Molech

A father, a brother, a son going about his business, he has heard the commotion, people talking about the show at the temple. But people talk. There are fish to catch, he has his children to feed. Not that he has a difficult life, work can be hard, but with good hard work comes good reward. Seeing the faces of his children as they smile at dinner, a dinner provided by the strength of his arm, the commitment of his work, and the love of a father who knows the lives that have been placed in his care, are worth every discomfort the efforts may cast.

The father of his house recalls to himself thoughts and memories of his life in front of him; “I’ve heard what they say, the dancing, the music, people go, and then don’t come back for hours at a time. My wife says that it has gotten out of hand, people lose themselves there, I don’t see how that could be possible.”

Beautiful brown eyes of his children as they play at his feet, how he loves lying on the ground playing with his son, picking up his daughter, holding her close to his chest, how beautiful she is. It is so easy to see his wife’s eyes in her, the purity of the child’s smile tickles his memory for the days of his youth, the sweet smile of his wife on their wedding day.

“My earlier years were less complicated days, the pressures of responsibility was only just beginning to shine its light through the morning trees. A man only had to think of himself in those early days, care for himself, work enough to feed himself, but the joys of a wife bring their own comforts and added tasks. Work for food, build a house, raise enough harvest, fish enough, carve and sand enough wood, to take care of the family we both wanted. Funny how a life will change one step at a time, a brick here, a table there, a babies bottle, children’s cloths, bedding, shoes, food, oh but it is so worth it, to watch my beautiful children eat and grow.”

“I don’t know if everyone feels this way, but I certainly have seen the pleasures of my labors, the gift of love, given to me by an adoring wife, and loving children that count on me to provide all they need.”

“I just don’t see what’s all the excitement about watching the priests and priestesses carrying on.”

The temple he was speaking of, is the temple of molech. People come and stare for hours, at the goings on. Priests engaged in all sorts of shows, demonstrating every act of vile, vice, war and death imaginable. Priestesses, the most beautiful of the beautiful, voluptuous beyond belief, men of strength and stature, engaged in all manner of sexual perversion. The more shocking and degrading, the more the people gaze in wonder, stare, gawk and cheer.

In the center is the huge image of molech, a rectangular cut out in it’s belly, revealing the constant hungry fire that sits within, a large grotesque figure of demonic imagery, a beastly image with a hateful look on its face. Who does it hate? Seemingly everyone and everything, maybe even itself. Hands out reaching, wanting, ever more, unsatisfied, grasping, for something anything to quench the ever present hunger that burns within. The large rectangle cut out of his stomach, this is the place they throw various sacrifices in, priest’s and priestesses cast various elements of precious wealth into the blazing chasm, screaming in a combination of ecstasy and pain, pain from the burning tentacles that reach out and touch, any and all that come near.

The gaping maw is never satisfied, and actually burns brighter and hotter with every sacrifice. The tormented destruction of everything that is thrown in is evident, and radiates on the faces of all that sit and watch.

The ever growing and constant fire within heating the creature to a point of almost white hot, glowing even pulsating along the edges. Gyrating figures all around enticing more and more onlookers. People of all ages and status, sitting in front of the image, watching in a sort of trans, staring for hours upon end.

The most popular and beautiful are solicited into service, this service is not without compensation or costs, they receive the highest pay of the land, nearly rivaling the kings, their every want and desire fulfilled. But to the costs; they pay with their servitude, for their demonstrations are not their own, everyone knows them and as a result, their every movement watched and scrutinized, for they must always conform to the behavior dictated by the temple, or their position and maybe even life, will be forfeited. They of course, must perform as they are instructed whether they believe in the ritual or not. They pay with their soul, for they must bow down, and confess with their mouth the lies that the head priests instruct. The priests and priestesses give all of their body, hearts, and minds to this image, the very acts they eroticize are designed to draw the onlookers in with every site, sound, and movement. The rituals and potions that they must take in, have the severest consequence on these young beautiful bodies. Age, and stress wears them before their time, and only when the beauty of youth seems to have left, are they discarded without concern or ceremony.

The growing crowds of onlookers who worship them with their eyes, ears, time, and hearts, long to engage them, mimic them, even but touch them for the lusts and acts they impress into the audiences souls.

Two thousand, two hundred years later a simple man sits at his desk, and has a vision of this similar man to himself, working though his daily tasks, unabated by the constant drum of everything around him. He glances up at the TV, mesmerized by the beauty and eroticism displayed there. Images of actors engaged in all sorts of shows, demonstrating every act of vile, vice, war and death imaginable. Actresses, the most beautiful of the beautiful, voluptuous beyond belief, with men of strength and stature, engaged in all manner of sexual perversion. The more shocking and degrading, the more the people gaze in wonder, stare, gawk and cheer.

I see our family man being brought to the image by his friends, first, then later just coming on his own, sitting more and more in front of the image. Staring into the rectangle of wonder, the ritual unfolding before him, he is hardly noticing the gradual deterioration of the events playing out in front of him. The displays are increasing in vile and vice every day, even when sporting contest are played out, they are becoming increasingly violent. The images ever increasing in volume and intensity, more and more, longer and longer, into the night. When did they all start dancing with each other naked, when did it become acceptable for the strong to abuse and rape the weak, when did the cursing just flow like filth through open sewer ditches, when did the thief, the murderer, the child abuser, the criminal, become the hero?

When animals are cruelly tormented and put to death for all to see, women brutalized to the cheer’s and ecstasy of the onlookers, children victimized at the creatures very hands, people didn’t even notice the progress. When onlooker give up family, love, job’s, life, to sit there and worship, the transition is hardly noticeable.

When people start burning themselves on the white hot hands of the their god, it gives the onlookers an almost sexual feeling, while watching the pain it solicits. The audience almost erupts in orgasmic ecstasy with each ever increasing act of human destruction. Crying for more, they will pay anything, their last coin, their pound of flesh, for one more moment of ever increasing perversion.

The priest’s constantly call for more and more, but there is no satisfaction granted the actors plea’s, because there is no quenching the hungering fire that burns within molech. So common is the burning of flesh, sacrificing of beauty, sexual perversion, it hardly has an effect on the onlookers any longer. The degradation continues, priest’s having sex with men, actresses with women, so common that it almost becomes the norm instead of the exception. Children are solicited at a gradually younger age, first against their will, and later even willfully, until the point where even babies are not safe from the clenches of the ritual. Actresses throwing their faces into the fire, Priestesses laying prostate naked in the image’s hands, convulsing in burning pain with screams of delight. Actors sacrificing body parts even their entire body willfully against the white hot image, knowing the flesh is destined to burn, and only disfigurement awaits.

Finally the high priest turns to the audience and says; “molech demands; you give us your families, no you give us your children now, because the time has come and strong is he!”

One after another gives their own children to the clenches of the actors and priestesses as they rip them from less loving hands. There is no safety, no kindness, no compassion, just a ever present hunger and greed to take the young lives and use them. “Put molech in every room!” the priest screams and men rush off to obey. “Lay your children in front of him!” a priestess demands, “and watch the fire devour the virgin flesh!” she screams with a witches voice.

A wife comes to our man, pleading with him to come home, come back to her family. A home that has fallen apart from lack of care. Our man no longer has time, he barely has time to function, but his service to his family is in direct proportion to his interest, and right now his interest are only to get in front of this image as soon as possible, sit there in a euphoric coma all day, even falling asleep in front. Worship!

His children that used to play at his feet, climb on his lap, nestle against his chest, come less and less each day, because all he does is push them away. One day they stop coming all together, and eventually even his wife stops bothering.

He is not alone, many have jumped into the fray even screaming with ecstasy as they lay their babies on the burning white hands of this filthy demon. Putting them in front of the merciless hot flames, any and all purity burned from them. Screaming in pain the sweet innocent children’s cries are only drowned out by the louder insane screams of the lusting onlookers. One after another cast into the fiery maw of the filthy beast, now black with the soot of the many innocent victim’s within. Baby after innocent baby, thrown in without care or concern. The screams of the onlookers, why do they care, as long as these children don’t interfere with their fun.

So dark is the heart of molech.

Gone forever the beautiful brown eyes of his children, our poor man stares in foolish loneliness.

So dark is our man’s heart, black as soot.

By Peter Colla

“Jesus I pray for all who have been deceived by the spirit of this demon, and I pray that not only will those people who have been captured into the service of this dark temple have their eyes open, but You will also grant them wisdom of how they can bring the fight right into the enemies camp with an influx of Your Spirit, Your Will, and Your Actions. Let us turn from slaves to great warriors of Christ and take back the venues meant to enslave us, Your people, and turn it into a great weapon in the army of Christ.”

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