A Abba's Apocalypse

by Charles E. Butler

  It “hits me,” as I return to my section of the bench. It has to be five in the morning. I start crunching the numbers and am numb to the results. The quake has been going on for at least sixteen hours, and I’ve been asleep for fourteen of them. This realization overwhelms me enough to wake someone and share these amazing statistics. “How is this possible?” As I contemplate the reality of this situation, I feel myself begin to comfortably drift back into the dark. The exercise of my reasoning uses up the little energy I still have.

  Out of the darkness, I immediately find myself running past pictures, moments, and glimpses that are moving alongside me in this dimensional tunnel. Every instance is a brief view of my life. I pass by my birth and accelerate through history. My clothing quickly ages, and then falls away. I try running away even faster, but there is no exit from what is happening. A new set of attire magically materializes over me. It seems the further back in time I run, the more ancient the style of clothing. Out of breath, I slow down under the weight of this shabby robe. I feel like I’ve ran for two thousand years. I see the brilliantly lighted exit I’ve been looking for. It lay slightly up ahead. All of a sudden, I become scared while hearing the extremely loud blasting clamor emanating just beyond the mouth of this cave.

  I attempt to protect my eyes from the intense light with the waving flag draping down from my arm. My eyes hurt as they try adjusting to the bright sunlight. In my temporary blindness, I listen to what sounds like a passing precession. The crowd around me is filled with extreme emotion towards, what seems to be, the passing parade. Some are screaming shameful suggestions to vulgar to repeat. Others in the crowd are crying pitifully, while loudly yelling, “Mercy!” I let my ears be my eyes, as I try making sense of this extremely unusual event.

  I am able to see the faint outline of and image through my loosely woven robe. I hear the thumping of something heavy pound down over and over on some sort of stony path. It is becoming louder and louder as it comes slowly closer and closer towards me. The crowd of voices grows more violent in their extremes. I feel shrugging on all sides of me. I am forcefully tossed back and forth while being continually jabbed in this sea of churning elbows. It seems there is a war within the crowd, contesting to roar their own convincing convictions. Each battle of persuasion is attempting to push their counterpart over to their verdict. I wonder amidst all this hostility what could cause them all to feel so violent. I think,

  “What could cause a man to act so hateful towards another?”

  The approaching pounding is very close now. I notice

  in my blindness something particularly odd. An eerie

  awkward silence seems to parallel the point nearest the sound of the pounding. I can only guess at the reason these

  independent battles among the crowd momentarily stop. Is it to briefly view their passing guest of honor? I’ve been to championship parades before with a million hysterical fans, but none were like this. The pounding sound strikes me like a large resounding baseball bat. That’s what this pounding sounds like. It has the same wooden pitch that tingles when hardwood echoes off a stone surface. I use to make a similar sound as I bounce my baseball bat vertically off my concrete driveway. I wish I could see who is making this sound. He must be some sort of super star to have gained all this attention.

  I feel the jousting elbows slowing, and notice the pause in the approaching silence coming nearer. I subconsciously command my eyes to hurry and adjust to this bright light. I continue to stare through the loose weave, and see a large shape moving up and down, as it inches forward. I am able to determine it is definitely the source of the pounding. I try and see the machine that could be driving, what must be, a very heavy wooden pile downwards. I know now it is much bigger than a baseball bat. The only reason I can come up with is: there is a special machine demolishing the road so a new one can be laid. But, this does not explain why all these emotional people would be here to view such an event. I don’t hear the sound of the engine it would take to repeatedly lift the heavy beam. I think, “This machine is very efficient for it to be working as quietly as it is.” I hear something else strange coming out of the almost silence. Terrible voices are yelling at someone who is trying to maintain the machine. I hear them threatening the operator to keep the device moving. I kind of feel sorry for the guy, as this machine breaks down and stops in front of me.

  I strain to see what is going on through the veil of material hanging down from my arm. My vision improves just enough for me to see the shape of something lying on the

  road. I reason something big must have broken off the machine. I hear the sound of leather slapping bare flesh. I yell, “What the heck!” I know this familiar sound from when

  I misbehaved as a child. I still remember the stinging pain of my father’s leather belt on my bare bottom. I hear this gentleman’s agonizing moans, but those evil leaders just don’t care. They continue slapping him over and over as he tries to fix the machine. My swelling compassion overtakes me. I yell through my cape commanding these bullies, “Stop it!” I feel the weight of the crowd’s stare suddenly turn towards me. I muster all my strength and defy these beating bullies once again by yelling, “Stop hitting him!” Off to my sides I see a sea of sliding heads churning side to side. They seem to be quietly warning me to “stop it” myself. My growing anger towards this apathetic horde is much greater than my restrained fear. In the heat of the moment, I realize I don’t care one iota what they think! Why should I? I don’t hear one lousy soul screaming out “mercy” for this poor guy just trying to do his job. The sound of rising commotion is coming straight at me. My senses heighten amongst the chanting chatters of, “Ahhh, you did it now!”

  Stomping feet and growing growls quickly approach my direction. I ball my fist from behind my draped arm and prepare to secretly plow over the encroaching thug. His waving silhouette is about three or four people away. I time my punch while watching this welcoming sea part under his advancement. I think to myself, “You whips. That’s alright; I’ll stand up for this poor fellow all by myself.” I slowly lower my arm while still staring through the loose weave of my robe. I jerk my eyes over the blind spot my arm is creating, and, and, and I swing and knock the heck out of this devil. In this moment I see what is really going on. I stand submissive and helplessly in awe.

  My eyes swell up with instant tears of compassion in my realization of what I’m looking at. This poor man covered in blood is the machine carrying that gritty splintery heavy

  wooden beam attached to his cross. He looks directly at me and forces himself to comfort me with his most amazing smile. I shake my head silently side to side as my heart profusely repeats “No, this can’t be!” His battered face reveals a gasp that looks like He’s saying, “This has to be.” His overwhelming compassion allows me to feel some of His immense pain and exhaustion. In this moment, I decide I will risk everything and go help him. The soldier I knocked down is now grabbing me. I am mesmerized as I hypnotically stare at this totally bloody man. One soldier from the street yells to the one holding me, “He needs a good beating! Bring him down here!” But, the poor bloody man gains the strength, from where I can’t imagine, and yells “No, give his lashes to me instead!”

  Immediately after this proclamation He falls and weeps in the puddle of blood he is leaving. For some strange reason the soldiers decide to take him up on his offer. I move to advance, but a large invisible presence abruptly comes and confines me in my current position. This poor rejected man on the street turns his head again back towards me, as if to say, “Thank you Joey,” just before they tear violently into his flesh without any sign of mercy. He screams, but He continues His inch by inch march. I shake and cry as I feel this humungous invisible presence clutching me remorsefully tremble right along with me. Suddenly, I am pushed helplessly back towards the darkness in the cave I came from. I wave as I depart to the dead man walking, “Thank you, thank you, thank you Jesus!”

  I rub my eyes and feel the grit and dirt th
at must be forming in this dark chamber. I think, maybe it is some of the ancient dust from that holiest of days. I see Paul is awake and sitting considerably quiet across from me. I make out Mark’s strewn body that unbelievably is still sleeping. I whisper to

  Paul, “Follow me.” I stand, and then proceed up the steps. I slide the screeching bolt, and then lift the door into the sunlight. Paul lifts the side door, as we peer out together.

  Everything still continues to shake as it has. I check my watch and determine it has been over twenty four hours since this all began. We see there is absolutely nothing left outside, except two things. There is a fine mixture of pulverized organic and inorganic debris resembling sand everywhere, and the reverberating silhouette of where “Project Hope” should be. Paul humbly looks at me and says, “The Bible mentions this. It predicts there will be a three day period of shaking where no man will be able to stand.” I look down at my watch and tell Paul, “That means we still have two days more to go.” Paul moves back down the stairs as I decide to test the power of protection I was previously given. I place my leg onto the vibrating ground, beyond this still area of protection, and set it down. I am suddenly twisted and thrown back down the steps. I know now that the preceding gift is gone. I shut the doors and return to my friends in the lower chamber. I again leave death alone, and pray it will continue to pass over us.

  I watch Paul light the “Canned Heat” bringing this chamber to life. “I woke earlier and put the can out,” Paul informs me. “I figured there was no sense wasting its fuel while everybody was still sleeping.” He reaches into the rucksack and states, “I guess that’s it for the protein bars.” I motion for him to slide the rucksack over to me. I reach deep down inside and pull out two empty cans that were formerly “Canned Heat.” I tap any remnants still in them onto the floor below, and then remove my canteen of water. I fill both small cans with water while asking Paul if he might like a delicacy. I reach back into my sack and remove two thin foil packs of instant coffee I saved from some previous MRE. “Sure thing,” Paul responds. I place both tins partway over the flame and use three stone fragments to prop the cans up. We sit back in the partial light and wait for the water to get hot.

  Mark finally seems to be waking up as we notice his shifting shadow stretch over the wall. Our attention is now on Mark slowly swings his feet around from his horizontal

  position. I remark, “I guess tea for two has turned into coffee for three.” He returns my offer by responding, “Who has coffee?” I mildly chuckle, and discern Mark’s very long nap has restored his cognitive ability to a higher level of function

  then he previously had. “How’d you sleep Mark, and how’s

  your stomach?” I stare for his response while watching him using the palms of his hands to twist his eye awake. He asks, “Where am I?” I figure he’s disoriented by that comment. “It’s me, Joey. We’re in a storm cellar.” The realization of his situation begins to return, as depression and hopelessness appears on his darken face. “We’re making you some fresh brewed coffee,” I remark. He sits in there just rocking and simmering with the knowledge there’s no current way to release his pent-up anxiety or frustration. Mark barks, “I heard you guys remark the quake is still shaking out there.” I’m careful to respond knowing Mark is hanging by a real thin thread-mentally. I know his hope hinges on still finding his family alive. The shaking world is beyond just devastating to us.

  I try and change the subject by remarking, “Do you take cream and sugar?” I have neither, but I figure the offer is worth a thousand words. I am glad to hear him say, “I haven’t had fresh coffee in months, or has it been years?” I try subtly to work the epic question into the conversation. It’s the last question on everyman’s heart. “So Mark, do you think there is anything after life?” Mark says nothing in his attempt to control his battling emotions. He kind of shrugs his shoulders as his answer to my question. I know now he may be receptive enough to listen to the might of the Holy Spirit inviting his heart to really reason.

  “The way I look at it Mark, there are only two logical possibilities for our existence.” I go on to explain both possibilities while confidently suggesting he looks like a man

  of reason. He shrugs his shoulders again and replies, “Well, I guess so. I’ve always tried to be rational in my decisions.” I pose the two epic possibilities given to man. “Mark, one is we

  came from nothing and are going back to it. Everything and

  everyone you love will die when you die. Why go through the pain of caring about anyone if you’re just going to lose them

  anyways? If the only reason you live is for whatever you decide your life should be then your purpose is really

  worthless. This means living itself is a selfish act and there is absolutely no reason for us to even live. If you buy this argument you might just as well live like hell and fill your gut with every personal satisfaction you can swallow.” I stop for a brief moment so Mark can digest this no calorie thought. “Every law of science says everything has a beginning. This requires something eternal to create the very first thing. Some secular scientists try to evade this realization by burying the absolute beginning to the universe in String Theory, alternate universes, or supposedly locked dimensions. But these too must have a beginning. You see Mark; always look for the cracks in the foundation that every proof is built upon, because eventually that house is doomed to fall. Yep, the house is only as strong as its foundation.” Mark agrees with this logical conclusion by giving a silent nod of his head. I try to steer clear of psycho babble regarding absolute truth and post modernism by keeping the idea simple. “I once heard that Albert Einstein stated: ‘If you want to see inside the mind of God you need to think and believe like a child’.”

  I go on to strengthen my debate by saying, “Do you know Sir Isaac Newton is probably the smartest guy who ever lived? He devoted more of his life to writings about the proof of God’s existence; which most people are never told. Why look for something if it’s not there? This genius mind knew in his heart there has to be God. That is the only real logical answer.” I bend over and place my finger tip in the tin can to check the temperature. “Ohhh, a couple more minutes.” I continue by stating God put this desire to fellowship with

  Him in every heart at the moment He created each of us. This yearning to be complete with God is why every society in history contains one particular part experts have a hard time

  explaining. It’s called religion. God has given us His word to

  prove which religion leads truly to Him. He also has given us one hundred percent verifiable accurate prophesy to prove Christ is God. He doesn’t expect us to blindly believe, but rather test Him, and His word.” I want to introduce

  evidence proving Atheists are nothing more than self proclaimed idiots by saying they know nothing exist, but I appeal to a different reasoning instead. It’s the one answer that always comes down to the heart of the matter.

  “Let’s put God to the scientific test.” I lay the ground rules for this experiment and remark to Mark this will only work if he is prepared for the results. “This is why God won’t give certain unbelievers the miracle they require to help them believe. God knows their hard hearts will explain away any proof, even the miracle they asked for as evidence.” Mark suggests that I am crazy, and he wants nothing more to do with this. I reply, “Okay then, but if I’m right I know one day in eternity I’ll be with my loving God, and those whom I loved here in life.” I return to my silence and let this thought stew a while longer. I know the heart is a funny kettle. Some are made of thicker metal than others. I return my finger thermometer to the tins below while formulating my next move. “Feels like coffee time,” I remark. I see Pastor Paul smile and lean back, as if he might be learning something.

  I juggle one steaming hot can over to the available section of bench closes to Paul, and then toss him a brown foil packet of the instant coffee. I tell him he’ll have to improvise a spoon to stir it with. I wat
ch him think as he comes up with his solution. He empties the coffee into the tin and bends the foil packet into a “V” shape. He smiles as he stirs and remarks, “Don’t let me interrupt your conversation.” I stare at his agitating face as he presses the hot tin to his cold lips. He seals

  his contention with a subtle smirk and a smile. I quietly and

  slowly simmer, watching this godly man return to stirring his

  brew. I think how I missed the opportunity to have a hot

  accident on his lap. I nod and smirk my laughing smirk right

  back at him.

  I repeat the process Paul went through, and then hand

  my coffee tin over to Mark. It seems he has given the issue more thought. Or, maybe it is sheer desperation to grab at any solution which may save his lost family. He asks, “So, you’re

  saying you have proof God exists?” I nod a sincere and simple, “Yes.” He thinks a second and tells me, “You’re trying to tell me for thousands of years man has looked for absolute truth that God exists, and you finally found it?” I respond with another simple, “Yes.” Mark finally seems relaxed enough to find the missing key that will open this true treasure. It is the key to his heart he had all along. He finally gives me the answer I am looking for with his, “How?”

  I return to the one simple rule he must subjugate himself to for this scientific experiment to work. “This test requires that for one minute in your measly existence you ask God, your father and creator, with your broken heart, to prove to you He exists.” I proclaim the one certain condition of the experiment, “You have to be willing to accept the miraculous result when it happens. Sometimes He’ll answer in a very small way, but in a very significant way. Other times he may send giants. God promises to always answer a sincere open heart.” He looks at me through the wall of his defense he’s built to protect his hurting heart. I watch as he opens his deepest desires to me. He cries out, “I want to believe. Oh God, I do want to believe!” I sit by Mark and wrap my comforting arm over his shoulder and around him. I tell my new buddy, “You are not alone.” I ask him to promise me one more thing. “When God does prove exclusively to you He exists, will you then ask Him to come into your heart and be the Lord of your life?” I feel him nod his skeptical affirmation from his head currently buried in my chest. I pat him on the back as Pastor Paul moves towards Mark’s other side. Paul