In the ancient near east, there flowed a river called Puratu.

Coursing from Mount Ararat, south and east, down through the hills and across tribal boundaries, it was no trifling stream.

The river brought life as it watered the land,

flora and fauna, heartbeat and tree sap.

It did what it pleased, flooded, receded, altered course,

even as it continued in the same direction.

The river was benevolent and dangerous,

mighty, and unignorable. What if there were a God like that? This is a story about the power

of blessing and the threat of curse, the stubborn,

sturdiness of pride, and the frightening fragility of image.

But mostly, it's a story about a God who courses across the landscape with little concern

for expectation or borders, a promise-making God, who treats his oaths as sacred,

even especially when others do not.

I'm Justin Gerhardt. Welcome to Holy Ghost Stories.

Thank you. I'm My Lord, messengers, from the south, from Moab.

Baylam, son of Bayor, prophet, seer, sorcerer, cannot help but raise an eyebrow at this announcement.

Moab is a long way from Aram, well over 350 miles, a journey of weeks.

They've come all this way? This is good.

Send them in, Balaam orders.

The group of delegates enters, older men, all of them, and well-attired.

These are not just messengers, but elders.

Interesting. As they approach approach they look uncomfortable their bodies tense a

...