Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher) header
Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher) profile picture

The odd angry shot, and shot in the dark -- be prepared to duck

Vancouver, B.C. Canada
Joined March 2009
Photo by Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher)Photo by Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher)Photo by Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher)Photo by Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher)Photo by Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher)Photo by Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher)Photo by Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher)Photo by Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher)Photo by Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher)Photo by Graham Fletcher (@GrahamFletcher)
Graham Fletcher retweeted
In 1942, a drunk German officer sat at dinner and bragged about the Jewish woman he had selected from the brothel the Nazis had forced open in town. He said her name out loud. The Tunisian Arab sitting across from him stayed calm, smiled, poured more wine, and finished the meal. Then he drove the officer home, sped through the dark streets, and knocked on a door close to midnight. That night, he hid 25 people for four months. He never spoke about it again. His name was Khaled Abdul-Wahab. He was 31 years old, a wealthy Muslim Tunisian who had studied art and architecture in New York and spoke fluent German. Nazi officers trusted him. They invited him to their dinners. Tunisia was the only Arab country directly occupied by Nazi Germany during the war. Jewish families were pushed from their homes. More than 5,000 Jewish men were sent to forced labor camps. Yellow stars marked every chest. That December night in the coastal town of Mahdia, Khaled listened as the officer boasted. The woman he named belonged to a family Khaled had known all his life. He left immediately. He drove through the night. He knocked on their door at midnight. Pack nothing. Come now. He gathered 25 people — mothers, fathers, cousins, and children — and drove them nearly 20 miles to his family farm, hiding them inside the olive press, stables, and storage buildings. This was not one brave act. It was four straight months of courage. He fed them while supplies grew scarce. He kept babies quiet. He trusted his servants to stay silent. When German soldiers arrived to count Jewish families, the hidden people pinned yellow stars onto their clothes and stood motionless. When the soldiers left, the stars came off again. One night, a drunken soldier wandered onto the farm and discovered them. An eleven-year-old girl hiding under a bed watched him laugh and threaten to kill everyone there. Then Khaled appeared. She remembered him her entire life as a guardian angel. He calmly walked the soldier outside, took away his weapon, and sent him off the property. Nobody on that farm died. In May 1943, British forces liberated Tunisia. All 25 people returned home alive. Khaled went back to a quiet life. He married, raised daughters, painted, and worked in government service. He never told anyone what he had done. Not his wife. Not his children. No one. He died on September 4, 1997, at the age of 86. His story was buried with him. Ten years later, his daughter Faiza was sitting in a café in Paris reading a Sunday newspaper when she came across an interview with an American historian describing a Tunisian Arab who had hidden 25 Jews in 1942. The historian mentioned her father by name. She was 45 years old and had never heard the story before. She contacted the historian. One of the children saved on the farm had left behind 83 pages of testimony before her death. Every detail matched. “I rediscovered my father,” Faiza later said. Khaled was nominated for Israel’s highest honor given to non-Jews who saved Jewish lives. He would have been the first Arab to receive it. The committee declined, saying he had not risked his own life enough. Faiza answered with a line history should never forget: “My father opened his home to Jews. They did not open theirs to us.” Today, the 25 people Khaled saved have hundreds of descendants living across Israel, France, America, and Tunisia. The little girl hidden beneath the bed grew up, moved to Paris, and built a family of her own. None of them would exist if Khaled had stayed silent that night. He had everything to lose. He acted anyway. Then he spent the rest of his life saying nothing about it. The world nearly forgot him twice. Now you know his name.
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
Stay close to Jesus. He is your life source in every single season.
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Trump: Would you go to Moscow? Zelensky: It's difficult. There are a lot of Ukrainian drones there. It's dangerous Absolute banger, it's legendary to be speaking with former BEST Ukrainian commedian 🤣🤣🤣
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
For Christians in America to celebrate the Fourth of July is good and right. We are citizens of this nation, enjoying its privileges and embracing its responsibilities. So today, we grill our hamburgers, wave our flags, and shoot fireworks. Yet, while we are citizens of this nation, our ultimate allegiance is to God as members of the kingdom of his Son. His reign, teachings, and ownership of us trump everything else. Christ is not a president we elect; he is the King under whose reign we live. This means, at a bare minimum, that when the government or its leadership should ever ask us or try to force us to do something that, as citizens of Christ’s kingdom, we cannot do, our response must echo the apostles: “We must obey God rather than men” (Acts 5:29). It also means that our beliefs, worship, priorities, loves, and overall worldview are not shaped by the American ethos but by the teachings of the Christian Scriptures. The Epistle of Diognetus, written in the 2nd century, captures these truths beautifully when it says of Christians: “They participate in everything as citizens, and endure everything as foreigners.” Here is the context: “For Christians are not distinguished from the rest of humanity by country, language, or custom. For nowhere do they live in cities of their own, nor do they speak some unusual dialect, nor do they practice an eccentric way of life. This teaching of theirs has not been discovered by the thought and reflection of ingenious people, nor do they promote any human doctrine, as some do. But while they live in both Greek and barbarian cities, as each one’s lot was cast, and follow the local customs in dress and food and other aspects of life, at the same time they demonstrate the remarkable and admittedly unusual character of their own citizenship. They live in their own countries, but only as nonresidents; they participate in everything as citizens, and endure everything as foreigners. Every foreign country is their fatherland, and every fatherland is foreign.” (Michael Holmes, The Apostolic Fathers in English). This is a sober truth to ponder as we celebrate this day.
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
Strangely enough on Friday, I presented a paper titled “Ceasarizing the Messiah and Messianizing Caesar: a critique of Christian nationalism.” I wish I had this to use in my slide deck.
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
“If we don’t check our comfort with content now, AI will consume our capacity to recognize the value in human creativity and practices,” writes @kkramermcginnis. christianitytoday.com/2026/0…
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
A woman is someone who doesn't need to put in any work to become a woman, because she's already a woman.
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
In Vienna, there’s an old burial custom for the royal Habsburg family. When one of them dies, someone knocks on the door of the crypt. From inside, a monk asks, “Who seeks entry?” At first, the official would list the person’s grand titles, like “Crown Prince of Austria-Hungary.” The monk would reply, “We do not know him.” A second knock would name their achievements, but again, the monk would say, “We do not know him.” Only on the third knock, when the official simply said, “I am a mortal, sinful man,” would the monk open the door, saying, “Then let him come in.” Before God, our titles and achievements mean nothing. A Ph.D. or high school dropout. A billionaire CEO or forklift driver. A crown prince or nose-picking Kindergartner. We are all mortal, sinful people. God knows and shows no favoritism. What matters, when our last hour comes, is whether what Paul says of himself is also true of us: “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (Gal. 2:20). When that is true, though we are mortal sinful people, in Christ we are much more: we are children of our Heavenly Father, alive forever in Christ.
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
BREAKING: President @realDonaldTrump has (again) returned Sir Winston Churchill to the Oval Office. Both Obama & Biden removed him. Thank you, Mr President - we Brits are very appreciative.
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
Is the Reestablishment of the State of Israel a Fulfilment of Biblical Prophecy? How you answer this question says a lot about your hermeneutics! open.substack.com/pub/michae…
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
When Jesus comes again, he will gather all the nations before him, and separate them as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats (Matt. 25:31–46). To the sheep, Jesus says, “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me” (vv. 35–36). The believers, however, are confused. When did we ever see you hungry or thirsty or otherwise in need? they ask. And Jesus responds, “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me” (v. 40). As Robert Capon writes in his book about parables, “The criterion for the rewarding of the sheep is nothing other than their blind acceptance by faith of a king who has appeared to the world only under the guise of the last, the lost, the least, and the little.” Jesus was there all along, paradoxically present “on the underside of creation.” We come face-to-face with the Creator on the underside of creation. “For though the LORD is high, he regards the lowly” (Ps. 138:6). Though he is powerful, he dwells among the powerless. When you step into God’s personal space, you won’t spy a white-bearded old man glowing like fire atop a gilded throne. He looks like a school cafeteria full of third graders. He looks like your nephew who got caught dealing drugs and ended up in the county jail. He looks like that guy from accounting who was put in the ICU over the weekend. Wherever the last, the lost, the least, and the little are, that’s where God hangs out. Adapted from my book, Your God Is Too Glorious (2nd Edition), available at shop.1517.org or Amazon
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
Dear speakers, never make an audience say, “Good morning!” to you a second time because the first time was inadequate. It’s such a shamey way to start a speech. Jump into your content. We didn’t just run into each other at a grocery store. We don’t need a forced greeting.
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Up from the gravy, a rose.
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
Shall the Tyrants Win? My reflections on the murder of Alexei Navalny. seenandunseen.com/shall-tyra…
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What if the future world will be greater for having once been broken and lost. That would mean the utter defeat of evil.
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
Through teaching, coaching, and traveling I take in a lot of preaching. Here are a few consistent things I keep seeing . . .
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Don’t skip the 4th verse of “Hark!” Come, Desire of nations, come,
Fix in us Thy humble home;
Rise, the woman’s conqu’ring Seed,
Bruise in us the serpent’s head.
Adam’s likeness, now efface,
Stamp Thine image in its place:
Second Adam from above,
Reinstate us in Thy love.
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It's one thing to be grateful. It's another to give thanks. Gratitude is what you feel. Thanksgiving is what you do.
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Graham Fletcher retweeted
The Dumpster Sermon I heard one of the shortest but most memorable sermons not from a pulpit but from beside a dumpster. I had pulled my semi up behind a convenience store to grab a cup of coffee. As I climbed out of the truck, a woman walked up to me. Her face burned a deep brown. Stained jeans and sockless shoes and weary eyes. “Sir,” she said, “I hate to bother you, but can you help me?” Pointing over her shoulder, she said her husband was in the dumpster. They were hungry and he was digging for food. Could I give them anything? When I came out of the store a few minutes later, she and her husband were standing beside my truck. I handed them the two submarine sandwiches I’d bought inside. The man took them, handed them to his wife, and stretched out his hand. I shook it, feeling the grime and grease of the dumpster on his palm. On his weathered face glowed a gratitude more profound than anything I’ve ever witnessed. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “thank you so much. We don’t have hardly nothing. Just got to town a few nights ago. Been sleeping under the bridge over there. But God, he always seems to send people to help us out. Jesus been good to us that way. He always provides.” And thanking me again, they walked away, out of my life, but never from my memory and gratitude. A man who had no address, no car, no savings account, who was about to eat out of a trash can—he told me that “Jesus been good to us that way.” Every time I think of that dumpster sermon, uttered by a homeless prophet, I remind myself that wisdom lurks in the outer places. Rich gratitude among the impoverished and forgotten. Jesus been good to us that way. Yes, he has. And Jesus was good to me in sending that man into my life for a few brief moments. He reminded me that God has friends in low places. In low places profound faith flourishes. And from those low places resounds the voice of God from the lips of his people. Thank God for pastors, for church leaders, for bestselling Christian authors, for all those in positions of prominence whom Christ uses to proclaim his Good News of salvation for the world. But thank God too for people who have never read a word of Martin Luther or Karl Barth but whose lives are inked through and through with the theology of the cross. They drive tractors, flip burgers, shingle roofs, and, yes, dig through dumpsters. Each of them embodies the earthiness of theology. The same God born in a barn and laid in a feed trough is swaddled in the ordinaries of their unawesome lives. The same God who had nowhere to lay his head sleeps with them under interstate bridges. The same God who was blackballed by the religious highbrows of his day sits and mourns with those who have been broken by the church. The same God who died between two crooks hangs out with cons and ex-cons today. The same God who let a prostitute weep on his feet and dry them with her hair embraces and kisses believing women today who have been entangled in the sex trade. He is the God of the cross who is found where the world doesn’t seek him—or, all too often, where the church doesn’t expect him to be. Jesus is there for them, for us, for all people. He is a God of surprises, whose ways shock us into expanding our horizons. The laborers in his vineyard may wear suits and ties, boots and jeans, or leather and tats. But they are all his laborers. Or more precisely, his children. God’s family is full of misfits. Always has been, always will be. For our Father’s family is founded on grace, not goodness. -Adapted from my book, Your God Is Too Glorious (2nd Edition), available at shop.1517.org or Amazon
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Every religion or non-religion, even those that appear more inclusive make exclusive claims.
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