Dear preacher with bodyguards

It was my desire to physically deliver this epistle to you. However, because you're sandwiched by a posse of PAs, pastor-pleasers, protocol and protectors, I figured getting your audience is reserved for only an exclusive cabal. Repent that.

Look. I'm doing this in love. Brotherly love. I hate you not, preacher. I only abhor your reprobate spirit. Pin that.

Dear preacher with bodyguards; I don't get it. You tell me God will send angels to protect and preserve me, yet you're strutting around with armed bodyguards. Plus, your pulpit is cordoned off by an elaborate security detail.

Who are you fooling, fool? Why do you need hordes of Hulks if, like you preach, there's a holy hedge planted around your hearth and home? Explain that.

Dear preacher with bodyguards; your office is not a wealth creation ticket, but a wellness calling. A calling that's supposed to minister holistic wellness to God's people.

For the above reason, your position places you at a higher level of punishment; not manic decibels of pomposity. Ponder that.

Here's a little Bible history, preacher. Way back when, shepherds put themselves in harm’s way for their sheep's sake. Sheep spent the night in an enclosure made of thorns, while shepherds made their beds right across the gate. Any predator would first have to get through protectors before laying a paw on their prize. Picture that.

I'm not sorry to say this, preacher, but if you can't do the above then you have no business calling yourself a shepherd. You're not a true minister; you're a mutton trader. You're not a disciple; you're a deceiver.

Dear preacher with bodyguards; what makes you think mortal men can protect you from spiritual warfare? Aren't you the one who preaches that, before things are manifested in the physical realm, they're first orchestrated and established in the spiritual realm?

I know you're prone to selective amnesia, which is why I'll remind you that the Bible says we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against spiritual entities.

So, if you think the Grim Reaper is terrified of your tough guys, then I'm Lot's salty wife. Exigete that.

Psst, preacher. I'm sure when Hades sees your bodyguards’ mean mugs and puffed-up postures, all hell breaks loose with derilious devilish laughter. They're laughing at your folly, fool. Laughing all the way to the bank of the lake of fire. Imagine that.

Dear preacher with bodyguards; when heaven sees your show of spiritual stupidity, which you mistake for Solomonic wisdom, they are grieved. Grieved because of the imploding depth of pride you’ve plunged into. Grieved because you've bastardised the gospel of love into one of lust. Lust for power and privilege. Lust for mammon and merchandise. Lust for titles, tinted trucks and titillation. Internalise that.

Dear preacher with bodyguards; do you know how the apostles went home? These fathers of faith counted it as joyous martyrdom to die in the mission field. Heaven, yeah. Those saints literally courted death. Taunted it. Told it, “Bring it on, Satan!“ Why? Because they knew their eternal salvation was safe and sure, as death had lost its sting. They knew their mortal bodies were temporal vehicles, for a fleeting transitory jaunt and - save for the unblemished blood of The Lamb of God - no mortal guard would ever ensure their safety or immortality. Exemplify that.

Dear preacher with bodyguards; that's all I have for today. I came with Shalom.