#because now it's evidence against your claim that you can't just ''do things on command'' or automatically

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

Simon fucks you like a lover returned home from war.

Strong hands lifted you onto the kitchen counter; the sudden movement made you gasp before it was swallowed by his lips. He kissed with urgency, almost brutal in its intensity—tongue tracing each of your teeth, sucking lightly on yours as he tilted his head to continue deepening the kiss. You sigh—thighs clad in thin stockings clamp down on his hips, feeling his jeans against the inside of your knees.

Much like a stray dog ​​to an open door of a house. Like fangs on flesh. His entire digits are famished, looking for solace that seeps through your skin. He traces the curves of your body as if time is his biggest enemy and every second snatched is a victory.

You tangle your fingers in his blonde hair, pulling him to trail kisses down your jaw. His stubble scrapes your skin. Your pulse sped as you felt him begin making his way down your neck. Placing a hand against his solid chest, you pushed him away, creating a small distance between you.

“Wait,” you interrupted. “Please don't leave marks. I have practice early, and the director, he'll..." Your words trail off in a mumble.

The disappointed grunt that he lets out almost escapes your notice. “Right, can't be having that, now can we?”

Simon, in opposition to what he had said, leaned closer still and planted his lips in the hollow of your neck. It curved your back, drawing a breathy gasp out of you. His hand slides down to grip your ass, bringing you closer against the hard evidence of his arousal. Slowly, his fingers slipped under your sweater. He finds your breasts, giving one experimental squeeze before the second. Your head was thrown back as you let out a sigh.

“Fucking things,” Simon grumbled almost offended when he felt the barrier between his palm and your thigh – your stocking getting in the way. He lifted his head and looked at you, “Let’s get you out of this, yeah?”

A shy smile curves your kiss-swollen lips as you give him a nod. It was quite amusing, seeing a man his size so undone by a thin piece of fabric. You straightened your legs to make his job easier.

“Good girl,” he says, and your core throbs excitedly from the praise.

Simon rolled the stockings down your legs, calloused fingers rubbing over your shins. You hold your breath from the contact. As the lace is finally removed, your feet feel a sudden exposure to the coolness. You watched him slowly roll the stockings into a slim coil before placing them on the edge of the counter.

When he leans in close again and claims a spot between your spread legs, you take the chance like the sly fox that you are. Overpowered by the desire to feel him again, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a new kiss. Simon's teeth graze yours as he grips your curved spine and grinds his hips even harder into your soaked underwear. Needy moans spill from your throat.

Then your hands flew to his trousers, fumbling for the zip. Simon grabbed your wrist, ending the kiss, and pulled back just enough to see what you were going to do.

“What’re you up to?”

It's frustrating; he's frustrating. He knows what you're trying to do, yet he still asks, as if he's waiting for you to openly admit it. 

Biting your lip, you try, “I want to feel you.”

For a moment, he hesitates in consideration as he sweeps his gaze over your exposed position. Panic seized you for an instant. Just because you did it last time doesn't mean he's necessarily okay with doing it again. Perhaps your eager desire has clouded your judgment, and you wonder if all he wanted was some harmless make-out, nothing more.

“Turn around for me, love.” He rasps before you can speak again.

Your eyes flickered at his command. Giving a hesitant nod, you turned around; elbows resting on the cool granite beneath you. Your thighs clenched self-consciously.

Glancing over your shoulder, you ask in a small voice, “Like this?”

“Aye, just like that,” he replies, burning a hole in the back of your head.

Despite the sense of vulnerability that came with surrendering control, it ignited something within you. This trust you placed in a barely known man, this risk you took—was it bravery or recklessness? Like clay for his hands to shape, a canvas for his passion to paint. The thrill of not knowing in which way he would touch you set your pulse racing, making your heart beat faster with each passing moment.

When his fingers hook the waistband of your panties, you hold your breath. Slowly, he pulls the lace down your thighs, and you heat up with each new patch of skin revealed. By the time the fabric reaches your feet, you well realize you're a dripping mess—this tight, little hole begging for his touch, his mouth.

Gripping your thighs, he spreads your folds open before bending to place an open-mouthed kiss. You gasp, your back arching as he explores with his lips and tongue. His nails dig deeper holding your writhing form. The sounds that came out of you increased in pitch with each swipe and suck.

“Mmmfh—! Haah~! Simon!!”

Simon removed his lips from your cunt, replacing them by planting two digits into your silky hole. He's knuckle-deep in your heat. One thickly corded hand circles around your shoulders, aligning your soft curves to his hard chest. Your moans become more intense when his fingers curl inside you, opening you even further with slow, steady pumps.

It was a beautiful painting, and Simon weaved this moment by moment into his hippocampus. Your sweat-slicked hair. Your lips, he knew, were gaping with desire. The perfect cheek of your ass as he continues to hitch your skirt higher to access your swollen flesh further. All else is insignificant, though, when you utter his name aloud like a reverent preacher's prayer—this one has the ability to make his cock throb for attention beneath his jeans.

“Relax that gorgeous body for me, darling.” He whispered next to your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

The words he growled became indistinct as he continued to gently seal his lips around your earlobe. His inked hands embrace you tighter. White patches began to form in your mind; your breath came in short gasps. Your focus spreads before narrowing at the sensation of the knot threatening to untie in your lower stomach.

Quickly, Simon withdrew his fingers to work open his zip. Pulling out his cock, he clicked his tongue, seeing the glistening pre-cum on its tip. He was ready to sink home at last, to breach inside. However, his semi-conscious brain was spinning, knowing that he had forgotten something

"Shit, where's the rubber?" he asked.

“Don’t bother.”

Your murmur shocked both you and Simon. No sensible woman would risk it all just for a taste, and only the reckless would dare to bet on the possibility that carnal pleasures could bloom into something real. However, the words have been spoken, and only a coward would take them back. You never claimed to be the wiser. This oblivion is the only type of surrender that you can provide.

Simon doesn't seem to be all that different either.

In one deep thrust, he sheathed himself to the hilt, seating his thick girth in your tight channel. Simon could hardly contain the moan at the corner of his throat as your raw, exquisite heat enveloped him. His massive hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he tried to find his pace. As he began to move consistently, your throat remained tight and continued to drag out the strings of his name in the lewdest way.

Your thoughts were cloudy, centered solely on the feeling of his naked cock clamped between your walls. His wandering hand moves upwards, palming the swell of your breast through the sweater. But it isn't enough; he must feel you, skin to skin.

In one smooth motion, he hitches the garment up and slips it into your bra. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he released a plump breast, weighing the soft fat in his palm.

“Fucking perfect,” he said.

The sensation of fullness in your pussy shortens your breath. He rolls your nipple between his digits—his side entertainment as he continues his pounding.

Your spine forms a beautiful curve when he moves his finger to circle your clit. Each breathy sigh and needy mewl throbbed his cock. Your hand reaches back blindly—an invitation for him to come closer, and as a good guest, Simon accepts the siren's call by taking your earlobe between his teeth.

“So fucking wet for me, darling. You like having my cock buried deep, don’t you?”

“Mmh—! Yes, yes!”

A deep chuckle shook his chest. This little ballerina was so cock-drunk that she was unable to talk, behaving like her tongue was chained and her lovely lips could only produce vulgar moans. Flames burned higher and higher—the whole room caught fire. He feels a faint, growing throb within you before it becomes more pronounced and stronger.

Hesitant to stand on your wobbly legs, you surrendered and bent your back. Goosebumps crawl all over your body when the cool granite touches your sensitive breasts. The new angle gives Simon more access to redouble his efforts. He watched, delighted, as his fat cock disappeared between your folds, only to reappear slick and pulsing.

“Simon—ah! Simon- I’m—! Ohgodohgod..!”

A few more thrusts, and he feels your tight walls hugging his cock as it starts to flutter and ripple. Heat collects in your lower stomach. Short gasps of breath escape you as your heart races. With a keening wail, your climax bursts out in waves.

Simon tightened his hold on your hips as his own orgasm began to peak. Thinking through a thick fog of ecstasy, he reaches for the tissue at your side before pulling out of your quivering cunt and letting his angry tip finish on the material. The room fell silent again, with the exception of the refrigerator's gentle hum and the sounds of two people catching their breath.

Slowly, the fog of pleasure lifted. As his brain winds down, reality comes crashing back in. The poor woman is still draped over the counter, trying to calm her heaving chest. He hurriedly adjusted his trousers.

“Shit.”

At Simon's curse, you attempt to turn around, but your legs feel weak and shaky, unable to support your body's movement. Recognizing your struggle, he moves closer and settles his big hand to help you seat yourself on the edge of the counter.

“Should've wrapped it. Wasn't thinking straight.” He continued, apologetic underneath.

Reaching for a towel, he runs it under warm water before returning to you. At first, he was hesitant—not sure whether to give it to you or do it himself. He ends up dabbing it on your thighs. His brows were wrinkled in concentration as he cautiously swept the towel. You can't help but let out a giggle at that.

"Something funny?" he asked.

“Nothing,” you shook your head, still smiling. “I just never thought I'd see this side of you, is all.”

It's an unexpected turn of events, indeed. When the day began, you would never have predicted that you'd be seated on the kitchen counter with Simon gently cleaning you up with a damp towel, paying you such intimate attention.

This time, it was his turn to chuckle. Your heart nearly jumped out of your ribs when a pair of brown eyes met yours. “Yeah, well. Don't get used to it, alright?”

Simon gently put the towel aside. He rested his large hand on your thigh, squeezing it lightly. You swept your gaze over his face. He seemed tired—his eye bags were darker than before, and his blonde hair was slightly longer than when you last saw him. If he made any attempt to appear less zombie-like, it was through his recently shaven stubble. For a moment, the two of you remain silent, attempting to relish the comfortable quiet while his thumb traces idle patterns on your legs.

“I never thought I would see you again after that night,” you mutter timidly.

Simon doesn't say anything. The weight of his gaze still remained on you, as if he knew you had more words to say. And he's right. There's this itchy question scratching at the back of your throat, demanding to be answered.

All this time, where did he go? Where did his long strides carry him in those months, when failure was the only thing you found every time you tried to look for him? Did he return to some house tucked away in the countryside? Is there anyone else with the privilege to claim his time – a family, or worse, a lover you won't be able to compete with? You ache to understand what took him from you and what pulled him back into your orbit.

"Where did you go?" The words stumbled out in a rush before you could stop yourself.

At your question, something shifted in his gaze, but it was gone before you could decipher it any deeper. Simon transferred his weight to his other leg.

“Got deployed.” The only answer he can provide.

"Oh." You breathe, almost to yourself – the reality of Simon's life settles upon you once again.

Your eyes scan him intently, observing every visible part of him with a new sense of awareness. His face remains unharmed. The backs of his hands bore no new marks. His neck is also untouched.

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

But, you ask anyway, wanting—needing reassurance that the t-shirt he's wearing isn't concealing any fresh injuries he has brought home, that no part of his body is in need of healing.

“Just a few bumps and bruises, is all. Comes with the job.”

He responded in a casual manner, showing little to no care for his well-being. It was as if this was normal—and, in fact, it is for him. He knows that every mission he takes could be his last, so coming out with just a few bumps and bruises sounds like a pretty good aftermath.

But still, you want to be the judge of that. After all, being able to endure it does not mean he is obligated to withstand it. You want to see it for yourself, to actually assess the extent of his injuries and make sure they're as minor as he claims.

As he begins to pull away, you feel a surge of panic at the thought of him leaving. Without thinking, the words tumble from your lips: “Wait!”

Simon froze immediately, turning questioning eyes on you. You bit your lip, looking for an excuse to prolong your time together. Your gaze falls on the cabinet where you keep your coffee grounds, two packs of Earl Grey tea, and a bottle of foreign drink.

“I don’t know much about bourbon,” you admitted, hoping he could decode the meaning beneath your lines. “But I think I bought the one you liked.”

He left the offer hanging as he searched your gaze for something. Your heart pounds a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Please understand what I ask of you—stay for a bit longer. There's a heavy longing that lives in my chest, and it's weighing me down to the floor. The night is too cold for me to feel that undefined ache alone. Please, please, please—

However, whether he got the message or not became unimportant when he gave the answer.

"Alright then, pour us a drink."  

@strawberrygato

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[salixsociety]

Love Magic and Ethics

On why you can't pick and choose which forms of magic are ethical and which are not based on fate and free will alone.

Love magic in particular has held a contentious position in the contemporary witchcraft community for some time now. A topic of frequent debate, those practicing it are often accused of taking people's free will or even such heinous things as committing 'spiritual assault'. I would like to examine today why people consider love magic unethical, and why I think that opinion is fundamentally flawed, based on cultural and cosmological evidence viewed through a modern lens.

It doesn't take much searching on social media to run into strong opinions against love magic. The common consensus among contemporary practitioners these days appears to be that love magic as a whole is evil and cannot be practiced in ways that aren't inherently extortionary. Many online communities, especially closed communities such as those on Discord, have strict rules against the promoting or even mentioning of love magic. I've seen many unsavory words used to describe this practice: coercion, control, assault, manipulation, abuse.

The logic behind these claims is more or less the same everywhere, the claims ringing that love magic overrides people's free will, that it messes with fate, that it's forcing someone to fall in love against their will, that it creates toxic relationships, and my favorite: that it creates karmic debt.

I'd like to knock the latter out first: if we are to discuss the ethics of magic, let us not be culturally appropriative while doing so. Karma is a Dharmic concept, as seen in such faiths as Buddhism. It has nothing to do with witchcraft, and unless the practitioner is Buddhist, they do not need to worry about Karma. As I understand it, Karmic debt is also plainly made up, there's no such thing within the faiths that the concept originates from.

But what about the rest? What about free will, and fate? Free will is a finicky topic, and it falls apart quickly when inspected with some care in the context of magic. I am not here to take anyone's belief from them, or here to state that free will does not exist. But do consider what is and isn't free will, and how you think free will works. If you can strip someone of their free will, do we really have any? More importantly, there's no universal law that states that love magic is stripping someone of their free will. How many times have you done magic intending to command someone to do something and watched them do it like a robot? Never, I imagine, both out of a lack of desire and out of a lack of faith that that is how magic works, because realistically, it isn't.

The question of fate is just as unbalanced. All magic is interfering with fate, and with people's fates too. If I do a spell to try to make sure my lawyer works hard to help me succeed in immigration, I have interfered with their fate, and not in an inherently harmful way. But it can be even smaller! What if I did a spell to attract more squirrels to my yard, people might have to brake for the squirrels crossing the road to get to my yard, and be late for work. They might get fired for that, or might not. Either way their fate is altered. What if the person braking for the squirrel gets rear-ended? Is that my fault? Should I not have done the magic? Should he have braked slower? Was it fate that I did that spell and it caused him to have a car accident? Was he always fated to have that car accident, and was I just an instrument in its coming to fruition? There is no action without reaction. There is no action without impact. So the question of altering someone's fate is moot, and if you think altering someone's fate is unethical, you should at the very least cease to practice magic, and likely confine yourself to a room forever. Assuming that doesn't alter the fate of your concerned mother. By that logic, the question of free will also becomes obsolete. If it was never in this person's fate to fall in love with you, no amount of magic you could do would change that. And if you don't make them fall for you, someone else will.

Because that's the next consideration: from this very common cosmological lens, what is really the moral difference between love magic and dressing up for a date? If you go to a date dressed to the nines, with nice makeup on, and you make yourself sound incredibly cool and active, are you not also attempting to make someone fall for you? Is that stripping them of their free will? At what point is the love entirely natural in origin? I could even argue that the act of making yourself look, smell, and sound good is love magic, or at least glamor magic for the sake of love, in its own right.

And there is yet another consideration: the actual nature of most (open) historic love magic. A lot of historical records of love magic that we have from such places as, for example, ancient Greece, is not coercive magic. Much of it is petitioning the gods or praying to them for the love or person you desire. Other spells are intended to draw them to you, simply send out a message on the web of fate and let your future lover follow it to you, such as by placing a basil plant in one's windowsill. The spells that do intend to truly instil love in a single person are rarer, but of course exist, and I readily excuse them based on the points made above.

Another problem with dismissing love magic as a whole is how integral it is to culture. Even if your intention is not to accidentally condemn all magic - which you might well be on accident just by virtue of the cosmology of this claim not checking out - you are denying the validity of a practice seen in nearly every culture, and integral to many magical traditions. There are no universal laws of magic, that is a rather Wiccan notion. By extension, why would there be universal ethics? Why would all love magic be bad?

Lastly, there's the concern of creating a toxic relationship. Yes, love magic may draw a toxic love to you. But I can assure you that it was not the magic that made it toxic. Wearing a nice dress to the club can attract toxic love to you, looking cute at a café can, anything can. Any love has the potential to be toxic. The love being found through magic will not inherently make it toxic, because the love isn't artificial. Love being found through magic is no different than love found on a dating app, because factually, the line between magic and mundane is next to nonexistent. Moreover, I think if love magic only ever created toxic relationships, we'd know that by now. Love magic is as old as the desire for love itself is, and so is mankind's penchant for gossip. "I heard Ethel did a love spell to find her husband, and he beats her silly!" So would the tales go even in ye olden days, and it would spread. If love magic only ever drew harmful love, we'd have figured that out and stopped using it, because ultimately we do tend to eventually notice when things have a habit of going awry.

Much magic was the domain of women in our open traditions across Europe, and by extension there was much care for how love magic was done and what for. I could also argue that condemning a form of magic that was and is often done by and for women, for their own joy, health, and wealth, is just unfortunate. Because of course, as a final note, it is important to remember that folk magic is alive and well across the globe. Outside of the online magical community, there is much magic being done, entirely unaware of our debates. And hopefully it will continue to be done! Folk magic is important and beautiful, and so are its love magic practices.

---- If you enjoy my work, please consider purchasing or commissioning some of my written resarch, ordering a reading, or commissioning my art. Click here to see the options. Thank you!

[melonisopod]

Oh god, the last part about remembering to take your habit-making pill.

Hi I was today years old when I realized some people truly don’t have to think about every single thing they do. They don’t have to have an imaginary set of rules (I’m not allowed to put on my bra until I’ve brushed my teeth) to function.

[leportraitducadavre]

“(Hayate is a good proctor solely for a shy Hyuga heir it seems.)” YAS QUEEN! Call out the Hyuga clan. God, they’re fucking awful and Neji and the other second branch characters deserved better. Konoha ain’t shit. I love your re-readings! Are you re-writing them, btw? Just asking to know if I gotta re-read the ones I’ve read before. You’re reading everyone’s favourite characters to filth, even some of mine, and I’m loving it lol

Lmao.

No, I'm not rewriting them, those posts are simply comments while I re-read the manga, the only ones I'm re-writing as of now is the S//S post, the N//H post, and an analysis I made of Sakura's character and her relationships with Naruto, Sasuke and Ino.

You’re reading everyone’s favourite characters to filth, even some of mine, and I’m loving it lol

I'm not sure about reading them to filth, I'm literally pointing out things that are canonically mentioned. I'm not even exaggerating those readings -Kishimoto made a conscious decision when writing those stuff, fans choose to ignore them in order to protect their faves.

And I'll say this again, you can like a controversial character -that's not my issue. If people like Hinata, I have no problem, but denying core aspects of her character? Stating that she's not part of the Main Branch simply because Hiashi "treats her badly" is the same nonsense as saying "she isn't in love with Naruto''. She has no Caged Bird Seal as everyone does in the branch family, and FOUR jönins jumped down to protect her from Neji, when none of them moved a muscle to save anyone before. If that's not a privileged girl, I don't know what it is.

And listen, Hinata's anxiety/shyness is often presented as arguments to justify her inaction when it comes to her clan's enslavement; if those are valid enough arguments to excuse her deliberate ignorance on the matter (and yes, she ignores her clan's slavery on purpose because she's aware of what's going on, she even witnessed Hiashi torturing Hizashi and acknowledged the real reason why Neji was so mad at her), then those too are equally valid arguments to disregard her both as a possible leader (of her clan) and shinobi:

She can't be a jönin responsible for a squad if she's too anxious to give someone an order and live with the consequences -I'm not even bringing up her incapacity to fight or plan (some people simply doesn't like to be a ninja, Hinata clearly dislikes it, so stop forcing your fantasies on her and obliterating everything she canonically is), but her lack of commanding skills.

And since I’m here, I’ll like to point something out that I didn’t on my “Who’s the strongest kunoichi” post (which I’ll probably add): There’s a relatively constant occurrence in the pro-fandom of the most famous female characters (and no, I do not mean the usual use of pejorative terms like "misogynist" against those who do not match their perspectives, which is also very common); which is the naturalization of the argument "why is it difficult for you to accept that XXX character is inferior?" (of course I’m paraphrasing, but this line -or versions of this line- can be observed in many of their posts/comments).

This is often brought up with the sole purpose of diminishing the “anti”’s arguments against the pro-fan favorite character, or in favor of their chosen character, without committing to the debate and presenting true evidence of their claims (which, unlike those of the antis, are true until proven wrong and not the other way around). In lesser terms, they demand the performance of a specific attitude/introspection that they’re not willing to conduct themselves.

[wr1t3-my-wr0ngs]

Good Soldiers - chapter 4/4

Remembering Yesterday’s Tomorrow (In the Here and Now): Part 4 COMPLETED

Rex isn't happy with resorting to Plan B, however, he's not surprised that Plan A didn't work out. Disappointed, but he knew that it was a long shot getting a Jedi to intervene.

At least Plan B has the benefit of working before, but it will still be a bloodbath. Not even the best of troops can hope to match an armed and trained force user, and it's not vanity when he says that his men are the best.

He felt like a cheat when he had described the plan earlier.

"We lead him to the nearest Vixus."

"You want us to go near one of those things on purpose?"

Rex couldn't blame the men for their incredulity, not after one of the creatures had nearly eaten almost every person in the room only hours before. He's not exactly thrilled at going near the sarlac-like thing either. But they aren't fast enough to take Krell in a fair fight, not with his four lightsabers and absolute willingness to maim anyone in his path. (Too many limbs, too much speed, too little empathy.)

Every word from his lips felt like a lie, a stolen idea that he parroted as his own. In a way, they were. It had been Tup who had thought of using the Vixus to capture Krell, a stroke of genius that had ended a horrific fight, and it grates that Rex can’t give the trooper the recognition he deserves.

"What the Captains trying to say, " Fives chimed in after watching Rex flounder for a moment. "Is that we need this to be on our terms. He's not going to come quietly if he is a traitor."

Rex nodded, both in thanks and in confirmation.

"If you think you have a shot, take it. The faster the fight is over, the better it will be for everyone, but we need to aim to arrest him if possible."

"And if we can't?"

"Have your recorders on and let the bastard incriminate himself."

In true GAR fashion, the plan had spread like wildfire, and soon enough, every last soldier knew their task.

Rex hardly needs to issue the orders, but he does anyway, following the formalities because he knows that, despite what General Skywalker may sometimes claim, appearances and regulations do count.

The ride up the tower is quiet, and from the corner of his eye, Rex can see a few of the younger troops nervously adjust the grip on their blasters. He has to fight the urge to fidget or even reach up and place a hand over his ring, doing his best to project confidence for both the men and himself.

Krell is waiting for them, facing the window, one set of hands clasped behind his back.

"CT-7567, explain yourself."

Rex readies his blasters, switching off the safeties and aims at the Besalisk.

"Pong Krell, you are under arrest for treason against the Grand Army of the Republic and the Galactic State which it serves. Do you comply peacefully?"

Krell turns, malice written in his face and eyes.

"You know, I'm surprised you were able to figure it out for a clone. Tell me, when did you first suspect?"

Rex ignores the question, refusing to be goaded by the man before him any more than he already has.

"Do you comply?" He puts more force into his words than before, using a tone of voice he would never dare to use on a commanding officer.

Krell looks around, almost lazily, and takes in the various troopers - all with blasters pointed his direction – and smiles in a way that is anything but friendly.

"You think you can stop me, Captain? I have trained for more years then you have been alive, and I will not be stopped me some creature bread in a tube."

Without further preamble, Krell pushes out with the Force, sending every trooper slamming into the walls. Those unfortunate enough to have stayed on their feet during the assault are quickly cut down by the blue-green pair of saber staffs, and Rex watches from his place on the ground as the fallen Jedi jumps out the window.

He scrambles to his feet and rushes out the door, brushing past medics on their way in to try and stabilize those they can. He does not envy them their job, one which he knows will only get harder the longer Krell goes unattended to.

The sound of boots fills the night air as soldiers pour from the base and onto the hard pavement of the airfield. Krell is nowhere in sight, but the evidence of his departure lies scattered on the ground.

Passing the bodies that litter the ground outside the airbase doors, Rex has to swallow past the rising bile as he takes in his brothers: some still breathing, others lifeless. He charges on more determined than before, no time to pause the pursuit and tell the living from the dead before crashing into the underbrush.

The forest is quiet and incredibly dark, the helmets night vision thrown off by the red glow of the bioluminescent trees.

"Does anyone have a visual?"

"Negative Captain, he's —"

The sound of a lightsaber crackles through the comms, the distinctive hiss as it cauterizes and cuts, distorted and warped by the tiny speakers.

"You should have kept quiet, Captain."

The back of Rex's neck tingles as Krells' voice echoes around the landscape, seeming to come from all directions, shifting on a nonexistent wind.

"You've led them to slaughter in a fool's errand. I have seen the future Captain, your life, and that of every clone is expendable. You and your so-called brothers: specialized rats bread in a lab for just one reason. The Jedi will fall, and in its place, a new order will rise and rule. Yet you rebel in a misguided notion of liberty, and now your men will pay the price."

Displayed on his hud, Rex can see the blinking light of the recorder, and even though he hopes it won't come to it, they need a back up should Dogma fail to reach General Kenobi. He keeps Krell talking, shouting into the eerie red nothingness, turning all directions in the hopes of catching sight of the six-limbed man.

"You're a Separatist?"

Krell's laugh is merciless.

"Not hardly, I serve none but myself. But soon, I shall reap the rewards, and my new master will grant me a seat of power in the Empire that shall arise."

A twig snaps from somewhere above their heads, and it's all the warning Rex and his men get before Krell is in their midst, dual staffs slashing without remorse, skillfully dodging every shot aimed his way. Rex is too busy firing his blasters, shouting for his men not to get too close, to stay out of lightsaber range, to notice at first. Eventually, he hears the shout of his name, and the Captain spots one of the men signaling to something on the ground roughly fifty yards away. Despite his dread and increasing panic, he grins to himself, and relays the information into the comms, alerting all units to draw Krell his way.

Navigating the vine limbs of the Vixus proves challenging, especially with the Besalisk hot on his tail. He should have known that things were going too smoothly, should have expected that something would go wrong (and it makes him sick to his stomach to think, however briefly, that the death of so many of his brothers is according to plan). When it happens, it stirs up disappointed resignation and panic in equal measure. Time seems to slow as his foot catches on something, and he watches the rapidly approaching ground in horror, twisting at the last second to avoid landing face first atop his blasters.

His blunder is all it takes for Krell to be on him, lightsabers baring down with unnatural swiftness. With the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Rex freezes, and he can feel the heat of the green blade through his neck gasket as it flies toward its target. He should move, or fire a shot -anything- instead, his thoughts drift to Ahsoka.

Her skin set aglow by the light of a dying fire beneath a star-studded sky; dirt-covered and sweaty, kneeling next to him as they sew seeds on Lothal; graceful in battle, twisting through the air, elegant and lethal and incredibly kind.

All at once, the heat from the blade disappears and time reasserts itself, leaving the Captain momentarily disoriented until he can process the slashing of sabers far overhead as Krell battles against the vine wrapped around his waist. There is no time to berate himself for either his blunder or for freezing up, and he shoots to his feet, blasters drawn and firing.

Around him, his men are doing the same, some aiming at Krell while others aim for the flailing arms of the Vixus as it attempts to grab anything within reach. Undercutting the din of battle, Rex can make out the tell-tail click of blasters being switched from stun to kill, can feel the increase of energy electrify the air like an oncoming storm. A shot fires and between one heartbeat and the next, Krell is falling, having managed to sever a limb and free himself.

He hits the ground hard, and the shooting ceases, soldiers approaching with a careful tread, ready for the Besalisk to spring up. Instead, Krell lets out a ragged cough into the dirt, and Rex cautiously approaches, DeeCees at the ready, and carefully rolls the fallen Jedi onto his back. Blood gurgles from Krell's chest where a blaster bolt made its home in a lung, whether intentionally placed or a mistake is unclear and, frankly, Rex doesn’t care.

Krell has moments left, and the Captain is seized with the need to make eye contact with the force user one last time. Slowly, he kneels and pulls off his bucket, taking a moment to make sure he has the Besalisks attention.

"I've lived your future, " he whispers, quiet enough that the various recorders can't pick it up. "It doesn't last."

It is satisfying to watch Krell's face fall as he searches the force, feels the veracity of Rex's statement— Realizes that for all his gifts and abilities, a clone knows more than him. Satisfying to know that its the last thought he will ever have.

Words form on the force users' lips, but all that comes out is a cough followed by a rattling breath and then - nothing.

Everyone is quiet for a moment, as the enormity of what just happened registers with the gathered troops. Some take off their helmets, most simply stare in shock. It doesn’t last long; the area is still a live war zone, and all too soon, the sound of steadily approaching enemy bombardment draws everyone from their stupor.

Rex pulls on his helmet and orders everyone back to base. It takes some time, now that they aren’t running after the Besalisk - longer than it usually would have, considering they are hauling Krell’s corpse and the numerous wounded with them. Some of the men had wanted to leave him where he lay, claim that it had been lost in the darkness and confusion of the planet. But the Captain hadn’t wanted to risk being ordered to send anyone out on a retrieval mission. Didn’t want to risk losing more men over the fallen Jedi.

No one speaks as they trudge through the dark landscape, and in the pressing silence, one thought relentlessly hammers away inside the Captains mind:

What now?

His instincts still tell him that this isn't a dream, and Rex is still inclined to trust them. But with his mind no longer occupied with the survival of his men and himself, the doubts that had reared their head when he had woken have returned. Is this death? If so, what does it mean for him now that Umbara is over? Or if it's a dream? Or, even more daunting, what if it's not? What if, by some insane occurrence, its exactly what he thinks it is?

He’s no closer to an answer by the time they reach the base, and in his meditative state, he almost misses the arrival of General Kenobi’s transport.

“Captain!”

Rex has to work to keep his face impassive, even as he salutes (its a different kind of pain seeing Kenobi again then it was from seeing his brothers. Less piercing, more bittersweet, aching like a day-old bruise that you can’t help touching, just to make sure it's still there).

“General,”

“I would ask what’s so urgent that you would send a trooper to collect me in the middle of a delicate campaign, but your man was very thorough in his explanation.”

Behind the Jedi, Rex can make out Dogma - a little cut up and bloodied but in one piece - side-eyeing the trooper next to him. Rex’s heart stops for a moment as he takes in the distinctive orange paint of his batchmate. He should have known that where General Kenobi goes, Cody would follow, but somehow it hadn’t clicked. (Cody shifts and Dogma nervously straightens. There’s a story there, and Rex resolves to get it later —if there is a later).

If Obi-Wan notices the Captain's momentary discomfort, he doesn't say anything.

“We had hoped that you might have been able to assist us in dealing with Krell.”

“I see.” The Jedi pauses for a moment, taking the time to really look at Rex. His next words are terribly kind, and the clone's heart swells with affection for the man.

“How are your men, Captain?”

He thinks of Dogma, the betrayal and the pain that he knows the rookie must still be dealing with, thinks of his own distress at watching Krell cut down brother after brother and chooses his words carefully, voice low.

“We lost a fair number in the fight, and I think the men are more shaken they would like to admit.”

Obi-wan looks sad at the confession but nods understandingly.

“And Krell?”

“Dead, Sir.”

Someone comes up beside him; he's not sure who, but judging by the sound of the footfalls, he thinks its either Jesse or Fives. Looking confirms that its the former.

“Report?”

“All men accounted for, Sir. Wounded are being taken care of now.”

Rex nods.

“Get some rest; you've all earned it.”

Kenobi waits for Jesse to leave before he picks up the conversation.

“Who fired the shot?”

Truthfully, he doesn’t know. In the chaos and confusion, the blaster fire had blurred together. But it was his mission, his orders that the men followed, his responsibility. His fault.

“I did, sir.”

Obi-Wan sighs, looking pained, and Rex understands. A General is dead, an act that cannot go unseen to, regardless of if the general was corrupt or not —there must be a hearing.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but I'm afraid I have to place you under arrest."

Rex nods solemnly.

Appearances and Regulations, his mind supplies, and as much as he doesn't like it, he would rather it be him who takes the brunt of a Court Marshal than any of his brothers. Something he had taken into account when he had first come up with his plan.

Kenobi nods to one of his men, who steps forward with a pair of cuffs.

"Those won't be necessary, will they Captain?"

Mild amusement flickers through Rex at Obi-Wans tone, and he flashes a brief smirk at the General, who, despite the regret etched on his face, has an answering twinkle of humor in his eyes.

"No, Sir."

The trooper shrugs and puts away the restraining devices then reaches out and relieves the Captain of his DeeCees's, before leading him by the elbow toward the tower and the brig.

Behind him, the General calls out.

“We’ll get you out of this, Rex.”

He doesn't need to ask who “we” is.

----

Despite the exhaustion that has settled in his bones, Rex spends his first hour in the brig with his head in his hands, sedately running them over his buzzed hair. Various people stop by, sometimes offering updates, sometimes to provide words of support. They don’t stay for long, recognizing the fatigue, and leave the clone to himself. As a result, he doesn’t look up right away when he hears a set of boots approaching. What does make him look is the sound of his cell door opening, and he is just in time to see Fives, dressed in his blacks and some of his armor, walk-in before shutting the door.

"Hey, " the goateed man greets, walking over to the bunk and sliding down the cell wall, sitting on the ground.

"Hey." Rex returns.

They sit quietly for a few moments, both worn and weary from the horrors of the past 24 hours, the sound of their breathing echoing slightly off the walls.

"I didn't think anyone was allowed inside the cell."

Fives huffs in what could be amusement.

"I don't think anyone is taking your confinement too seriously after what Krell put us through. Pretty sure they would let you out for a walk as long as you have supervision."

They both laugh without much heart before lapsing back into a silence that seems to be building a soft sort of anticipation — a tension, not unpleasant or overwhelming, but constant and steady. The seconds stretch into minutes, all the while the anticipation builds, culminating in a sigh from Fives.

"I believe you."

Rex, arms resting on his legs, looks at his little brother.

"I can't explain it, but —” the ARC trooper shakes his head as if doing so will set his thoughts straight — “you know things. Things you shouldn't have been able to know. And I can't put my finger on it, but you're different, smile more but at the same time are so...sad."

He looks at Rex.

"And I don't know what it is or what it could be, but we've seen some crazy shit together. Dying and coming back to the past is as good an explanation as any. So, I believe you."

Rex doesn't know what to say, doesn't think they are words in basic or mando'a that can encapsulate the affection and love he feels for his brother. He settles for a smile, and it's probably wan and maybe a little teary, but he hopes it can say what he can't.

"Thank you." He tries, and the ARC Trooper nods, smiling back.

Fives eyes catch on something on Rex's person, and the blonde watches as his brother's face goes from understanding to curious.

"What have you got there?"

Rex looks down and sees his wedding band, still attached to the chain, in his hand. It's an old habit, fiddling with it when thinking or just bored, and he hadn't realized he'd started playing with it until his brother had pointed it out.

"Is that a ring?" Fives sounds positively gleeful, and he pulls himself up onto the cot, seating himself practically in Rex's lap to get a better look.

"It is!"

"Get off–!"

It takes some effort, removing Fives from his lap, and it almost dumps both of them on the floor in the process. In the end, they both stay on the bed, Fives leaning far too close into Rex's personal space.

"I didn't think you were the jewelry type."

"For the right person, I am."

He's said too much if the unholy grin spreading across his brother's face is any indicator. He would be more upset at his slipup, if it weren't for the matching grin, he can feel on his own face and the lightness in his heart he hadn't expected to feel for weeks.

"What kind of person could be crazy enough to catch your eye?"

"Watch your tongue, that's my wife you're talking about."

Fives' face is priceless as he processes Rex's words and their implications, and Rex can't help himself. The laughter that bubbles out of him feels both freeing and wrong; Wrong after all that happened, when so many of his brothers lay dead, after so much loss; Freeing, to know that he still can, that despite everything he did, Krell couldn't take this from him.

And he knows his vod'ika has a million questions, can see them flitting about behind golden eyes. He prepares himself for the onslaught when Fives opens his mouth, only for the question to be transformed into a jaw cracking yawn.

Rex shakes his head, amused and fond.

"Get some sleep, Fives."

His brother looks like he's about to protest when a second yawn overcomes him and grudgingly concedes the point.

Fives stands, one finger pointed at Rex.

"I want answers.”

"Later, " Rex promises, all but shoving his brother out of the cell. "Sleep well, Vod."

The door closes with an electric hum, and Rex makes his way back to the bunk.

Exhaustion claims him the second his head touches the pillow, and all too soon, he finds himself falling asleep.

He keeps falling...

Falling...

Falling...

Falling through blood and death, the noise of battle raging around him. It is a kaleidoscope of sound and color, screams, and blasters blurring together until it's impossible to tell the sound of his voice apart from the bark of his DeeCees. Through it all, he spirals from battle to battle: the heat and sand of Geonosis, his armor still unpainted and new; to the frozen moon of Pantora, snow gear frosted over and growing heavier with each passing minute; the choking taste of the Blue Shadow Virus, each breath harder to take than the last, until all at once, his feet hit the deck, sending shock racing up his calves and spine.

The ambient noise of the star destroyer is defining after the chaos of the battles, the hum of hyperspace hardy even background to the ringing in his ears.

He can hear himself speaking, but it's without his permission, his words and actions separate from his thoughts.

“Yes, Lord Sidious.”

No, his mind screams, and within the confines of his own body, he rails against the inhibitor chip. No, he screams as the doors open, and he pulls out his blasters, leveling them at the young and confused face of Ahsoka Tano. He fights harder, thrashing against the walls of his skin, will be damned if he lets the order take him without a fight. Find him. Find him. Fives. Find him! FIVES!

Its a battle unlike any other, waged against himself, the most important in his life. But he cannot hold out, cannot win, and at the end of things, he fails. Mind exhausted and worn, he loses what little control he had scraped together, pulls the trigger. The programming takes over, and Rex can do nothing but watch as he and his men fire volley after volley at the former Jedi. Locked in the deepest corner of his own mind, he can only pray that they don’t find her as they comb the ship. Silently weeps when she steps out, distracted from the droids behind him long enough for the electricity to coarse through his body - vision going white.

The light spreads, at first cold and sharp, but soon enough gives way to the soft yellow glow of the morning sun filtered through closed eyes.

He's roused by the sensation of fingers lazily dancing over an exposed hip.

"Morning."

Her voice is light and playful, and he takes a moment to grin into the pillow before opening his eyes and looking behind him.

In the light of dawn, with the sheets pooled around her waist and sleep shirt slipping down one shoulder, she looks like an angel: her blue eyes sparkle, and the sound of birds caries through the open window.

"Morning."

He rolls over to face her, and she combs her fingers through his beard, eliciting a smile at the sensation.

“We slept in, didn’t we?” his voice rumbles in his chest. Beside him, Ahsoka hums, lips pulled up in a grin. There is a glint of mischief in her eyes that holds the promise of something more, coy and inviting, and no small amount exciting.

"Just a little."

“Then we better get up,”

He can’t hide the smile in his voice, but two can play at this game. Rex sits up and makes a show of stretching - careful not to look at her or else lose his resolve- and he can feel her eyes on him, searing into his skin. In his mind's eye, he pictures her smile growing, teeth bared, and cheeks dimpled. A quick peak confirms his suspicion.

“Long day ahead of us, can’t start if we’re still in bed.”

She slides up next to him, turning his face toward hers with a delicate finger, one of her white eyebrow marks raised in challenge.

"Is that so?"

Her grin is infectious as she settles herself across his hips in a fluid motion, her head tails swaying with the movement. He brings both hands up to her waist both to steady her and to hold her close, thumbs running gentle circles over ochre skin.

"Prove it, Captain."

She leans in and kisses him, slow and deep, and he lets his hands wander underneath her shirt. Over soft skin and up, following the dips and curves of her body, feeling the strength hidden there. Her hands wander in turn, roaming over his chest and arms, slipping under the waistband of his sleep pants. He can feel her tremble oh so slightly under his touch, muscles coiled with anticipation. It spurs his hands higher, fingertips ghosting over sensitive flesh, cupping a -

A loud bang jolts him into consciousness, and Rex instinctively reaches for the warm body that should be there with him. Instead, his hands find nothing but air, and it takes him a moment to process the too harsh lighting and hard metal bunk, the hum of the energy shield that separates his cell from the rest of the room.

For the second time in as many days, Rex's mind must grapple with waking up after expecting to never do so again. But for the first time, he has more than an instinct or a gut feeling to go off of. He's in the same room, the same place as he remembers last being, has two sets of memories for how yesterday went down, and it pushes the few doubts he had left about his reality from his mind.

The future as he remembers it plays out in his mind's eye, and the question from earlier pushes to the forefront:

What now?

[scottyallenw]

𝙒𝙃𝙀𝙉 𝙄𝙎 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘾𝙃𝙐𝙍𝘾𝙃 𝙂𝙊𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙏𝙊 𝙂𝙍𝙊𝙒 𝘼 𝙋𝘼𝙄𝙍

(2,219 words)

Not long ago a female member of my extended family posted on social media the claim that President Trump fits the definition of a demagogue perfectly. I know that God has anointed Trump to shake up the Washington establishment, remove trade barriers, ignite political firestorms and prosecute widespread corruption. So I reacted angrily to the post. Fired up, I immediately typed the following comment on her post:

“Yes, Yeshua HaMashiach (Jesus the Christ) fits the definition perfectly. He went out of his way to piss off a large portion of the populace, sorry ass religious leaders, lawyers and politicians. Yeshua knew what he was doing; he knew what his enemies would do. The rest is history: the Roman proconsul, afraid of a large angry mob, turned Yeshua over to his soldiers for execution. Then he washed his hands of the whole thing. Today we have a President who like Yeshua is taking a wrecking ball to the political establishment, hurting people’s feelings and with his Twitter feed exposing hypocrisy. In my opinion we need more people like Yeshua and Trump, turning the world upside down.”

Shortly after this, the woman deleted my comment. I was saddened, and asked myself if I was too brutal. But no, it is the truth that is brutal. Having thought it over, I had no remorse.

But does Scripture reveal Yeshua's true character? Absolutely. Yet Yeshua is widely misunderstood to be simply an easygoing advocate of love and peace, making no demands of His followers. My reading of the gospels recognizes a Yeshua not only with a prickly side, but a Messiah with a fighting spirit. His actions and remarks often cut into the hearts of His adversaries. He was and still is a soldier in a war against hypocrisy. Some day Mashiach will return and put the wicked out of business. But I'm sure the Master would prefer His people finish the job first.

To properly appraise Yeshua's character one must study the man in action. Consider the following account in Luke 6 where Yeshua encounters on the Sabbath a man whose hand is withered. He wants to heal the man, but He also notices scholars and Pharisees nearby hoping to accuse Him of working on Shabbat.

Yeshua defiantly leads the man to a place where everyone, but especially His potential accusers, can get a good look. Yeshua asks the man a question that He really intends for the ears of the religious leaders:

“What is correct on Shabbat: to cause good or to cause harm? To rescue life, or to harm?” Yeshua “looked around intently at all of them,” before healing the man.

The scholars and Pharisees “were wild with rage...” It is exactly the reaction Yeshua intended to incite. Perhaps Yeshua even relished the anger directed at Him. He knew they would plot His crucifixion. With the Shabbat healing He had handed them as it were the hammer and nails to do the job. But He also knew His time had not yet come, and so He slipped away through the crowd.

John 6 relates an episode that epitomizes the notion that Yeshua, like Trump, was born to offend. It involves a vast crowd which has grown about Yeshua during a series of the Master’s signs and miraculous healings. Yeshua understands that most of the new followers are fake. The masses care only about the spectacle of signs and wonders. They also want to declare Yeshua King. They lack any interest whatsoever in obeying His commands or hearing His interpretation of the Torah.

Yeshua conceives a shrewd plan to thin the crowds. He recognizes that Jewish familiarity with Torah is widespread, particularly its prohibition against consuming blood and human flesh. This is abhorrent to all Judeans. So Yeshua turns to the crowd and makes this startling declaration:

“Amen, amen, I say to you, if you do not eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you do not have life within you.”

The people are stunned by HaMashiach’s words and begin to murmur. Yeshua’s assertion strikes many as repugnant, and even the Master’s close followers are confused. The crowd begins to disperse. As Yeshua fully expected, little more than the core group of 12 disciples are left. Unlike many 21st century mega church pastors, Yeshua is less interested in numbers than in devotion. By deliberately offending the masses, Yeshua is left only with the loyal few.

Matthew 23 describes another public demonstration of Yeshua's remarkable choice of words: it involves the Messiah’s fiery confrontation in the Holy City with His favorite target audience—hypocritical religious leaders. The passage is popularly known as the Eight Woes. Most Christian translations quote Yeshua’s string of rebukes with these words: “Woe to you scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, because you...”

The original language of the New Testament is widely understood to be Greek. However scholars now believe the book of Matthew was originally written in Hebrew, and early manuscripts are being studied. The original language of Luke is also believed to be Hebrew and some scholars believe the entire New Testament was originally written in Hebrew.

A few years ago I was seated among a Grand Rapids, MI, congregation whose senior pastor had a background in Hebrew studies. The pastor explained what he regarded as a more accurate rendering of the Eight Woes passage. Yeshua's words are commonly translated from the Greek, “Woe to you...” Properly translated from Hebrew, Yeshua actually said, “GOD DAMN YOU, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites...,” (emphasis added). The pastor’s congregation was stunned by the language, as was I. The fighting words Yeshua used permanently altered my perception of the risen Savior.

Now imagine if you will a society in which ancient truths and assumptions once thought to be self-evident, are questioned and finally tossed aside. This of course is not hard to imagine; it is the current state of American society. Its citizens are told a man can be a wife, a woman can be a husband. and a man can bear a child.. Americans are even told an OB-GYN can treat a person with male genitalia—assertions which only decades ago would be thought absurd.. Such reckless claims are now accepted by a majority as fact!

The United States Declaration of Independence states: We hold these truths to be self-evident... Will these once-cherished convictions be among the next batch of truths to come under attack, and finally discarded?

The following few paragraphs will hopefully add clarity to what is at stake. High school geometry students are taught they must accept certain common sense assumptions on which to build a mathematical framework of theorems. Each of these are proved by a chain of reasoning. For example, students will readily accept the claim that two parallel lines will never intersect, even if the lines extend towards infinity. Widespread rejection of this common sense assumption would make the teaching of traditional geometry impossible.

College mathematics offers students a different perspective of not only geometry, but the nature of truth. A course called abstract geometry is built on a set of counterintuitive assumptions. To pass this course students must for several hours each week discard all notions of common sense. One proposition in this mathematical model is that two parallel lines will always intersect as they extend to infinity. If this is assumed along with other absurd truths, an entire universe of theorems can be proven. It works beautifully. I enjoyed the course. But after final exams we students set aside this nonsense and rejoined the real world. We realized abstract geometry is just mental acrobatics. It can't work in a functioning society. Could the Mackinac Bridge in Michigan have been built using this kind of math?

Abstract geometry is a type of an Orwellian world. It is similar to what our own society is becoming. Highly educated and experienced jurists have in recent decades rejected the bedrock truths of Mount Sinai in favor of new ideas that now enjoy widespread public acceptance. From the legalization of sodomy, these judges concluded by a chain of reasoning that same-sex marriage is a constitutional right. From the assumption that a human fetus is not a person, jurists rule abortion is a constitutional right. It's all perfect logic, but the proofs are based on false assumptions. Consider the following scripture:

“You shall not move your neighbor's boundary mark, which the ancestors have set...” (Deuteronomy 19:14)

Jewish sages explained long ago that this admonition has a metaphorical meaning in addition to its literal interpretation. It is a warning to elders and jurists: never overturn principles that have been widely accepted and have governed society for centuries, let alone millennia. One by one the courts have within less than an average human lifespan, torn down many of America's boundary markers.

Local school boards in California are already mandating indoctrination of children in Islamic and LGBT ideologies. Boys of believing parents possibly will be taught using artificial body parts how to sodomize another male. Officials are also talking about forcing believing parents who homeschool their children to do the same.

It's time for the Church to flex spiritual muscle. Our model is the biblical accounts of the Master Himself. Yeshua never allowed adversaries to force Him into a defensive posture. He stayed on offense. When accused, Yeshua responded with on-target scripture, a clever parable or pointed questions. He was unafraid to follow up with accusations of His own.

We live in an age when the ACLU regularly sues conservatives, Christian cake makers and flower arrangers for supposed anti-LGBT bias or religious expression in the public square. The Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) for the same reason puts churches and other religious organizations on its well-circulated list of hate groups. Both of these organizations want the public to believe they stand for justice, civil rights and goodness. In reality these are wicked people who are relentless, full of hate and attempting to oppose the Church's every positive move in America.

Why is it the ACLU and SPLC rarely get sued? It's time for the Church to fight back. Let's force the enemy onto the defensive for a change. For that we need generous believers who have money, lots of it.  It's time for wealthy believers in Yeshua to step up. The Church needs its own version of George Soros.

“No one would remember the Good Samaritan if he'd only had good intentions; he had money as well,” Margaret Thatcher (the Iron Lady) said years ago.

While big money is needed, the most important battles will involve our own interactions with others, especially on social media. Many of our best soldiers regularly get kicked off these platforms. Others suffer more serious consequences for standing on God's Word.

Ruach HaKodesh (the Holy Spirit) will give us just the right words to powerfully respond to enemy attacks. I was seated once again years ago with that Grand Rapids congregation listening to the same pastor. This time he read the English translation of an ancient Roman court transcript from the time of the early Church. This was a time when the Roman Empire clamped down ruthlessly on the Church, putting many believers to death.

The case involved one of the believers in Yeshua whom the Romans placed on trial for his faith. The man knew the Romans were about to sentence him to death. He addressed the judge and prosecutor with chilling words that brought his modern listeners back nearly two millennia. It was like we were in that courtroom with him. The brave man’s statement, as recorded on the transcript, went something like this:

“A time will come when you will be sorry for what you have done here today. Both of you will stand in a courtroom much like this one. You will be on trial for your lives before a prosecutor and judge, just as I am today. And standing off to the side you will see me, quite alive and well. I will be there to testify against the both of you.”

In his six-volume memoir of the Second World War, the former British prime minister Winston Churchill recalls the dark days of Germany’s relentless bombing campaign against London and other large cities. For an extended period early in the war the cities were all but defenseless, there being no anti-aircraft weaponry available. But eventually large numbers of anti-aircraft

guns were placed throughout the populated areas. War-weary British citizens huddling in bomb shelters heard not only the explosions of German bombs—they were exhilarated by the overpowering blasts of countless heavy guns firing back at the German bombers. The knowledge they were finally fighting back against their merciless enemy did wonders for British moral, and contributed to bringing about eventual victory.

Is the Church up to the task of confronting the forces of evil in America? Will the job require a leader in the mold of Churchill? My choice rather would be a great spiritual leader in the mold of Yeshua Himself. We must view the conflict as Churchill early on wanted his people to view the Nazi threat looming just across the English Channel: “regard the menace of invasion with a steady gaze.” ##

* 𝙔𝙚𝙨𝙝𝙪𝙖 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙙