THE OCCASION BY WHICH JESUS MOUNTED upon the foal of a donkey and descended down the southeastern slope of the Mount of Olives was no ordinary day. It was the tenth of Nissan, a Sabbath—or Saturday, April 21, 31 AD by the Gregorian calendar. We can quickly deduce that the timing of His triumphant entry into Jerusalem was no accident—nor was it a literary coincidence. This was the day in which the Passover lamb was selected. After culling a lamb free of any blemish, the children of Israel were commanded to bring the coming sacrifice into their house. In Exodus we read:

PASTOR NATE WOLFE AND I HAD SUCH A GREAT CONVERSATION a couple of weeks ago that we decided to call each other back up and make a recording of it. Among our talking points was marriage and why engaging the “Truther Movement” as a husband and wife team, specifically moving forward at the pace of our spouse rather than towing them along, is so vital to the health of our relationships. I’ve been very encouraged getting to know Wolfe better, and I hope our chat can be a blessing for others as well.

hands in head

THE URGE TO INTERRUPT THE PATRIARCH OF ISRAEL from his deathbed, after he called all twelve sons round about him, and protest his prophetic prognosis for each and every one of them, must have been overwhelming for some—particularly Dan. “Assemble yourselves, that I may tell you what will happen to you in days to come,” he said. And thus he turned his gaze upon Reuben, and began.


WHY EMPEROR MAXENTIUS CHOSE TO MEET CONSTANTINE in open battle, rather than endure a siege in Rome, is a question best relegated to histories prodigious book of blunders. Rome was undoubtedly stockpiled for such an event. Evidence points to the fact that both Valerius Severus and Galerius, challengers to the Augustan throne, were successively repelled and defeated at her very gates. By 311 AD, only one more contender remained. That would be Constantine. Maxentius soon pressed his eyes upon his last and greatest threat—and declared war on him.

THERE’S A SAYING AMONG THE PREACHERS OF OLD. Come Monday morning—or rather, come every Monday morning, they begin writing their resignation letter.

Not too long ago I had this alluring, lucid dream. I dreamt I cut the umbilical cord that kept me attached to the computerized world—this media saturated augmented false-reality which we are ceremoniously indoctrinated into believing—and then dove into a pool. From underneath the shadow of swaying palms I gazed up at the sunlit world, listening to the aroma of music as it penetrated, like the muffle from a seashell, into the chlorine blue—pretending like all of this…my bizarre interim with the Truther Movement in its variant of patterns…never happened. Come Monday morning, every Monday morning, I sit and relish in that dream. I often contemplate what that moment will be like, after I pull the plug, after I dive head-first in the pool, and then float within the watery underworld watching the bubbles rise past my eyes—just holding my breath, numbering the bubbles, feeling the sensational touch of water as it shrouds every arching curve of my body, and waiting to be left behind from the times I find myself in the world above.