by Stan Mason
Question Fifteen. Where are my parents? They do not seem to be here in Heaven. Were they reincarnated? If so... why? I would like to know what happened to them.
Question Sixteen. On Earth there are ghosts which have been recognised by human-beings. There are also poltergeists... violent spirits which cause havoc? What are these entities and why are they on Earth haunting and frightening the people?
Question Seventeen. I have to admit that from what I have seen so far in Heaven... or Purgatory... I’m a sceptic. It’s hard for me to believe in anything I witness except knowing that I am a spirit at the bottom rung of the angel hierarchy.
I stopped writing at that point realising the futility of my actions. ‘Why am I writing all this?’ I thought miserably. ‘It isn’t going to help me in any way because no one will answer any of these questions and, worst still, it might even get me into serious trouble. I’m simply wasting my time and placing myself in a dangerous situation. If there was any hope that I would get all the angst out of my system it was misguided because it wasn’t happening by this method!’
I lay down the pen to meditate on what I had written. There were so many more questions flooding my mind but it was pointless writing them down. A telepathic thought suddenly surged through my head at that moment identifying the word ‘Trust’. It reminded me of another anecdote which I used to tell when I was alive on Earth about a man walking along a very steep precipice in Chile. He slipped and fell, hanging on to a single branch, hovering over a drop of three thousand feet below. ‘Please God!’ he screamed loudly. ‘Do something to help me!’ The Lord replied saying: ‘Trust me. Let go the branch, my son.’ The man thought about the command and then shrilled at the top of his voice. ‘Is anyone else up there?’
Indeed, how feeble was my trust of anything so far that had occurred in Heaven. I was a restless spirit over-zealous and far too eager to learn. I understood that it wasn’t good to be that way in the spirit world but how could I help myself. It was my earnest intention to screw up the parchment in front of me and toss it to one side. However before I could do that, it was whisked away as though plucked by a magic hand. No doubt a high-ranking angel was now reading it. The thought caused me to feel totally depressed. There seemed to be two choices ahead of me neither of which I desired. Firstly, the Supreme Angel of Energy might reduce my power which could be sufficient to do the trick although I feared what would be left of my spirit once that came about. Secondly, a decision might be made to reincarnate me back to Earth. Neither measure had the effect of cheering me up to any degree.
To my annoyance, I was whisked away once more to find myself standing in a great hall in front of the Centurion Angel. I was prepared for an onslaught with regard to the questions I had written but, surprisingly, he seemed to dismiss my actions as though they had never happened. Instead, he invited me to sit down and took a seat opposite me.
‘Jeremiah,’ he began softly with an element of sombreness on his face. ‘You are an over-zealous spirit that ought to be tamed by the Supreme Angel of Energy and he is standing by for my decision on what should happen to you.’
Even though I was only a spirit, I winced at the words that would come next in trepidation. ‘What is your decision?’ I asked lamely, dreading what he was going to tell me.
‘I’ve thought about your case very hard,’ he went on slowly, ‘and I’ve come to this conclusion. Your role as a spirit in Heaven will be suspended for a while because you’re going to be sent to the Pit of Desolation.’
I shuddered as the term entered my mind becoming fearful of the clarification. The Pit of Desolation! What in Heaven’s name could that be? It sounded awful and I was positive it wasn’t pleasant. However, I didn’t have to wait long for the explanation. Within an instant, I found myself standing on a narrow ledge, not more than nine inches wide, which was identified specifically in bright red. I was standing on the edge of a very deep pit some sixty metres in diameter with smooth walls that led deep down into absolute darkness. Behind me was a drop of unknown depth also leading to darkness. If I fell, it mattered little whether I entered the pit or not for the result was likely to be exactly the same. My spirit form became solidified so that I was unable to hover over the rim. I was forced to stand on it and balance the weight of my body. My feet seemed to be far too big to step on the narrow rim causing me to sway forwards and backwards gently so that I had to use my arms to keep my balance.
I teetered on the edge nervously trying to maintain my equilibrium. However, as I had been slightly overweight during the whole of my life, it had never been one of my finer points on Earth to be certain of my balance. Subsequently, it afforded me no scope at all in Heaven. As a result of this punishment, I dwelt on the fact that I was more likely to be in Purgatory than in Heaven. I stared glumly at the blackness down below, both inside and outside the pit, shivering as I was desperately in fear of falling. If this was one of the ways to tame my spirit, it was certainly working. My mind became consumed with my safety and I promised myself that, if I was saved and taken away from this place, I would never ask another question again. Closing my eyes, I kept myself thinking that I was standing on a wide pavement far away from danger. However, it wasn’t long before I realised that it was necessary to face reality. I opened my eyes, trying not to look down at the darkness for fear of overbalancing and falling. How long would I have to suffer this agony, trying to stand on the narrow rim encircling the pit? I prayed that I had not been forgotten by whoever was in charge of the punishment which meant tht atheism was the last thing on my mind. Although time was never considered an element in Heaven, each second seemed like a year. It reminded me of an observation by a colleague when I was alive on Earth who said that time was relative to the position in which one was employed. For example, when playing cards with friends one evening, the hours would fly by without anyone realising where the time had gone, whereas, if one was sitting in the nude on a large block of ice in a dark cellar, every second would feel like a hundred years. I would be only too happy if I could have been playing cards with friends at this moment rather than trying not to fall into the Pit of Desolation. My mind dwelt on what could be living in spirit form or otherwise down below. Was it filled with poisonous snakes or raging tigers or with some other horrors? And how long would I have to stand here, maintaining my balance, trying not to fall into this deep dark hole? There had to be an end to it somewhere... hopefully with me being transported somewhere else before I fell into the pit. Was this really a test in an attempt to curb my enthusiasm in Heaven? Perhaps it was ordained that whatever I did I would never be allowed to fall into the pit. I could well understand why it was called the Pit of Desolation. I had never felt so desolate in all my life on Earth let alone in Heaven! It was a activity which filled me with fear, humility and humiliation and, of course, it had to happen to me! What if I did fall into the pit? I envisaged that there could be three options available to me. Firstly, I might disappear for ever, falling into a black hole that was bottomless, ending up like an astronaut cut adrift from his spaceship in the firmament which carried on into infinity. Secondly, if there was a bottom to the pit, it was probably filled with mud and detriment. I might have to live as a spirit in such squalor for the whole of eternity. It would be everyone’s vision of Hell. Thirdly, it was possible that I had failed in my role in Heaven and would be transported elsewhere... perhaps into Hell, if such a place existed. None of the options particularly appealed to me and I despaired as to my future as a spirit in Heaven. And, lurking in the background, was the spectre of reincarnation!
I rocked forwards and backwards on the narrow ledge without moving my feet, waving my arms frenetically to retain my balance.
‘All right!’ I called out, tiring of the process. ‘I’ll not ask any more questions! I’ll do exactly what I’m told! But please get me away from here! I can see the error of my ways! Please!’
I suddenly found myself back in the buildin
g confronted by the Centurion Angel. He was smiling but this time I remained discomforted. I realised how serious the punishment could be for non-conformation to the Heavenly rules especially with regard to asking questions.
‘I trust you are have now expunged your over-zealousness,’ he uttered in a low tone. ‘You never want to visit the Pit of Desolation again, will you?’ I shook my head miserably, still trying to find my balance properly. However, this soon became unnecessary for I reverted quite quickly back into spirit form. No longer was my body stiff and rigid. I was able to float and glide as before.
The Centurion Angel’s face became more serious as he continued his instruction. ‘I’ve going to appoint you to a task very suited to your personality,’ he went on. I listened carefully wondering what he had in mind, my spirit form almost shuddering in expectation. ‘I’m going to send you back to Earth as an Correcting Angel.’
‘A Correcting Angel?’ I echoed frowning at the term.
‘In essence you’ll remain a spirit but no one will be able to see you or hear you except for one person. You will have a task to undertake and it’ll be your responsibility to ensure that it’s carried out satisfactorily. You can always seek guidance from here if it becomes necessary. Otherwise you will be on your own to make decisions as you see fit.’
‘What will I have to do?’ I asked becoming excited at the prospect. It was far better than standing on the rim at the edge of the Pit of Desolation to say the least.
‘You’ll be given the task shortly and sent back to Earth in spirit form only. No one will be able to see or hear you except for the one person to whom you’ve been allocated. By that means you’ll be able to influence him in order to establish equilibrium.’
Will I be visible to him all the time?’ I asked, almost biting my tongue for yet asking another question.
‘No,’ he replied candidly. ‘It is up to you whether he sees you or not. You can become visible whenever you want to. Equally, you can become invisible at will. You only need to think it. I have to say this is one of the few times that a Seraph has been charged with such a task but I’m certain you’ll do it well. Your instructions will be submitted to you shortly. Of greatest importance is that you don’t disclose who you are or where you’re from.’
In that instant, he disappeared in front of my eyes before I raise another question and I was left with a host of notions as to what I would be required for me to do when I returned to Earth. I would remain in spirit form but I could be seen and heard by only one person... yet I had the power to become visible or invisible at will. I wasn’t quite sure how that would work out but I knew that time would tell. The only thing left was for me to receive instructions on how to proceed.
A voice could be heard in my head which said: ‘Close your eyes and behold!’ I obeyed the order immediately and found myself staring at a screen in my mind’s eye as though I was watching a programme on television. I could see a chubby young man playing the piano deftly. He was a master of his art... a veritable maestro... with his fingers tripping quickly over the keys, delicately and effectively producing a wonderful array of music. I had always loved classical music during my lifetime on Earth and I became fascinated with the melody.
‘This is Alan Turner,’ came the voice in my head. ‘He’s a excellent musician bursting with great ideas for show-business. He’s preparing to arrange a fabulous concert which is to run for two weeks in a giant marquee in a large field in Sussex. The event will be similar to the one known as Glastonbury except that it will be of much higher class and attract a different type of audience. Turner is a member of a committee of five people which includes Sir Christopher Morgan and his wife, Rianna, Mark Meadows, and Aaron and Clarissa Woods. Together they will produce a show of magnificent splendour, filled with musical talent, which will include celebrity guest singers and various choirs. That is the scenario.’
‘What’s my role in this?’ I asked telepathically, keeping my eyes closed in case more information would be accessible on the screen in my mind’s eye. ‘The cost of this show will come to over one million pounds,’ continued the voice. ‘There will be some sponsors and many personal investors to support it. But the cost will spiral and, worse still, fraud will be perpetrated by Mark Meadows, the man in charge of the accounts. He’s a thief who intends to rob his employers as well as steal the funds of this show and disappear. In consequence, one of the investors will overstretch himself financially. He will borrow the money and then be made redundant causing him to suffer a great deal of mental anguish. His name is Jethro Huntley and, if nothing happens to change the course of events, his wife will leave him and he will commit suicide mainly because he’ll be unable to repay the loan he took out to make the investment. If he lives, he will father a son who is to become the founder of a new religion based on peace which will change the nature of the world very much in the same way as Christianity. Your task is to do whatever needs to be done to prevent Huntley from killing himself. Do you have any questions?’
‘Yes,’ I ventured. ‘How often can I allow Huntley to see and hear me?’
‘He is not the person to whom you’re allocated,’’ came the answer.
Silence reigned and the screen disappeared. I opened my eyes again to meditate on the task in hand. How could I possibly connect the musical extravaganza and Huntley with the event of committing suicide if I wasn’t allocated to him? How could he make the investment and then discover he couldn’t afford to cover the loan? To my mind that part of the equation was incredible in iteself. Much to my annoyance at that moment, I had no idea who would be able to see and hear me. Heavenly angels were definitely not helpful to junior Seraphim when it came to operational instructions. I knew that from the experience of having been an Accompanying Angel in the past. Almost certainly I expected to have to concentrate on Jethro Huntley, but nothing was certain when it came to such tasks meted out in Heaven. It seemed to be a dislocated situation for me to handle yet it was clear that I had been left on my own to succeed.
I found myself back on Earth in the house where Alan Turner lived. He was seated at a grand piano smoothly playing a nocturne by Chopin. I stood there, in my invisibility, listening to him absolutely fascinated at the way his fingers ran over the keys. Shortly, there was a knock on the front door and he stopped playing to answer the summons. The visitors were Christopher and Rianna Morgan, Mark Meadows, and Aaron and Clarissa Woods. After they had seated themselves around a table, Turner served them with glasses of sherry and then they began to run through their plans.
‘This will be an extravaganza never seen before,’ declared Turner jubilantly. ‘In fact the company will be called Showtime Extravaganza which will be performed in a field in Sussex and we’re the committee to make it happen. It’ll be such a fabulous show that it will remain in the minds of the audience for ever... a stupendous evening of entertainment for all those who come to see it. I’ve mapped out a budget plan for it and, I can tell you it’s going to be very high. But first let me tell you about the show itself. The main choir consists of three hundred people. This comprises twenty-two separate choirs amalgamated into one. There will be two major brass bands, two school choirs which I assure you are excellent, three national celebrities and there will be a massive orchestra of sixty instrumentalist. The content will be both classical and popular music and the orchestra will play some themes on their own. The plan is to run the show for twelve separate evenings and each one will last for just over three-and-a-quarter hours. It will end up like the Proms with everyone singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ together.’ He paused to look at the faces of the other members of the committee.
‘How much is the budget?’ asked Mark Meadows softly.
‘Somewhere in the region of just over a million pounds,’ Turner told him calmly as though he was stating the price of a loaf of bread.
Sir Christopher Morgan whistled through his teeth at the sum. ‘A million
pounds,’ he echoed in surprise. ‘That’s quite a sum.’ ‘Let me outline how it reaches that figure,’ continued the musician eagerly. ‘Firstly we’ll be playing in a giant tent a hundred yards long and eighty yards wide. There’ll also be changing rooms for the cast. The cost of that is a hundred-and-fifty thousand pounds. Then there’s the payment for the celebrities. And let me tell you they’ll be top performers on stage and television programmes, vitally necessary to attract a massive audience. Three of them plus a impresario costs about three hundred-and-fifty thousand pounds. The stage alone for the three hundred choristers comes to a hundred-anda-twenty thousand. There’ll be a wide screen behind the choristers which show a series of films related to the songs. For example, The Battle Hymn of the Republic will show a moving film of soldiers fighting in the American Civil War. You’ll Never Walk alone, from the musical Carousel, will be absolutely heartbreaking. The cost of the screen and the films are over sixty thousand pounds but they will be worth every penny. There’s the costumes for the three hundred people in the chorus. After that is the cost of marketing... the administration ... the orchestra... donations to the bras bands and the schools... the sound system... the lighting system... the cost of venues for rehearsals... the programmes for the show... and so on and so forth. Remember, this show will run for twelve performances, it’s not just a one-nighter. The tent will hold three thousand people which when multiplied by twelve performances comes to thirty-six thousand... that’s if we sell all the tickets and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do so. At an average price of forty pounds for each ticket, the total arrives at almost one-and-a-half million pounds. Coupled with advertisers, sponsors, television fees, etcetera, we should be able to net almost two million pounds. We’ll have an advantage in our advertising in that we’ll make certain everyone knows that we shall donate one twentieth of the profit to a children’s charity.’