Pizzas and Prayers
Have you ever heard a horn that doesn’t just warn—but announces?
That low, brazen BWAAAAA—the kind that rattles windows and tells you something big is moving through the intersection whether you’re ready or not.
That’s the Pizza Index.
It doesn’t knock politely.
It doesn’t ring the doorbell.
It leans on the horn.
Somewhere near the nerve centers of power—Pentagon corridors, government buildings that never really sleep—a Domino’s owner noticed something strange. Not prophecy. Not poetry. Receipts.
Right before the world lurched—before presidents were hauled away, before regimes cracked like ice under boots—pizza orders spiked. Boxes stacked. Phones rang. Cheese pulled long and greasy into the small hours of the night.
Why?
Because when men stop going home, when suits sleep on carpet and decisions are made at 3:17 a.m., nobody cooks.
They order pizza.
And it’s happening again.
The ovens are hot.
The delivery lights are flashing.
The horn is blaring.
Now listen—there are voices out there calling this the apocalypse on horseback, dust clouds and hooves already pounding. But slow down. That’s not how this story goes. We don’t ride until the Bridegroom returns—after the wedding feast. And that feast doesn’t last seven days.
It lasts seven years.
The Church is not appointed to wrath. Never was. Noah didn’t drown with the world—he was sealed in. Lot wasn’t burned with Sodom—the angels said, “We can’t do anything until you leave.”
God removes His own before the fire falls.
That hasn’t changed.
Hell was built for the Devil and his angels—but it waits for anyone who rejects the only exit ramp off the road we’re all born on. Every human starts on that highway. Wide lanes. No toll booths. Straight toward destruction.
Jesus didn’t come to repaint the road.
He came to change it.
A narrow gate.
A hard turn.
Life everlasting.
So when I hear the Pizza Index screaming again, I wonder.
I wonder about Mystery Babylon.
I wonder about governments shifting like tectonic plates.
I wonder why oil meant for empires changed hands in the dark waters of the world.
I wonder why people who never saw a drop of that oil are saying, “Let them take it—we were starving anyway.”
And I wonder why the ovens are glowing again.
Am I trying to scare you?
No.
I’m trying to wake you up.
This could be the Church’s finest hour.
This could be revival with its sleeves rolled up.
This could be pews filled, altars soaked, lights burning late for reasons that have nothing to do with pizza.
Even the prophets who miss the details still feel the pressure change in the room. They hear the same horn. The atmosphere is heavy. Something is moving.
Nations are watching America.
America is watching itself.
And heaven is watching the Church.
So here’s the question—from a tiny pulpit in a tiny town, with a voice that doesn’t carry far but still dares to ask:
How does God see us right now?
Are you praying?
Because when the horn sounded—when the ovens flared and the night shifts stretched on—were you on your knees or scrolling your phone?
Romans says it plain:
Do not be conformed to this world.
The world is panicking.
But be transformed—renew your mind—so you can know the will of God.
And His will is good.
Acceptable.
Perfect.
Pray that will.
Over presidents you love or hate.
Over America.
Over China, Russia, Venezuela.
Over tyrants, cartels, and kings.
Over enemies and allies alike.
Because history will be written.
Wars will decide chapters.
But God will judge the Church’s response.
Jesus didn’t say if you pray.
He said when.
When you fast.
When you give.
When you pray.
It’s expected.
So the horn is still blaring.
The pizzas are still coming.
The night is still burning.
And the question remains—echoing louder than any siren:
Are you praying?