The Signal and the Static
How to tell when prophecy is the voice and when it’s the ventriloquist
He walked seven miles from Tekoa to Bethel smelling like sheep.
No credentials. No ordination. A shepherd with cracked hands and a message that burned in him the way a coal burns in a closed fist.
He stood in the courtyard of the king’s own sanctuary. Your offerings are noise. Your festivals disgust me. You trample the poor and steal the grain from under …
