HOW I JOINED A CHURCH THAT USES WHATSAPP FOR DELIVERANCE
HOW I JOINED A CHURCH THAT USES WHATSAPP FOR DELIVERANCE
I never thought my spiritual journey would involve Wi-Fi, data bundles, and the occasional “seen at 2:43 AM” notification. Yet there I was, sitting in my room like my phone was a fintech investment portfolio holding the secrets to eternal salvation. I had just joined a church that uses WhatsApp for deliverance—and suddenly my spiritual ROI depended on notifications.
. It started innocently enough. A friend sent me a link to a WhatsApp group. “David,” he said, “this is the most powerful deliverance group you will ever find. You don’t even need to leave your house.” I laughed, thinking about my stock market apps more than spirits. Little did I know, my phone, my data, and my patience were about to enter the most bizarre hedge fund experiment of my life.
I clicked the link. Immediately, I was bombarded with messages resembling a predictive text translation of holy scripture. “Welcome, chosen one. Today is the day your demons shall be seen and unseen. Amen.” I typed back cautiously: “Uh… thank you?”
No reply. I realized that in this WhatsApp church, silence is sacred, and choosing the wrong emoji might summon a minor demon or a strongly worded spiritual rebuke. My portfolio of unread messages was already overflowing, like a mismanaged investment account.
The first session began with a mass “Good morning saints!” accompanied by a flurry of prayer emojis. The chaos was holy chaos, faster than crypto volatility at 3 AM. Everyone was typing faster than I could read, some in all caps, some in mysterious WhatsApp fonts. I felt spiritually—and financially—underqualified.
Then came the first deliverance instruction: “Place your hand on your phone and type ‘Amen’ three times. Then send your location for the angels to find you.”
I paused. Location? I was not ready for celestial stalking. But I typed “Amen” anyway. Third time, I typed it in all caps for extra spiritual leverage. Nothing happened. No smoke, no fire, no ROI in blessings.
Next, the group admin posted spiritual videos. Each one showed pastors performing gestures that seemed like a mix of Latin, English, and Morse code. One pastor pointed at the camera as if it were a demon. I blinked. I realized my Wi-Fi might be the only hedge fund protecting me from full online possession.
Then came the “Prayer Storm.” Not a metaphor. A literal storm of notifications. Messages poured in so fast my phone buzzed like a cryptocurrency trading bot. “Saint David, your chains shall break. The spirit of procrastination shall flee. Type AMEN if you receive.”
I typed AMEN. My thumb hurt, but still nothing happened. I looked around. My neighbor’s cat was staring at me suspiciously, possibly wondering if I was investing in deliverance futures or just losing Wi-Fi equity.
Next was group confession. Everyone typed their sins. “I stole my sister’s toothpaste.” “I pretended to like my mother-in-law’s stew.” “I once ate a doughnut before breakfast and didn’t apologize to the universe.”
I typed: “I watched a whole season of Netflix and told myself it was research for market trends.” A moderator replied: “Saint David, your sins are recognized. Burn a virtual candle and send a selfie with a serious face for verification.”
A selfie? I laughed so hard I almost sent a GIF of a dancing dog. But I complied. The angels must have appreciated it, because nothing exploded. My spiritual balance sheet remained intact.
Next came the spiritual fasting challenge: “Type ‘fasting initiated’ and avoid all spicy food for three days. Your aura will glow online.” I typed: “Fasting initiated” and immediately ordered pizza. I imagined hedging against spiritual penalties like I hedge against inflation. The chat exploded with green smoothies, herbal teas, and kale. I posted a picture of my pizza slice, praying for some divine humor.
The most memorable event was the deliverance video call. Imagine a Zoom call with 150 people, each shouting “In the name of Wi-Fi, be free!” and waving hands like they were swatting malware. I accidentally unmuted myself, yelling “Hello?” as a lady screamed “EVIL SPIRITS, LEAVE!” It felt like volatile market conditions meeting divine intervention.
Then came personal deliverance. The admin instructed me to send my problems privately. I typed: “I have too many tabs open in life and don’t know which one to close.”
The reply was instant: “Saint David, the spirit of indecision shall leave your device. Repeat three times: ‘I delete unnecessary tabs in Jesus’ name.’”
I obeyed. Miraculously, nothing exploded. But some apps closed unexpectedly. Coincidence or divine ROI? My fintech instincts said, hedge fund-style, it was intervention.
Midweek brought the “Prayer Chain Marathon.” Everyone typed prayers simultaneously. Notifications pinged violently; my phone almost leapt out of my hand. Someone typed: “Blessings for Saint David’s Wi-Fi, that it may never fail during spiritual encounters.” I thought: finally, a prayer with tangible ROI.
The climax was the virtual miracle service. A pastor shared a video of a person supposedly cured of laziness. I blinked. Immediately realized I still hadn’t done my laundry. It was like watching a bullish stock rise while your own portfolio crashes.
The service ended with a group chant. Everyone typed: “Hallelujah!” continuously. My keyboard looked like a trading terminal in the middle of a flash crash. I couldn’t tell if my thumb was broken or if I had been spiritually—or technologically—transformed. Probably both.
By the end of the week, I realized something profound: a WhatsApp church is absurd, ridiculous, hilarious, and strangely effective. Somehow I felt lighter. Not spiritually—well, maybe a little—but mostly because laughing at people typing AMEN 200 times while sending selfies is very cathartic. My digital portfolio of blessings had positive returns.
In conclusion, joining a church that uses WhatsApp for deliverance taught me three key things:
1. Faith can be found anywhere—even in emojis, group chats, or online investment communities.
2. Laughter is a holy experience, especially when shared with 150 strangers typing frantically, much like a bustling cryptocurrency exchange.
3. Never underestimate the spiritual power of a poorly-timed GIF, like unpredictable market volatility.
Now, every time my phone buzzes, I wonder: is it a WhatsApp notification or divine intervention? Either way, I’m prepared—with pizza, coffee, and a healthy sense of humor… and maybe a stock trading app just in case.
And that, dear readers, is how I joined a church that uses WhatsApp for deliverance. I survived, I laughed, and my Wi-Fi remains blessed—ready to handle more spiritual investments in my soul portfolio.
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