Bob Van Zandt sat in the open field across from All Spirits Presbytemplative. He accepted their sandwiches, sure, and he ate at their Soup Kitchen sometimes, but he wanted nothing to do with their trance-religion.
Nothing.
Van Zandt had never accepted the old time Christ–the One in the now illegal Bibles, like the KJV, and the NASB–so why would he go after their spooky trance-messiah? Van Zandt shook his head, and drained the last of his beer. These trance-people were all over the place now–the Episco-contemplatives, the Presbytemplatives, and these were powerful denominations.
They were political too–somehow things had all merged together.
Van Zandt lifted the beer can to his lips, swearing when he remembered it was empty.
He got up, brushed filth from filthy clothes, and sighed. At least they gave him spare change. He crossed the street and walked up to the magnificent glass and steel structure. Opening the door, he entered, walking past the group who sat in a circle, eyes closed. Creepy, it was creepy, nobody could tell him it wasn’t.
Bob Van Zandt and many other street people were well aware they were being heavily pursued by the trance-religion people. It wasn’t like the old Christians at the missions, either, where they would actually tell you that you were bound for hell. Those folks were gone now, their gospel illegal. These trance people didn’t tell you you could go to hell, they told you that you were god…
Van Zandt shook his head again. Well, if he was god, maybe he could get a five dollar bill this time, instead of whatever change the Presbytemplative priest had in her pocket.
Van Zandt knocked on her door, and let himself in.
Tagged: Christian fiction, end times, fiction, meditation, messiah, mission, sola fide, wino
