Book reviews

Sample story from Book 1 “Hunger and thirst after righteousness” Click on link: http://theperfectreligion.com/the-sermon-on-the-mount-study/

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The Perfect Religion, a Beacon to the True Kingdom of God: Where Have You Been Hiding?

Joseph P.

Amazing

February 24, 2020

Format : Paperback | Verified Purchase

Amazing stories and always quoting the Bible scriptures. Can’t wait for the next book.

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The Perfect Religion, a Beacon to the True Kingdom of God: Where Have You Been Hiding?

Jim Hebron

Very captivating and memorable

June 22, 2019

Format : Paperback

Don’t miss out on something SO important. Theologically rich and has you on the edge of your seat. My wife and I love it.

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The Perfect Religion, a Beacon to the True Kingdom of God: Where Have You Been Hiding?

Marilyn S.

Wow! Conviction without pious judgment. Excellent.

June 20, 2019

Format : Paperback

Phillip Cimei is obviously well prepared to write concerning things theological. His deep understanding of biblical language, along with his advanced degrees, qualify him to expound in exalted terms, yet he speaks to the common man with clarity and conviction. Eternal truths are combined with practical application in a thought-provoking and yet easy manner. Thank you, brother, for an unexpected treat!

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The Perfect Religion, a Beacon to the True Kingdom of God: Where Have You Been Hiding?

Tracy

Inspirational for All

May 12, 2019

Format : Paperback

The book was unexpected. Was not really sure that it would apply to me. It gives some great examples of everyday life with a good christian stance. Easy to read and enjoyed it. Great Book!

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The Perfect Religion, a Beacon to the True Kingdom of God: Where Have You Been Hiding?

deijri galjour

Great book!!!

January 30, 2019

Format : Paperback | Verified Purchase

Love this book. Great use of storytelling integrated with biblical scriptures. Looking forward to next book!!!

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The following is a story that might help us understand a little about giving;

Dumpy

It wasn’t the name he wanted, or chosen, or given by his parents.  Society tagged him with it.  No, it wasn’t because of his physical appearance–at one time an Adonis.  It was because society has its labels.  Regardless of how he got there, he now must not only endure the humiliating and disparaging remarks but a nickname for his plight.

“Nice color coordination, Dumpy,” said a well-dressed man mocking his hodgepodge garb.  The local dump provided his clothing, and an unsympathetic onlooker, his name, Dumpy.

It was providence that thrust Dumpy into society’s lower Escalon.  Not laziness or mental illness as the world suspected.   He once had a normal life–as many would call normal– enjoying fine foods, a nice home, and respect.  But God had a different road for him to travel.  He was stripped of the niceties of life and clothed with poverty. God had a plan—as always.

“What is that smell,” came the disdaining words from a passerby, with pooched lips, a wrinkled  nose, and declaring, “eeewww…yuk!”

The remarks hurt, but he said to himself, “I won’t lower myself to their level.  Even though they take a stand, like Job’s wife, and question why I don’t curse God and die, I will be content with food and clothing.”

“Get out of my way, you pathetic derelict,” came a shout from the owner of a lovely upper-class home at which Dumpy lay.  The owner’s face now contorted with contempt, gritted his teeth, and yelled, “You’re lucky the government can’t figure out what to do with you lazy, worthless bums.  No, they let you park your nasty, smelly carcass right in front of my home.  The home I worked so hard to make nice and clean.”

“Just a bit to eat, sir,” Dumpy begged, lowering his head.

“Go ahead, cower like a whipped dog,” said the owner.

“I’ll give you nothing but a kick in the face if you don’t leave.”

 “God bless you, sir,” Dumpy responded by casting coals of fire on the owner’s head.

“God…God, you say.  Where is your God now?  Let Him feed you,

Humility trumps cowering every time, “sorry sir, I need a little food.  When I heal, I would be glad to sweep your porch, or…or–”

“Get your lazy…go get a real job. I’m throwing a party tonight, and I don’t want to make my guests sick by your stench.” 

Dumpy, couldn’t get up. He scooted along the ground, a grimace with every move.  His mind raced back to a beating he had last week. He grimaces as he recalls the incident.

“Hey Dumpy, got any spare change,” one malefactor mimicked that night, high-fiving his friends. 

“Nice coat, moron,” another would chide

“I need a coat,” the leader yelled out.

They swarmed like a pack of hyenas, ripped off the only decent piece of garment that kept him warm at night. They dragged him down to a ditch.  After kicking him repeatedly, they shoved him over the edge of the ditch. It was a deep ditch lined with jagged rocks—every tumble a cracked rib, every skid an open wound.  He rested at the bottom on top of a maggot-infested animal carcass—a castoff just like him. The diseased animal would eventually be his undoing. He was brought back to the present by the arriving guests.

“What’s that smell?” a woman said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. 

“Don’t get near him, honey. Look at all those open pussy sores; he might have something contagious,” warned her husband. 

One after another made their way into the home.  Each guest greets the host with a shake of the head as they looked back at Dumpy. Each was donning a repulsion look, expressing disgust with a gasp, or voicing a complaint to the owner.

The owner came out again. “I told you to get out of here. You’re making my guests sick.”   He said as he hurled a mouthful of saliva. That spittle, the lowest form of degradation one could cast at another, would be the last he would launch at Dumpy.

The night went on, and the guest caroused while Dumpy lay outside slowly succumbing to his infected wounds. 

“Where am I?  How beautiful. “ The day’s events now erased, and the pain was gone; only serenity and a tug on his left arm occupied his mind. Dumpy felt as if he were floating up t from the depths of the sea, and someone was guiding him to the light of the surface.”

“Hello Lazarus,” came a voice from a stately figure, “come rest next to me.”

“How did you know my name?” 

“I have been waiting for you.  God told me that you were in need of some comfort.”

“Your Abraham!”

The owner is now drunk and choking on his vomit… well, you know the rest of the parable taught by Jesus.  I enhanced it just a tad for literature’s sake, but the original parable, as told by Jesus, follows for those who might have forgotten:

“There was a certain rich man who was clothed in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day. But there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, full of sores, who was laid at his gate, desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s table. Moreover the dogs came and licked his sores. So it was that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels to Abraham’s bosom. The rich man also died and was buried. And being in torments in Hades, he lifted up his eyes and say Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom.

Then he cried and said,’ Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame.’ But Abraham said, ‘Son, remember that in your lifetime you received your good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted and you are tormented…” (Luke 16:19-25).

Though parables are considered allegorical— or short fictional stories cast alongside a moral truth—they present situations we may all have seen or experienced in our life’s journey. How do we treat the castoffs of life? How do we treat the Dumpys of the world?

            As we look into how the early Christians handled the care of those in need, we will get a good picture of what is essential when it comes to the contribution and the showing of mercy to those in need. It will give us an idea of how to give.

                 Purpose not Process

Therefore, when you do a charitable deed, do not sound a trumpet before you as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory from men.

—Matthew 6:2

Several of the local ladies huddled like hens in a coop; they had nothing better to do than to cackle out their jealousies, “Isn’t she so gorgeous in her new clothes?” whispered one with drooling envy.

“God sure has blessed her with grace and beauty. Everyone has been talking about how well she has managed her husband, John’s success.” came the response of another, followed by a ”Humph.”

The green-eyed monster was knocking at the door of these ladies as Elizabeth meandered through the market place. But to their amazement, she neither tarnished her natural beauty with artificial dazzlement nor her station in life with arrogance or pride.

“Good morning, ladies. Hasn’t the Lord blessed us with such tranquil breezes today? It makes shopping so pleasant. How have you been?” Elizabeth said with warm overtones.

Elizabeth, blessed to have sufficient means to purchase her household needs without concern or worry, lacked nothing, but this would soon change.

As usual, Elizabeth busied herself, preparing the most delicious meal for her hard-working spouse and her children. Today, savory leg of lamb. A glow overtook her, garnished with a contentful smile, as she skillfully prepared the dish. She whisked back a strand of hair that seemed to tease her patience. After wiping her perspiring brow, she smirked a little bit then begin singing her favorite psalm. Then came the knock on the door.

She wasn’t expecting company, but her home was always open to all, and of course, her first whisper of concern was, “Do I have enough for some company? Oh, my, I might have to send the children to the market.” She straightened her apron, brushed her disheveled hair back, and opened the door.

A middle-aged man stood stonefaced; it was Matthew, her husband’s best friend. “My dear, Elizabeth,” he said, followed by a slow, deep inhale, “ I…I… have some bad news.”

“What?” Furrows of fright deepened on her forehead, “What news? What do you mean?

“Elizabeth,” Matthew could barely whisper out through trembling lips, “John…well…John…”

“Where is John? What has happened, Matthew?”

“John had a terrible accident at work today. He…he…”

“What accident…where…how bad is he hurt? Where is he?” she shot out as she grabbed her chest with both hands.

“John is dead.”

Everything else he said was just a blur as Elizabeth fell to her knees, wailed out pleas to God with raised, opened palmed hands— like a child begging a parent to pick them up. Life will be different now.

Elizabeth’s visits to the marketplace would become less frequent. And her style of shopping would change. Now, it was begging for over-ripened fruits and vegetables. Giggles and finger-pointing carried the stale smell of contempt, not envy.

“Mom, why don’t people recognize us anymore,” asked the oldest child. “Everyone knew us and treated us friendly. But now, we are not recognized by them. And they treat us like dirt because we have to beg for everything. Has God forgotten us?”

“Son, God never forgets His children. He loves them and will always provide for them. Some times He tests our hearts to check our faith,” she countered

“Yeah, but people laugh at us because of the rags we wear. They honored us before, but now we are nothing,” he said with a heavy heart.

“God will provide for us, maybe not in material things like we used to have, but He will

provide,” she said as they went on their way to worship services.

At the front entrance were the offering containers. Elizabeth reached into her little cloth bag while waiting for her turn. She could hear, “Clink, clink, clink clink clink.” She neither envious as to the abundance of the large coins cast in with vigor nor embarrassed by the demeaning look of contempt shed her way as the contributor took his prominent seat to worship.

Elizabeth meekly, but with an air of contentment, reached into her makeshift purse and pulled out all she had. With no hesitation, she dropped it in the container, “Clink, clink.” She swiftly guided her children to a prayerful position at the back and poured out her heart to her Father in heaven.

On the way home, her oldest child asked her, “Why did you give all we had? Nobody will ever know or even care what you gave.”

“Maybe they didn’t notice, but every act of worship, even the most seemingly insignificant act, is received in heaven as a treasure and laid at the feet of God. How remarkable is that?”

On her way out, after much prayer and Thanksgiving, she shuffled her children past scornful looks and pitiful sighs of disdain from the proud hypocrites. But not all cast arrows with the poisoned tip of reproach; one stately looking man smiled as she passed, he turned and whispered something to his friends. Her seemingly insignificant contribution would be recorded in the annals of Christian history. You might remember the original account as told by Jesus, the story of the widow’s mites. That was my imaginative twist on the story; the actual bible accounts are as follows:

“Now Jesus sat opposite the treasury and saw how the people put money into the treasury. And many who were rich put in much. Then one poor widow came and threw in two mites, which make a quadrans. So He called His disciples to Himself and said to them, ‘Assuredly, I say to you that this poor widow has put in more than all those who have given to the treasury; for they all put in out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all that she had, her whole livelihood”’ (Mark 12:41-44).

            The point that Jesus made was not the amount, but the motive, not the process of giving, but the purpose of giving. She gave from the heart, knowing that her meager contribution, as compared to the wealthy donors’, would be used for others even worse off than herself. She gave of her livelihood. How many today would give all they had. She gave of her needs, not of her wants.  Would you?

            And, she didn’t make excuses not to contribute based on the hypocritical giving of the scribes and Pharisees. She gave because the right purpose cradled her heart, even though the amount was two mites.

            The widow’s two mites (Greek Lepta) are together worth a quadrans, the smallest Roman coin. A lepton was the smallest and least valuable coin in circulation in Judea, worth about six minutes of an average daily wage. (3)

Computing in today’s salary scale of the minimum wage, as about $1.20. If that was all we had to our name, would we give it in the collection?

The bedroom door slowly cracked open on this Easter morning, creaking slightly but not enough to muffle the angelic sounds of singing from within, as Rachel cuddled newborn Lily. Filling the crack in the door, five pairs of saucer-shaped eyes, stacked one upon another, staring, waiting for the right moment.

Joseph, a lanky lad with freckles scattered like the sprinkles on his mother’s cupcakes, turned to his father and asked, “Now?” Like a parliament of hungry owls, the other children swiveled their heads in unison, hunting for a response.

“Not yet, son,” said his father, George, as he stroked his salt and pepper beard, not once, but several times. “Mother needs some time with baby Lily and with our Heavenly Father.” The children returned to the serenading of Lily. All but Anna, she looked back to see her father bowing his head, tears streaming down his face. More mature and astute than the average 16-year-old, Anna knew she needed to press on; consternation furrowed her brow. It was her turn.

“But father, I want to sing to baby Lily, as I did for these.” Anna knelt and hugged brothers, Mark and Michael, and toddler, Ruthie, who latched onto Anna’s leg as she often did to her mother’s. “Father, please,” she continued. That look and plea were oh too familiar to her father.

Anna, her mother’s mirror image, with her almond-shaped face encased with porcelain skin, also mirrored her mother’s tenacious spirit. But it was Anna’s songbird voice, often dwarfing the others, that always tempered her father’s unmovable disposition. She had a lot of practice—singing accentuated every event in her Hutterian family’s life. Especially in the “Baby House.” Just then, a song erupted outside.

Hutterian brotherhood families sang a lot— before every meal, every celebration, every event, and now the birth of Lily. The newborn’s family would occupy an exclusive apartment called “The Baby House.” They would stay in this quaint apartment for six weeks while bonding with the child. Traditional gatherings outside providing choral singing took place nightly for six weeks. Anna couldn’t resist her calling; she joined in, “All the earth to Him must bow; folded in His love they sleep: Little beasts that swim and creep; seed and flow’r are hidden deep.” This springtime lullaby was her favorite as it spoke of Angelic whispers that awakened God’s budding springtime creations. Anna’s accompaniment plucked on her father’s heartstrings.

Her father’s lungs swelled as he slowly inhaled, though the inspiration he needed now was more spiritual than physical as he uttered, “It is time, my little ones.”

Heads jerked, eyes batted with excitement, and little hands clapped like a seal performing for a meal. Not Anna, dismay, lowered the corners of her mouth. She knew now, she could sense it—another trait passed on from her mother. She could see a foreboding hand lifting her father out of the rocker.

Anna looked into her father’s reddened eyes as she yielded to his firm but loving grip. He swung the door open, Rachel motioned for them to come in. The others, excited about meeting Lily for the first time, scurried in. Rachel continued singing as each child gave her a loving hug and bent down to give baby Lily a peck on the cheek. Anna could see their reaction after each kiss. Anna approached her mother.

“Father didn’t tell us, but I knew,” said Anna as her arm made a swipe across her teary eyes?” Anna knelt and gently placed a kiss on Lily’s cold forehead, then rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“You are so grown up, Anna,” her mother said as she motioned for the others to come and sit by Anna. Big sister was a magnet for refuge in situations like this. “Our Lord Jesus will fulfill His promise to defeat death. He said He would go and prepare us a beautiful place and come back to take us there one day. Around our future eternal home, He has a garden. Now and then, He will select a beautiful Easter Lily, a newly formed bud unspoiled by the pestilence of this world, and replant it there to remind us when we get there of His loving promise. Lily, beneath the Gardener’s hand, will greet us one day.”

On this chilly spring morning, songs of Easter hope blanketed this grieving baby house, while the Angels, cuddling Lily, whispered words of hope. Anna and Rachel blended tears as they sang, “Jesus is the gardener fair.”

Author’s note:
This is a fictional story based upon actual experiences with the Hutterian Society of Brothers community in Farmington, Pennsylvania. The words to the song are from one of their lullaby songs, Lullaby of the Sleeping World.