March 2008

The Devil is a tireless predator. He tries hard to pluck lives from this world before they have the chance to make their peace with God through faith in Jesus Christ. This is the reason why he is referred to in the Bible as a "thief" who's come to steal, kill and destroy. Satan has been a killer of men and a stealer of souls for thousands of years. The Scriptures also describe him as both a "wolf" and a "roaring" lion.

And with these things in mind, I am writing today's journal entry in memory of my friend, Edward Glowaski. Eddie died on or about March 15, 1982. His death occurred as the result of his being shot by a resident whose house he tried to break into. An elderly gentleman by the name of Fred Hammer, whom I believe was in his 70s, caught Eddie in the act of burglary and shot him with an unlicensed handgun.

The incident occurred at 37-68 97th Street in the Corona section of Queens, New York. Mortally wounded, Eddie was then rushed to a nearby hospital. He was shot around 10 P.M. and died the next day at approximately 2:30 A.M. Eddie was only 24-years old.

I met Ed Glowaski while we were both confined to the Kings County Hospital's jail ward, which was located on Clarkson Avenue on the top floor of the building. This was in Brooklyn, New York, in 1977.

Eddie and I were in separate observation rooms, which were more like jail cells, as we awaited our respective criminal cases to be dealt with by the court. I was under a 24-hour per day suicide watch all the while I was confined there. A New York City correction officer was posted outside my room continually with each officer doing an eight hour shift. And Eddie was housed in a three man room almost directly across from me, and about ten feet away. Most of the time the guards allowed Ed and I to talk.

Eddie's case also graced the newspapers, at least for a few days. He was caught robbing from graves in a local cemetery. He told me he was a Satanist. And, if I remember correctly, he knew certain persons who were interested in purchasing his wares in order to use them for ritualistic purposes. But who these people were, I've no idea. And I think it was one of Ed's friends who tipped off the police.

Ed was only 18 or 19 years old at the time of his arrest. Although it was a long time ago, I recall him as being about 5'10'' tall, with a pale baby face and blonde hair. He was soft-spoken and could've easily passed as a college freshman. He didn't look as if he belonged in prison. I think he was looking for a father in his life.

Because his case was so bizarre - a teenager caught trying to rob old bones and other items from cemeteries for satanic purposes - not only did the media have a run with the story, but the judge ordered him to undergo a psychiatric exam. And this is how Ed and I met. I was confined to the jail ward of the hospital for the same reason: a mental evaluation.

Thus Eddie and I became friends through the cell bars, which is a common occurrence in such a setting. Men who are locked up in cells next to each other need to communicate. So Ed and I got to know one another. I learned that he had a devoted mother who loved her son. She would visit him every Saturday speaking to her child through a mouthpiece that was embedded in the glass partition which separated the inmates from their visitors. Eddie's mother did a lot of crying whenever she came to see him. He talked a lot about her and his sister. Ed loved his mom as much as she loved him.

However, after about a month or two, Eddie's psychiatric evaluation was complete. So he was then remanded to the infamous Riker's Island Jail to await a trial or a disposition of his case. I think he ended up pleading guilty and doing "time served" plus a long period of probation.

Yet Eddie still kept in touch with me, at least for a little while. But I guess he eventually decided to move on with his life. And by this time I had already received a lengthy prison sentence after having pled guilty to murder in the 2nd Degree in the "Son of Sam" case.

Then, years later, in 1982, while I was confined to an upstate prison a short distance from the Canadian border, I happened to come across a week old copy of the "New York Times." And I believe it was the paper's "Metro Section" that I'd been looking at when I spied a small article several pages into the section. The piece was maybe an inch wide, and not more than four inches in length. Yet when I read it, I froze.

The article, in few words, simply said that a 24-year old man by the name of Edward Glowaski, was shot while trying to burglarize a home in the Corona section of Queens. It went on to say that he died several hours later. It did mention, as well, that Mr. Glowaski was a talented artist who's works were being featured in a Manhattan art gallery. His pen name, the article said, was "Cain II."

I didn't know that Eddie was a budding young artist who had already received some recognition for his work. My memory of him was locked into a brief frame of time back in 1977. In my mind I still saw him as a skinny and confused adolescent. And now he's dead!

I wasn't walking with the Lord back then. It would be awhile yet before I became a follower of Jesus Christ. Besides, I'd lost contact with Ed, and I had my own share of problems to contend with, too. I was struggling to cope with my incarceration and the craziness of prison life. I was also battling with depression. So I basically forgot about Eddie until I happened upon the article.

Yet what I do know today is that Satan has no respect for those who are, or who once were, his followers. Sadly, there are those, and I was one of them, who'd been deceived. In my ignorance, rebelliousness and foolishness, and perhaps even in my loneliness as well, I once pledged allegiance to this cruel being. And when I did so, I actually thought that things would turn out well for me. But I've learned from hard experience that the Devil is just what the holy Bible says he is: a liar, and the "Father of Lies (John 8:44)."

Most certainly those who place their trust in Lucifer for their fortunes will end up losing everything. Gone will be their minds, their bodies, and ultimately their souls. None of the Devil's crowd will get to keep or enjoy what he has promised them. And if not for the mercy of God, my body would be in a grave by now, and my soul would be in Hell. I shudder when I think about it.

D.B.

God has clothed me with the garment of salvation. He has spread His banner of love over me, and has allowed me to possess His peace. Nevertheless, I know from the Scriptures that the world is becoming very wicked. A "time of sorrows," as Jesus called it, is awaiting humankind. It will be a day of divine judgment and heavenly reckoning. However, concerning the United States of America, and what may be ahead for us, I honestly do not know how much longer we will be able to enjoy the many freedoms which we have at present.

I believe that economic hardship, social upheaval and anarchy, as horrible as these things are, could become real possibilities should the right mix of events and circumstances come together at the same time. And it may take all this for Americans to awaken to the reality of what the Bible says concerning "end time" events.

My prayer, therefore, is that people will want to know what the Bible predicts for the future of the planet, and what it reveals about the "time of sorrows, that's yet to unfold.

D.B.

You can watch the Left Behind movies below. Keep in mind the "Left Behind" books were published starting in 1995. The movies were made later. I think you will be amazed at how movies made several years ago, which were taken from Biblical Prophecy, are so in tune with all that is happening today. The answers to our future are still in the Bible.

LEFT BEHIND     (2000)
LEFT BEHIND 2  (2002)

LEFT BEHIND 3  (2005)

Yesterday I wrote about the "time of sorrows" which the Lord Jesus foretold. I've been thinking more about it. And, yes, it may indeed take a series of terrifying events to awaken humanity to the reality that the things of this world are only temporary and meaningless when compared with eternity.

Yes, a period of "fearfulness and trembling" will come one day. Then many will awaken from their self-imposed comfort zones and the illusory "American Dream" only to realize the need for a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. In addition they will finally understand that knowing Him is worth more than anything the world has to offer.

For now, however, with the presidential elections scheduled for later this year, many are looking to the politicians to save our nation. And "hope" has become a popular buzzword. But placing one's hope in someone else besides God, is vain. Our hope and trust should be in Him, only.

As the Scripture says, "Trust in God at all times. Pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us (Psalm 62:8)."

D.B.

The longer I remain on this Christian journey the more I see the need to extend the blessing of simple forgiveness to others. The world is very corrupt. But sometimes even professing Christians may have their own selfish agendas, motives and desires.

A few years ago, for example, there was a situation in which some friends of mine, without my knowledge or permission, gave an interview to someone in the media. I found out about it afterwards. And the results of their efforts were not only disappointing, but were potentially harmful to me.

Obviously, my friends were not being directed by the Lord. While I saw it for what it was - fleshly ambition cloaked in counterfeit godliness. For in due time it was revealed to me that this couple, who had their own small ministry, were hoping that the publicity would get them recognition, and that they would be elevated from obscurity within the body of Christ into the perceived "spotlight." At my expense they sought this, yet failed to achieve their goal.

Yes, it hurts when one discovers he's been used. It's happened to me many times before, and this incident was not the last time. Yet through the pain and betrayal comes a humbling from Christ. For when things like this occur, the quiet inner voice of the Holy Spirit gently reminds me that God has forgiven all my transgressions which I've committed against Him. So I must forgive those who did me wrong rather than allow a perceived injustice to grow into a grudge that would eventually cause me to become bitter. After all, God displayed His mercy and grace toward me. And Christ says to go and do likewise.

Forgiveness, therefore, is a gift to give to the offender so that all parties may go on with their lives in peace.

D.B.

This Sunday my chaplain won't be here. So I'll be taking his place to conduct the worship service. And because of this, I have been examining various Scripture passages in order to prepare a message for the congregation. Since the Jewish Passover season is approaching, I want to focus on those sections of the Bible which deal with the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus the Messiah. After all, I believe He was and is the ultimate Passover Lamb who came to take away my sins.

Therefore, with this in mind, I've been studying one of the most important portions of the Old Testament: Isaiah Chapter 53. It's a divine foretelling by the prophet, Isaiah, some 700 years before Jesus was to be born. The chapter predicts of a Messianic figure who was to come. He would be known as a "suffering servant" who would die for sin. Yet He himself would commit no wrongdoing, not even so much as to tell a lie.

Also, in this Scripture, which is one of the gems of the Bible, the Messiah's victory over sin and death is assured. He shall see the "travail of His soul," even after having been "poured out" unto death.

Hallelujah! At His first appearing Jesus conquered sin and death. However, at His second coming, which is yet future, Jesus will reveal Himself as King of kings and Lord of lords. Then, at this time, every knee will bow, and every tongue will confess, that Jesus Christ is Lord. Amen!

D.B.

This morning's worship service went well. My chaplain had the day off to be with his family. So I covered for him overseeing the gathering in his absence. All the men were on their best behavior, as usual.

After Robert made the announcements for the coming week, I asked Felipe to open the service with a prayer. Next came the choir with a handful of songs to lead us in worship. Later I was able to expound further on my message based on Isaiah chapter fifty-three. I did this yesterday evening also. I believe the Lord is leading me to teach on this chapter, and to show the men how it ties into various New Testament passages.

As I wrote on March 14, "Isaiah 53" is probably one of the most important and interesting passages in the Old Testament in that it so clearly portrays the life and sufferings of the Lord Jesus. It was written approximately 700 years before His birth. Amazing!

And it's now Sunday evening and the day is almost gone. I'm thankful for all God is doing in this prison. The living Christ is my source of life and hope.

D.B.

Earlier today I wrote a letter to a friend who attends a small church in a quiet Ohio town. He has a wife and five children to support. Like many "working class" people, he has to work hard to make ends meet. Likewise he always has to be prepared for any unexpected difficulties that may come his way.

I told him that whenever problems and difficulties visit us, these can become good opportunities to help our faith grow and mature. "Many troublesome situations may assail us," I said. Then I added, "If we're not strong in the Word of God, and if we allow our minds to be moved away from the solid foundation which is the Lord Jesus Himself, we could easily get discouraged and lose our confidence in Christ."

The Lord never said things would be easy. However, He did say that His grace would always be sufficient. He won't give us more than we could handle. In addition, Jesus has promised never to leave or forsake us. So in Him we possess the ability to overcome any notions of defeat or despair. By faith we can rise above the storms. As Romans 8:37 says, "In all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us."

D.B.

David did something very bad. He killed himself, and I don't know why.

The last time I saw David was approximately three or four months ago. At the time he was living in the E-North cell block where the prison's "Intermediate Care Program (ICP)" is located. ICP is one of two special programs at this facility for those who are mentally challenged, who need individual care and attention, as opposed to those who live in the general population, like myself. During weekday afternoons, however, I work in E-North as an aid. I help care for these men.

I've known David for several years. During this period he and I had countless conversations about everything from religion to legal matters to current events. He was well educated and even served as a volunteer tutor to help his fellow inmates with reading and writing. David also wrote short science fiction stories, none of which he ever tried to publish. It was mostly a hobby with him, and he was working on a book as well. David had completed several chapters of it.

In addition, David spent many a day in the prison's law library fighting his case while he vehemently proclaimed his innocence. He'd been charged with sexual abuse of a minor who was also a relative. Overall he was serving a relatively short sentence for the crime. And David only had a year or two left to do before his scheduled release date.

David was a large man in both height and weight. He was obese. He was weak physically and emotionally. With his fat face speckled with lots of freckles, and his awkward walk as he'd lumber along the prison's corridors, his heavy head tilted either to the left or right, all served to make him a routine target for bullies. Both inmates and some of the staff made fun of him. David, a non-fighter, was the classic "Momma's Boy."

Then, one day, several months ago, David was suddenly removed from his cell in E-North's ICP and abruptly placed into Protective Custody. I think that because of his paranoia, he may have felt threatened by someone.

However, David's biggest struggle was with his mind. Crippling bouts of depression would overtake him on occasion. Whenever this happened he'd lie on his bunk for long periods of time with a blanket over his head. I'd try to talk to him. But he was like a turtle hidden inside his shell. At best David would make a few grunting sounds from beneath the covers to let me know he was still alive. He also experienced a lot of crying spells. It wasn't unusual for me to show up for work to find him sitting in ICP's dayroom with tears streaming down his face. David was a man who lived in a state of perpetual grief.

Yet David was a brilliant and talkative person when not under one of those dark clouds of despair. He wasn't the average convict either. David was a gentle giant. He liked to watch a lot of television as well as play board games like Sorry and Battleship. He was also an avid UNO player.

In many ways, David was like a big kid. Yet as far as the prison's administration was concerned, he was a chronic complainer and pest. David was a regular at the facility's Grievance Office. He'd file official grievances for just about anything. From the kind of pens he wanted that the staff in the package room would not allow him to have, to meals that were cold when they should've been hot. David was quick to protest. I think this was his way of venting pent up anger. Furthermore, around the time of his removal from ICP, David had recently been "hit" for more time by the parole board. His appeal in criminal court seemed to go nowhere, too.

Frankly, I do not know if he was truly innocent of the crime he was charged with, or if he was in denial. But he had a mother who loved him. She was, according to David, eagerly awaiting his homecoming. Both he and his mom thought it was going to be just a "mater of time."

David spoke often about his mother. She was a part of many of his conversations. Being elderly, she needed her son at home. David, of course, never married or even dated. His mother was his life. Now, however, I shudder when I think of her and the pain, anguish and devastation she has because of her son's inexplicable death.

David must have given up hope. At the time of his suicide he was living in an area of the facility where there was no one to talk to or show him any concern. Meanwhile, I and my two co-workers were at the opposite end of the compound far from the isolated Protective Custody Unit. And the prison's Mental Health staff have their heavy caseloads with plenty of other men in need of help. Thus David had to deal with his fears and his depression all by himself.

Now David's dead. His death may have also destroyed his mom. I hope not.

D.B.

Nancy Quinn should be living in a warm home with her husband and children. Instead, this 39-year old mother of three has opted to live by herself under a small bridge in the Bronx. Like the mythical troll of folklore, she wears ragged clothing plucked from the trash and sleeps on a discarded mattress that she rescued from a trip to the dump. According to the journalist Robert Kokler, whose article about homelessness appeared in the March 24, 2008 issue of New York Magazine,* Nancy is a "lifelong" drug addict and was a victim of "sexual abuse."

Driven into the streets by the demons of Crack and Cocaine, Nancy has made a home for herself surrounded by piles of rubbish alongside the meandering Bronx River. This is a mostly narrow body of water which snakes its way up the entire borough. I know the river well. I've ventured along its banks and I rode my bicycle over its many bridges.

I grew up in the Bronx. And now Nancy is fighting her personal war in the same place where I, as an adolescent, once played Navy with my friends. Years earlier I stood alongside this river, near the same bridge, and chucked small rocks at imaginary boats which were really glass soda bottles that we tossed into the murky water. My friends and I tried to sink each bottle before it had the chance to float away. An occasional water rat would dash from under piles of garbage, and we'd throw rocks at it, too.

According to the article, Nancy lived on the streets for the past three years. Disconnected from society, Nancy sells her body for money which she mostly uses to buy more Crack. Mr. Kokler wrote that Nancy has been arrested 39 times, the last time for a class-A misdemeanor for drug possession. I assume, however, that all her other arrests were for various misdemeanors, too, such as prostitution, criminal trespass, possession of small amounts of drugs, like her last arrest, or for having drug paraphernalia. All the ingredients which make for a wasted life that's on its way to an early grave.

The overpass under which Nancy lives is located near the intersection of Bryant Avenue and East 180th Street in what's known as the West Farms section of the Bronx. It's and intersection which has a lot of vehicular traffic. I traveled over this small nondescript bridge many times. Years ago, back in the 1970s, much of the neighborhood consisted of burned out vacant buildings and still occupied older wooden homes. In addition, there were a lot of bland looking commercial and industrial structures. West Farms was a showcase for urban gloom with a struggling underclass stuck in low paying factory jobs, and a lot of people on Welfare. It was a hardscrabble world of poor adults trying hard to make ends meet while armies of kids played in the streets past midnight. Graffiti was splashed on just about everything but people's cars. And heroin ruled the minds of its victims while crime hardened the hearts of the law-abiding. Crack, as Nancy knows it today, was yet to come.

When I was a kid the narrow Bronx River that creeps below the 180th Street bridge was a graveyard for abandoned cars. And piles of discarded tires lined its banks. I remember the river as a rancid mix of mud and sewage, and pungent smelling oil. There were floating globs of black sludge, and an array of junk poked above the water's surface half submerged in the mud. The river was a dumping ground for everything form rusty washing machines to rotting railroad ties. At least this was the way much of the southern portion of it was.

But the river is much cleaner now. Or so it's been claimed. For I recall an article, which I think as in the New York Times about a year ago, or longer, saying that the Bronx River was making a come back. However, looking at a recent photo of Nancy in her surroundings, I'm not so sure. Because, while the photo shows a forlorn Nancy sitting under the overpass encircled by a pile of dirty clothes and broken furniture, all of it arranged in such a way that it reminds me of the small forts kids would crate from whatever discarded items they could find, I could also see an endless line of litter strewn haphazardly along the water's edge. Frankly everything looks as ugly as I remember it.

Nevertheless, I was so touched and disturbed by Nancy's story that I took the article with me to church. I read some of it to the congregation. Then we prayed for her. "Nancy, wherever you are at this moment, Jesus loves you." Next we prayed for her three children. Nothing is impossible for those who believe.

D.B.

See article in the New York Magazine.

The Lord is very patient with me. The Holy Spirit has been showing me the areas of my life in which I am falling short. He is also teaching me how to become a better leader of the flock.

In addition, I am still learning how to bring my flesh under subjection to Christ. I know, too, that being a pastor involves far more than simply preparing sermons for Sunday mornings. As I have heard many times from other pastors and ministers, a Christian's testimony should consist not only of where the Lord has brought him from, but how he is living his life before both the world and the church. Thus my own testimony of God's work of redemption should not merely be a "once upon a time" story of having been rescued from Satan, sin and bondage. Rather it is to be an ongoing daily demonstration of the transforming power of God for all to witness.

After all, as a Christian I am a representative of the Lord Jesus Christ. I'm one of His ambassadors (II Corinthians 5:20). Therefore I am required to live in obedience to Him. And I must measure up to all that Christ commands of His disciples. But I need His help and grace to do this. Nevertheless, as I take an inventory of what is in my heart and soul, I must honestly confess that there is still much work needed to be done.

D.B.

To know the Creator is a wonderful privilege. He is the Lord, and the One who has made the heavens and the earth. He is the God of all flesh. And in the New Testament, as the apostle Paul is quoted as saying to the residents of the city of Athens, "For in Him we live, and move, and have our being (Acts 17:28)."

Therefore, during this last day of the month, God allowed it to snow. For much of the morning large flakes fell to the ground. But it wasn't cold enough for the snow to remain for very long; by late afternoon it had melted.

However, only yesterday the temperature was in the late 50s. This caused the ground to begin to thaw as well. And because of the unseasonable warmth the birds were out in large numbers. From my window which faces a ball field and large recreation yard, I watched as flocks of robins and blackbirds feasted on worms, bugs and seeds.

Since my window is only several feet above ground level, many times various species of birds would come within a few feet of my face. Yesterday's warmth obviously invited hundreds of worms to surface after having spent all winter deep in the earth. And the robins were ready for them. I watched as they pulled one worm after the other from the moist soil.

Knowing the Lord and being able to view some of His creation is a joyful experience.

D.B.