Supernatural, Part One: Weapon of War
I might be crazy
In 2018, I started a series on supernatural occurrences and lucid dreams that I had been having. The posts were intended to be a prelude to an interesting, on-going situation that I experienced during my homeless stint, but I never got around to presenting that last part. That’s because it will be necessary to transform the story from a list of occurrences into a narrative. That’s something I’m fully capable of doing, but it will take time and focus.
Here’s what I’m going to do: restart the series here and, in the meantime, carve out the narrative. The old posts will, of course, be free to all readers, but the last part will be for paid subscribers.
If you are inclined to do so, please hit my tip-jar. It will keep me focused on the task at hand and not on gasoline.
My life stories seems to get a good deal of attention and that pleases me – not because it’s my life, but because, after many years of holding these things in, it feels good to get them out. There’s a part of me that finds these things unbelievable —except they actually happened.
By the way, I never had any God/Devil dreams or crazy supernatural stuff happen to me in the waking world until I started getting closer to God.
You know that old saying about being over the target? It’s true.
Part One, Weapon of War, is my favorite.
In 2008, I had a dream.
Before I explain what type of dream it was, I should mention that my dreams are very vivid—almost like being awake; like short visits to worlds yet unexplored. Sometimes, I can remember them immediately upon waking, but they will usually be forgotten if I fail to write them down. (As an aside, I think that the ability to remember one’s dreams goes hand-in-hand with having a well-developed imagination -- something essential to a novelist.)
My subconscious will even, on occasion, incorporate sounds from the waking world and build a dream around them if the sound isn't loud and piercing enough to disrupt my sleep. Such was the case when Dan Gillerman's melodious, accented baritone memorably penetrated my dreams as it wafted from my television. In that dream, the voice seemed to be emanating from the throat of the man I loved and who seemed to pontificate about a war with Gaza.
However, for the dream mentioned at the beginning of this essay, there was never any need to write the details, and, whenever I reconsider it, it always looms large and has capital letters: The Dream.
At first, The Dream was a nightmare -- the only nightmare ever in my nearly fifty [sic] years. I couldn’t see anything at first; I could only feel -- and the feeling in question was pure terror. I’ve never come close to being that afraid when awake and I hope that I never do.
There was something -- a living thing -- in the room with me. Evil itself is the only way to describe this entity. The room was my own bedroom, except that it had no windows and no doors.
I lay on the floor, paralyzed and curled up in a ball like a potato bug. My eyes -- my dream-eyes -- were slammed shut for fear of seeing the thing. It seemed to menace my back with fire, incinerating the skin. In the manner which dreams unfold, I could “see” chunks of flesh fall from my back. I saw my spinal column. Then my flesh would reintegrate and the process would start again.
I wanted to uncurl and turn to face the being, but fear stopped me. I could feel my chest heaving; it seemed as though the mere sight of It would stop my heart forever.
Then I cried out to God and He answered, reminding me that He had not given me the spirit of fear; that the particular emotion had a different source. This reassurance seemed to slow my breath and un-paralyze my body. I stood up and opened my eyes but I still wasn’t quite able to face the Creature.
“Stretch out your arms,” God said. I did so and opened my right hand. In it was a handgun, then a sword (they seemed interchangeable) and, as is so in myth and in fantasy, my weapon had a given name.
Its name was “the Word of God.”
So, with weapon in hand, I “screwed my courage to the sticking-place” and turned to face my enemy, steeling myself to view its ugly face.
It was gone.
Weeks later, I was sitting in church and very much awake.
My pastor — learned in the languages of the Bible: Hebrew, Aramaic and Koine Greek — was expounding on the two Greek terms for "word of God." One is a term with which most English-speakers are familiar—logos. The other, however, is one I had heard before but had no idea what it meant until my pastor began to expound upon it: rhema1.
The difference? People far more theologically learned than I are still discussing it but the difference seems to be in scope. A rhema is more of a short aphorism, rather than a long sermon or the Word in its entirety, and it is intended to counter the Adversary quickly when he’s trying to induce doubt and/or fear. For example, Jesus the Christ used a quick succession of rhema on Satan when the latter tried to induce doubt about God the Father.
In short, when you hear preachers talk about “a word from God,” most of the time they are talking about a rhema.
“What does this have to do with your dream,” I hear you ask. My mouth literally dropped open when my pastor mentioned the other definition of rhema….
The Sword of the Spirit.2
Whenever I feel anxious about anything, I think of this dream.
NEXT: Their Father.
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James Strong, The Strongest Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible. (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zondervan, 2001),1641