In 2001, Charlene Allen received this word-- a 911 call to the nation. She has carried this word for 12 years. I encourage you to judge the word (1 Cor. 14:29), then determine how you ought to respond. Tim Taylor, an apostle & presiding bishop of KLI.
God Bless America! America, you have seen or heard these words every day since September 11, 2001. It is on t-shirts, posters, and decals. It is included in email messages and state and national addresses. From coast to coast we see God Bless America.
I am a small voice with a powerful message that will be accepted by few and rejected by many. Before September 11, 2001, I did not get involved in political or religious debates. Like many Americans, I went to work, paid taxes, attended church, and tried to make a difference in my part of the world. I wanted to know the meaning of my life and be certain that I reached my fullest potential. On September 11th, God made a 911 call. I received the call and now I strive to reach Gods potential. God sent an emergency message. Did you hear the call? If not, I will tell you the message so you can receive or reject it...
I was back on the street last night after so many months being away; it was good to be back. But that is not the reason for recording this memory. The reason I hold this memory in place is because of the stench that is still within my nostrils; a stench that awakened me this morning; and a stench that has awakened my pen for the Lord.
It was a busy night for prayer. After the message, the team is given assignments, but this night, I would never leave the spot that the assignments were given. We were in the process of encouraging the second person that had come to us to pray. I heard him before I saw him, before I smelled him. His name, I will call him Richard, was very loud and very drunk. As he approached our group I still did not really see him with my eyes, but in my ear, Richard consumed my members. Just as he passed by our group he said, “I need prayer”, and laughed. All I need is an invitation and I will walk in. I turned from the circle I was in and placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “I will pray with you”. He laughed again and said “Alright!” and laughed in his drunken state...
I want to share a miracle with you...
As I walked the crowed room I noticed the back row is full with four women that are engaged in spirited conversation. As the service begins, this group remains engaged in conversation so I go to the rear and say to one of them, "We are in service so the talking needs to stop."
You see, in prison, some inmates come for the service, but many come to meet their girl friend or mate, or just to have free time. If order is not established in the service, word quickly spreads in the yard that your service is for mating and free time. Throwing them out of service is an option, but how can they hear the Gospel if they are removed? Taking authority is the only way to gain control of the service and this day, authority had to be established.
As I preached I would walk to the rear to make eye contact or approach the back row because the chatter became a whisper or other forms of forbidden communications. The team knows as long as they don't disturb service, they can remain, so like kids playing on the back pew in church, you learn to tune them out and let them play quietly as long as they don't disrupt service.
There were times when the back row listened and other times they would slip away from the message, but they always stayed below the separation point...
The story below reminded me of a woman my mother told me about from Texas who was very quiet and was in her late 80s or early 90s at the time. Her name was Ruth. Read only if you have the time and want to make a difference in your sphere of influence.
My mother spent her whole life in the northeast part of the US, but when she became sick, she wanted to live with her sister in Texas. The place she lived had many older whites, my mother was the only black resident at the time. Ruth would watch as the other residents treated my mother badly and at times would call her the “N” word. My mother is not a fighter so she would hold her head down and say not a word. There was anger in her voice however when she told me the story...
Here is an email that I wrote a friend that I would like to share with you.
As I think on this topic of Social Inequalities among African Americans and Housing, my initial thought is to see how good the housing situation is generally here in Washington as I compare it to the slums and high rise buildings I recall walking in as I grew up in Philadelphia. My mother worked over 25 years with the Housing Authority in Philadelphia and all of the tenants were low income and poor black families. The smell in the elevators still makes my skin crawl, but that was then. . .