I am The Hunter. Others in the Lord's Kingdom envision their work in other roles or other ways, and their perceptions are just as valid. But to me, I am The Hunter.
My Master waits in the camp. Jesus has made the camp in the serengeti, and the light of His fire illuminates for some distance into the tall grass of the African plain. In His camp there is light, warmth, food, and safety. In the tall grass there is the lion Satan.
Satan takes his victims by their entire heads at once in his massive jaws. He drags them by their heads further into the tall grass to bite them, mangle them, tease them as they die, rip their arms and legs and ears off them as he at His leizure eats them alive. At the camp, their screams reach the ears of My Master, but hardly anyone else notices. My Master tells me to go into the tall grass to gather as many survivors as I can, and "Do be careful!"
I am The Hunter. There are not many other hunters. And the tall grass is no haven for me. As I probe the grass in the darkness, I cannot afford to listen to the sounds of the cicadias and crickets or the gentle rustling of the wind. I listen for footsteps to see if Satan is about to pounce on me. The victims in the grass--the ones who have any perception whatsoever that they are not on safe ground--make no sounds. I HAVE TO TOUCH THEM TO LEAD THEM.
In one night at the jail or perhaps occasionally through the internet WBS I lead one to the fire of my Master. There are others who can nurture them once they are inside the camp, bind up their wounds, restore them from their blindness and deafness. Sometimes I bring two souls to My Master, whose eyes twinkle joyfully as they arrive. In a good night I bring four souls to the safety and light of the fire, and then there is a huge celebration. Seemingly heard only by me and my Master (though surely others must hear), while we rejoice, the Lion in the tall grass roars and slays other victims, just to let us know that there are far more in his camp than in ours.
I am The Hunter. The victims that I bring from the tall grass to the fire have fearful-looking scars on them. Some are scarred by divorce. Some have needle tracks from addiction. Many are terribly pockmarked from the hatred of the people who have been around them. Most have temporary blindness, but are now just beginning to see a little bit. It's not pretty. But coming to My Master at the fire is better than being eaten alive, helplessly, one body part at a time.
I may be The Hunter. But what baffles me is that most of the victims in the tall grass seem to be moving away from the light at the camp, further into the tall midnight grass where Satan will have an even easier time with them. They don't sense the danger. They don't realize that this night is the night they have to get through.
And just after midnight, the Lion, corpulent with human flesh, roars once again.
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