I was in an empty classroom debating the merits of Christianity versus Islam with a college professor. He was a well-dressed man in his early forties, wearing tan dress pants and a white striped button shirt. He was quite knowledgeable and articulate. I let him speak for some time, and when he finished, I said: “But Christianity has one thing that Islam does not offer. The bodily resurrection.” The professor looked stunned, and I saw him pondering how to refute the statement. But he had nothing to say. I prayed my words would cause him to read the Bible and find his Savior.

I was looking down on what appeared to be a traditional Roman Catholic church and could hear a beautiful oratory of voices coming from inside. My heart was drawn towards it, and as I came down to listen, I saw a young worship leader standing on a stage with a peculiar-looking instrument. It was washed out grey and looked like a cross between an ancient stringed lute and a modern electric guitar. He began singing a contemporary worship song I had never heard before. I could feel the overwhelming presence of the Holy Spirit and began worshiping with him. I sensed that God was pleased with His people and was not dissuaded by their denominational affiliation.

I was in a classroom with about a dozen young adults late teens to mid-twenties, sharing the gospel of salvation and telling them about Jesus and His Kingdom. They all seemed uninterested, and when I pressed them about wanting a Savior, one young overweight man angrily stood up shouting, “You are trying to make Jesus my King.” I looked at him with compassion saying, “Don’t you want a Savior?” He and the others in the classroom wanted nothing to do with Jesus, so he stormed out.

I was invited to teach at a church. It was not a traditional building, more like an expansive home fellowship. Walking around wearing my prayer shawl and kippah, I saw groups assembling in different rooms, praying and worshiping, each room singing a different song. Some of the rooms were large, and others smaller and more intimate. I knew I was supposed to teach at some point and was anxious to begin.

I was driving on a broad highway, heading westward toward San Francisco. Piled up on both sides was debris from destroyed homes and industries. Even the bridges that crossed the road were covered with debris. The road began to narrow as the waste increased, eventually leaving just one lane. At the end of the road, I came to where they were shedding the garbage to haul it away and possibly recycle it. I then found myself standing with a small group of church members, loading documents and other objects onto a conveyor belt to be shredded. The pastor and associate pastor of the church and a few leaders looked at the useless things with sadness, pining over their loss. I stood beside them, comforting them in their time of loss.