Tagged: mission

Testimonies – My Testimony

“For we know in part.”

I am not yet fully awake, yet I start writing this testimony of testimonies now. It may take me some time to finish it and I want to edit it minimally, so will now write only a few thoughts.

We all know a part of our friends and family. In fact, we only remember a part of our own journeys. The mind edits and only remembers parts, and of that of our friends we see things but cannot be fully sure that our testimony of them is one hundred percent true.

I have shared things on this blog and my Twitter feed about myself and others. It has been shared with sincerity and faith, hope and love. Yet who can say for sure if it is true? God knows, as the old saying goes, and that saying is true: God does know!

My own testimony is true. That of others is through knowledge and observation. My testimony is true, unless I indeed be a liar and a deceiver.

Life on a Mental Ward for a True Believer

A mental ward is like hell for a believer. On my ward there are two true believers of faith: myself and a Muslim man from Egypt. We both struggle enormously. We are both coping well, despite the intense persecution we face there.

On a mental health ward such as mine the Gospel is forbidden to be preached openly. I have shared the Gospel as I am able. I have told, gently but firmly, a homosexual that sodomy is sinful. I have been severely rebuked for that with implicit threats that this may lengthen my incarceration.

There is a man, going by the name of Paul, who deceives the patients. He shares a “gospel” based on “science” and a hypnotic methodology. So I knocked over his coffee and stubbed a cigarette out on his tweed jacket, for few see him as he truly is: a wolf in sheep’s clothing who has abandoned his wife to deceive patients and others through his recording and playback devices. He returned my acts with acts of violence, including a punch to the head. I responded by quietly walking off.

Preaching the Gospel and Fulfilling the Roles

On my mental health ward few Christians visit. There is no visit from a Christian chaplain. No apostles come – except for one of the Apostolic Succession who occasionally and graciously visits me. No prophets true come. No evangelists come. There are no true teachers and pastors.

I have attempted to fulfil all these roles whilst at the ward. I have had no other option.

I have preached the Gospel, even to a seagull for we are told in the last chapter of Mark to “preach this gospel to every creature.” I have preached the Gospel as I am able to a person held in solitary in 136 (let the mental health patients understand.) I have encouraged JH, rebuked Ragi, warned many, comforted some, helped an old lady to the door, tried to wean women off cigarettes. I have told unrepentant sinners they are not welcome near me.

I am in many respects like King Arthur according to an Irish legend: the man who burnt his cakes. Yet I am not King Arthur. I have come as a thief in the night, yet I am not Jesus. I have judged to extreme, yet I am not God.

What shall my reward be? Punishment eternal? Or life most blesséd? Only God can judge, but see this post on my rebellion against the mental health system before you yourselves make judgement upon me.

Why I am at the Mental Health Ward

I went to the ward voluntarily. I asked to be admitted. The community team sent me to the crisis team. I kept my appointments. I once waited in the hospital grounds overnight to ensure I kept an appointment. I reported to A&E. I was beaten, bruised and had my clothes torn. I was told to leave. I left.

Later I was asked politely to to accompany some police officers to a mental ward in Hastings, I went, peacefully and quietly. They would have refused to take me if there was any danger of me being placed on Section under the Mental Health Act. They did their job well. And as soon as they had left I was placed on Section 2 of the Mental Health Act and violently and forcibly injected with a strange chemical.

I feel my rebellion is justified in the sight of God. And now, as I write on overnight leave, I want to cry.

Thank you for reading. Please pray.

My Third 2018 Time Under the Ward

At this present time my mission field is the Department of Psychiatry at the hospital. I am rebelling against modern medicine and am being medicated against my will.

Image credit: https://pixabay.com/en/bridge-japanese-garden-arch-park-53769/

I am also a judgemental person and I am judging whether people are worthy to receive the message I bring or not. I have brothers and sisters, I have my family according to the flesh and according to love, I have friends and I have allies. I also have many enemies.

I want to tell you a little of those I still hold out hope for. I will endeavour to do so in this post over the course of this evening of writing.

JH.

JH is my main love amongst the men here who are patients. He has met with me twice in the spiritual room in which we shared a little of our spiritual journeys and I shared two Scripture passages with – first Psalm 5 and second 1 Corinthians 13.

He has rejected me since as a “loony” and a madman. I still hold out hope. Tonight I advised him to read Psalm 23.

Please pray.

L.

A man with anger in his heart and one who gives me far more honour than I’m due. Yet a man of honour and respect. He has done me a great kindness in defending me against a false prophet who was attacking me physically.

He needs prayer, as do I, for He tries to give honour to men rather than to the Lord.

Ragi.

A Muslim. Please pray for him. He is an honourable, physically sick man of faith held in detention where very few understand his faith in God, the One he names as Allah.

He struggles with anger. Please pray that the Lord will have great mercy.

Dean.

A young man. Fearful to approach me and one I feared to approach.

He was fearful he was beyond salvation due to his failed attempts to follow Christ in the past.

I spoke to him tonight. He confessed to God and cried for mercy. I said Amen.

Please pray especially for him, brothers and sisters.

I will attempt to tell a little of the stories of the women shortly, yet the night is not a good time for me to relate about them.