Over the last 48 hours, our government has released several warnings about increasing terrorist activity against the United States. Several U.S. embassies have been closed and panic is beginning to swell across America.
But I am not panicked. I am not nervous, scared, or worried that my freedom is under threat. Because I serve another Ruler, One who reigns over America and the Middle East. I can smile at the terrorist threat and say: Let them come.
Let them come.
Come, come, Oh terrorist. My freedom was purchased by the blood of my Creator and He won’t let you take it. It’s not for resale. Freedom is bought by dying, not by killing. And my freedom to live and die and love is eternal.
Come, come, visit the land of my exile with bombs and rockets. Here’s my flesh: take it! But you cannot have my soul—it belongs to Another.
You can blow me up, but I will never die. If you kill me, I win. My life is not bound to my passport, and my fate is not connected to a flag.
You cannot crucify me. I’ve already been strapped to a wooden beam.
You cannot bury me. I’ve been buried with the One whom earth could not hold.
I cannot die. I’ve already died and been raised with the One who conquered death by dying.
Death, death, where is your sting? Oh terrorist, your weapons are too weak. They do not sting. They only itch. They are a nuisance to my earthly comfort.
Discomfort me, Oh terrorist. Take away my pillow. Blow up my yacht. Crush my car. Mosquitoes are a nuisance. They cause me to itch. They ruin my comfort. But my soul has no blood to suck.
You’re missing the mark. I do not belong to a kingdom of this world. Dig up the gates of hell and throw them at me. Even those don’t stand a chance. You can burn my bios but you can’t singe my zoe.
Come, come, Oh terrorist and inject me with suffering. It too has been redeemed. Transformed from an itch into eternal glory. The more I suffer the stronger I become.
Obi Wan: “You cannot win, Darth. If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful that you could possibly imagine.”
Jesus: “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”
Come, bury me in the ground, Oh terrorist. Plant my grain with your bombs and watch it grow. Fire harder and nurture the fruit.
But your tactics are not wholly lost. There’s a hidden gem in your plan. Your bombs, your fear, your hatred are destroying us. They have wormed their way into our soul and poisoned our freedom. They’ve poised the soil and rotted our fruit. Oh terrorist: You’ve waged a war and you are winning.
Because your hatred and violence has been returned in kind.
My enemy, my enemy, instead of loving you we hate you. Instead of turning the cheek we have loaded a gun. Our bombs are bigger than yours and our anger has snuffed out our love. Your bombs have fallen to the ground and produced rotten fruit:
Oh terrorist, your plan has worked. Did you intend it this way? You have lured the Bride of the Lamb into her neighbor’s house and she has found a lover.
John the seer: “Come out of her, my people, lest you take part in her sins, lest you share in her plagues.”