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Miracles

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• Victoria

  Victoria - by Dominic Muir

  On March 3rd 2005 I was locking up my bike outside my block of flats in Victoria, London, when I noticed Ronnie, a local street sleeper with two other seemingly homeless friends hanging out with him. I live right next to quite a prominent London hostel called 'The Passage', so to see clutches of homeless convening outside my door is not uncommon. I have met Ronnie a few times. He is always exceedingly inebriated and remarkably upbeat. He must be about mid forties, is well built, well weathered and sports an impressively long goatee beard. His hands are red and swollen and he talks and talks. It is difficult to get a word in edge ways. He took to the streets and to alcoholism when his wife died of cancer. He has something like five children whom he sees from time to time.

  

  It just so happened that I had one of those amazing trays of Krispy Kreme doughnuts from Harrods on me, albeit with only three remaining. Something told me that these three needed them more than me so I thought I'd go over and drop them off and say 'Hi'. It was a freezing afternoon and actually the sight of the doughnuts did little to stir their enthusiasm. I hopped around for a few minutes trying to stay warm in my North Face, goose down Parker coat, wondering whether I could be of any use to these guys. The truth is I had not planned this. I said a quick prayer to God asking Him to use me, asking Him for some way in here. I never usually get anywhere with Ronnie, in terms of the Gospel, normally we just chat about life, its sorrows and his 'Godfather' role on the streets. He sees himself, as it seems do all that meet him, as a protecting, almost mentoring force for good on the streets. He is proud of his purpose and role. On this afternoon it looked as though he was quite happy chatting with the girl sitting on his right (she must have been mid twenties) and a French guy called Robert who was standing on my left.

  

  Ronnie was well gone, the girl seemed pretty sober and Robert was between the two. It was three fifteen in the afternoon and I had some work at home to get on with. I started to gather up the doughnuts, frustrated at the thought that they would go to waste here (!) and at that moment Ronnie chirped up and assured me that they would come in handy later. So at that stage I thought I would introduce myself to the French guy called Robert. It turned out he had been in London about six months and was pitifully addicted to Stella Artois - six cans in the morning and six cans in the afternoon. He was about thirty and sounded positive about a bed in a hostel he had only recently secured. His English was remarkably good, he looked pretty well and I was amazed to see him in this position in life. I asked him if he had any faith and he replied promptly in the affirmative that he was a Catholic. He had nothing else to add. I replied that I was a Catholic but that actually for a large part of my life it had remained only a label to me. My spirit emboldened, I embarked on my testimony.

  I told him that I used to drink and take drugs a lot and that two or so years ago Jesus had come into my life and freed me from these needs. I told him confidently that I had spent most of my life not believing in God but that upon really seeking Him He had broken in suddenly and powerfully with his love and peace. And that I knew He existed, that Jesus is alive and that most importantly He loved me. Robert looked unmoved and sceptical. He said that it was superficial and that any change in my habits was all in the mind. He backed up his diagnosis by simultaneously tapping his head pointedly with his finger and engaging eye contact with me for nearly the first time. I replied authoritatively that there was nothing superficial about being filled with the Holy Spirit of God. In spite of his apparent unbelief Robert offered no reply. On the contrary I insisted that it had been the most profound and life changing day of my life. He seemed a little more curious, indeed I had a sense that he was perhaps even intrigued albeit in that slightly self-effacing way.

  So I asked him casually if I might pray for him. He shrugged and said that that would be fine. So I put my hand on his shoulder, in the quiet of my mind asked God to give me a prayer, and just started a kind of blessing. I felt calm and Robert looked at peace. Out loud I just thanked God for our meeting, for Robert and for God's love for him. The prayer came naturally and simply. Both our eyes were open and Robert was looking into the distance. I could here Ronnie rabbiting on in the background, unaware of what was happening. I then called on the Holy Spirit to come and fill Robert. And I waited. I felt the Holy Spirit upon me and watched Robert carefully, as I knew that God was with us in power. I saw Robert manifest a reaction and his eyes twitched and he lurched ever so slightly. I told Robert that I sensed the power of God upon us and at that moment, he urgently reached for something in his pocket. As he struggled to release something from his jean pocket he just said 'It's hot, it's hot', in a slightly bewildered fashion. He then looked at me and opened his hand to reveal a crucifix on a Catholic rosary chain. He said it was hot and with that he seemed to clasp it all the more dearly almost as if to warm both his hands and soul. We carried on praying and I sensed God speak to Robert. He began to look more and more whimsical and moved. I could tell he was experiencing profound revelation.

  I felt that I should leave Robert to reflect at this stage. I sensed that he needed time to think and that I should get out of his face for a bit. Also, by this time Ronnie had cottoned on to the proceedings and was exclaiming noisily that 'the whole thing' was a 'load of bollocks'. I gave Robert a leaflet, called 'Why Jesus?' which has the address of my church on it and also attempts, I think rather successfully, to answer the aforementioned question. I said that I lived right here and gave him my flat number should he need anything. I also pointed to a prayer at the back of the leaflet he might want to say by himself later. With that I left overjoyed and managed to catch Robert's eye one more time, with one of those bonding, mutually knowing looks, as I put my key into the door.

• Near Death

  'The day I nearly died'

  by Debs Gardner-Paterson (Article published in 'The Independent' on the 28th September 2004)

  When Debs Paterson was in a head-on car crash, doctors weren't sure they could save her. Ten months later, her scars are healing - but she's changed for ever.

  I don't remember it at all. I remember leaving the conference, turning off the M1 towards Cambridge. I remember a roundabout, thinking I'd gone the wrong way. The crash happened some 60 miles later. Nothing. Apparently we were screaming, so we must have been conscious as they cut us out of the car. It was a head-on - a suburban street I know quite well. The police have called it an accident, nobody's fault. The other lady walked away, but her car could have been full of kids. Ours crushed in on us, no airbags. Sophie was probably wearing her glasses when her head hit the dashboard. Carnage.

  Once cut free we were taken to Addenbrooke's Hospital in Cambridge. Sophie's injuries were mostly to her face - her left eye was badly damaged and deeply cut. Mine were more serious - ruptured liver, collapsed lung, broken rib, broken pelvis, torn knee ligament, fractured cheekbone and jaw, and quite extensive facial and general laceration and bruising. When I first came to, I couldn't speak because of the tubes, couldn't see because of the swelling, could feel a neck brace, came in and out of awareness of worried doctors, casualty beeps - clichÈd television dialogue about surgery and accidents and hoping for the best.

  

  My family live overseas, but Sophie's dad had contacted our church in Cambridge. They posted a message online immediately to get together to pray, while a friend tracked down my family to say I was going into surgery: brain damage and paralysis unknown, situation grave. My uncle describes trying to identify me - relying on a familiar pattern of moles on my neck, because I was swollen beyond recognition. I was bleeding to death from a lacerated liver and taken to surgery. Some time during the night, a call from the theatre nurse went out saying that I was unlikely to be alive in half an hour. One of the top liver surgeons, Mr Gibbs (my new hero) had been on call and was operating, but they couldn't stem the bleeding. Then, half an hour later, the surgeon himself called back to say they had managed to pack the liver, and I should be stable through the night.

  As I came round to this new and horrible reality of Intensive Care and quite terrible pain and fear, hearing that friends were praying was a genuine balm. I felt as though I was in a huge storm with no umbrella, but was safe because a crowd of people were holding up theirs over me. In and out of consciousness, unable to communicate, I was trapped in my own corpse. And there is a remarkable clarity there as to what will and what won't sustain you: in the isolation of those moments where you feel something go wrong and don't know if it will be one thing too many, or if the doctors will be able to fix it; the moment when it occurred to me that I was wearing a neck brace and might therefore be paralysed, but couldn't ask. Those moments were wild. The resounding realisation that even with a loving family, incredible friends, achievements, accolades, adventures - in the end it's only me, myself and God.

  After the tubes and sedation were gone came sleeplessness and the realisation that the quick steps to get out of the emergency room would be succeeded by the long wait of traction. After three sleepless nights, high on morphine, feeling the pain, insanity sets in. My hips are in traction. They tell me I will lie flat on my back for eight weeks at least. I can't cope with another 12 hours. I can't breathe without the mask. I am desperate to roll over. I want the stitches out of my face. My feet are cold. I start tripping on morphine - dreams of medieval battles and Art Deco sea storms, set to lyrical, satirical marching-band war songs. The pain is intense, and I am desperate for distraction, for TV, for sleep, for some escape.

  Two weeks and a day before the accident I met a boy. One of those instantaneous things where you look up and get hooked. We met up a handful of times in those two weeks, but three days before the crash he told me that he'd like to give "us" a shot. I told him I liked the idea, but didn't want to rush into it - that I'd keep him posted. When he first visited, he didn't recognise me. A nurse had to point me out. He described the cards, read their messages, went for dinner with my mum, then left. I didn't know if I would see him again. Couldn't blame him if I didn't.

  That's been the biggest surprise of this whole thing. All the things I thought I knew but didn't. When I saw my face for the first time - in a reflective ceiling in a lift - I knew my life would never be the same, that these scars would redefine me. But in fact redefinition came not from that, but from the experience of love beyond anything I'd ever understood before. I learnt that scars are not failures, they are externalised success stories of injuries that have healed. That brokenness doesn't have to mean bitterness - it can mean a reassignment of where you find your substance...

  Working in the entertainment industry, it's easy to learn that people take you at face value. I have worked as a presenter, director, editor and producer on different projects and you learn the importance of a good first impression. I felt sure everything would change because I looked different. But it's not been true - because the shell doesn't count nearly so much as the content. And I never understood that, to my shame, until now. It was almost eight weeks before a single day went without friends coming to visit - mostly travelling from London. My mum dropped everything to stay near the hospital. And the boy kept coming.

  My life pre-crash was a havoc of work and play: film-making, fundraising, travelling, madcap adventures, overworked weekends and partying. Lying on my back for those weeks was something I could not conceive of. That lifestyle is great and a privilege, but in the end it doesn't save you. In the end, your legacy is written in people.

  Hospital wasn't the end. Finally starting the long process of learning to walk and finding out what would and would not heal, was in many ways the hardest thing of all. The structure disappeared - rather than waiting until the traction came off, it was a case of working on physio without knowing whether I would ever be able to run for a Tube; of realising that if my voice was going to come back it would have weeks ago; of being a totally different person - inside and out. I had five months of wheelchairs, physio and crutches, and all the time a fairly bleak prognosis. I am only now, 10 months on, starting to feel normal again. The limp is still there, although I can run for the Tube.

  What has become clear is that the quick fix is not the only way through all of this. There is immense value in being shaped by the wait. I have seen little miracles - my hips straightening out before our eyes, my vocal cords un-paralysing themselves overnight. I don't hate the scars on my face and body. But I've also learnt to wait - to let the frustration drive me through; and without that waiting, without having to "be here now" in a bad place, hoping for a better one, and letting that change the way I thought of myself, I would have been the poorer.

  There are life experiences that you wouldn't choose, but wouldn't swap. This has been one. I don't understand why we survived. But I know something about what matters now. I know life is written in people, and people are more than the sum of their parts. I know that church is not a building, and family more than blood. I know that love is not earned - it's an incredible gift.

  About a month ago, Bernie asked me to marry him. The plan is to get hitched on the anniversary of the crash. I can't wait. This is borrowed time now, and I'm loving every minute.

• Aids and Prophecy

  Aids, Cancer and Prophecy 

  by Dominic Muir

   

  The Calling

  A few months ago a friend called Hubert, from my home prayer group, showed us all a video of a guy called Prophet TB Joshua who oversees a church in Lagos, Nigeria called The Synagogue Church of all Nations. The video documented some extraordinary miracles that Joshua seemed to be performing in Jesus' name. One African woman was cured from mouth cancer, an affliction so gruesome that she had been unable to eat solid food or talk for as long as three years. On the television screen before our eyes, in a most graphic and explicit way, Joshua's prayers seemed to slowly drain the cancer away and on to the floor. Within three days the woman had been completely healed and was talking and eating without any problems at all.

  Coupled with this Hubert informed us that his Mother in law had actually been out there and had returned with the news that HIV, all types of cancer, paralysis and every disease imaginable are being cured by the thousands. I could not believe why I had not heard or read about this in the press - I could not fully believe that it was true.

  

  This brief exposure of Jesus at work fascinated me. I had to know more. I had to know if it were true. So I prayed for some time about whether it might be God's will for me to go out there and meanwhile did some more research on this guy Joshua. I discovered that Prophet TB Joshua has an extremely mixed press. Many people seem to dismiss his Ministry as doctrinally dubious, corrupt, cult-like, satanic you name it (Mark 3 vs 20 - 27). Others say it is quite literally awesome, pure and godly.

  I thought that there was no harm in putting a call through to an English couple, Gary and Fiona Tonge, whom according to Hubert organised trips to the Synagogue from London. I got their answer phone, left a message expressing a vague interest in going out there and left it at that.

  About two weeks later I was praying for God to show me His beauty in this world. Before I had finished praying my mobile rang and it was Gary Tonge returning my call with information on the next trip to Nigeria. (Genesis 24: v 15). That sealed it for me. I booked my tickets to Nigeria the next day and was set to leave within another two weeks.

  Within days various Christian friends were advising me not to go saying that this guy was 'dodgy'. It turned out that a few of Joshua's sermons were on the Internet. I had not realised this until now but discovered that their purity and strict Biblical foundation soon put any further scepticism to bed. I was now excited, got myself poked in the arm a few times, paid through the nose for some Malaria pills and Piccadilly-lined it to Heathrow.

  The Heart of Darkness

  I arrived at the Synagogue Church of all Nations, Lagos, Nigeria on a muggy Thursday evening in July. I had been warned that Lagos was dangerous but I was not prepared for the armed police escort directly from customs to the church. Fiona, our proverbial tour guide from England, had informed me back in London that I wouldn't be allowed to leave the church grounds on account of this danger for the entire duration of our stay, one week, so I was tremendously hoping that I'd like what I saw. I wasn't necessarily in 'holiday mode' but neither was I in Colditz mode. I wanted it to be easy, relaxing and life changing - to have my cake and eat it.

  

  In that kind of first day at boarding school way my senses were on overdrive. The architecture was gritty, simple and prefabricated. It wasn't smelly but neither was it The Body Shop. It was a very large church, about the size of a second division football pitch (with stadium and changing rooms (where we stayed)), that had been put up by its staff of three hundred in the space of eighteen months. The lighting was stripped and stark, wires ran amok and no doubt the odd rodent and spider too.

  As I stepped off the mini bus, alongside my fellow 'Caucasian pilgrims' I was met by a group of ebony black smiling faces with ivory white teeth and a rather impressive looking video camera, trained on our every move. We had driven into a sort of semi-indoor drop-off zone, perhaps similar to those hangers that football players are dropped off in before away fixtures. I was later to see this area used to house what the church call 'the emergency prayer line'.

  'Welcome to the synagogue church, in Jesus' name' they all chirped in unison. The camera was still very much in our faces so I thought it polite to reciprocate with a smile, albeit slightly nervous, just-got-off-a-plane-why-am-I-here one. I was later informed that they film almost everything that goes on at the church for the sake of testimony.

  'Just as we have the gospel accounts from 2,000 years ago, so will others be able to see their continuation both now AND in another 2,000 years' the cameraman rather earnestly reassured me.

  Beautiful, jet-black Nigerians loped around the grounds in nonchalantly calm spirits. I felt distinctly unholy in my grumpiness as I flip-flopped my way up to my dormitory and begrudgingly selected a bunk-bed that was way too short for me and way too close to all my neighbours. We were twenty to a room, this place WAS smelly and I started to entertain the idea that perhaps I'd had a nightmare. I began trying to rationalise the passage of time and work out just how long a week really is.

  My spirits were quickly lifted at the sight of a particularly stunning girl who I instantly thought I would marry. This girl was heavenly. Positive thinking was in order - as was my first dinner. Rice and yellow bone on the chicken. Enough said.

  Breakfast the next day was also none too exciting. We had long-life milk, which is always a disappointment, but to compensate we had those Kellogg's quite-fun-size variety packs. Ricicles were a comforting blast from the past. One of our Belgian contingent, a girl of about twenty called Natalie, started crying. The whole thing had obviously got the better of her, not just the food, and it dawned on me that this whole church expedition was a little strange. Strange people, strange food, and a seemingly strange God who was allegedly performing miracles on a regular and quite unsurprising scale. It came as no shock to hear later in the week to hear that this girl had come to Nigeria to receive prayer for 'a spirit of fear' that had plagued all areas of her life for some time.

  Following breakfast we embarked on the schedule, which I learned would consist primarily of watching healing and teaching videos. This was hardly the idyllic monastic routine that I had been looking forward to. I had expected to spend time alone with my Bible, quietly wandering around the church grounds maybe simultaneously working on my tan or lack of one. Two birds with one stone and all that. Instead we just moved to the end of the long, artificially lit dining room and settled back into our plastic garden chairs for the first screening.

  Life in the Synagogue

  We were forewarned that the purpose of this marathon video-watching session, the like of which I have never tasted, even after a heavy night of vodka and coke (a-cola) at university, was to build our faith. I was a little indignant at this assertion and quietly reassured myself that other, 'less spiritual' individuals would benefit from my complicity. How wrong I was. For a change.

  The first video revealed a paralysed from the waist down Nigerian man who had been unable to walk for the past ten years. He had a cushion permanently stuffed down the back of his trousers that protected and comforted his bottom as his strong arms shuffled his body, withered legs stretched out in front of him, along the ground. He made a pathetic sight as the camera crew filmed him slowly struggle his way along the outside of the church and into 'the emergency prayer line'. It seemed as though they wanted the camera to milk his struggle for all that it was worth. He had no wheel chair, no job, no money, no friend or girlfriend or wife or child with him - it was just him, his rags, his very sad expression and his testimony.

  The protocol is that whilst waiting to be prayed for each 'faithful patient' is given a filmed interview and a plaque inscribed with their name, age, address, affliction and for how long they have suffered. Those in need of healing start arriving outside the church gates at one in the morning. There are two services a week, on a Sunday and Wednesday. There they wait silently and obediently until six whereupon they are ushered in with military order and filed into separate groups depending on the nature of their illness. Any disease that is not demonstrable (eg HIV AIDS 1) has to be backed up with a government approved medical certificate (I saw many of these) and indeed when they return healed they have to bring a government approved medical certificate declaring HIV Negative status (I saw two of these).

  We all sat motionless in that tatty dining room and watched in fascination as one poor man's destiny played out in front of us. It was real life drama, non-fiction, reality TV at its delectable.

  The man's face was awash with hopelessness, grief and resignation. Our faces looked on in pity, that transient pity that serves to heighten the jubilation that lies just around the corner. But I wanted to see this guy's sorrow. I wanted to somehow feel his pain and understand the despair that comes from being unable to walk. I wanted to get inside his head so that when he made those inevitable first steps I could make them with him. I could really be there, not just walking beside him but in his heart and soul. Then maybe I could believe the miracle.

  Prophet TB Joshua prayed over this man. There was no great ceremony, he just held his hands over the feeble legs and lifted the man up to walk - in Jesus' name (Acts 3 v 7). The man started to walk, very slowly and then carefully but still slowly. He was using his legs for the first time in ten years and his expression somehow demonstrated that.

  Over that week I did, I'm sure you are relieved to know, get to read my bible, pray on my own and walk the church grounds. It wasn't all videos and vicarious miracles, although I did see some of the most fascinating things projected from a TV screen that I know I will ever see. I saw powerful deliverances, the blind given back their sight, one almost completely paralysed Chinese woman (suffering from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis - she was loosing the last of her ability to talk and was close to death) restored to full feeling and not far off complete recovery. But it was what I experienced personally, whilst at the church that I want to finish with telling you about.

  The Wednesday Service

  The Wednesday service arrived at last, on the day before we were to leave, and this was our chance to receive prayer from the man himself. By this stage we were indeed convinced that 'nothing is impossible with God' (Luke 1 v 37) and that TB Joshua was anointed by God.

  I witnessed some amazing healing on both the Sunday and the Wednesday services, far too many to describe to you now, but I would like to focus on two particular cases. Both involve members of a group from Belgium whom I had spent the week with. The first is Nathalie, the twenty-year-old girl who had cried on the first morning, admitting that she suffered from a spirit of fear. Nathalie and I got on pretty well throughout the week. She is a pretty girl, very feminine, of average height with medium length brown hair and large eyes. Her English is quite impressive despite being seemingly suffocated by her timid disposition. What conversation we did have revealed an innocent and kind girl whose purpose at the Synagogue intrigued me more and more.

  She stood next to me in the prayer line and when TB Joshua began praying for her the following dialogue was exchanged:

  TB Joshua (in slightly broken English): 'You are not going to get married. (Pause) You have the spirit of a man inside you. (Pause) A man cannot come together with a man.

  Nathalie: Yes, it's true.

  TB Joshua: You cannot get married. (Pause) Jesus wants to free you from this.

  Joshua then proceeded to pray over Nathalie mightily and seemingly break the curse that he had just alluded to. Nathalie was reduced to tears and then Joshua moved on to his next victim, yours truly. Surprisingly, I remained quite calm.

  The next day Nathalie might as well have been a different person. I passed her at breakfast and gave her a look as if to say "Well?" and she just smiled at me peacefully but with a glimmer of excitement and said "I'm free." Later in the day, when she gave her testimony, she described how from a young age she had wanted to be a boy. She explained how she had never wanted to have a boyfriend, or a girl friend, but that now she felt something had been lifted from her and that she was free.

  Nathalie was one of three young Belgians who had been brought to the Synagogue by their youth leader, Jeroune. Jeroune is a large man in his mid thirties, measuring two metres in height and weighing in at a good sixteen stones. He is bald on top and has glasses and a big nose that somehow suits his thick Belgian accent. When he is not leading youth at his church he sells software. Jeroune came across as a perpetual enthusiast and I imagined that he made a good youth leader: he was confident, assertive and practical.

  When Joshua came to pray for Jeroune the following took place:

  Joshua: 'You worry too much about what people think of you. (Pause) It makes you insecure and it stems from your relationship with your Father.

  Jeroune: 'Yes, its true.'

  Joshua: 'This has led you to plan committing suicide recently.'

  Jeroune: 'Yes.'

  Joshua: 'Jesus says that he loves you very much and that His love is enough. You are free in Jesus' name.'

  The next day Jeroune gave his testimony and like Nathalie seemed to have that unmistakable spring in his step that obviously comes from a complete stranger revealing your innermost secrets (1 Corinthians 14 v 25) - the secrets that when rectified lead to a healed life or 'life in all its fullness' (John 10 v 10). And the good news is that these revelations aren't preceded or followed by strange rituals, spoon bending or cards, but are simply accompanied by the name of Jesus, our alleged Creator and Saviour (John 1 v 3, John 3 v 16).

  For more information you might like to visit the following sites

  The 8 February 2004 Edition of the Observer Sport Monthly (UK Sunday Newspaper Colour Supplement) gives the story of the healing of the South African Rugby player Jaco van der Westhuyzen at The Synagogue. You can now download a video of Jaco's healing here

  Synagogue Church Visits: (Gary and Fiona Tonge)

  http://www.synagoguevisits.co.uk

   

• Colonial House

  Colonial House

  by Dominic Muir

  In the late spring of 2003 I decided to give my career to the Lord. My faith and love for Him was growing daily and I suppose I had reached a level of devotion and worship where I wanted Him to guide me into the right job. As my loving creator He knew me best and had made me for a reason and I suppose for the first time I realised that included my job. It felt so natural. I was teaching at the time and was perfectly happy but felt in my spirit that there was more. I would just ask God almost daily to lead me into something new. I remember giving Him free reign. By that stage I was up for anything.

  For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. (Jeremiah 29:11)

  

  I didn't know the above verse at the time, but looking back it certainly rings true. It wasn't as though I was suffering from a lack of hope and or future, quite the contrary I'm grateful to say, it was more a sense of wanting to fit in with His plans. After a few weeks of prayer I received a telephone call one afternoon whilst sat at my desk writing school reports. It was from a friend of mine named Dave asking whether I'd like to be contacted by a television production company regarding a project called 'Colonial House' (the English version is called 'Pioneer House'). It transpired that they were looking for English men in their twenties to participate in a history based reality television project. I gave Dave the green light and was called within about ten minutes by a Production manager named Emma.

  The next day I was interviewed and given a test screening and within about two weeks I was down to the last three and was on a plane to Boston to be met by the American team. I got the job/part and two weeks later I was in the outskirts of Massachusetts being trained in tree felling, animal slaughter and sea fishing amongst many other bizarre and exciting seventeenth century pursuits. Another Brit named Paul accompanied me and alongside fourteen Americans we were equipped to spend five months in the year 1628.

  That's how quickly everything happened. I felt like God had to be in this. It had fallen out of the sky and seemed too ironic for words. One minute I was slightly stifled by my job and the heat of the London summer and the next I was stripped down to one set of period clothing and my Bible. All in the cause of spending five months cut off from everything and everyone I ever knew to live as a 'Pilgrim Father'. Think twice about testing God on His sense of humour.

  1628 Colonial life was, for me, about nature, simplicity and God.

  I couldn't help feeling part of this organic, natural melting pot. It's so easy to say that one feels part of nature - It's one of the great cliche's. But I remember my clothes gradually became a new layer of skin - clothes that were made of wool and linen. They became embroiled with dirt, sweat, wood chippings and smoke and I would often find pebbles in my pockets. Having milked the goats or cleaned out their pen I would sleep in my milk-stained clothes and rarely wash my hands. It was almost as though the dirt on your hands became clean. It was clean dirt, if that makes sense, it just lived with you and you in it. The animals were such a central part of our lives, and our respective domiciles left so little to differentiate us, that our humanity was forced to find new realms of expression - often without success.

  By the time I had stacked wood next to our hearth and collected water for the evening a new skin would have arrived, many natural textures would have come and gone. If I wasn't in contact with wood, in the handle of an axe, a tree trunk or a hand-carved bowl, I was foraging around in the bushes and the dirt or straightening my woollen doublet or an errant goat. Even going to the loo was about scoping the land, digging with wooden tools, and pruning near by vegetation.

  My life on the Colony was simple. I went to bed with the sun and got up with the cockerel! I would concentrate on eating as much as I could, not worrying too much about taste but would ensure I had enough energy for the work. Food was like petrol, if you didn't eat enough you conked out and had to go to bed. For the first few weeks this happened to many of us regularly. I chopped wood, carried it, and made it do things, or at least tried to. Sometimes I fished and often I read the Bible - they were my distractions and became my passions. In the evening before bed I would drink a pint of beer (we were rationed by yours truly to three pints a week) and maybe consult my Quarter Master ration book. As the sun dipped below the horizon occasionally my opinion on a colony matter would be asked for or maybe I would just shoot the breeze with a friend. Then I would go to bed and sleep soundly only to repeat the simplicity day after day.

  Slowly but surely I became aware of God more and more. The faith I took with me into the project was strong but more convenient to a busy London schedule. Slowly He started to walk with me and I with Him. He would be there and I would welcome His presence and ask him to reveal Himself more and more. And He did. In the waving trees or the freezing water He was there in His glory. It wasn't so much about the Sabbath services so much as the community that we managed to build. There was a palpable love in that colony, in spite of and no doubt arising from the many difficulties shared, and He was in it. There was also the privilege of His word that for once in my life I bothered to read properly and that came to live through me and in me.

  

  'I had a mixed weekend and fell out with a guy (the carpenter) who I live with and like. If you have a row here life becomes unbearable. I was ready to quit but I prayed to God to help me and everything has been sorted out. He is my constant saviour out here.' (Extract from a quill-penned letter sent to my parents, 'by ship', on the 21st of July!)

  The above extract I hope serves to help illustrate the most profound lesson of the entire five-month experience. How Jesus became my saviour, best friend and miracle maker. On two occasions during that summer I seriously considered leaving the project to return to England. The second occasion arose from the terrible row that I had with Don (during which we were both carrying axes) but the first came right at the beginning of the project.

  I realised that the cameras and the whole idea of being documented just wasn't me. Furthermore, I felt that the whole project lacked integrity merely because it was geared towards television. You would have thought that I would have mentally prepared myself for this revelation nevertheless I became depressed and desperate. I remember going for a long walk and breaking down in tears of confusion over what to do. I felt totally alone. I barely knew anyone and no one knew anything about me so seeking decent, practical advice was next to impossible. I informed the production crew that I was seriously considering leaving the project and needed to contact friends or family in England in order to get some perspective but they promptly reminded me that it was forbidden to have any outside contact.

  At that stage I just got down on my knees and cried out to God. I told him that I felt it had been His will to bring me on this and that He would have to do something pretty massive to get me out of this dilemma and keep me here. With that I loped back to the colony and dragged myself into bed mid afternoon. I don't think I have ever been to bed so early in the day with the unqualified intention of sleeping through to the next day. The next day I woke with a joyful sense of purpose. I absolutely knew that I was meant to be on that Colony. I was deliriously happy and at peace. It was as though I had been given a totally knew heart and mind. I had done nothing, I had merely been asleep, but don't try telling me that I just 'slept it off'. You should have seen me the day before. Praise the Lord!

  This miraculous 'emotional deliverance', for want of a better expression, happened twice during that long summer. I am conscious that this might sound presumptuous but Jesus taught me that I don't need anyone else, that His grace is sufficient, in ANY situation.

• Lung Cancer

  Lung Cancer 

  by Jonmarc Wright

  During the spring of 2000 a close of friend of mine called Andy was feeling under the weather. He was a soccer star at my school, as well as being active in all of the plays and musicals we put on. For several days he was feeling sick and had a chest cold, yet he attended school and still went to soccer practice. Finally his body couldn't take it so he gave in and went to the doctor to get checked out. During his check-up they discovered that he had a tumor the size of my fist in his lung. After performing a biopsy they came back with test results; he had cancer, and it was fairly developed as his youth and energy had kept him going long after it first set in. He went through some surgury to remove another tumor which had been developing elsewhere, then began kemotherapy in conjunction with a new semi-experimental drug that some renowned Japanese doctors promoted. This was going well and the tumor was shrinking and the outlook was good.

  During the course of all this I would go to the hospital every day where Andy and I would sit and talk, play some nintendo 64 "super smash brothers", and, rather occasionally, pray a little. At this point in my life I was a christian by definition, but not so much by faith, and even less by deed. Although I did enjoy learning about the bible and contemplating its message. I felt some degree of emptiness, although i was only halfheartedly at best seeking to fill it with Christ's love. My good friend Arlo was the youth director at a local church which I attended solely for the youth program. It just so happened that during the very month of Andy's new discovery the topic Arlo was teaching on was healing.

  Two months after the initial news of the cancer was broken to Andy, while I was at the hospital with him, a doctor pulled his mother out of the room. Andy and I thought nothing of it and continued on our daily routine. Later as his mother was driving me back home she burst out crying and told me what the doctor had said. The cancer was fighting back against the kemo, both that and the new drugs were proving to be ineffective after all. The doctor gave Andy less than six months to live. This is something his mother did not tell Andy then, nor to this day as far as i know, though I'm pretty sure he got a sense that his time was growing short. I told no one.

  Now a week or so later someone asked Arlo during our youth service what the whole point of his teachings on healing had been. In other words, "put your money where your mouth is". Andy's health had been an item on the church prayer list since it became public knowledge that he was sick, but as you, I'm sure, have noticed sometimes that is not enough attention. The church that I was attending was not very spiritual more just ritualistic, in my opinion. People came on Sunday, there was a bit of song, a bit of children's time, a very politically correct 20 minutes-on-the-dot sermon, bi-monthly communion, and fellowship on the way out the door between bites of cookies and sips of juice. This church takes the summer off because not enough people attend to warrant renting out the building. Like I said, I went for the youth services.

  Later that week Arlo gathered together the youth from the church and we made our way up to the hospital. With the permission of Andy and his parents (who have absolutely no interest in Christ), we prayed over him. We each layed our hands on him and we prayed. I'd say this was about my most spiritual and faithful moment in my walk with Christ prior to the time I was 20. Arlo asked the Holy Spirit to descend upon us and bring the healing power to Andy. Then he said something that blew me away because I remember thinking "why am I not sceptical? Shouldn't I be sitting here saying that's impossible how can he say that?" It is obvious to me why I was not sceptical, but given my less than very faithful state at the time it seemed strange to me that I wasn't. What he said was this: "The healing power of the Holy Spirit has come and in the near future we will see Andy come to a 100% full recovery physically and mentally from this illness."

  I remember he repeated it one or two more times. "What authority!" I thought to myself, yet I could feel the presence of the Holy Spirit and fully believed in that what he said would in fact happen.

  About a month later the doctors came into the room after running the latest tests (they ran tests after each new wave of kemo and had since the first false hope had seen the cancer getting worse and worse.) On this day they were confused and amazed. The tumor in his chest was completely gone, no trace of cancer left in his system. All of his blood tests etc. showed no trace that there ever was a cancer (no abnormally high levels of anything which would be indicative of a virus). He was in all regards completely and utterly healthy. Even the Japanese doctors were very upfront and honest saying there was no medical explanation for this. They admitted that his healing was in no part due to their actions.

  Andy has since never outwardly admitted to anyone that he was healed by God's work, save for one time. I was not present, but Arlo told me about it. They were all out at a place where Andy would later work in Japan, a small 'restaurant'. There's no equivalent elsewhere in the world I don't think. In Japan we call them Izakaya. Anyway. Andy was discussing with my dear friend Eben the existence, or non-existence, of God. Eben was convinced, though I doubt whether he truly believes it, that there could not be a God. Andy, though not a strong Christian himself, was stating that God did exist. During the conversation Eben made some comment and Andy grabbed him by his shoulders and said "Eben, God healed me! God saved my life!"

  Praise the Lord God, for he does exist and his love can be seen in the many miracles like this one that continue to take place all around the world.

• Convulsions and Fire

  Convulsions and Fire

  by Michelle Witton

  I was raised in a church where Trinity had two parts – Father, Son and…the-bit-we-don’t-talk-about. It denied the work of the Holy Spirit. Even after Alpha, I was still cynical about the scope of the work of the Holy Spirit - especially healing. I visited a non-Christian friend, Betta, one weekend in Italy. Betta has two daughters, the eldest of whom, Sophie, was five at the time. Saturday evening Betta and her husband were very upset. Sophie had suffered convulsions since little, for which doctors had no explanation, and she was having another fit of uncontrollable convulsions. Betta was in tears sitting beside Sophie on the bed. Giovanni was so upset he’d gone outside. I was there, beside this convulsing child and her parents and felt at a loss to do anything. All I could do was pray but…I don’t believe in healing. I couldn’t do nothing so I asked Betta if I could lay hands on Sophie, she agreed and we prayed. Nothing happened straight away but Sophie calmed gradually and fell asleep.

  The next morning, Betta told me that she had had “such a strange dream”. Betta recalled, “I was standing, looking at a fire and then the fire went inside me and filled me”. What she seemed to be describing was The Holy Spirit – but there’s no way she could have known that, not being a Christian. And Sophie’s fits? That was the last fit she had - and that’s three years ago. So, cynical and faltering as I had been, God used me in the situation to administer His healing.

  I hope this is of encouragement to others.

• Healed Heart

  Healed Heart

  by Dominic Muir

  If you have read my testimony you may remember that a fairly significant influence in how I came to know the Lord was a girl. Her name is Alice and I have known her for almost ten years. We met through a mutual friend from Oxford University and right from the start I was attracted to her. I would bump into her at parties but we never really got beyond flirtatious dancing and drunken dalliance.

  The Christmas season was fun because not only would we intersect at various festive dos but I would also have the quirky fall back option of seeing her at the carol concert at St Michael’s Chester square, my local church. There I would have the opportunity to reveal my more ‘spiritual’, wholesome qualities. I remember on one such occasion, at least six or seven years ago, I chased her down at the end of a service and we both agreed how smug evangelical Christianity was. On that occasion the congregation had been asked to pray a particular prayer twice – all together the first time so that the second recital could be saved for those who truly believed what they were saying. We were both outraged at this apparent attack on our integrity and the fact that a carol concert, of all things, and at Christmas, of all times, should ask us to think beyond presents and pretty girls. I enjoyed bonding with Alice on this occasion. We were both showing intelligence, worldliness and the ability to agree on more than how good we both were at dancing.

   

  

  Roughly two years later I heard the earth shattering news that Alice had become a born again Christian. I was amazed, but strangely for the first time I wasn’t entirely repulsed - more a reflection on her pretty eyes than the distinctly unattractive notion of her talking lovingly about Jesus. Typically, it was not long before I had secured a cosy corner of a friend’s flat in London, at a drinks party just days before Christmas, in order to inspect this new phenomenon. I remember Alice was wearing a pillar box red, roll neck jersey and that she looked delightful. Right from the start she looked different. It is arguably the biggest Christian cliché but she did genuinely have a ‘peace’ about her. I waited at least ten minutes before casually asking her about her new found faith. I can’t remember what she said in reply, I think I was too busy subconsciously falling for her.

  I didn’t see Alice for six months, during which time I had an acrimonious departure from my job in a film production company in Soho. I took most of that summer off and it transpired that both Alice and I were invited to the same house party in Scotland. It was a classically northern week of swimming in ice cold sea, barbecuing on moody beaches and drinking large amounts of whisky - all of which provided the perfect back drop for me to fall head over heels in love with Alice, in that kind of immature, one-sided way. I was often heart wrenchingly drunk and would gravitate towards Alice in the small hours and ask her about her faith. I wanted to know what made her tick. Just how did she have the effrontery to be of such a distinct minority who really did believe in the risen Christ? Not only that, but have the conviction to live out her beliefs sacrificially? Anyway, I would do anything to get her alone and I knew the best way was to name drop ‘Jesus’.

  Over several evenings we journeyed lazily along the winding paths of Alice’s pilgrimage. Beside crackling log fires, usually with a whiskey tumbler nestled precariously within my grasp, I listened to her recall her relationship with her ex boyfriend, her experience of doing the Alpha course with him and how this had culminated with her being literally blinded by the Holy Spirit in church one Sunday. Echoing St Paul’s famous Damascus road experience, Alice lost her sight whilst sitting in church and once led outside the building by friends, prayed that Jesus would come into her life. I was fascinated. I believed her because she would never lie about something like this. The telling of her story carried realness – the whole exchange felt girded in truth. But I didn’t believe that Jesus had risen from the dead and was therefore the catalyst of all this, this drama, this change in Alice’s life. It just seemed too good to be true or even just too weird. But then I had never really given the whole thing that much thought. So I was in a pickle. But a nice tasting one – because it all revolved around Alice.

  As my story tells, I too went and did an Alpha course. I didn’t tell Alice because I wasn’t sure how things would end up, either with her or God. When I did eventually tell her, I had already been filled with the Holy Spirit and, in Paul’s’ words, was ‘a new creation’. She was understandably both thrilled and shocked. In my next breath I asked her to the ballet.

  We went and saw ‘The Nutcracker’ together, then we ate French food and finally we went clubbing. We laughed, reminisced, talked about God, were the last to be kicked out of the restaurant and then got the dance floor started at one of the trendiest clubs in Mayfair. It was the perfect evening, I seemed to be on text book form and Alice was clearly responding in the manner of a future wife. Right up until I lent over to kiss her. Time stood still as she recoiled backwards in the frosby flop high jump motion towards the imaginary crash mat. I would have expected a more enthusiastic response from my old second row rugby captain called Jim. I had misread the signs, not for the first time and went home sobbing into the night sky.

  But I didn’t give up. I was convinced God must have a plan. After all, Alice had been instrumental in my finding Him. Plus she was single, I was single, we went back, we got on, you name it. So I sent her cards, made her a short film, carried on asking her out and then finally turned up unannounced at her door in the middle of the night and declared my undying love for her. To this day I’m not sure how true my feelings were but they were nevertheless powerful enough to result in pretty drastic action on my behalf. Wearing her pyjamas she wiped the sleep from her eyes and sweetly reminded me that she didn’t have those feelings for me. I had failed to take off my illuminous yellow bicycling jacket. I still wonder if therein lay the problem. Either way the dream was well and truly over and luckily God very quickly secured me five months on a reality television show to live in the year 1628 to convalesce and get over her. (see ‘Pioneer House’ in MUNDANE MIRACLES).

  Living in a time warp on a seventeenth century Calvinist colony, feeding off salted meat and goats milk, did little to rest my lovesick heart. My first letter ‘quilled’ was to Alice, rather than to family or best friends and in many ways the prospect of some sort of future with her still fuelled my prayer life. I did think about her less but in retrospect I realise this owed more to the impracticality of doing so rather than the absence of any inherent desire to. Thinking about her wasn’t going to speed up the five months separation and neither would it help the begrudging hope that by the end my feelings for her might have died.

  Furthermore, the hope that a resident corset-clad damsel/milk maid character would distract my longings of the heart was also short lived. Not that I have anything against hairy legs on women but seventeenth century life threw up new priorities.

  Bearded and emotionally charged I crawled across the finish line after five months in early October. Alice was still the apple of my eye – surely we were meant to be? How would she be able to resist my new found hardiness and wisdom! These were the sorts of thoughts that had now found a worthy adversary in a prayer that God would have His way in this relationship. For the first time I had begun to pray that if Alice wasn’t for me then maybe He could help me out and give my frail little ticker some time out. Until that time the supplication had all been geared towards getting me the result I wanted – clearly the correct result – a long and happy marriage to Alice. But if the truth were known I didn’t actually know Alice that well. I was projecting a romantic notion of love on to her and refusing to be beaten by its failure to realise. At least, any vestiges of love had turned into a rather unhealthy obsession.

  Following several weeks’ quarantine, in which I slowly adapted to keyboards, voicemail and superfluous amounts of butter on my toast, I slowly re-emerged on to the London scene. I made a concerted effort not to hunt down Alice and happily it wasn’t long before I heard along the grape vine that she was doing an Alpha course with a friend at a church called St Mary’s in Bryanston Square. So I went along with a friend in the hope that I would bump into her ‘coincidentally’. Sure enough that very night I saw her. And what a sight. She looked beautiful and every feeling that I had ever had for her instantaneously returned with a new-found energy and zeal. Yes, it seemed absence had made the heart grow fonder. I remarked upon how nice it was to see her, she complemented me on my beard and pretty soon I had secured a dinner date in the diary – just friends, of course.

  That dinner marked over a year of unrequited ‘love’ for Alice. I was still praying the prayer that God should just have His way with the two of us but unfortunately that evening simply served to heighten any attachment that I had to her. I think I deferred to her. Yes, we were friends and I clearly fancied her but the fact that I couldn’t get her I think gave me an unhealthy respect for her perhaps rooted in a few years of self-rejection. Following that supper I began to get depressed again, not in the clinical sense, but it came with that hint of pleasure that in spite of the pain one still felt alive and focussed.

  The next weekend we both found ourselves by the sea in Brighton on an Alpha weekend away. There were over a hundred of us there but only one girl mattered. Quite literally, I had reached that stage where one is constantly aware of exactly where the other is. I knew whether she was in the same room and if so where she was sitting, if she had recently left the room, then at what time, with whom and why – obsession had well and truly set in, I was a nervous wreck! So that Saturday afternoon I went swimming in the English channel in November to both show off and try and attempt to shake myself out of this absurd situation.

  The swim did little to calm what had now developed into a slightly reckless anger. I drove back to the afternoon prayer meeting at break neck speed and slumped into a plastic chair in the bingo hall of the hotel, moodily readying myself for the ironically timed talk on the Holy Spirit. Following the talk and the typically exciting ritual in which all the chairs are removed so that everyone can stand, The Reverend John Peters prayed that the Holy Spirit would come.

  I remember one chap came and prayed for me. My eyes were closed but I do recall his thick Australian accent. He laid hands on me and remained praying at least fifteen minutes. He prayed out loud in English, was silent at times and he also prayed in tongues. I didn’t experience anything profound, either physically, emotionally or spiritually but I did notice that my grumpiness had lifted.

  As we all filed out of the bingo hall, the Australian guy came over and introduced himself. His name was Ben, he must have been mid-thirties and he had a large, smiley, teddy bear face. Ben proceeded to politely explain the reason for his prolonged ministry to me. He earnestly explained how his arm had been filled with a ‘searing pain’ upon laying hands on me to pray. He reassured me that the Lord would deliver me from this pain in my life. Rather surprised and slightly indignant at the assertion that I needed freeing from pain, I thanked Ben sweetly and continued towards the bar.

  Normally I would indulgently mull over such an encounter but on this occasion I let my reaction dissipate. I was now standing at the bar of the hotel, waiting for my lager to be poured and my motivation was towards a group of friends in the corner with Alice sat rather conveniently amongst them. I went over and joined them for a pre-dinner drink. What proceeded to occur over the next hour or so is arguably the most profound, powerful and life-changing Jesus miracle that has ever happened to me, aside of course from being born again.

  After a few minutes I was mildly aware of how uncommonly relaxed I felt considering I was engaged in group-banter with Alice. You know when you like someone and you have to run everything laboriously through ‘social customs’ before putting it out there? You have to deal with the humour police, the sniffer dogs, the whole thing takes time and energy and isn’t much fun. You end up leaving everything in the hotel room. I had recently become painfully self-conscious and boring in these situations. At least that is what I felt and therein the damage is already done. So then you become more boring! On this occasion I found myself on cracking form, relatively speaking. I was relaxed, didn’t care and cool almost to the point of nonchalance. Something had changed within me. It wasn’t before half way through dinner that I properly recognised this immense change. It suddenly dawned me that when I looked at Alice it was no less platonic than looking at my sister Woody. I was romantically indifferent to her. My heart had been emptied of all the ‘stuff’ – or my tummy no longer had the ‘fuzzy butterflies’, it was like looking at an old friend – NOTHING. It was a genuine miracle and I revelled in it. I kept looking at Alice and marvelling at the change. It was a bit like having a drastic hair cut and repeatedly going and looking in the mirror excitedly to marvel at what has happened…only more profound.

  I was free, my heart was free, it felt amazing. That night I danced with Alice all night. I threw her around the dance floor like a rag doll in that way you do when you just want to have fun. I didn’t care whether I was cool and therefore was better suited to the task. I didn’t follow her movements like a private detective and when she went to bed I was blasé. A year later we are still great friends. Sometimes when I see her I try to recapture those old feelings. It’s almost as though I’m testing God on His miracle, on how well he has healed my heart and mind – actually I want to remind myself and glorify His power. I am never even close to mustering up any form of attraction to her (no offence Alice, if you’re reading this). It’s weird, she’s a very cool, interesting and pretty girl.

  Alice is marrying a great guy called Christopher in two weeks time and I’m thrilled. I’m going to the wedding to give glory to God and to pray for their lifelong happiness. Didn’t think I’d ever be in a position to say that!

• Across the Pond

  Across the Pond

  by April Vincent

  I am not a prophetess.

  I feel it’s important to say this right away, so you know that what I’m about to relate is by no means an ordinary event for me.

  You should also know that I love to sleep—LOVE IT. I sleep soundly, like the dead, even. I am very jealous of my sleeping time, to the point that I will sleep nine extra minutes OUT OF SPITE if I wake up before my alarm sounds.

  So that’s why I know this story, this event, this MIRACLE, had to have been divinely sent. Because on a Saturday morning, nobody wakes me up but God.

  That particular Saturday, September 24, at 7:30 a.m., I was sleeping peacefully, when I suddenly heard a roaring in my ears, like that weird sound effect they make right before someone gets killed in a horror movie. The rushing grew louder and built in intensity, and then: BOOM! Silence.

  An image appeared to me, as clearly as if I were seeing it on a television screen. The background was that of the NowBelieve website, and the only words on the page were these: Due to financial reasons, we are no longer able to maintain this website.

  At that, I sat straight up in bed. I was wide awake, and wondering why on EARTH I would be thinking of something like that.

  I know enough about dreams to know that they’re supposed to be influenced by your subconscious, or something. But I also know that sometimes God speaks to people through dreams, and that it’s happened to me before. The thing is, I have a hard time knowing if the dream is actually a message from God, or if I’m trying to interpret it as a message from God because I want so desperately to be used by Him.

  I immediately knew what the message was:

  God: Ask Dom if he needs money.

  Me: No WAY.

  I did it, though. I went right to my computer and messaged Dom and wrote something incredibly lame - something like, “Is there any way I can contribute money to the site?” About four minutes later, I went back and deleted the message. I just KNEW that I was giving too much importance to a stupid dream, and that Dom would be like, “What is HER deal?” and then I’d be blocked from the site and that would stink.

  I tried to forget about the whole thing. I tried REALLY HARD, but God wouldn’t let me forget it. I prayed, I agonized, I searched my Bible, but I wasn’t getting any definitive answer. I was, however, getting more agitated, and also I was not able to get back to sleep, which really made me mad.

  So that’s all I did the whole weekend. For two days I sought God’s will, and I tried to talk Him into letting me do something else, like going into foreign missions or donating a kidney to charity, but He wasn’t having it.

  Finally, I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I sat down at the computer, took a deep breath, and started typing.

  I had a dream and you weren't directly involved but you were somehow and now I have to ask, do you need something? Because I sort of got the feeling that you need something and that I'm supposed to help you. And the something is maybe money, which is another reason I didn't want to say anything because it's such a touchy subject when people AREN'T blaming stuff on dreams. And I had this dream Saturday morning around 7:30 am and it's been a day and a half and I have not had any peace about this issue. I knew what I should do, but I really really didn't want to … So I have been putting it off but I can't anymore so there you go.

  I didn’t get a reply for several days, and I was kind of hoping that my message had gotten lost somehow, out in cyberspace. But no.

  thanks April - not weird at all. let me pray and get back to you.

  Clearly, it was a kiss-off letter, sort of like, “Don’t call us; we’ll call you.” After a couple weeks, I sort of figured that the answer was, “No, and also, yikes, crazy lady.”

  Then I got another message:

  I have done quite a lot of praying. i haven't had any clear answer from the Lord. But the short answer is a big fat 'yes' I do need some money. Without going into too much detail, i have to pay for this web site … I have been praying for God to meet my needs. and then you send me this e-mail. All i can really say I have said.

  I think my total reaction can pretty much be summed up in “Whew!”

  In my next email to Dom, I told him the details of my dream, which I hadn’t described previously. He wrote back:

  ... that is amazing. Praise God! Praise God - wow. ... Actually last night i was ... saying to myself, "Dom, have you been a bit silly here? You pray for money and God to meet your needs ... Then you come home and get an e-mail from April asking if you need money, and you don't manage to put 2 and 2 together?

  HA! So it's not just me, then! er ...

  And what makes the whole thing doubly miraculous is that, on that very same day, at approximately the same time I was being given a message from God, Dom was receiving his own message from God via the prophetess Patricia King:

  "And the Lord says ‘Blessing, a spirit of blessing, the power of blessing is coming upon you this day.... Take hold of this and let NOTHING, nothing rob you of blessing."

  So I've been thinking, how does it happen that one person, on one side of an ocean, can sense and meet the needs of a random, faceless person on the other side of that ocean? Can that be a coincidence? I don’t think so.

  And what if I had ignored God? I would have missed out on a blessing, not only being able to help another believer, but also seeing that God still works--mysteriously, yes - through those who want to be used of Him.

• I Asked Holy Spirit

  I asked Holy Spirit

  by James Barnes, physicist and engineer

  It was early August 2005, I’d just returned from a Christian mission trip to Mexico with Fresh fire ministries from Canada. It was a Saturday lunchtime and a group of us from the local church went out into Horsham town centre (Horsham resides in the South East of England, UK) to share our faith in Jesus Christ and to pray for anyone who was willing to receive prayer. Some of our friends were involved in music, dance and drama as a form of sharing the good news of Jesus.

  Most people were walking by ignoring what was going on, still enslumbered in the business of their lives, whilst a few took the time to stop and speak to us. We'd been at our spot outside T-K Maxx about half an hour. By no obvious impression from God, but just from a desire to share the truth I have found with others I approached a gang of youths (they were about 15/16) who were just leaving the area, I had to run else they would have gotten away. I simply asked them if there was anything I could pray for them, to which most of them were disinterested, but one of them piped up something like – “Well yeah I’m deaf in one ear actually.” So we walked back to where my friends were and the three of us - my Mum, myself and a very good friend Simon laid hands on this guy and began to pray. I asked Holy Spirit if it was the deaf and dumb spirit and felt I had a little nudge - yes, so placing my hands over his ears I commanded it to go, while the others guys carried on praying.

  We asked the ex-deaf guy if he felt any different - and he said "Better...", so we prayed another two times for him until he was TOTALLY healed. It was quite amusing to watch the response, he was shocked because he wasn’t expecting to get healed. The gang of youths then proceeded to find some seats and decided to hang out with us while we continued to ask people if we could pray for them. It seemed they didn't really know what to do with themselves now and they were like - “You guys are cool...” or something. The glory goes to God; He did it once again - thank God!

• Bulimia

  Bulimia

  by Lizie Grant

  Everything seemed to be going brilliantly at the start of my final year at York University. I had a great group of friends; I had Jesus and was growing spiritually. Then slowly but surely, I became increasingly self-conscious and concerned about image. I think because I did not, or rather would not, acknowledge it as a problem for so long, Satan had already got a foothold in this area by the time people started asking me if I was ok.

  All of a sudden this developed into bulimia. I wish so much that I had not made myself sick that first day, because the next day it was a million times easier to do it again, and so on…it became less and less about image and more of an addiction - totally a case of my spirit being willing but flesh being weak (Matthew 26 v.41). I would go through short phases where it might only happen once or twice a week and I would think I was getting somewhere, and then it would be back to several times a day.

  Looking back I was just trying to conquer it in my own strength and this is why I was failing. I know God was with me so acutely during this time but I was so disgusted and ashamed at myself that I had a big problem actually communicating with Him. I also started getting pretty disillusioned and frustrated (mainly with myself, but also with God) as I'd pray with a couple of people about it, and then the next day the cycle would begin again. There were other out workings of my sin too…such as allowing friendships to break down as I did not want to be held accountable, and distancing myself from people, especially my housemates. I do not, however, want you to think that I stopped ‘acting’ like a Christian. I went to church, Christian Union, prayer meetings and cell group every week, and pretended that I was this amazingly godly woman and life was great.

  

  I moved to Leeds in July and held back a lot as I was wary of getting close to anyone in case they suspected or I had to tell them and then I'd be held accountable. It was just utterly physically and spiritually exhausting. September was a really bad month and one day I just cried out to God to rescue me. I made a promise with Him that if He got someone to speak into my life about it, then I would stop.

  Next week at church, I met a student called Hannah. For some completely random reason, as soon as I met her I thought, “I want to mentor this girl”. For the following week I could not get Hannah or this thought out of my head, and I invited her and another student for dinner one evening. It turned out to be a pretty surreal and amazing evening, culminating in me, Hannah, Esther, a friend from York called James Barnes and Jack Gormley all praying together at my house. I felt God’s presence that night more acutely than I had for a long time and was feeling quite positive, although I confessed to James that I was still struggling with the same old stuff.

  The next day I really felt that God wanted me to go and do outreach with my church in the centre of Leeds, so I asked my boss if I could have the afternoon off. Hannah was there to do outreach too, and we were walking along together when she turned to me and said, “Lizzie, this is quite personal, but do you have issues with eating, because I do and I was told that I was going to meet someone at church who did and was going to disciple me”. I very nearly died of shock. Praise God for Hannah’s boldness! We spent the afternoon together and agreed to meet up to hold one another accountable and pray together.

  When I got home it dawned on me that, “THIS IS IT”. This was the sign that I had prayed for and I had to honour God with my promise. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to actually carry this out, so I just prayed for God’s strength, acknowledging that I simply could not do it without Him.

  That was two months ago and I have not been sick since. Praise God! He has been so patient, merciful and gentle with me and I still cannot quite believe it. I have been healed! When I look back it feels as though I am looking at a completely different person, and although in some ways there is still some way to go to deal with the inward feelings, I know that God is renewing me by His great power. The one verse that has come back to me again and again during the past few months has been 2 Corinthians 12v.9:

  "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me.'

• Mexico Deaf

  Mexico Mission Trip July 2005 (With FreshFire USA Ministries)

  by James Barnes, physics student, York University.

  Introduction

  The trip was an intensive 7/8 day stay in Mexico (~10 days including flights). I was part of a large team - about 100 strong, which was mainly composed of youth - average age about 19 I guess. Little time was given for tourist activities– we were on a mission! After all, the eternal destiny of people is the most crucial thing at stake. The only tourist stop we made was the Aztec pyramids in Mexico City.

  We got real tired, averaging maybe 6 hours sleep a night – but given time to rest we recovered. We went specifically to fulfil Jesus’ commission in Mt 10:8 - preach the gospel, heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the leper, cast out demons - freely you have received, freely give. I personally saw many miracles as well as those the Lord worked through Todd and the rest of the team. Our experience was so radical that it was more likely that people got healed than they didn’t when we prayed for them.

  The Mexican People

  The Mexican people were on the whole a humble people, their hearts were open and many had never heard the good news of Jesus Christ before. Especially in Zacatlan - the first city we went to – there had never been a mission in this city before, though there were a few churches. Many natives came into the city from the mountains especially for the evening crusade meetings, they didn’t even speak Spanish so the Lord worked a miracle where many heard the gospel in their native language even though no one preached it in their language. The language barrier was problematic at times, so we tried to learn some Spanish and could get by enough to communicate about prayer and the Lord eventually, but sometimes the response people gave was far beyond our skills. Lots of pointing and hand gestures really helped! We managed to get by sometimes with interpreters who knew very little English and us who knew very little Spanish – it was fun and worked really well to help us make friends.

  On the Streets

  The street work was very fruitful - the first day we went on the streets we saw a few deaf people healed within 10 minutes or so.The group I went with did not see much more happen that day, but things were very different from then on. We got on the streets about mid morning on the Tuesday and straight away a crowd gathered around us. Often people would approach us and even ask for prayer when they understood what we were doing. Two teams worked together that day (about 20 people) and in a few hours we saw around 21 people healed and about 15 or so got saved. The atmosphere seemed a lot like ‘Open Heavens’, Fresh Fire Ministries commented on this after the trip as well. I remember people coming up to us and as we started speaking to them, we saw the Lord already moving on them. One woman began to cry – she said to us that she had everything she wanted, that nothing should have been wrong in her life but she was not all right. We told her the gospel and she gave her life to the Lord. Thankfully we were able to give out Spanish-English bibles as well.

  Another young lady was overjoyed when she got saved, she was like – “this is the best day of my life! – Thank you so much for coming” and gave one of my mission buddies a big hug. I remember praying for people who had all kinds of problems, back pain, deafness, stomach pain, head pains - we'd pray a little while, often commanding the conditions to be healed and then ask “how do you feel? We’d wait on the Lord and maybe pray in tongues and people were being touched. Most times they said they felt something - heat or just better and we would pray for God to complete it. I remember being surprised to begin with (God forgive my unbelief!) as they said – “no pain, it’s all gone.” This happened again and again and again. I found my faith soar as people got healed after praying a few times, so if we prayed for 5 minutes and they felt no better, we’d immediately pray again.

  There were only a few people who we stopped praying for who did not get healed on the street. One man after showing little interest and not wanting prayer, came back and changed his mind, received prayer and then afterward decided to receive Jesus into his heart. Not everybody was interested, but it was such a strong contrast to the response we normally find in the UK. I remember at the end of the trip wanting to stay because the work was not so difficult as we find it here in the UK usually. Truly we saw the ripe harvest fields being reaped before our eyes.

  The Hospital

  We went to the hospital on Tuesday morning before going to the streets and prayed for some people in the waiting room. Sadly we were asked to leave after an hour or so, maybe because we were getting in the way. There was a couple there who both got healed of a couple of things and then left because they didn’t need to be there anymore. Those who opened up and let us pray were touched. Someone on our team said to me - everyone who received prayer at the hospital got healed (10 or so) and a few got saved. An old chap got healed outside before we even went in - he had something wrong with his leg and couldn’t walk properly, he was going to get checked out. He then had about 12 people surround him (which could have felt intimidating) and pray and he got healed and then said - how much do I owe you? Bless him!

  The Crusade Meetings

  In Zacatlan we were in the basketball stadium – the biggest venue in the area, by the 3rd and final night we were there it was packed out and there were hundreds standing outside. I think it was estimated about 10000 people. The Tent in Mexico City was never full, but there was a good few thousand there – a typical marquee. The rough total Fresh Fire counted as being saved in the meetings reached around 4000. We saw lots of miracles in these meetings just like on the streets, these meetings were not really any different from Christian meetings here, we had worship, a preach (maybe), a response time for salvation and time to pray for the sick.

  I remember people from our team telling me they saw tumours going down before their eyes. One chap had shoulder muscles that were not there grow back, another little girl with a brain problem who had never walked received prayer on stage, they put her down and she walked. It was incredible to see the faces of those being touched and their families. Some were joyful, others showed no emotion at all. Sometimes it was so emotional I found myself on the verge of tears. One woman was brought to the meeting on a stretcher and was already beginning to walk before being brought on stage for prayer! Some had such faith they asked to be taken out of wheelchairs to walk and began being strengthened. One woman, whom I prayed for, was healed of something internal I realised afterwards, though when trying to determine what was wrong with her I thought she said something about her head. Consequently I didn’t even pray correctly, but the laying on of hands in the anointing of the Lord did it - It was an atmosphere of faith more than a formula or exact prayer! Hallelujah.

  The very last night I was on stage to help with the practical issues of people coming on and off for testimonies and prayer – this was a useful different perspective. Often Todd would start to preach after the worship or just start doing miracles and the word of knowledge. Miracles would break out in the meeting, people would come up and say “I’m healed...” some people with crutches were healed and Todd insisted they stick them on the wall back home for the devil to see. After I had finished on the stage, Todd was in the crowd praying for the cripples in the wheel chairs, I was released off stage to join the prayer team which had been praying for maybe an hour. With my interpreter friend by my side we prayed for 3 deaf children in a row, we checked them (hands over ears and repeat after me) and they all heard in about 5 minutes! This was a highlight for me.

  Miracles were so normal for a week it was incredible to renew our minds. I remember seeing the hundreds come up every night to get saved and then we prayed for them to get filled up with the Holy Spirit. Many of the blind saw again, people with heart problems were healed. It was like – “ok, who’s next?” we'd walk around the tent looking for people - do you need prayer? I remember at the end of the last night, we couldn’t find anyone who wanted prayer, (whether sick or otherwise,) they were either being prayed for, healed or fine in the first place!

  Amongst all the people getting saved, the local church there was being touched powerfully as well. The Lord imparted holy hunger and fire, some of them already carried a lot of fire for the Lord, but He was working even more. It is almost unquestionable that their faith and expectation was raised just as ours was. We were trying to see them released in all the Lord was doing through us so that they could carry the work on when we were gone. They prayed for people and witnessed with us and were equally blessed at the fruits.

  The rain

  When we arrived at the crusade tent one afternoon, it started pouring with rain, so we started worshipping the Lord with music and dancing and it dried up within half hour, followed by the return of the sun!

  The Truth

  Not everything was good. Some people fell a bit ill for a while, I think that was more natural than spiritual warfare – though I don’t know, we were pretty run down physically. There was also some disorder and division at times, but I only heard about that near the end – which shows it was not very big and got sorted out ok.

  Fresh Fire Ministries and the team

  For them it was a really significant trip, apparently they touched a whole new level as a ministry. In terms of notable miracles the trip stood out. I was so blessed to meet two guys on our team who had been saved 6 months - one of them is much further on than most Christian people I know! This is essentially because of the kind of Christianity He was introduced to – the hardcore all out, true Christianity where we give our all and expect a God of miracles to work among us each day. As a team we all saw the Lord doing the same miracles and things and we all left very changed. It was like meeting and spending a week with The Healer Himself.

  Lessons

  Jesus said – “whosoever, to those who believe” - we're all called to it! The deal on the streets was going for the ministry of the Spirit - truths are spiritually discerned, people need revelation from Holy Spirit - so we'd try to get them to prayer. Then as we pray He begins to move on people and break bondages and heal and touch them. When they experience Him they realise what we are saying is true. They know His presence and the Holy Spirit convicts them of sin, righteousness and judgement (in that order). We persevere in prayer until we get a breakthrough just as Jesus said – ASK “The kingdom of heaven is at hand” - within reach, near.

  I hope that account boosts your faith. Holy Spirit said to me – ‘England is no different’ - He will do the same things here. I know we have issues of unbelief and I don’t know how its going to break out, but revival is coming soon to a place near you. He said do not be afraid, ONLY BELIEVE. Isn’t He so Wonderful?! All the Glory goes to God! Praise His name – Jesus!

• Macaroni Cheese

  Macaroni and Cheese

  by Bob Jones, an American Prophet, speaking at a Prophetic Conference.

  We had one of those really powerful praise services. And I just got loaded I guess. And it came to one of those pitches where it was really beautiful. And that beautiful silence fell. And I screamed out “Macaroni and cheese!”

  The praise service was over.

  We had a lot of visitors there from Arkensaw. There was an old Mother there that had her children with her. And half the people there were connected with her. And she got up and walked out. And all the other visitors got up and walked out and that left us halfway empty. And the Pastor came out and said “I guess Brother Jones is hungry!”

  And I don’t know why but my face started going red and I felt warm around the back of my neck. And I was sure glad when that service was over with. And I went home and tried to figure out ‘why did I do that?‘ You know I never did figure out why I did that.

  So it was getting close to Christmas, three months later. And this Mother got up and spoke to her daughters and said I want you to go up to Kansas City and justify that prophet. I want you to tell them a story. She had raised eleven children. All of her sons were Pastors. All of her daughters were married to Pastors. Many of her grand children were entering into the ministry. She had one son in Kansas City who was in the world. And the Lord says to her “I’m bringing you home shortly, your work here is finished.” And she says, “I’m going to come kicking and screaming unless you let me know that my youngest son is going to be saved.” She said “I’ve washed the saints feet all my life, I’ve been a good woman all my life, I’ve raised my children right, but my youngest son is in the world. Now I hear you’ve got a prophet up there in Kansas City – now if you do I want you to give him a word that no one would understand but me.”

  Her son was a truck driver. You know what he delivered? Macaroni and cheese.

  Everybody in the church thought Brother Jones has done it again - he’s run them off…You know why she left? They laughed. You see that was The Holy Spirit. When they laughed at The Holy Spirit she left. And all the others did.

  Sometimes when you think you are your most foolish is when you are your greatest. It was sort of embarrassing but that old saint came for that and she left with it. And she didn’t come up and let the rest of us know for three months and by that time everyone had forgot what I’d done. That’ll be the way with a lot of you. By the time the Lord gets round to justifying what you’ve done you couldn’t care less. But do it.’

• Crushed

  Crushed

  by Julius Okidi

  My name is Julius Okidi, I was born in 1978. The story I am telling you is a true story that I call saved by Grace. This is because I was saved by God’s grace. I hope this will encourage you all.

  I could tell you the whole of my life time story, how I was involved with witch craft before I became born again, but am just going to tell you the amazing thing that happened to me from the morning of 5th of December 2000.

  Having finished my senior six exams, I decided to find a job with a Chinese construction company called HAINAN in Uganda. I started as a porter then to a senior helper and finally a turn boy (almost next to the driver in position). As you can see, I climbed the ladder as soon as.

  On the morning of 5th December 2000, I left home on my bike and headed off to work. But something inside told me to go back home, I was mixed up as we Africans can be very superstitious of our instincts, but I decided to go anyway. As I was riding to my work, I met a big snake on the road, being the superstitious me, I knew that was bad luck, but anyway, continued to work. At my work, I felt so lazy and confused. We had a new driver called Mr. Bolilo, the old driver Mr Otabong was sick in hospital and I later learnt that he died.

  On this particular day we were transporting concrete to a building site. The driver tried to off load the concrete mechanically but the tipping system failed, so I decided to go down on the tipper and adjust it so we could off load manually. In an instant, HELL BROKE LOOSE AND JUST LIKE IN A DREAM, THE TIPPER CARRIER CAME DOWN AND THERE WAS DARKNESS.

  Suddenly, I heard a feeling of bones breaking it was like a sound of popcorn. This was at about 10am. The driver didn’t know that I had been crushed and was trapped, so he stepped on the accelerator to get the truck in a normal drive way position. Other workers were around 50m away. A man who was digging a whole near by noticed, he started shouting and attracted the other workers who came running. There was so much noise and I was still in my normal senses hearing all this. Some people suggested that I be pulled out others wanted to just lift the tipper. They lifted the tipper and got me out, later I was told my head was as flat as a slice of bread. Some of them suggested that I was dead others were running after the driver shouting that they wanted to kill him. A pipe, I was told had gone through my head from one side to the other. Blood was flowing from everywhere.

  

  People continually suggested that I was dead, so at this time, I thought to myself; I need to ask somebody what is going on. I asked a colleague called Richard if I would survive; he was quiet for a couple of minutes then the burst out crying. I lifted my hand and tried to touch my head. Now everybody was shocked coz they knew that I was dead.

  Later the site manager was called. At this point I felt the upper part of my body coming down towards the heart and that’s when I said ‘God this has reached beyond human control. I hear you are there to save people, if am to die, forgive all my sins and take me to your right hand. But if you help me and I survive, I will serve you for the rest of my life.’ Remember I wasn’t born again at this time.

  The site manager arrived with a car to take me to the hospital. A lot of people started to ask why they bothered to take me to hospital as this was a waste of time because I was a ‘dead’ guy. I was a bit weak by this time but I tried to lift my hand to show that am alive. We then drove off to Jinja hospital. While in the car on the way to hospital suddenly I felt a sense of joy in my heart. (I can’t explain why) Especially all this time, I hadn’t got even one pain killer, plus blood was oozing out of me like anything.

  When we got to the hospital, the medical superintendent was out, the nurse who received us asked us to wait for him. After about 30 minutes, he came, my family was around me, and they had lost all hope. They rushed me through for an x ray I was still bleeding from all over the place at this time. They decided to take me to the theatre. A nurse came and said ‘MY GOD, TAKE HOLD OF THIS BROTHER’ these words are fresh in my mind. She advised us to ask for a referral for Mulago hospital which was about 60 miles away. Her reasoning was that I couldn’t be operated upon while still bleeding but the doctor didn’t really care much. She did the referral herself in front of the superitendant and said, don’t worry about the doctor’s stamp. Just go to MULAGO. I asked for my mum and said; mum, good bye. This is when I lost consciousness. All this was about 5 hours after the accident.

  THIS FOLLOWING NARATION IS ONLY WHAT I WAS TOLD AFTER.

  We went through to Mulago hospital and got there about another 4hrs later which was 6pm. The medical officer there was about to sign out when we got there, but my condition looked so critical, he tried to call other consultants on the phone. A couple of minutes later, Dr Hannington Ssenyonjo , the head of the Neuro Department arrived and told them to administer on me tetanus oxide, which they did immediately. They took a sample of my blood group just so that they could put me on a blood drip. Dr Alex referred to my injury as an open skull injury; he couldn’t find where my left eye was. Four doctors from the health department were authorised to stay with me till morning. The following morning, a team of twelve doctors, most of them expatriate, worked closely with me. My surgery took about 8 hours.

  In the morning, my mum asked Dr Senyonjo if I was dead. The doctor said to my mum that I was back but in intensive ward. My parents came to help the staff to take me to the hospital general ward. Everybody in the ward was amazed that I had come out alive. My previous flat head had slowly taken some shape. After about 3 days the doctors started testing out my senses. I had slowly started to gain consciousness but was in so much pain. They would for example shout to make sure I could hear them, and ask questions like where are you to which I replied I was at home. I could barely hear them.

  After about another 7 days while they were removing the stitches, doctor Elima one of the doctor’s who had helped in the team asked me if I was saved before the accident, I said no, but then I started to remember what I had said to God. I told him that from then on, I’d live for the Lord. He told me that my accident had helped him to accept Jesus Christ as his personal saviour without anybody preaching to him. Then on the Sunday, he came with some people and pointed at me saying, ‘this young man made me accept Jesus’. They prayed with me and kept coming for the next month.

  After one month I was discharged from hospital and went back to the local village. A lot of people came to visit me, but they all couldn’t believe that I was alive. Instead of rejoicing, a lot of them just cried. People from my work came round suggesting that they should do a mob justice on the driver and kill him, but I simply told them I had forgiven the driver and it was an accident after all. GOD FORGAVE ME AND SAVED ME FROM THIS ACCIDENT FOR A PURPOSE.

  I kept going to the hospital for review. In my village, my neighbour called Joram would read the bible for me and take me over to fellowship because I had lost my sight. After about three months, I started to feel very depressed about my situation, I was left blind, deformed and I considered myself of no value. To the point of committing suicide. I was minutes away from taking an overdose of carpamazapine. One early morning as I was praying, I heard a voice telling me ‘ I AM your God, I will continue protecting you and doing all for my glory’ From this moment onwards, I felt a heavy weight off my shoulder, All the depression had gone and I was completely refreshed.

  Going to church, fellowship, reading and listening to the word of God helped me a lot through all this pain. Yet through, enduring this pain, I found a treasure and pleasure in the Lord.

  NEW CHALLENGES

  I can’t read or write now, but I get friends and family to help me with chores. It can be difficult as I live in a slum area with lots of local drinking joints, noise and all sorts, but I kneel down as pray and praise God for saving my life. I am positive that with time I will completely heal, find a job and help my parents. People come and say a lot of sympathetic stuff, but I am a strong believer, I don’t take a lot of self pity now that I have the Lord .I am clueless of what the future holds for me, but I know I have got God on my side.

  After the dust had settled, I felt the burden on my heart as covenanted as I lay in a pool of blood on the day of the accident. I had pledged unknowing that in any case if I survived, I would serve the lord for the rest of my life.

  From then on, I have decided to live for Christ, to reach the communities with the gospel. And since then, lots of people have committed to the Lord through my testimony and I believe am going to live to tell a story!!! All the glory goes back to Him But most of all what encourages me most is the word of God. Mark 8. Which says what shall it profit a man, to gain the world and loose his soul? I do encourage every body that doesn’t know Christ and reads my story to think twice because I am a living testimony.

  If you would like to contact me in anyway, for encouragement or otherwise please feel free to do so. Below are my details. I don’t have an email address, obviously I can’t read it but through my friend, he will give me all the messages. manirihoc@yahoo.com

  JULIUS OKIDI

  P.O BOX 1579
  JINJA
  UGANDA

  Tel +256-712716111
  +256-752373130

• Casting out Demons

  Casting out Demons

  by Dominic Muir

  The Indian ride starts by exercising the senses. Upon exiting the plane one is hit by a plethora of smells, textures, wafts, colours, tastes and noises. Car horns hardly cease beeping, vegetable curry and rice is more common than beef in McDonalds, exuberant flowers and terracotta dust battle with fluorescent strip lighting, and someone's toilet never seems that far away - which is probably no bad thing for the neurotic English missionary, lacking faith in certain areas.

  India is a weird and wonderful country. It is chaotic and charming, poor and hot. The moment Clive and I arrived we raced to our air-conditioned hotel room and passed out - jet lag, of course. Clive is a seasoned missionary, clearly, who spent the best part of a decade with his family in The Republic of Niger, an oasis of sorts in the Sahara desert with around 2,000 Christians and millions of Muslims. He has been through the ‘spiritual mill’ and come out the other end hardened and softened, I’d suggest in all the right places. God has recently given him a healing grace. He now evangelises in villages around the world and God heals people when the gospel has been preached. I had the amazing privilege of being Clive’s bag carrier on this occasion. It’s great, be someone like Clive’s bag carrier - you get more than tanned biceps.

  

  The first part of the trip was spent at a school for Prophets and the supernatural run by a powerful man of God named Ezekiah Francis. He is a Prophet of God, the sort of man who gets up on the stage without any notes and speaks for hours whilst you drink in every word bathing and then clothing yourself in truth. Scripture upon scripture flowed, corporate prophecy, personal prophecy. He also wept.

  There were around five hundred Indians there for this twelve-day school, men and women, most ages. They all slept on the vast expanse that is a church floor and were up to worship at five in the morning. I joined them enthusiastically, cashing in on the hot weather and jet lag.

  On the second day Pauloses, an Indian apostle and our host, took us to a local Hindu pilgrimage. I figured this was a kind of sightseeing break from the real stuff, a chance to take a few snaps and reflect romantically upon Indian culture. Sure, the Hindu faith was clearly an alternative to the message of Christ, and in that sense one needed to be prepped up, but in my naivety I was ill prepared for the horrors that lay ahead.

  

  Thousands of Indians, grouped in large families, thronged the extended locale of a large Hindu temple and its neighbouring river. Stalls and shops lined the dusty walkway, it felt a bit like being crammed into a music festival; either side large groups of people cooked over open fires, some camped out and there was a perpetual drum beat that pierced the ominous atmosphere.

  Pauloses led us down to the river in order to explain to us what was happening. Pauloses must be in his late fifties. He grew up in a Hindu family. A rebellious teenager, he was in and out of prison before giving his life to Christ aged sixteen whereupon his Father booted him out of the house for his new professed faith. He now has a large family of his own and a prolific apostolic ministry across the nation of India having planted sixty-two churches and discipled many other apostles, some of whom have also planted upwards of ten churches. Pauloses knows the meaning of suffering for Christ. He has been beaten within inches of his life on several occasions by Hindu radicals and has lived with his pregnant wife and family in a fish packing shed when there was nowhere else to go. Pauloses has just lived Jesus. He has seen how God can take a sold-out heart such as his and change thousands of lives. He has also seen the dead raised and had a personal visitation from the Lord Jesus Christ Himself. It’s no wonder that upon meeting him one is struck by his fierce sturdiness and almost unnerving humility. Pauloses is a man under authority.

  

  The river was punctuated with scores of flamboyantly dressed families, from a distance like stepping stones made from piles of Smarties. Each family seemed to be huddled around the focal point, a chosen family member or members, bearing the offering to their spirit or god. According to Pauloses each family worships a separate spirit (there are millions of gods in Hinduism). Pauloses explained that the first part of the ritual involved being washed from their sins in the water of the river.  Once this is done the family call upon their spirit to come and then process in worship up to the nearby temple, circumnavigate it four times and then enter it to pledge their offering and worship.

  

  On the bank of the teaming river in the baking morning sun I watched with a mixture of horror and pity as, in some cases teenage girls, became possessed with what could only be described as evil spirits. Their bodies would contort and their faces would be overtaken with pain and fear. Tears of sadness and resignation would search out the river. Their eyes glazed over and they became as the walking tortured or worse, dead. In some horrifyingly dramatic cases, the family members carrying the offering, usually boasting impressive flames at this stage, would reel out of control and descend into uncontrollable fits on the dirt floor, writhing around like demented animals. Meanwhile some family members would attempt to gather them up whilst others danced, chanted and drummed their way to the temple. It was truly shocking and I was barely able to maintain objectivity with the camera as family upon family, a seemingly endless trail of suffering and fear, made their pilgrimage from the river.

  

  With a determined expression worn by a man aggressively refreshed in his vocation, Pauloses informed me that this particular pilgrimage, allegedly a popular one, goes on for a week and more than a million Indian Hindus attend it. This privileged slice of ‘sight-seeing‘, this VIP exposure to Hinduism, brought the gospel of Jesus Christ and his victory over the powers of darkness to life in a new and profound way.

  “But if I drive out demons by the finger of God, then the kingdom of God has come to you.” Luke 11:20  

  It was only fitting that less than three nights later Clive and I found ourselves in the middle of the Indian scrub in a remote village preparing to preach the gospel.  We were linked up with Mohan, the leader of one of Pauloses’ church plants.  Mohan and his team had incisively prepared for our arrival.  They had hired PA, stage and lighting equipment for our tour of local villages and I think a bit of old fashioned street crying had gone on too to drum up some excitement among the natives, some of whom might never have heard the name ‘Jesus’. The deal is that Clive pays for the equipment and delivers the gospel in word and demonstration of the spirit (1 Corinthians 2:4) whilst Mohan picks the villages, facilitates and ‘prepares the way’. The whole thing is steeped in intercession.

   Mohan has a powerful deliverance ministry; tormented souls flock to his humble church (it looks like a large breeze block cattle shed) from near and far to receive ministry for weeks at a time.  Whilst I was there the church was crammed with twenty or thirty people camped out on the floor. Inside its sparse and gloomy interior it looked like a make shift wartime hospital – which is exactly what it was (Ephesians 6). It appears that word gets out that ‘this god Jesus’ is the answer to their spiritual bondage.  So people just turn up on the doorstep, get prayed for daily in the name of Jesus and stay until their demons have been cast out and they are free.  Then they join the church community (‘Alpha’ eat your heart out!). I met a former Hindu priestess who used to teleport in the spirit.  She served me the sweetest afternoon tea and had eyes like wells of light.

  Clive and Mohan have worked together for a number of years and despite an apparently insurmountable language barrier they clearly have a deep understanding and common goal. Each night we went to a different village, within the equivalent of Mohan’s parish vicinity and each night between a hundred or two hundred locals would turn out to see what all the fuss was about.  On one occasion I got caught up in a very amusing cricket match with some local children. They were wildly enthusiastic, unsurprisingly talented and would repeatedly shout ‘Flintoff’ at me through slightly inane ivory white grins. More a reference to my Anglo Saxon ‘bottle’, I think, than my all-round capability. Although relatively speaking I did bowl extremely fast at them.

  Clive and I took it in turns to give our testimonies and preach the gospel (an entirely unmerited grace on his part) and we saw many healings and demons cast out. Each evangelistic outreach that week was wonderfully different and each merits attention but for the sake of time there is one powerful experience that I would like to leave you with.

  On the first night, once Clive had preached the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of sins and salvation of the world, we went into a time of corporate ministry. We cried out for God to pour out His spirit and then Clive and I began to lay hands on the villagers, most of whom had come up to the foot of the stage for prayer.  I rather reluctantly laid hands on a girl whom I assumed was clearly already a Christian as she had arrived at the village with our party. At that stage I did not see the need for praying for Christians! Within about a minute she slumped to the floor under the power of the Holy Spirit, her fall partly broken by the turbulent crowd.  I was rather encouraged and looked around for my next victim.  Then to my increasing surprise she started to struggle to her feet whilst shaking her head violently and throwing her arms around recklessly.  Her face was contorted and her eyes were scrunched up tightly.  Whilst friends tried to control her aggressive movements she made a bee line for me and a look of cold, steely hatred came over her eyes. Her eyes had totally changed from when she had initially approached me; they were now totally dead.  For the first time I truly understood what Jesus meant when He said,<i> "The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are good, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eyes are bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness!” (Matthew 6 vs. 22 and 23) 

  Then the girl started to hurl verbal abuse at me in the local dialect, Tamil. I quickly discerned a demonic presence (I have no experience in this but it was glaringly obvious) and commanded the spirit to leave in the name and by the blood of Jesus.  I confidently took authority over the spirit, even if I do say so myself, and persisted in my rebuke but the girl, or spirit within her more accurately, continued to bellow and fight with me. Eventually Clive arrived on the scene and said that I should leave her as it was causing too much of a commotion and might be frightening people and indeed at that moment her friends carted her away.

  Moments later my translator turned to me laughing and described matter-of-factly how the spirit within the girl had been repeatedly shouting, “Have you come here to cast me out also?” I later heard that this girl has been receiving deliverance for some months from many different people.  It transpired that this girl had been deeply involved in Hinduism and that this evil spirit had refused to come out despite many powerfully anointed people of God praying for her.  Shades of Mark chapter 9…

   …(v 17 onwards) ‘Then one of the crowd answered and said, “Teacher, I brought You my son, who has a mute spirit. And wherever it seizes him, it throws him down; he foams at the mouth, gnashes his teeth, and becomes rigid. So I spoke to Your disciples, that they should cast it out, but they could not.”

  He answered him and said, “O faithless generation, how long shall I be with you? How long shall I bear with you? Bring him to Me.”  Then they brought him to Him. And when he saw Him, immediately the spirit convulsed him, and he fell on the ground and wallowed, foaming at the mouth.

  So He asked his father, “How long has this been happening to him?” And he said, “From childhood.  And often he has thrown him both into the fire and into the water to destroy him. But if You can do anything, have compassion on us and help us.”

  Jesus said to him, “If you can believe, all things are possible to him who believes. 

  Immediately the father of the child cried out and said with tears, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!”

  When Jesus saw that the people came running together, He rebuked the unclean spirit, saying to it, “Deaf and dumb spirit, I command you, come out of him and enter him no more!”  Then the spirit cried out, convulsed him greatly, and came out of him. And he became as one dead, so that many said, “He is dead.”  But Jesus took him by the hand and lifted him up, and he arose.

  And when He had come into the house, His disciples asked Him privately, “Why could we not cast it out?”

  So He said to them, “This kind can come out by nothing but prayer and fasting.” 

  Church in India is the collision of two kingdoms – the kingdom of heaven and the kingdom of the world.  Clearly that’s the case everywhere but somehow a new place brings a fresh perspective.  At least it did for me. In no uncertain terms I was reminded, nay taught, what the Cross of Christ is really about. ‘For this purpose the Son of God was manifested, that He might destroy the works of the devil.’ (1 John 3 v 8)

  When I was in India I felt like I was witnessing two armies clash in the middle of a battlefield; a bit like a scene from ‘Braveheart’. The battle was being played out in front of me on a spiritual television whilst I watched from my sitting room sofa.  When led by the Holy Spirit I was able to play my part gloriously.

  This stuff is second nature to these Indians, there was no hint of a disproportionate interest in the devil but simply an awareness of the spiritual reality and battle that supersedes the material.  They live the gospel in all its suffering, joy and power. They are spiritual people and they care less about flesh and blood.  Let us take a leaf out of their book, the Bible, and remember St Paul’s famous mandate,“Put on the whole armour of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.  For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.  Therefore take up the whole armour of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. (Ephesians 6:11-13)

  Amen!

  

   

• Heroin Addiction Defeated

  Heroin Addiction Defeated

  by Rupert Compston

  Part One - Thursday, March 15, 2007 1:32 pm

  As some of you may know, I have recently come out to Hong Kong for five months, to work with the St Stephen's Society. For those of you for whom this rings a vague bell, its the ministry set up by Jackie Pullinger now forty years ago, and the subject of Chasing the Dragon. By request, I thought I'd tell y'all a little bit about what's going on every once in a while. 

  As this is the first one, I thought I'd just try to set the scene for you, because Hong Kong is terribly full of surprises. Jackie's vision is for the poor and needy of Hong Kong. Its a huge city, with considerable wealth, and also considerable poverty. And unlike, for example, London - where you've got Kensington and Chelsea, and White City (two distinct physical regions) - in Hong Kong there's a much closer association of rich and poor, from one building to the next, so much so that you often only really see it when you look for it. China is a terribly spiritual country, with a very spiritual past - its steeped in the mysticism of Buddhism, Taoism, Confucianism and the like. This is something of a two-edged sword. as we'll come to later.

  

  Equally, it has a huge and booming drug culture, started (ahem) by the British around the time of the Opium Wars, and from which it is only just beginning to recover. Heroine is the drug of choice, used by about 95% of addicts, methadone being the alternative. The effect of addiction on the mind and body is truly shocking. All addicts are physically emaciated, unable to absorb sufficient nutrient. Almost all have hepatitis C, and the associated liver conditions, which they pick up from using dirty needles. Unlike in the West, where one can I believe purchase high-quality drugs, here the heroine is cut and re-cut by so many pairs of hands that it is anything but pure. The result is massive infection wherever injection occurs - primarily in the arms and legs. At worst, this leads to gangrene and septicemia, which leads one of two directions - to amputation or to death. Heroine also rots the teeth completely. Addicts are equally mentally emaciated, especially those who have been taking for many years. Accidents are common with addicts strolling unawares in front of buses...I suspect you get the picture. The prognosis for heroine addicts is not good, and almost always will be the direct cause of their death. Methadone is a liquid synthetic substitute for heroine, which negates the physical aspects of the addiction, without solving any of the real issues. And, shockingly, its given away by the government in 20 clinics around HK at a cost of 1HKD per fix, all in the name of crime prevention. 

  This drug culture is centered around Temple Street, and the surrounding area of Yau Ma Tei. Not surprisingly, it’s one of the primary targets of the work out here, and the location of some serious spiritual power encounters. The prime dealing spot in to be found in the courtyard of a Taoist temple complex, quite apart from the fact that there's considerable correlation between drug use and demonisation. Every Tuesday evening there is an addicts meeting in the above area. People are sent out into the area to evangelize amongst the addicts. Those who are willing, or who have lost the power to say no, are brought into a small room, which truly is the beginning of the rest of their lives. They are prayed over in pairs, they receive Jesus into their hearts, they receive the power of the Holy Spirit and the gift of tongues. A small service is held, with worship, testimony, and a brief gospel chat from Jackie. They are given copies of the New Testament, their contact details are taken for follow up, and three hours later they return to the streets. It may sound terribly matter of fact, and it is - but the emphasis has to be on the present, and on salvation, simply because many in the past have not lived till the following week. This is the first stage.

  Those who show real commitment and desire to know Jesus (St Stephen's is not just about getting off drugs cos there are lots of other places to do that) are then taken into new boy houses at Singmun Springs, a complex of four different houses, complete with recreation ground etc. Three are for adults, and one is for kids. Here they remain for about 8 months, the crucial 10 days of which are spent as pyjama clad 'new boys'. Here they are watched and prayed over 24/7 by at least one brother (ex new-bay if you like) and this is where the physical addiction has to be broken, painlessly, and through the healing power of Jesus. No medication is allowed, and it really is a miracle to be part of such a process of change. In the course of a week they develop from forms crouching in the corners of parks in a coma-like trance, to fully-fledged beings playing football and singing their hearts out. Work, play, worship and food are all central to the philosophy of these 8 months. They must become strong once again, regain a work ethic and a sense of self-worth and identity, learn to relate to others again, and fill every part of the mind and body with the love of God. Violence is really very rare, an amazing feat considering that many are picked from the Triads (Chinese street gangs).

  

  The teenagers, meanwhile, are passed on to the Society by the probation services, with violent pasts and almost always broken homes. Many are the sons of addicts, for whom the real damage is done in the first two years of their lives - without receiving the love and attention they should, they are totally unable to internalize with anyone from then on, and are spiraled into a pattern of gang-participation, drug use and crime. And they are truly the most awesome bunch of kids. It really breaks your heart to consider the wounds they must have had to suffer to get where they have done. To give an example, Ho Jai, whom I prayed for just the other day, it was revealed to me has a past history of anger, violence and anti-authoritarian resentment, which came to a head aged 11 when his 'friends' attempted to drown him in a public swimming pool. He's now 15, an excellent footballer, and a top-quality lad - and, above all, a powerful testimony to the real meaning of the Good News. 

  I seem to have covered nothing in a very large amount of words. Oh dear, for I must return to do new boy duty - very appropriate...anyway, I hope this whets your appetite before I get to the real crux of what I'm doing here, and I look forward to picking up where I left off hopefully very soon. Forgive me for not proof reading, and typing at speed.
  
  God bless. Rupert

   

  Part Two - Friday, March 23rd 2007 at 7:03am

  I hope you're all very well. Its been awesome reading all about what you guys are up to (wherever you are!)...keep it up!
  
  To finish up where I left off last week...after stage two in Singmun Springs (the boy’s houses), the brothers are 'released' into the outside world, but not fully. Here they have the power of choice - whether to buy cigarettes or not, for example - but they stay together with half a dozen or so other brothers, in flats all over Hong Kong. Whilst slipping back into the routines of the real world, they do masses of outreach, and learn the skills required to be self-sufficient once again: primarily relating to money , not surprisingly. Every few months, St Stephen's runs a 12 week training program, designed primarily for these brothers and for affiliated congregational members, but which I am lucky enough to be doing also. Its designed to equip and mobilize people to go out and fulfill the Great Commission -
  
  "Go into all the world and preach the good news to all creation. Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved, but whoever does not believe will be condemned. And these signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will drive out demons; they will speak in new tongues; they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well." (Mark 16)
  
  It covers topics such as Cross Culture, the Kingdom of God, Healing, Generational Sin, Studies in Addiction, Re-parenting, God's Heart for the Poor, Giving, Idolatry, Sexual Sin, and Spiritual Warfare. One and a half days of highly biblical teaching from Jackie and Margaret, and a further day and a half of the streets - proclaiming and demonstrating the Kingdom. Many will also go on brief visits to Mainland China, Macau, or the Phillipines, to receive training in primary healthcare and the like.

  And after that...well, that’s up to our Father really. Some take up normal jobs in HK, some work full time for the Society, and many leave Hong Kong for unknown pastures. Three teams are currently in the advanced stages of preparation prior to departure for India, Vietnam, and Beijing respectively. That is, very roughly, what happens in the life of a brother.

  What else?? Firstly, this really is a faith community. When there is no money to buy food from the market the following day, the brothers pray. And I can only say that I haven't gone hungry yet, in fact far from it...The mobile, meanwhile, costs around 78 000HKD to run each month. And St Stephens only ever has about 15 000HKD to give it. So you can see the kind of divine accounting that happens when you really have to rely on God. Alongside that is the overwhelming generosity of many sponsors. Just two weeks back, Singmun Springs was blessed with a delivery of about 3000 bottles of cleaning product - enough to last years, certainly. And there are many such examples of individuals giving time, money, or stuff...
  
  I can't emphasize enough the spiritual dynamic out here, the product as I said of this country's religious past and present. Chinese people are overwhelming open to spiritual movement - in fact, they positively expect it, and something we've really lost in much of the West. The result is this: firstly many, many people are openly and deeply demonized by many years of idol worship (I have a lot to learn in this area); but secondly, these people move in, and are moved by, the Spirit without any hesitation at all. Consequently, there are times when the spiritual temperature is very hot indeed, and times when its really pretty chilly. Part of this is God's natural process of keeping us on our toes. But at other times, one can really sense the impact of, for example, a Buddhist festival on those who used to keep it. At the moment, a very popular festival (in which people burn objects to offer them to ancestors) is approaching - and I think that I can realistically associate it with some of the emotional fireworks currently happening in Singmun.

  And what am I doing here? (as I was poignantly asked by a ten year old kid I happened to be playing football with on an estate). Honestly, I don't really know. Suffice to say that, having spent nineteen years doing stuff 'for a reason', I thought it high time to allow myself to be guided by the Spirit into a situation in which, frankly, I'm totally and gloriously out of my depth. And I really am. My complete lack of Cantonese is a large part of this, and is something that I really will have to overcome - so prayers for serious passion and patience to learn the language would be much appreciated. But in any case, what can anyone really say when praying for a 21 year old who, at the age of nine, watched as her father butchered her mother and three siblings with an axe (- she herself is missing one finger, a daily reminder of her past). Silence is best when dealing with such broken-ness; Spirit to Spirit communion even better...
  
  Well, now I've covered the basics, I need no longer bore you in future weeks, and can cut to the chase instead...But I hope some of this may be of interest to y'all.
  
  Lots of love and blessings,
  
  Rupert

  

   

  Part Three - Friday, May 11, 2007 5:38 am

  What craziness!..I see it’s been almost two months since I last put pen to paper. How time flies when you're living Life: I thank God daily that we've got the rest of Eternity...

  That’s not to saying that I haven't been keeping a close eye (when possible) on Now Believe happenings. And I can truly say that I find it both very exciting and a real blessing to hear and know what y'all are thinking and doing. Bless you all!
  
  Needless to say, a load of stuff's been happening over the last eight weeks, so I'll just top n'tail some of it for you.
  
  New boy house seems a good place to start, it being where I spend most of my time. Its really been an emotional and spiritual roller-coaster recently. The guys are all so very close to one another, that when something stings one of them, the rest tend to feel the pain very strongly also. Donne said that 'No man is an island' - I wish he could have seen NBH, to know just how right he is. In certain ways, this comes as a real blessing - they're terribly empathetic, and many have huge pastoral skills as a result. But then the wind changes, and suddenly you find yourself with rebellion on your hands, particularly at the moment, there having been a few changes of leadership recently. We've had quite a few brothers leave recently, which always cuts deep. But equally, its been wonderful to see how God has used the most unlikely events to bond us all together.

  A few weeks back we had a 33yo new boy arrive, Gwok Ho, for his first time in NBH. He'd been severely addicted to cough medicine (and not the Calpol variety either!) for a very long time, as a result of which he was physically in really very good shape, and mentally in pieces. For a few days he was very peaceful. And then all Hell broke loose, (and I choose my words carefully!). Those who've been in this kind of ministry for thirty years described him as the most demonized individual they'd ever seen, and certainly it'll be a while before I can match it. For eighteen hours on that particular Sunday I was no further than one yard from Gwok Ho; and lets just say that it afforded me some fascinating insight into the reality of the spiritual dimension. I hope you'll bear with me if I describe it all in some detail...
  
  It began rather quietly, at 2 in the morning with night duty. He'd not slept a wink in three days, a common problem with cough medicine addicts, and he was suffering real sleep deprivation. No problem, thought I, we'll just pray sleep into him - the Bible's full of such promises, after all - and we did just that. Until 5am he slept soundly, and then woke. What followed felt rather like watching a true masterpiece of post-Modern, rather experimental and very macabre mime art (the kind they only show in the alternative studio theatres). Often very beautiful, often rather shocking, the surreal nature of the whole event was heightened by the half-light, dead silence, and emptiness of new boy house at 5 in the morning. A Ho would move at a painfully slow pace, as though every action was charged with some particular significance: gyrating his body, prostrating himself, stretching himself out on the ground, rising to his knees, his hands outstretched heavenwards. And then, just as the audience was settling into their seats, he'd jump up at the most terrific speed, clapping his hands, stamping his feet and vibrating his entire frame. And this kinetic 'conversation' continued for a couple of hours, a private performance watched by just me and one other brother. But this was just the appetizer.

  By 10am, he'd firmly changed into fifth gear, and was stirred up into a frenzy of rage, violence, and a desire to escape. As I said, he's pretty packed anyways and this, combined with the strength that derives from the demonic, created a force to be reckoned with. Stuck in a room no larger than 5 by 4 metres, one might compare it to being stuck in a broom cupboard with a particularly hungry and unfriendly male hippo. He kicked, he punched, he tore, and he bit at those who tried to restrain him. And he was in the grips of a spirit of self-destruction I didn't think possible. He would throw himself from the bed high into the air and onto the hard floor below; he'd punch the walls and furniture with all his strength; in the blinking of an eye he'd rush head first at the glass panes of the windows; and he reprogrammed the hot water thermostat of his bath to a temperature that would certainly have caused considerable burns to the skin. At times he was so strong that it required four fully-grown men to hold him down, and indeed to bind him with bedsheets: a truly horrific display of superhuman strength. And at times he was so weak he could no more lift a spoonful of weak porridge to his mouth, or climb out of a bath unsupported, than I can do ballet. And this merely physical. I can't begin to describe his face: sometimes like that of a wild animal, drowning, suffocating, desperately clinging to the last breaths of life it has; and sometimes strangely not unlike the face of a candle, flickering, waning, waning, and finally going out with a puff of smoke. And spiritually? Well, for the sheer vulgarity, excess, and ‘textbookness’ of the possession - the foaming of the mouth, babbling, shaking, eye rolling, and the rest - it might well have been the stuff of a Hellish soap opera. You may well be asking, 'Why didn't Rupert just deliver the demons?' I certainly was...But the fact is, that that's not how it works out here. The philosophy is rather different. Praying in tongues continually, they let the Spirit of Love take its course over time, rather than sitting Gwok Ho down and performing a full exorcism, valid though that is. And did it work?? Certainly it has done. Three weeks later...he's now a lively, lovely, childlike, innocent, and rather eccentric chappie. He's still a 'new boy', but he loves to worship, and craves to serve - giving massages, picking up the songbooks after worship, and clearing up after lunch. He's physically through his addiction to cough medicine, and immediately came off his prescribed course of anti-depressants.
  
  The reason I've shared this at such length is, I suppose, three-fold: firstly, to give a tiny bit of insight about the extremes of demonic manifestation; secondly, because by being made so dramatically aware of the miraculous change that is not only possible, but which is offered us, through the blood of Christ, the grace of the Father, and the power of the Spirit, it really empowers us to realize that all the (in the great scheme of things) minor changes that we all have to make in our own lives are a walk in the park when undertaken hand in hand with the Lord; and thirdly, to return to my original point, because God also uses such occasions (in NBH and everywhere else) to really unite and refocus all our hearts and minds on the reality of the power struggle and battle that we're all engaged in.
  
  The mobile training continues to be phenomenal, and is broadening my knowledge, understanding, and spiritual horizons in the most wonderful way. We've covered some fascinating topics - Reparenting, God's Heart for the Poor, and Studies in Addiction stand out as being particularly powerful for me. (I thoroughly recommend a book by a couple called the Fabriano(s) called 'Healing the Past, Releasing the Future'. They've done a lot of work here, and their models are the ones we use to systematically negate the hurts caused 'in utero', up to the age of 12 or so. And then, by introducing Jesus into those times, to literally 're-parent' those times.)
  
  The outreach defies belief. I continually find myself thoroughly out of my depth, in very 'foolish' situations. Or so the world would have you believe. Except that 'the foolishness of God is wiser than man's wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man's strength' (1 Cor 1:25). Some time ago, I found myself with a guitar in my hands outside a methadone clinic in Yau Ma Tei. Now at that time I played about three chords very badly. It can only have been a moment of madness in which I thought, 'Why not play it?' Sure enough, before long I found myself sitting on the ground around an upturned crate, strumming away as I chatted with about 8 addicts, who themselves were sharing a box of plain rice. And all came to Christ that evening. So its been powerful to realize that an instrument I don't play, a language I don't really speak, and people I simply can't relate to, are the only ingredients needed for Kingdom recipes. And there are many other similar stories that I won't bore you with along the same lines.

  From the supernatural to the very normal, we've been out and about lots recently. Yours truly has been busy organizing football, volleyball and table tennis competitions. We've been mountain hiking a few times, fishing, swimming and picnicking at the beach, and half the house is currently camping in the jungle! There've been plenty of BBQs, which are magical affairs and nothing like Western ones. People sit in groups of half a dozen or so around halved oil barrels and toast their own meat on skewers. All very important stuff - after all, God gives us 'life to the full'. And I would be wrong to give the impression that everything I or we do out here is of groundbreaking, Earth-shattering significance. It absolutely isn't! A large amount of it consists of sweeping up leaves and washing chopsticks. But the point I guess is this. That the value and interest of Life comes not from doing extraordinary things, but from doing very ordinary things with the perception of their enormous value. And, as Brother Lawrence noted, God isn't interested in the proportions of what we do, but in the amount of Love with which we do them. Thank goodness! T'would be terribly tiring otherwise...
  
  Have been doing rather more music than I might have expected recently. I'm learning the guitar from a number of the brothers, many of whom play rather well. Because only Christian music is allowed at Singmun, worship songs are staple from beginning to end. Equally, besides leading worship on the piano, I'm now teaching quite a number of the brothers, a couple of teenagers, and the children of a few helpers to play the piano. So that keeps me busy. I'm also on the Sunday School team at Kowloon City Vineyard, Jackie's fellowship. They're a very sweet, very high-maintenance, in fact pretty anarchic bunch between 5 and 13.
  
  Hong Kong, and more specifically St Stephen's, has been blessed with many short term visitors. From the Suweto Gospel Choir, to twenty bible college students from Australia, to the Alpha Conference delegates from HTB...this place is a veritable melting pot. Which is very important actually, because without it this place would be in danger of becoming rather self-contained. After all, the constant flowing in, flowing out (i.e. the team that’s just gone to India) is one of the strongest signs of a healthy fellowship.
  
  And, before I sign off, where does this all leave me?? Before I came out, I spoke to many people about what I would be doing, and received many responses along the lines of: 'Oh you're going to come back so changed', 'You're going to get so broken.' Were they right? In a certain sense they are, but not in the way they or I expected. People think of change as subtraction - the removal of this aspect of me, and the replacement of it with something better. Well that's not how its worked out for me personally. If you like, and I may be very misguided when I say this, God took me where I was, and has added to me in every way. He's made me bigger, stronger, and has allowed me to see, experience, and partake in so much more of Him. Specifically, He's done wonders in the department of prayer, ministry and human understanding. I've prayed with so many extraordinary people, with extraordinary predicaments, and shocking pasts that that part of my repertoire has been particularly blessed. He's made me profoundly aware of the fact that ANYTHING done without love is a waste of time and space; specifically, that 'speaking the truth in love' is in fact the only way to speak the Good News. Because, for the kind of people I attempt to speak to, the words themselves are fruitless (and most probably wrong anyway). As Drummond said, 'It is you who are the missionary, not your words. Your character is the message'. We must live in the hopes that, even for those who cannot see the beauty of our Lord, they cannot fail but to see His beauty reflected in us. And lastly, that an immobile faith is no faith at all...see James 2.
  
  So there we are. I've now got just under seven weeks left out here, before returning to sunny England. Looking forward to seeing many of you, joining many of you to spread the good news, and in the meantime, hearing all about what's going on. You're in my thoughts and prayers.
  
  Lots of love and blessings to you all.
  
  Rupert

Miracles