Stories of the Kingdom

by Jedediah Ostoich

Stories of the Kingdom

  By

  Jedediah Ostoich

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  Stories of the Kingdom

  Copyright © 2013 by Jedediah Ostoich

  Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, then encourage your friends to download their own free copy.

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  Stories of the Kingdom

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  Table of Contents

  An Introduction to the Stories

  The Shepherd Captain

  A Janitor’s Reward

  Renewing Flames

  The Carpenter and the Warrior

  The Guitar

  Coffee in the Kingdom

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  An Introduction to the Stories

  The Earth is our home. That’s how God created it, and that’s what it will be for eternity. But for those of us who grew up thinking some ethereal place called “heaven” held our eternal destiny, it’s difficult to understand earth to be our final dwelling place. This book, however, is built on the theology of the Resurrection and the Christian hope of a renewed, perfected, and glorified Earth where we share in the inheritance of Jesus’ eternal Kingdom.

  In order to help paint a picture of what that future hope looks like, I offer this book. The stories contained within will give us a glimpse into what the eternal future may look like.

  As a disclaimer, these stories are the product of my imagination. They are framed tightly within a biblical theology of the eternal Kingdom, and I do my best to stick to the Scriptural teaching. My hope is to paint a picture of the implications of the Resurrection through each story. Our eternal destiny is exciting, and I want you to share in my excitement.

  Finally, it is with great humility and hesitancy that I portray the actions and personality of the King, our Messiah, Jesus. I know him so little as yet, so I beg patience from my readers. My portrayal of Jesus will be shaded by my understanding of Jesus, and that itself is only truly beginning. Any error is my own, and not that of the Scriptures or that of the King.

  Without further ado, I give you The Stories of the Kingdom. They are not what will be, but they are, instead, what may be.

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  The Shepherd Captain

  Elihu bar-Jonah stepped out of the armor room and into the sunlight. Blinking, he began to climb the steps up to the training field. At the top he stopped on the broad, paved area and was greeted by the shining faces of an army of angels. The brilliance of their faces reflected off of his own gleaming armor. He blinked again.

  Elihu recognized these angels. He had seen them once—three thousand years ago.

  It had been before the Resurrection at the King’s first Presence. He was a shepherd then; the chief shepherd of the palace flocks. Every one of his sheep was spotless; they were used for the sacrifices in the Temple, and with Passover quickly approaching, he had them fattening up in the fields to the south of the city.

  Instantly, out of nowhere the sky had lit up, and he met these angels for the first time. Terrified, his feet froze to the ground. The angels proclaimed the coming of the long-promised King—the one who would sit on the throne of David. Only after they had sufficiently recovered from the awe-inspiring event, he and his fellow shepherds set off at once to find this promised King.

  Find him they did. The King’s young parents huddled against the side of an inn and had placed their newborn in a feeding trough. Elihu and his friends stood watch for them through the night—the streets of Bethlehem were never the safest place to sleep. In the morning, they had gone off through the town telling everyone they met that the King had been born. Elihu smiled at the thought.

  Suddenly, a voice shook Elihu out of his memories. It was a voice he had come to know well, a voice he had encountered first three thousand years ago. But the voice of the King was no longer an infant’s cry.

  “Elihu bar-Jonah. It has been some time. How are you, my friend?”

  Elihu answered with a salute, “Well, my King. Marveling at these angels, and remembering a time long ago.”

  The Messiah laughed, “Well remembered!” He turned to look over the gathered host. “These are the Announcers—my personal Vanguard. Theirs was the task of announcing my first coming; a task that was then handed to you. And Just as you guarded me and announced my Presence then, so will you do so again. I have chosen you to lead them. Come. We are marching soon.”

  The Announcers? Elihu wondered. These are the honored Vanguard of the Messiah and I am to lead them? If he had the time, he would have stood on the warming pavement and relished in the honor. But there was no time. The King was marching soon to put down the Rebellion, and the Announcers had to take their place at the head of the army.

  Elihu turned to the seven hundred thousand warriors arrayed in battle gear. “Malachím!” he bellowed with ever-youthful lungs. “Angels! Whom do we serve?”

  In a single roar, the gleaming army shouted back, “LaMélek uLaMamlekáh! For the King and the Kingdom!” It was a sound to tear apart mountains and bring down lightening. Yes, Elihu remembered these voices. How could he ever forget?

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  A Janitor’s Reward

  Robert DeSoto was still not sure what to make of his Awakening. The Resurrection was completely different from anything he could imagine. It had taken him several wobbly steps to realize he no longer needed to walk with a hunch. So he stood, shoulder back and spine straight, for the first time in what had felt like centuries. To be honest, is probably had been centuries. One minute he breathed his last, surrounded by family, in his bed in southern Texas. The next minute he had heard the blast of a trumpet unlike any earthly noise, and he was standing above his own grave.

  The last few months had been chaotic. The King had returned with his armies and conquered the world powers. The nations, now under the control of the King, were brought to heel and many wrongs were set right. It had gone by in a whirl wind, and ended in a summons: The People of the King were to come to his palace at Jerusalem.

  It was judgment day, he realized when he entered the giant audience hall. Tiny beads of sweat popped onto his forhead. As he waited, others took their stand before the King and were given their inheritance for their service. Missionaries, pastors, preachers, church-builders—all of them praised by the King.

  Suddenly, it was his turn. Stepping out from the crowd he went before the throne. With millions of eyes locked on him, his stoop returned and cold sweat ran down his back. He felt he had really nothing to offer the King—certainly not like the others who had gone before him. He’d been a janitor in a high school most of his life. What impact had he had?

  The voice of the King rang out, “Robet DeSoto, you have come forward to receive your inheritance. What service have you rendered the King; what have you accomplished with what he entrusted to you?”

  Robert shook, and stammered, “My King, I cannot claim any inheritance. I was no preacher; I wasn’t a missionary. I cleaned toilets, my King. I’ll be happy if I’m allowed to do so in your Kingdom as well.”

  The King paused, and looked long at him. His piercing eyes felt as if they were searching Robert’s very soul. Suddenly he spoke, “Would anyone here claim that Robert is due an inheritance?”

  A silence fell on the assembly. No one moved. Then a rustling broke out further back among the gathered people. The noise grew louder as bodies moved aside to let some young men through. Robert looked back over his shoulder at these newcomers. One, two, he counted. Three
, four, five. They kept coming. Within moments, no fewer than fifty-six men stood behind him. He recognized some of the faces—they looked a little older and more distinguished than he remembered. Slowly, he started to put names with the faces. Daniel Jones stood close by. Next to him were Josiah Guthrie and Dustin Campa. One by one he identified each.

  And then it hit him. He knew each of these men from the high school. He had talked with each of them, and prayed with most of them. He had even held an impromptu Bible study with three or four. As realization dawned on him, Robert began to stare in wonder. Many of these men had already gone before the King, and many of them had received large inheritances. They had changed lives, spread the good news of the Kingdom, and even died in the King’s service. Had he really known them all?

  Then Daniel approached and stood at his shoulder. He smiled kindly, then turned to address the King: “Great King, we are fifty-six heirs of the Kingdom. Each of us owes his life to this man. We have served you because he served you. Our inheritance truly belongs to Robert.”

  Robert, tears in his eyes, watched as the King smiled. “Robert DeSoto, well done. You have been faithful with little, and so you will be given much. Enter into the joy of your inheritance.”

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  Renewing Flames

  Fire. Awesome, radiant, all-consuming fire. It blazed with a heatless flame. Blues, greens, and purples licked upward as the wall of fire moved across the land.

  Isabelle stood on top of the Mountain of God with the rest of the heirs. The great day of judgment had come and gone. The Rebellion had been squashed for the last time. The dead from all the ages of the old world had stood before the King to answer for their rebellion, and the judgment had been passed. The Ancient Enemy himself had kneeled before the throne and was condemned with the rebels he had deceived. War itself had died.

  The time of Renewal had come.

  Isabelle, along with all those who had attended the great Day, was ushered to the top of the Mountain of God. The mount itself seemed to grow as they walked toward its summit. From the top all the heirs could see for miles and miles. When the last person had arrived, the King came to walk among them.

  A hush fell upon the heirs wherever the King walked. Isabelle was standing close to the edge of the Mountain on the outside of the group—she had fallen behind in the climb. Everything was so wonderful to watch; how could she walk quickly?

  Suddenly, she became aware that the migrating silence had found those around her. She looked over her shoulder to see the King himself walking toward her. Awe and wonder rooted her feet to the ground as Messiah stopped by her side.

  “Isabelle, what do you think of my Kingdom? It is quite broken.”

  Isabelle jumped when she heard her name from the lips of the King, “It is, my Lord, shattered by the Rebellion and war.”

  Messiah smiled down at her. “Yes, yes it is. And not just this last Rebellion, but from the whole history of mankind’s rebellion against my rule. The earth has suffered long enough. I can hear its cry for freedom.” He turned his eyes toward the broken landscape and lifted his hands. In a low voice only Isabelle could hear, he whispered, “Hinéh! Aní ‘oseh et-kol hadavrím hadashím!”

  “Watch! I am making all things new.”

  That’s when the fire started. It sprang from the hands of the King in brilliant colors—hues of green and blue that made Isabelle’s heart stop; purples and reds that put precious gems to shame. The flames flowed from Messiah’s hands and rushed down the slopes of the mountains. As the fire passed across the broken landscape the land began to change. The deep gashes in the ground filled and quickly sprouted a green grass. Shattered trees shuddered and then reached their drooping limbs to the sky as they grew twice, even three times, their original size. Their leaves sprouted and grew full in a matter of seconds. Flowers budded and bloomed in their branches and across the ground.

  A shiver of amazement and joy raced down Isabelle’s spine as she watched the transformation. Her heart leapt within her as the land was slowly healed. Rivers flooded the trenches of war and washed away any hint of the suffering within. Mountains formed where bombed-out craters once lay. It was as if the earth itself was waking from a too-long slumber, stretching and welcoming a warm spring sun.

  After a few moments, Isabelle noticed that her feet felt wet. Looking down she realized she was standing in the beginnings of a crystalline stream. That was flowing out of the Mountain itself, twisting and leaping down the hillside as it gained strength. By the time it reached the city walls it was a powerful river that coursed through the main streets.

  Then the King touched her shoulder. “The Renewal has begun and the River of Life is flowing. Come, let us go down into the city. We have much yet to do.”

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  The Carpenter and the Warrior

  Maneam smiled as the long curl of wood rose from the plane. In one unbroken strip it came away from the door leaving a smooth, flat surface. Yes, he thought, running his thumb along the exposed grain, this will fit nicely. He was framing in the grand oak doors that would form the entrance to the most splendid library this side of the City. Sure, Jerusalem had its own repository of tablets, scrolls, and these things some of the heirs called “books,” but Maneam’s library would definitely revival the City’s for beauty. “Enduring” his father had named him, so everything he built he made sure lived up to that name.

  He liked working with wood—always had. His father’s father was a builder, and so Maneam had grown up knowing wood types and purposes, planes and saws, mallets and chisels. They were old friends, these tools, and some of his oldest seemed to know their work well enough to do it without human hands.

  Some of the younger heirs spoke of machines from their time in the old world that would plane a door smooth in seconds—other machines that needed only one man to operate that could lift walls into place. Still others, they said, could lay liquid stone for foundations.

  Not for him, Maneam thought. He was glad those machines had been destroyed in the Renewal. Building with wood and stone should mean using your hands. It was a work of patience and love, and certainly not inhuman speed.

  At the thought of the old world, Maneam’s smile faded. Memories of the Great Battle began to fill his mind. Twenty yeas had passed, and still the memories were fresh. The pain was gone, to be sure, and so was the horror. The renewing flames had washed those from him as a spring rain cleans old stone. But memories were part of him. Like the door he so carefully carved, he had been shaped and molded by the memories.

  Maneam gently lay the plane on its side on the door and sat, sliding his back down the cool marble wall. He looked at his calloused hands. All his life those hands had created, but when the King summoned his people to march to war, that had changed. Like the other Awoken heirs he had picked up spear and shield and marched to the last Great Battle. He remembered wondering why anyone would want to rebel against the King after nearly a thousand years of perfect peace. But rebel they did.

  He didn’t remember much of the battle, other than that it was extremely hot, and disturbingly quiet. Sure there was a lot of noise, but it formed one long cacophonic note that fell away to a buzz. After the battle when the King’s forces were sweeping the field, Manaem had slumped to the ground in much the same way he now sat—spear and shield left where he had dropped them.

  It was there that the King had found him. Radiant and majestic in his brilliant armor, Messiah dropped to the ground beside him. “Manaem,” he said quietly, squinting against the setting sun, “you have served me well. No longer will your hands be turned to war. In just a little while I will make all things new and you will create again.”

  Manaem had glanced up as the King stood, walking to the forgotten spear and shield and picking them up. As Messiah moved back toward him, Maneam watched the spear transform. The shaft broadened and formed straight, square sides. The spear’s point seemed to melt in order to form a flat cutting edge and then slid back into the wood, stopping wi
th just a sliver of metal showing. In the three steps it took the King to return, spear had become plane. Startled, Maneam’s eyes jumped to the shield. The wood had split into pieces like the spokes of a wagon wheel, and the metal boss splintered—each piece attaching to a spoke. Ten unique chisels finished forming as he watched.

  Messiah stooped, handing the newly-wrought tools to Manaem. “Come, my friend, the Renewal will begin soon. Your skill will be needed.”

  Head leaned back against the stone, he sighed as he remembered. Yes, Maneam thought, the battle is done. The Renewal came. The tools of destruction the King has made into tools of creation.

  Never again would the earth be unmade by human rebellion. Like his own name, the earth would forever endure. That brought a smile back to his face.

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  The Guitar

  Two hundred forty-seven years, three months, two days, and exactly five hours later, Josh was done. Well, at least done with the first part. He was making a guitar. But not just any guitar—it was going to be the guitar. In the old world, he had loved music and especially the instruments that made the music. Unfortunately, things like working-to-live had always prevented him from ever pursuing his interest in instruments, and so he was forced to dabble in his free time.

  Sure he learned the guitar. Sure he could play decently well. Sure he could tweak his instruments if necessary. But he had always dreamed of what he could do if he had the time and resources to put what he had learned by playing the instrument into making the instrument.

  Now he could.

  When King Messiah returned, things were chaotic for a while—a long while. There had been much to do in rebuilding the Kingdom as the King intended. Only recently were things looking more how they were supposed to. Now with more free time, Josh was able to turn his interest to that one thing he had always dreamed of—building a guitar.

  So he started. Slowly at first, but after a decade of reading and studying, he had felt capable of at least sketching out a prototype. After his first attempts to make a decent body for the guitar, he realized he’d not studied the right things—guitar making was quite a bit more difficult with no knowledge of wood craft. So back to the books he went. For years he read. For still more years he searched for the perfect wood. Then he had to compile the best tools.