The Countering

by Patrick Higgins

  Each time the President of the United States took to the skies, like all other modes of transportation he used—Marine One (his personal chopper) The Beast (his personal limousine), and Ground Force One (his personal 45-foot mega bus)—an identical aircraft or vehicle was put in service as a decoy.

  Once Air Force One touched down, security was airtight as the Presidential motorcade escorted POTUS (President of the United States) from A to B, completely-surrounded by police and secret service vehicles.

  Built to sustain most outside attacks, the seven-ton limousine he rode in was completely bullet proof. If the Beast ever came under attack and its tires—which were made of Kevlar and were hermetically sealed—sustained gunfire, they would automatically reseal themselves enough for the vehicle could reach safety.

  Like all other modes of transportation, several pints of the President’s blood were stored inside the vehicle in case an emergency ever arose.

  Another ego-stroking element to being President of the United States was, regardless of city, all roads used to transport POTUS from A to B were completely closed to the public—even during rush hour—which happened on occasion.

  Finally, when he arrived at his destination, the official Presidential Anthem of the United States, “Hail to the Chief”, preceded him. All of that just for him! How could one not feel all-powerful under such conditions?

  President Danforth never told anyone, not even the First Lady, but he couldn’t count how many times he felt drunk with power, invincible even, in his role as President.

  With so many highs and lows, this job was both ego boosting and ego deflating. The biggest drawback to having so much power bestowed on him was that his life was constantly viewed under a microscope. Everything he did made the news, from the mundane to the ridiculous. Hence, the need for very thick skin.

  It suddenly seemed like eons ago. Jefferson Danforth still went through the motions of the job; still received daily intelligence briefings each morning; still could be flown anywhere in the world on Air Force One, in a moment’s notice, but everything felt different now.

  For one thing, the title “most powerful man on the planet” no longer applied to him. Salvador Romanero had assumed that role.

  Prior to last November, President Danforth had an abundance of allies from which to choose. Now he was unsure if he had any at all. Not only that, he didn’t know who could be trusted in his own administration. His paranoia had grown to where he wondered if moles were leaking highly-classified U.S. intelligence to Salvador Romanero, like some representing other defiant countries were allegedly doing. It couldn’t be ruled out.

  He knew Vice President Everett Ashford, Chief of Staff Aaron Gillespie and National Security Adviser Nelson Casanieves were with him. Other than the three of them, it was hard to know for sure.

  The fact that Romanero was about to accomplish in the Middle East what no other world leader had been able to, himself included, only made him look smaller, weaker. By having no say in the matter, whatsoever—a first for any modern-day American President—he felt entirely insignificant.

  And to think it all started last November. A few short months ago, not only was he on top of his game, his wife, Melissa, was one of the most-influential women on the planet. The First Lady was about to be named Time Magazine’s Woman of the Year.

  Then the disappearances occurred, and the article was never published. Given her erratic behavior since their lives were forever altered, perhaps it was a good thing the article wasn’t published.

  Melissa Danforth went from being one of the classiest First Ladies in American history to laughing stock, just like that; from elegantly confident to wanting to end her life.

  Perhaps if Time Magazine published the article now she would be named, Most Pathetic Woman of the Year. It was difficult knowing who was more hated in the world, the President or the First Lady. As his approval ratings kept free-falling, his own citizens mocked and ridiculed him all the more.

  Before winning the White House three years ago, Jefferson Danforth was mindful of the many hoops he’d have to jump through if he wanted to get elected. He just never dreamed how far it would go, or that it would have led to all of this.

  The President saw his reflection in the squeaky-clean pane glass window before him. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Gone were the eyeglasses he’d worn most of his life, including the eight years he served as Governor of Wisconsin.

  “As candidate for President of the United States of America,” his top advisers would plead with him, “you need to look strong before the eyes of the world at all times! This is so much bigger than being governor. If elected, you’ll be the most powerful man on Earth! Wearing eyeglasses might be seen as a sign of weakness.”

  Despite his many protests to the contrary, that many past American Presidents had worn glasses, and that they emanated grandfatherly wisdom, which served to comfort many, it always fell on deaf ears.

  “In today’s ‘image-is-everything’ world,” his top advisers would counter, “the President’s supposed to look like Superman, or as close to him as humanly possible.”

  And this meant eyeglasses needed to be removed in the name of modern science and technology—just like Clark Kent would do if he were President.

  They were only eyeglasses, he often thought. After constant pleading, the then Governor Danforth reluctantly agreed to have Lasik eye surgery done. His vision was now 20/20.

  The way he felt now, even Clark Kent was a stretch. He felt more like the Invisible Man, if that. This job felt more like a burden than anything else. The fun was gone. The joy was gone. In short: a very big part of him no longer wanted to be President.

  As a staunch opposer of Salvador Romanero, the President of the United States of America sensed big changes coming in his personal life, including becoming a possible “kill” target. He still had access to the most powerful military on the planet; but, as of yet, no one had declared war on the United States, only on him.

  With that in mind, Jefferson Danforth needed to change his thinking, his tactic, and focus his attention on protecting himself, and America, to the best of his ability from the so-called Miracle Maker.

  This feeling only intensified after being rocked by dreams for three straight nights. Though vague, he saw himself meeting with two men; one was black, the other was white.

  They shared a common mindset in that they, too, were on a quest to defend themselves, and their large following, from Salvador Romanero and his one-world agenda.

  Other than that, President Danforth couldn’t remember much else about the dream, except for seven words he kept hearing over and over in his mind. They terrified him even more than Salvador Romanero did.

  Those seven words were, “This is your last shot at redemption!”

  10

  “HE JUST PULLED UP,” Brian Mulrooney said to Jacquelyn Swindell, looking out the window. “What if I blow it? I may never get another chance with him. It took two weeks to finally get him to commit to coming.”

  “Are you sure he’s the man in your dream?” Jacquelyn said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you feel God has ordained this meeting?”

  “No doubt.”

  “Okay. Breathe in and out. Remember what we read the other day in Luke twelve?”

  “Refresh my memory,” Brian said, to the woman he met at Michigan Stadium shortly after the disappearances took place. Jacquelyn was grieving the loss of her husband at that time, after he was struck by something that fell from the sky. It came from an out of control airplane that had collided with a Goodyear blimp hovering above the stadium providing aerial coverage of the game.

  “God promised in verse twelve that the Holy Spirit would teach you in that very hour what y
ou ought to say. This is one of those hours. You know I’ll be praying for you.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “He’s here. Gotta go. Thanks for the encouragement, Jacquelyn. Call you later.”

  Brian buzzed Father Tom Dunleavey in and started pacing the floor. He felt certain that his lunch guest would do all he could to persuade him to come back to the Catholic Church.

  As a lifelong student of the Catholic Bible, Brian was certain Father Dunleavey knew so much more of God’s Word than he did, especially Bible history. But did that mean he better understood God’s mercy and grace?

  Was he so deeply entrenched in church doctrine and tradition that the Word of God became clouded over the years, to the point of dilution, like it had for so many Catholics throughout time, including his own family?

  Did Father Dunleavey believe he had a personal relationship with Jesus when, in reality, he didn’t? Brian did not know. All he knew was the longtime priest wasn’t saved before last November. Otherwise, he wouldn’t still be here.

  As his visitor would soon find out, Brian wasn’t the same confused person who needed consoling five long months ago.

  Not even close.

  Father Tom Dunleavey reached Brian’s floor huffing and puffing considerably, breathing the labored breath of the out-of-shape. The slightly overweight, 62-year-old man was almost completely bald. He wore thick bifocal glasses. As requested, he brought his Bible with him.

  Underneath his long gray trench coat, Brian noticed a white collar tucked into a black shirt. He looked nothing like the jolly image posted on the church website. If anything, he looked far more serious and completely stressed out. The infectious smile on his online photograph was nowhere to be seen.

  Obviously taken before last November, Mulrooney thought.

  “Finally, we meet in person,” the Catholic clergyman said slowly, in between breaths.

  “Welcome to my humble abode, sir,” Brian said, extending his right hand. After reading Matthew 23:9, where Jesus warned about calling any man “father” in a spiritual context, Mulrooney refrained from addressing his lunch guest by that title. “Hungry?”

  Sir? “You told me to bring my appetite...”

  “Let’s eat then, shall we?”

  The Catholic priest nodded yes.

  Brian retrieved cold cuts from the refrigerator for sandwiches.

  “Would you kindly bless the meal, sir?” Brian said.

  “My pleasure.” The Catholic priest lowered his head. Sir again? Brian wasn’t the first person this week to refrain from calling him ‘father’. He was number seven, in fact. Hmm...

  Not surprisingly, Brian knew every word out of his lunch guest’s mouth before it was even uttered. When Father Dunleavey finished, he performed the sign of the cross with his right hand.

  This was the first time Mulrooney refrained from doing the same in front of a priest. With so much Catholic education under his belt, Brian felt justified by this silent critique. Everything his lunch guest said and did was clinical, expected, as if out of religious obligation rather than expressing sheer thanks to God for providing the meal.

  Thank you, Father, for saving me out of this!

  Conversation was fairly light as the two men ate their sandwiches. Once they were finished, Brian said a silent prayer asking for God’s guidance and wisdom.

  “Before we begin,” Mulrooney said, “I wish to reiterate that in no way do I pretend to be an expert on the Word of God. As a lifelong student of the Scriptures, clearly you know more about Bible history than me.”

  Father Dunleavey said nothing but nodded affirmatively, like a teacher listening to one of his students. Then he winced: History?

  Before he could respond, Brian said, “Now that we’ve established that, can I ask you something?”

  “You may.”

  “How does one get to Heaven?”

  The longtime Catholic priest shifted his weight in his chair. “By faith in Jesus Christ, of course.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Well...” Father Dunleavey paused, trying to word his reply properly. “On the surface, that’s a difficult question to answer.”

  “With all due respect, sir, how can it be difficult when the Word of God is explicit that salvation comes by faith in Christ alone?”

  Father Dunleavey raised an eyebrow. “What are you getting at, Brian?”

  “Can you show me a single passage in the Bible that teaches otherwise?” Mulrooney hated to sound so disrespectful, but this was too important. Besides, he was on a mission. The last thing he wanted was to be disobedient to the One who caused him to have the dream in the first place.

  “Of course, Christ is the foundation of Christendom. That goes without saying.”

  “So why, then, has the Catholic Church added so much to it?”

  “What exactly do you mean?” the priest asked.

  “I’ll come back to that. For now, there’s something of vital importance I feel the need to establish. Are you familiar with Ephesians, chapter two, verses eight and nine?”

  Father Dunleavey tensed up. “I am.”

  Brian sensed his uneasiness. “Do you mind if we open our Bibles and read it together?”

  “Not at all.”

  Brian found chapter two and read verse eight, “‘For it is by grace you have been saved...’”

  Father Dunleavey joined in without referring to the text, “...through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.’”

  “Precisely. So, in that light, do you believe a person is saved by God’s grace alone, without works?”

  “Well...” Here we go again, thought the Catholic priest.

  “This passage clearly explains that grace alone, through faith, which is the gift of God, is the only thing necessary for salvation to take place. Anything added to it is entirely man-made and usually implies works of some sort, which I wholeheartedly reject. At least now I do.”

  Father Dunleavey looked at Mulrooney as if to say, “And your point is…?”

  “Scripture makes it clear in Isaiah sixty-four, verse six that our self-righteousness is seen by God as filthy rags. Because we’re sinners, there’s nothing any of us can do to take a single step toward God. This includes performing religious traditions. So why does the Catholic Church teach otherwise?”

  Tom Dunleavey sat straight up in his chair and shifted his weight. He looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came out of his mouth.

  “By studying the Scriptures, I’ve come to learn that God’s salvation is one-hundred percent God, one-hundred percent grace, one-hundred percent gift. Once someone has truly been born-again, they are justified in the eyes of God, and forgiven all sins, past, present and future. Once received, this Gift can never be lost. All we have to do is confess that ‘Jesus is Lord’ and believe in our hearts that God raised Him from the dead, and we will be saved.”

  “Ah, Romans chapter ten, verse nine, one of my favorite passages in all of Scripture.”

  “Mine, too,” said Brian. “Verse ten makes it crystal clear that with the heart we believe and are justified, and with the mouth we confess and are saved, right?”

  The Catholic priest nodded his head affirmatively.

  Mulrooney steadied his gaze on his lunch guest. “Did you notice there’s no mention of praying the rosary, saying ‘Hail Mary’s’, confessing sins to a priest, child baptism, performing various works, or anything else I was always told would bring me closer to God? So why teach such things?”

  Brian sighed. “If there was anything else needed for salvation to take place, don’t you think God would have supernaturally empowered the writers of the New Testament to clearly define it for
us? With eternity at stake, I do.”

  “Yes, of course.” Father Dunleavey suddenly looked reflective.

  “Quite frankly, anyone not teaching that God’s grace alone equates to salvation is leading their flocks astray and will be severely judged for it. This includes the Catholic Church.”

  Tom Dunleavey remained silent, but there was this pained expression on his face.

  “Crazily enough, had it not been for a letter I received tucked inside a Bible my late friend who was Raptured gave to me, I never would have known any of this. Nor would I have ever felt the need to debate a Catholic priest on the Word of God.”

  Brian noticed his lunch guest didn’t react to his “Rapture” comment, one way or the other. He took a sip of water, “I must admit after I got saved for real, I thought the differences between Protestants and Catholics were so small it wouldn’t take much to bring both sides together. After all, it’s not like one side’s Muslim, trying to get the other side to denounce Christ and follow Allah. Nor is it a Buddhist—Christian thing. Catholics and Protestants both proclaim to be Christians, right?”

  Father Tom Dunleavey nodded yes, like a therapist reflecting on his patient’s latest rant. But this so-called patient was making too much sense to ignore.

  “Both sides are in total agreement that Jesus is the only begotten Son of God. He was born of the Virgin Mary. He grew up performing many miracles, including raising the dead, all the while proclaiming Himself to be sent of God. For this, He was crucified at the ripe young age of thirty-three, right?”

  The priest nodded yes again and looked at his watch.

  “Most importantly, both sides believe Jesus rose again on the third day and is now seated at the right hand of the Father, thus fulfilling every prophecy that He alone is the Messiah, right?”

  “That would be correct,” said Father Dunleavey, trying to find a way to gain control of the conversation and be the professor again. But despite his best efforts, it was as if his tongue was tied.

  “By having so much in common, you’d think both sides would want to join forces, especially with so many enemies trying to silence Christianity.” Brian’s brow furrowed. “But I must say, the more I read the Bible and study church history, the more I understand what drives both sides apart.”