by Glenn Kleier
“Damn,” Feldman exclaimed, “I've crossed paths with those Guardian weirdos before. They're a scary lot.”
“How so?” Anke asked.
“Hunter and I did a story on them shortly before Millennium Eve. They're a doomsday cult claiming to commune with the second order of the celestial hierarchy—the archangels. They consider themselves soldiers of Christ—self-appointed escorts of the Messiah for the Second Coming. Their thing is paramilitary training in preparation for the battle of Armageddon.”
On the TV monitor, a large group of men, women and children were shown holding a rally in front of a large bonfire. Many of the adults were bearing ceremonial swords and truncheons, waving them over their heads as they sang and prayed. The voice of the reporter announced over the footage, “This group of celebrants represents one of the oldest surviving millenarian sects in the world, dating back more than a thousand years to the first Millennium Eve of A.D. 999.”
The footage on the screen was displaced by video of an ancient wall painting. The images on the painting were of men, women and children, clad in white robes, shown embarking from Europe on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. “Before journeying to Jerusalem,” the announcer explained, “these earlier Guardians of God gave up all personal belongings, devoting themselves to Spartan lifestyles, prayer and regimented military training. Their sworn objective was to serve as protectors of the Messiah upon His return on the Last Day. That this sect survived their perilous pilgrimage to the Holy Land was due in no small measure to their fierce militancy.”
The camera zoomed in on a section of me painting, targeting a pennant one of the pilgrims bore at the front of the procession. Emblazoned on the standard was a simple coat of arms: two human femur bones in the form of a T, flanked on each side by a sword and a battle ax. Latin words were inscribed in golden arcs above and below the cross. The top read “Custodes,” the bottom “Dei.” “Guardians of God.”
The video then dissolved back to a modern-day Guardian who was busy brandishing his sword in a mock fight against evil. As the Guardian fronted the camera, raising the sword high above his head, the image froze and the camera zoomed in to focus tightly on his chest, exposing an identical coat of arms embroidered on the man's robe over his heart.
“These present-day Guardians of God,” the announcer continued, “like their predecessors, pledged themselves as soldiers of Christ for the battle of Armageddon. However, last month, with Jeza's appearance at the Mount of the Beatitudes, the Guardians became bitterly divided over her validity as a messiah. Unable to accept Jeza's sex, the main body of Guardians declared her a fraud. They created for themselves a leadership role among the general pool of anti-Jeza sects.
“In response, the pro-Jeza Guardians broke away to form a countermovement, declaring their support for Jeza with an expanded name, the Messianic Guardians of God, complete with their own heraldry.” Up on the screen came a flag bearing the Messianic Guardians’ new insignia— the initials MGG in silver on a yellow shield with palm leaf clusters. “And at this time, the Messianic Guardians appear to have emerged as the popular standard-bearer for the entire pro-Jeza movement.”
Feldman and Anke shook their heads at one another and he jumped to yet another newscast. This one was reporting on how Israel's Ben-Miriam administration, blindsided by Tamin's recent actions, was still reeling from the public relations fiasco. Worldwide, Israeli embassies had been picketed by pro-Jeza malcontents who saw foreboding biblical implications in any attempts to arrest their Messiah. The situation had deteriorated in many areas to actual attacks on the embassies and several fire-bombings, instigated by an increasingly militant Messianic Guardian faction.
“I can't understand how they can keep Tamin as defense minister,” Feldman complained to the TV. “Eziah Ben-Miriam is a decent man—why doesn't he dump the bastard and rid himself of these problems?”
“Ben-Miriam isn't in a strong enough position,” Anke explained. “His coalition government is too weak, and Tamin is powerful, with friends in high places. It will take an act of the Knesset to bring Tamin down, and Tamin's friends will fight that. There are rough times ahead for Israel, I'm afraid.”
“And all the while,” Feldman fumed, “we're sidelined here on the damn bench, right in the middle of the championship game!” He tilted his head upward, calling out in exasperation to the heavens, “Hey, Coach! If you're up there, it's time to put the first string back in!”
It was as if divine providence were listening. At this precise moment, on the opposite side of town, several members of WNN's number three field crew happened to be shopping in one of Cairo's large open-air markets. Attracted by the noise of an excited gathering in the middle of the square, they elbowed their way through to suddenly find themselves in the presence of none other than the Messiah herself.
Jeza, encircled by a throng of exhilarated worshipers, was busy comforting a hyperventilating young mother and her crying baby.
The WNN crew was stunned. No one had had the slightest suspicion Jeza was in Egypt. The crew rushed back to their van for their equipment and alerted headquarters. But by the time Feldman and company arrived, the Messiah had pulled her signature vanishing act. Feldman, however, was simply thankful for the impossible good fortune that had put him back into the contest. Jeza was in Cairo. And, once again, WNN had the scoop.
Although the crew was able to capture only the final scene of the episode on camera, the video they took was priceless. In it, Jeza was shown speaking in Arabic to an adoring audience, many on their knees, their foreheads touching the ground before them in complete devotion.
Through WNN's staff translator, Feldman learned from witnesses that what had transpired here was yet another Jeza miracle. Supposedly, a hysterical woman had come shrieking out of her home into the marketplace carrying her lifeless baby. It was said that the baby had died in his sleep. Sudden infant death syndrome, Feldman presumed.
Quite by coincidence, the frantic woman ran right into Jeza, who stopped her with an outstretched hand and said, “Woman, why do you weep?” The poor distraught mother, unable to answer, simply held out the child, described as blue and limp. In the crowded market, a ring of onlookers quickly collected.
Jeza was said to have taken the child in both arms, clasped it to her breast and closed her eyes, praying. Then, abruptly, the child spasmed, coughed and came back to life! The crowd, recognizing Jeza, fell to its knees and declared her a prophetess of Allah. Jeza was returning the child to its mother just about the time the WNN crew arrived on the scene.
The rest of what happened, Feldman was able to view right there in the marketplace on videotape replay. He saw the now familiar glowing face of Jeza turning to address the gathering. The translation of her comments, from the Arabic:
“Why do you marvel? What profits this child if his body is awakened but his mind is asleep? I say to you, the Word is alive, but there are those who would smother it. Open your mind to the Word. For inside each of you is a resurrection. The power and the glory and the understanding!”
And then she slipped away into the crowd.
Vintage Jeza.
51
National Ministry of the Universal Kingdom, Dallas, Texas 6:30 P.M., Sunday, February 6, 2000
The Reverend Solomon T. Brady returned home from the convocation with mixed feelings. He had, however, not come away dissatisfied. He'd brought with him an intriguing idea that just might assist him in his struggle to shore up flagging contributions.
The concept was originated by a fellow evangelical out of Raleigh, North Carolina, during a seminar entitled “The Impact of New Religious Dogma on Congregational Unity.” This gentleman, a radio talk show minister, had found success in dealing with the turbulent events of the moment by using the situation to continually challenge and stimulate his flock. Rather than fighting the growing distraction of the popular Messiah, he exploited it.
Via call-ins, the minister would solicit different perspectives about the prophetess and her mess
age from his listeners. Taking no sides, he'd comment on the viewpoints and add a sense of moderation and authority to the topics discussed. The resourceful preacher found that his callers were also willing to contribute funds for the opportunity to vent their spiritual spleens, everyone seeming to have a strong opinion to share about the prophetess. Although this format was a radical departure from the standard evangelical approach, it nevertheless helped to keep the coffers full. It was a strategy the Reverend Brady thought he'd try.
This idea of a Messiah Hotline was itself worth the cost of the convention. Not that Brady hadn't found the rest of the sessions interesting, if worrisome. After learning so much more about this Jeza person, he was nagged by suspicions that she just might be genuine.
There were some persuasive points expressed: Jeza did fulfill many ancient prophecies relevant to a Messiah and the Second Coming. She also satisfied many modern prophecies, both secular and religious, that had been proclaimed over the years regarding the new millennium. Nostradamus. Edgar Cayce. The rabbis Menachem Schneerson and Haim Shvuli. All foresaw the appearance of a world religious leader at the turn of the twenty-first century heralding the end of the world. And Jeza was clearly the only qualifying figure on the scene at the appointed time.
However, at the end of the convocation, no consensus could be reached regarding the true nature of this unusual young woman. Brady consistently sided against a Mormon-sponsored proclamation to declare Jeza a true Anointed One. As did the majority of attendees. It was as if by voting against her, Brady might somehow help make Jeza go away. Or at least lessen her impact on him and his ministry.
The only thing the attendees could agree upon was to hold a second convocation to continue their work, four weeks hence, same place.
52
WNN regional headquarters, Cairo, Egypt 9:00 A.M., Monday, February 7, 2000
Feldman received an urgent call at his desk and flew out the door, stopping only long enough to snatch Hunter from his office. “Jeza!” he shouted to everyone within earshot. “She's about ten minutes away from here at the Eastside Christian Mission, preaching. Come on!”
Arriving in record time, Feldman and Hunter were flagged over by the meritorious female staffer who had called in the sighting.
“She's been in there about twenty minutes!” the beaming woman exclaimed, pointing through a tall wrought iron gate behind her. “And, uh, we owe this kid over here one thousand dollars for contacting me.” Next to the staffer, a young boy of about ten grinned and held out a grimy hand.
“Okay,” Feldman agreed, looking over at the high wall and stone buildings that bordered the mission grounds. “Hang on to him and we'll settle up afterward. Where is she?”
“In the courtyard inside, in front of that old stone church.” The woman pointed in the general direction.
“Fine,” Feldman said. “But this time, we're going to be clever about things. I don't want to frighten her off. Only Hunter and I are going in. I want the rest of the crew positioned at every gateway and door. When she does bolt, I want to find out where she goes—and how she manages to escape so easily.”
Selecting a light, inconspicuous camera and cordless microphone, the two reporters pulled the Rover next to the wall and used its roof for a step-stool. Hunter reclined on top of the wall with his camera while Feldman dropped down stealthily inside.
Jeza was speaking to a group of about fifty people in a small courtyard. Stealing his way casually through the crowd, Feldman donned his sunglasses and pulled his ball cap lower to make himself less recognizable. Finally insinuating himself between a burly man and a large woman in a dirty apron, he found himself not five feet away from the elusive young prophetess.
A nun was asking the Messiah, “Do you claim to be the Daughter of God and the Sister of Jesus?”
Jeza answered, “Jesus is my Brother and God is my Father.”
“Do you only hear God, or do you see Him, too?” another nun asked.
“Mostly, God speaks to me. But when I meditate, and when I pray, I see Him.”
“What does He look like?” the same nun asked, following up her first question.
“He is all beauty and goodness and fills up my spirit with gladness,” the Messiah said.
Feldman stole a look back at Hunter and pointed to his ear. Hunter signaled thumbs-up that the audio was coming in loud and clear.
“Are you the Messiah of the Apocalypse?” a woman asked nervously, cradling a sleeping child in her arms. “And is the end of the world coming soon?”
“I am the Messiah of the New Light,” Jeza responded, “and an end is coming!”
“Armageddon or the Rapture?” the increasingly alarmed woman wanted to know.
“First there was the Old Testament,” Jeza told her, “wherein man was taught to claim an eye for an eye and to see God in fear. Then there came the New Testament, wherein man was taught to turn the other cheek and to see God in love. Now there is a Newer Testament. A testament wherein man shall raise himself up to see God in a New Light.”
A quiet buzz of alarm spread through the crowd. “The Rapture! The Rapture!” they concluded.
Although he knew it would be risky, Feldman could no longer resist. He cleared his throat. “And how shall we raise ourselves up?” he asked her.
Jeza turned slowly and laid her invasive, indigo eyes on the reporter. Despite his being prepared for it, once again it was like a vacuum sucking the consciousness from him. He grabbed the shoulder of the burly man next to him, who, although annoyed, nevertheless tolerated the impertinence. Feldman steadied himself and quickly shook the giddiness. The sunglasses had been no help.
Jeza still hadn't responded. She knit her brow, studying Feldman, as the crowd turned to see the cause of the interruption. Feldman, fully recovered now, swore to himself, thinking he'd spoiled the session. But finally Jeza's brow smoothed.
“Describe for me your God,” she said.
Feldman was taken aback and searched through his mind for his early catechism training. “Uh, God is all knowing. He is, uh—He is all powerful, all good. Right?”
“Then go, and be likewise,” she directed.
“But how, Jeza? How do I become like God?”
“By all means,” she replied. “If you strive to be all knowing, all powerful and all good, you can violate no law of God in your pursuit.”
Feldman realized she was starting to back away, going into her disappearing act again, and he sought for a way to stall her. “Yes, I think I understand, but can you be more specific?”
He appeared to be too late. She was off now, moving toward the front gate. But she slowed, stopped, turned to him and leveled that piercing gaze once more. “You investigate, but you do not learn. You ask, but you do not hear. You knock, and when the door is opened, you turn away. Blessed are they who are given no answers, yet find understanding.”
It was not said with malice, but it still stung.
“Please,” he pleaded, “there's so much more I want to know!”
“The time is not yet come,” she answered, and was off again, the audience following after her. Feldman called quickly into his remote mike to alert the staff. Over the heads of the people in front of him, he could make out a keeper swinging wide the front gate, with the WNN crew scurrying up into position on the other side.
If the Messiah saw what was developing, she paid no heed. With a dozen cameras whirring at her, she marched steadily ahead, past them, through an alley, down a flight of stairs, headlong out into the rushing traffic of a busy thoroughfare. Feldman and crew were chasing pell-mell, trying to keep up, but the onslaught of cars, buses, trucks and bicycles was too menacing. It was suicide to follow. She was gone.
53
The Oval Office, Washington, D.C. 9:00 A.M., Wednesday, February 9, 2000
The usually implacable Allen Moore, forty-third president of the United States, was nervous. Yesterday's New Hampshire primary had delivered him a totally unexpected setback.
Moore's of
ficial reason for delaying his entry into the presidential race had been to concentrate on the important responsibilities of his office and remain aloof from campaign distractions. The idea was to assume a detached, “presidential” posture.
New Hampshire was a state his ticket had carried easily in the last election, and it had been simply assumed Moore would fare well there in this primary, without any direct, personal involvement. The polls supported this thinking. Such a laid-back victory, the theory went, would have positioned him as confident and unstoppable in steamrolling toward his party's renomination.
So, on the advice of his manager, Moore had withheld himself from the presidential race until late January, and withheld himself physically from the state of New Hampshire, not campaigning there personally at all. This allowed a hard-running young upstart Democratic senator, Billy McGuire of Maryland, to set up camp in New Hampshire and earn many a pragmatic New Englander vote.
Not that Senator McGuire really won. He'd received only thirty-eight percent of the vote to Moore's forty-three, with the balance allocated to various favorite sons.
But even getting close to the heavily favored Moore was a win for the ultraright McGuire. The media were now casting Moore as “vulnerable.”
“A goddamn fluke.” Presidential campaign manager Ed Guenther defended himself and consoled his president at the same time. “We'll cut McGuire off at the knees in March on Super Tuesday and be rid of him!”
President Moore nodded, wanting to accept this scenario, but remaining keenly aware that the ill-timed Mideast instabilities could well work against him if events continued to impact the precarious U.S. economy.
Brian Newcomb, Democratic Presidential Reelection Committee chairman, who called this meeting, was less forgiving. He was well aware that the influential new phenomenon in his party, the rapidly growing millenarian bloc, was an unstable lot. “Unfortunately, Ed, things aren't quite so pat. Now, the millenarians are going to draw encouragement from this. And we can't risk another reversal. We've got to regain our momentum, which means now we'll have to commit some of autumn's earmarked campaign funds to these primaries. It's a disruptive, costly change in our game plan.”