will find Jesus all over it. Because I can. Because He's all the time everywhere. Because I take joy in people and the things people find joy in. 

"...Dad told me I'd be drawing people into their identities.
Specifically, I'd be naming people "Healer..."'

OK so, Halloween. Obviously, I had to find Jesus in Halloween. So I dressed up as Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter to work my shift at the coffee bungalow. Once I got there, I set up two dice and a little sign offering "prophecies." Then, I let Dad speak. 

This is the second year I've dressed as a fortune teller for Halloween and given prophetic words. Dad seems to love speaking to people this way. Last year, we threw a party at our house. Some friends tended bar, and twenty or so other friends dressed fancy and enjoyed themselves. I set up a hookah and a tea pot in the lounge, and offered tea leaf readings. Then I got to prophecy identity over people.

I have never prophesied so much, so accurately, and been so eagerly received at any given time. Last year, there seemed to be a theme. Whether people saw ducks or unicorns, when I Googled the symbol meanings, Dad was talking about leadership, decision making, and transition.

This year, there was a theme as well. I asked anyone interested to roll the dice. I wrote down a list of numbers, 1 to 12, and meanings associated with them (see bottom of post for list). I told them the meanings of each dice individually, then combined the dice for a third number and meaning. Then, I let Dad weave the three numbers together for a prophetic word. 

Before we started, Dad told me I'd be drawing people into their identities. Specifically, I'd be naming people "Healer." Right off the bat, my first two customers rolled the dice. A couple, they both rolled a 1 and 6.

"One means unity and beginnings," I explained, not so slyly reading my number list. "Six is the number for weakness. Together, they're seven, which means resurrection and spiritual completeness." 

"Ok, that's kind of neat," the woman replied. Clearly, none of us saw much significance in the dice so far. 

"Let me focus on your drinks for a moment, and I'll have your prophecy ready." While making her mocha and his Americano, taking the next customer's order, preparing milks and cups as more people walked in, I asked Dad what he wanted this woman to hear. 

From Corpse to Bride

Spirits of my good friend's imagination.

Part 1: Imagine 

I was finishing a Yoga session, listening to a podcast from Bethel church in Redding. The podcast, which I can no longer recall specifically, mentioned prophetic visions and dreams. At that point, I quit listening so I can’t relay the teaching to you. It had something to do with Kris Vallaton having a vision, and what I took from it (without listening to a word of it) was that Kris gets visions, I don’t. Frankly, I thought that an unfair load of rotten apples. 

Have you ever been through Wenatchee, WA (the self-proclaimed apple capital of the world) after the apple harvests have finished and the leftover fruit is left to fall to the ground and decompose? I have. Kids who grow up there call the town The Snatch, in response to the vulgar aroma. 

Yes, other people receiving visions who aren’t me: the essence of vulgarity. 

I lay there in corpse pose, letting my blood settle back into its routine, and started a conversation with Dad. “I want to have visions,” I told him. Then, boldly indignant, I explained that it wasn’t very fair to give some people visions while skipping me. “That’s like saying, some of my sheep hear my voice. Some do not. Random luck of the draw. Better luck next time, kiddo.” 

The moment I paused to draw breath, Dad responded firm and clear, though not unkind.  

I didn’t clear my mind, close my eyes, or try to listen in any way. I wasn’t done speaking, actually, and wasn’t expecting to be interrupted. Nevertheless, He spoke. The words I heard were so counter to my present train of thought, two things I couldn’t do occurred simultaneously.

First, I couldn’t help but hear Him. 

Second, I couldn’t give myself any credit for coming up with the idea. Thus suggesting, for me at least, that what I’d heard was Dad. 

“You do have visions,” he said. 

“What? Visions my booty,” I would have replied had I any time. But Dad doesn’t need words to speak, and doesn’t have to inhale to give you a moment to interrupt. 

Immediately, several stories I’ve written came to mind. Then one in particular settled into the forefront of my imagination. Dad returned me to my seat in front of my computer screen in my dining room, where I wrote the story. I sat there typing as my imagination played the story like a film behind my eyes. I paused occasionally, allowing my imagination to play, then writing what I saw as quickly and accurately as I could. 

The process felt like I was translating a story from one language to another. From spirit language, which uses no words, to English. At once a limiting and liberating exercise. 

What Dad was showing me is that the thing, the head space, I’ve been told is my imagination, is also the space Dad uses to give me visions. It’s the same space engaged when I read a book, play a board game, listen to music, study a painting, watch a ballet. 

Though these things are rooted in the physical world, they transport me to non-physical realms. That’s why I read, or play games, or any of these activities. On their own, they’re neat but essentially boring. Alongside my imagination, I can engaged with them for hours and not disengage until forcibly separated.

We exercise our imagination by experiencing the creative results of another’s imagination. From there, depending on our life experiences and skills, we can begin to exercise our imaginations apart from any other’s, and create. 

Being a writer, this creative process of receiving visions and translating them occurs most naturally as I write stories. However, I believe this experience can be had in many ways. When my friend Dave carves a pipe, for example, he first imagines it what it will look like. When my husband writes a song on the guitar, he first imagines what it will sound like. When my friend Claire knits a garment, she first imagines wearing it. When my friend Josiah creates a cocktail, he first imagines drinking it. When I heal, I first imagine wholeness. 

Midnight release of, as you may have
guessed, the final Harry Potter.

What I’m saying is when we tap into our creative imagination, we are receiving visions from God. When I read a book, I’m engaging the same imagination as when I write a book. The difference is that one experience creates, the other is created. In one experience, an author provides narrative that shapes my imagination’s path. In the other experience, my imagination provides images that shape the path of my narrative. That ten people can read the same book, and if asked to make a film of that book, would produce ten radically different results, suggests to me that imagination is highly personal, subjective, and vital whether its being used in author or reader capacity. 

I’ve noticed a fear in adults throughout my life, particularly adults who attend churches, that particular stories or games are influenced by evil. I believe this to an extent: when I translate an author’s narrative into my imagination, perhaps there’s some wiggle room for demonic influence. 

Harry Potter was a huge deal for the church attending people in my life as a child. Its a book about witchcraft, clearly anti-Christ, clearly an abomination and should be kept from the hands of our impressionable, vulnerable children. Luckily, none of them were my parents, and I was encouraged to read them. 

Before we can create in meaningful ways, we must learn to imagine. One thing I noticed as a kid reading Harry Potter, was that at first, the story was simply words on a page. I’d read a page, get bored, walk away. Read two pages, get bored, walk away. Eventually, I pushed through a few more pages, and my imagination kicked in. Suddenly, I was enraptured by a world completely unlike any I’d experienced. I couldn’t stop reading. I can tell you from watching the movies, my imagination was completely different and vastly more satisfying than the filmmakers’.

Every time I picked up the book, it took less and less time for my imagination to engage, and I was able to read for ever extending periods. I’m not suggesting that Harry Potter was a vital read, and that I owe my capacity to receive visions from God to reading that series. However, as we practice engaging our imaginations, we gain stamina. We can engage more quickly and for longer periods of time.

Imagination is so vital, I’ll argue that it should be nurtured and encouraged without fail. Whether its books like Harry Potter, or games like Magic the Gathering, no fear of demonic influence should prevent the use of a person’s imagination.

In my own creative work, I’ve found that the more I read and allow other’s to shape an imagination experience, the more stamina I have when it comes to having imagination experiences completely free of influence except from God. 

I’m not sure if you caught what I just insinuated, so let me clarify: every act of creativity starts with an imagination experience influenced directly from God. 

Whether a proclaimed “Christian” or not, God gives people visions. Whether there’s wiggle room for demonic influence is besides the point. If it was created, it was inspired by God. Yes, we are capable of imagining terrible things. Even those begin inspired from God. I’ve never heard it argued that C.S. Lewis wasn’t Christian, yet he had to imagine some gruesome and disturbing war images for The Chronicles of Narnia. He actually imagined being a demon for The Screw tape Letters. 

In the song below, "Clint Eastwood" by The Gorillaz featuring Del Tha Funkee Homosapien (knowing before you do that there are a couple F*bombs ahead), you can hear a splendid example of prophecy spoken outside of a church-approved prophet. Mostly, it's a good song. I think it also compliments the concept I'm trying to explain in this post. Until Part 2, enjoy and be blessed. 

(Oh, yeah. The point of this post, as ever, is to stir conversation and stoke questions. Have at it!)

“Allow me to make this childlike in nature: Rhythm, you have it or you don’t, that’s a fallacy. I’m in them - every sproutin’ tree, every child of peace, every cloud and sea.” 

Hearing Business

I was walking Somewhere last Tuesday morning, headed to my coffee bungalow for something warm. While I walked, I started thinking about having a conversation with Jesus about finances..

This is a tendency I'm recently becoming aware of: I imagine what I'd say if I were praying into something, rather than just saying it.

My dog, Somewhere, chilling at my coffee bungalow.

I used to do the same thing as a kid. My cousins and I would be playing "Dogs," a game in which we'd romp around on all fours and, well, pretend we were dogs. We'd bark, lick water out of bowls, the whole nine yards. But I couldn't just pretend. I had to narrate what I was pretending, so we were all on the same page. "Let's pretend I'm burying a bone here under the couch, and you have to try and steal it..." or "Pretend I'm barking to tell you there's someone sneaking into our hideout." Things like that.

Finally, my older cousin became exasperated. "You don't have to say 'pretend that...' before you pretend something. Just freakin' do it. That's how you pretend."

I thought I'd figured the concept out by now. But I keep catching myself essentially saying "pretend that you're praying about finances (or healing, or people, or nations)" instead of just freakin' doing it.

I caught myself in pretend prayer mode on this walk. I rolled my eyes and, in an effort to drive home the "just do it" lesson, I began speaking to Jesus out loud. I said things like "Jesus, my throne is yours. You are my king," trying to make sure I was fully transitioned out of pretend prayer.

As though I was with a coach watching game footage to prepare a strategy, Jesus and I reflected on my pretend prayer from a moment ago. I was stressing about money, but didn't want to be. A strategy drifted into my heart: Stop asking, start declaring. 

Still aloud, I began making declarations. Precise words, I don't recall. But things along the lines of: I worship Jesus, my King, and he alone. I do not worship money. Money is not my debtor.

One statement I do specifically remember: "Jeremiah and I will not be prevented from pursuing our purpose by money. Funds will not hinder us, will not close any doors."

I don't think I've made myself clear yet, but this post is an effort to address two topics: 1) How do I hear God's voice? 2) What is God saying about finances?

Roller Coaster Dream

"'I'm afriad the ride will break,' I replied. The moment I
said it, I knew it was a fear as flimsy as injury or death..."
Photo by Kaylin Roback

I had a dream at end of July, just before I went to Southern California to visit a friend. We were planning on visiting Six Flags when we got there, so I'm sure that had something to do with the dream's content. I'm terrified of getting on roller coasters. The process of waiting in line is agonizing; I spend the entire time trying to calm myself down from an anxiety attack without drawing other ride goers' attention to myself. I freaking love riding them, though. Once I'm on and that first hill is behind me, I'm happy as a clam.

The dream opened with me in line behind a sea of blurry strangers, waiting to get on a roller coaster. I consciously noted the intensity of the dream's physical effects - the same gut flipping, lung collapsing anxiety I experience in the natural coursed through my body. I've felt such effects momentarily while dreaming, usually just before a fall wakes me up. This was different, though. I wasn't waking up, the dream had just started.

I took deep slow breaths. Tried to think about Jesus. Contemplated abandoning the line and skipping the ride. I couldn't move my legs for the fear that gripped me. Memory of roller coasters I've ridden in the past came streaming to me, as though a friend were showing home videos. I could almost feel the exhilarated joy as I stepped off each coaster. Every time, I wanted to go again. I was never disappointed I'd stuck it out and given the ride a go.

Physical anxiety brought me back into the present state of the dream, where I waited to board the coaster at hand. I'd been just as afraid and tempted to bail before every coaster before. Determined to experience the relief and thrill of the ride's end, I said aloud "I will get on the ride."

My mind was unwaveringly set. The thought of turning around no longer had any power. My veins pumped adrenaline throughout my body, I still felt terrified. Something, however, had changed. Something at the same time tangible and completely abstract.

A voice from somewhere outside myself, outside the ride's line, asked "What are you afraid of?"

I racked my mind. The immediate, and only fears I could think of were being hurt or killed. I brushed them aside like flys. I'll be healed or raised. And as long as the ride functions properly, neither were very possible. "I'm afraid the ride will break," I replied. The moment I said it, I knew it was a fear as flimsy as injury or death.

I began to discuss with myself and the voice whether my statement was true. Was I was actually afraid of the ride breaking? "I am a child of God," I concluded. "The ride will not break."

During the dream, this seemed a logical conclusion to a logical thought process. I think what essentially took me there was the realization that, if I trust my Dad, no fear except the fear of God himself was logical. And he wasn't causing my current terror. This wasn't "fear of God." This was an attack, rooted in a tiny chink in my armor created not by my mistrust of God, but by my unrealized and undeclared trust in Him. Once I realized I in fact trust my Dad, I also realized that my fear was lie.

Just as Jesus quieted the storm, my turning stomach immediately quieted. Calm washed over me. My body was relieved - every tensed muscle relaxed, the breath I held was released. The only thing left to do was get on the ride.

I am thoroughly sick of writing, thinking, and dreaming about my knee (See New Roads Part 1, and New Roads Part 2 if you don't know what I'm talking about). One of the reasons I haven't written in a while is every idea I've had seems to revolve around its damage. And I've determined that "No. No I will not write any more about my knee. Until its whole and I can write about the wonderful tingleys that occurred when it was healed."

Seems that Dad isn't done with the conversation, though. And I'm aching to write something that stirs up my spirit. I didn't realize the dream had anything to do with my stubborn, deaf knee, until  just as I was stepping up to my seat, I woke myself up saying "This is how you need to approach healing your knee!"

When I woke up, saying that aloud, it made perfect sense. I fell back asleep certain I'd had quite the epiphany.

This was a month ago. My knee is still damaged. Even in my dreams, I'm hindered by it (talk about distorted self image). I've been meditating and Dad's been speaking on the subject ever since, though. Stay tuned for Part 2, where I'll explore what the frack "This is how you need to approach healing your knee!" means, anyway.

Hush, Listen, Obey

Your personalized health plan Part 2

Ironically, the afternoon I wrote this, my internet got shut off. Don't pay your bills, lose communication with the outside world. That's the "real" world kids. So, I got a ride with my roomy to Panera this morning and can finally post the conclusion to that rotten cliff hanger I left you all with several afternoons ago. I shall not apologize though; the story would have been incomplete prior to today. 


Within days of flipping God my middle finger, He responded by bringing me Jeremiah. After months of friendship he bashfully started telling me about healings he saw and participated in at the Lighthouse. Then he told me to watch Finger of God by Darren Wilson.

If you don't feel like you can hear God clearly just yet, watch listen and read as much testimony as possible. Fortify your faith. Here's the thing, you do hear God. It just takes faith to believe you do. And testimony builds faith like steroids build muscle (without the creepy side effects).

Neti-pot.
Day 4. 

Fast forward to three years ago, I told God I believed he was The Healer. Of both the world and myself. And then I declared, to God and whoever else was listening, that I would under no circumstances take medicine again.

As though my heart and guts had ears I heard (roughly, as it's hard to translate spirit language into English), "Agreed. Now, be ready. You will be tested."

A few months later I laid hands on my mom during a migraine. She was healed.

A couple weeks after that, I got my first migraine. I thought I would die. I spent the morning in a steamy shower and in prayer. And as I toweled my hair dry, God showed me an irony in getting my first migraine after healing my mom. I laughed, and was instantly healed.

Later, I would discover my only food allergy: fresh figs. Four horribly painful experiences and a failed (and expensive) doctors visit later, instantly healed. Twice, because I ate half a fig before I remembered not to.

The day we returned from our honeymoon type thing, Jeremiah and I shared the experience of concession-stand-hotdog-enduced food poisoning. That one, we did not get miraculously healed from. But we didn't die (test passed).

Dozens of ailments have swung bats and fists my way. A few I endured and walked away healthy without a doctor or medicine to speak of. A few were miraculously healed by prayer - either at the hands of others or myself.

I've laid hands on nearly every person I know. Most of them have been healed as well. Every one of them walked away feeling warm and cozy inside.

Despite these awesome confirmations of Dad's love, presence, and desire to heal, I'll admit I have a seriously hard time getting healed myself. I don't even like the words "getting healed" or "hard" in the same sentence. As far as I understand my conversations with Dad, we are already healed. Christ's work is finished.

 Dad is not making us sick or keeping us sick for any reason. Health is part of our Christly identity. Dad gave us the command to heal the sick, and in so doing gave us the power and authority to get it done (Matthew 10:8)

But it doesn't always happen the way we'd like or expect. And sometimes we pray and pray but remain sick. Sometimes, it seems really frackin' hard to step into the wholeness and health that is our eternal identity.

The past week and a half has been dreadful. It started with the most intense migraine I've yet experienced. It lasted a full 24 hours, through my final shift at Mud Bay Coffee. I couldn't think straight enough to wage any "spiritual warfare" or speak any in depth prayer. I spoke in tongues (or muttered gibberish) for a few minutes, and when I stopped Dad said take some aspirin now, and Advil in 4 hours.

Hush, Listen, Obey

Your personalized health plan Part 1

"You believe God heals, right?"
"Yes. Of course. Absolutely."
"Yet you're still sick."

I was imagining having this conversation with someone in a church before laying hands on them a few days ago. In my imagination, I was the one asking the questions. But the moment the conversation ended, I realized that I was sick one.

Despite every effort, I spent my days off this week inconsolably ill and apparently un-healed.

"You're still sick."

"Apparently... What now?"

Appearances aren't always what they seem. Sometimes, when it appears we're not getting healed and God isn't responding, it's because He's inviting us into some good quality alone time with Him.

Now, seek God's voice. Not healing, or a Bible verse, or stuff to do.

Listen. 

Stop what you're doing, tell yourself to hush, stop asking questions, and see what you hear. 

Sometimes our efforts to get healed...

Make better doors than windows.

Keep in mind, our entire being is an antenna designed to tune in to God's frequency. It's not always our ears that do the hearing.

Then, do as directed. Or for you, maybe it's as you imagined. Or as you feel compelled.

God wants you healed. He's already made it so. He's not preventing it. Pray. Keep praying and don't stop. But while you're at it hush, listen, and obey. It's a plan with such potential to be simple.

Simplicity often comes in retrospect, though. Let me tell you, that conversation I nonchalantly posted up top seriously screwed with me.

A lifetime has lead up to that conversation; I'll start a few years back to bring you up to speed.

By age 19, I'd seen one man I prayed for daily pass away. The death he experienced, which took three months of unexplained hospitalization, I would not wish on anyone or any family. I'd spent ten years of daily prayer seeking the healing of that man's wife. She still has Multiple Sclerosis, it's still getting worse.


I tore my ACL and feared I'd lost my opportunity to play volleyball at another college.

So mid-prayer one day, I abruptly told God to fuck off. That I was never praying for anyone's healing again.

---
Part 2 will be posted later this evening. Thanks for lending me your eyes and hearts. Comments welcome!

Religious Affliction

Jesus came to free the captives, not exalt the Oppressor 

Jesus was not meant to be a religious leader.

He wasn't, at any point in the Gospels a religious leader, figurehead, or subscriber.

I once posted this as my Facebook status and the response was interesting, though my point seemed missed. So I'll go a step further.

Christianity is not a religion.

Relationship and Life are good soil.
Buildings? Not so much. (See Matthew 13:3-8)

Sure, there is a religion that has named itself Christianity. And there are people who ascribe to this religion who've name themselves Christians.

But Christianity, to be a "Little Christ," is not a religion. It is life and relationship.

And by golly it's messy. No rows of pews or bullet-pointed lesson plans.

Until recently, I read portions of the Gospels involving the Pharisees as conflict directly against the Pharisees. In Matthew 16, for example, the Pharisees and Sadducees demand miraculous signs from Jesus. I read Jesus' response as a direct scolding of the religious leaders. "Watch out! Beware the yeast of the Pharisees and Sadducees," he warns onlookers.

Jesus engaged in conflict throughout the Gospels very rarely. Specifically, I've noticed he conflicted with Satan, and demons. And frankly, "conflict" is a bit too kind. Conflict implies that Satan had an opportunity for victory; implies a contest with an uncertain overcomer. There was never a contest, Jesus is the victor.

My initial understanding of Jesus's interaction with the Pharisees was that the religious leaders were the target of the conflict. But I realized that I was directly contradicting my statement above, that Jesus' target was/is Satan, not the men and woman he created. Jesus said to be ware of the yeast of the Pharisees and Sadducees, not be ware of the men themselves.

The Pharisees were rather confused at this warning. We haven't even brought any bread, they argued. Jesus reminded them about the thousands he fed with the equivalent of a boy's sack lunch, and explained that he was in no way speaking of bread. They understood he wasn't speaking of bread yeast, but of religious teaching.

Which leads me to the idea I'm currently exploring: "Religion" is an oppressive, afflicting spirit.

Oh hell.

"Appearance of Sin"
I submit this a a prompt of sorts. Before we spout off about avoiding
appearances of evil, let us ask with whose eyes we are looking. This latte art
was made with painstaking care by loving hands that give and receive
Christ's finished work through daily service of body, soul, and spirit.

I've been having more and more discussions lately, both in the web-world and the real world (and in the Spirit world, for that matter) about Hell and sin.

I've been getting more and more frustrated with having to first explain that Biblically, Hell is a vague concept. Significantly more is written about Heaven, and much of the common Christian idea of Hell is completely based on teachings that aren't Bible based.

Stop it.

Stop preaching a Hell that God never mentioned.

Stop using Hell to manipulate people into living according to your concept of "sinlessness."

Stop preaching about "sin" as though A) It's a set of actions. B) The work of the cross isn't finished. C) Adam's "original sin" was somehow greater, more eternal, and more affective than Christ's defeat of that sin.

IT IS FINISHED.

"If you live in sin, you will end up in a lake of fire for eternity," I heard a pastor say.

And the congregation nodded in agreement.

From 13 year old girls to elderly men, their heads bobbed in unison.

I deem the following ideas - which I've encountered among the Christian religious community repeatedly - myths. I give you my responses (not my answer, reasoning, theology, doctrine or dogma).

1) If you live in sin, you end up in a lake of fire.