Apostasy Rising
Page 19
Episode 4 (Dec 1, 2019)
Full Season 1 (December 2019)
Apostasy Rising • Episode 2
Chapter 1 Preview
Chapter 1
Tripolitania, AD 2123
“The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took a loaf of bread,” Deacon Zakaria Mwanyanyi said with a nervous tremor, both hands grasping the precious, sacred loaf of Christ’s body in front of him with reverent care and trying his best not to drop it.
Burnt orange light from the evening sun reflecting off from the Mediterranean Sea just outside the ancient walls of the Tripolitanian church streamed through the windows lining the nave in thick ribbons, catching the incense still hanging heavy in the great hall of stone and steel that had served thousands of believers since the dawn of the early Church. He took in a deep breath, the spicy scent of the burnt frankincense steadying his nerves for the sacred ritual. The resin obtained from balsam trees for over two millennia also reminded the young minister of the deeply held traditions that still guided Ichthus despite the seismic changes that had hammered and honed the world outside those walls over the centuries. The ones born through the ravages of nuclear war and biological contagions; and through the Earth’s groanings under the climatic shifts dubbed Armageddon; and through technological progress into space and political changes wrought through the Great Reckoning.
Through it all, the historic traditions and beliefs of Ichthus had held the Church steady. And it was these traditions which Zakaria was a caretaker after taking his place a year ago alongside Father Alexander Zarruq in a long line of under-shepherds of the Great Shepherd succeeding Saint Peter as Christ’s vicars on Earth.
Thank you, Lord Christ, for the privilege of stewarding your broken body and shed blood, he prayed silently. And for the privilege of shepherding your flock that is about to consume these memory-markers. May you steady my spirit and guide my hands...
Zakaria had hoped Father Zarruq would have returned by now to relieve him of the responsibility to carry on the sacred ritual. He had abandoned him several days ago after receiving a message from the Ministerium taking him away on urgent business, leaving him to serve in his stead—which included taking on the very public responsibility of leading Mass. But he was no Father Zarruq. He was always a nervous wreck in front of people, much more preferring behind-the-scenes pastoral care to the on-the-stage kind he was forced into assuming at the priest’s delay.
But he allowed himself a small dose of pleasure serving the children of Christ in this manner, feeling privileged to be able to offer the memory-markers of Christ’s payment for their sins and offer of eternal life through his sacrifice on the cross. The Lord Jesus sure knew they needed them, given the trials and tribulations that life had thrown their way in recent months.
And it was Zakaria who came bearing the sustenance of the Bread of Life for the precious saints arrayed before him.
A smile curled upward as his eyes began to wander across the nave, his hands still holding the loaf of Christ before him as his mind became lost in the sacred gravity of the moment.
They first locked onto Phoebe, who was seated in the front.
Named after the first-century deacon who bore the letter to Christians living in Rome written by Saint Paul, having read it to them and then explained its theological meaning, she certainly lived up to her namesake as a sturdy, steadying theological voice in the church—the matron of the parish if there ever was one. He knew how much the ancient ritual meant to her as someone who had darkened Death’s threshold more than twice that year alone. The memory-markers of her faith fed her, nourished her, sustained her through the trials of this life.
She nodded and smiled at him. He nodded back and then continued making his way around the nave, landing on two parents and their son.
Miriam and Hosea were good and godly parents who had faithfully brought their son Isaiah up in the Church, seeing to his proper catechizing and baptism and guarding his faith as if it were their own. For most of the boy’s years, he was sold out to Ichthus and on fire for Jesus. But he knew through Isaiah’s confessions of late that the boy had been harboring great doubts and began to give himself over to sins he had once held at bay through the power of his faith. He wondered how much longer the boy who was almost a man might remain in that family pew near the back.
His face fell at the thought, and he furrowed his brow slightly before brightening again and continuing on through the sacred space, names and faces and stories fueling his pastoral heart with love and admiration for the precious souls Christ had entrusted to his care—as dark and difficult as it had become for Ichthus since the Reckoning under the increasing pressures of Solterra and everyday citizens of the Republic.
Harmony above distinction…For Humanity! bleated the potentate Lucius Severus, a dog whistle for the masses to abandon the belief in the kind of singular faith and God in favor of a totalizing toleration of anything-goes beliefs and practices within the world community. Which the distinctiveness of Ichthus pushed back against with countercultural resistance.
Someone coughed, its echo snapping Zakaria back to the moment celebrating the holy Eucharist.
The warmth of embarrassment crept up his neck and flushed his cheeks. He smiled and bowed his head before raising it high and continuing the ritual that was meant to feed, nourish, sustain—even provoke—his people’s faith.
He took a breath, then proclaimed, “And when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’”
He broke the unleavened bread in two and set the pieces down upon a gleaming silver platter resting on white linen lace that ran the length of the altar fashioned from sacred acacia wood, etched with gilt into leafy, whorl patterns. Then he carefully clutched the heavy chalice, weighed down by gold and the sacred wine it held, the memory-marker of Jesus Christ’s shed blood for the forgiveness of sins.
Zakaria held forth the golden chalice before the gathered, faithful people of Christ, inviting them to taste and see the Lord’s goodness found in the font that flowed freely from his hands and feet and side for their salvation from shame and guilt, for their rescue from sin and death. He paused, quietly thanking the Lord for the opportunity to lead the holy sacrament of communion in Father Zarruq’s absence, as late arriving as he was.
He smiled widely and proclaimed, “In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.’”
Before setting the cup down upon the Eucharistic table to join the broken Body of his Lord, he continued with Paul’s words from his first letter to the Church of Corinth, chapter eleven, raising the chalice above his head: “For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”
Amen, the crowd of Ichthus’s faithful said in agreement.
“Amen,” Zakaria said, setting the holy cup back on the altar. He went to offer the Eucharistic Prayer when an unholy roar at the back of the nave intercepted him.
A series of thunderous explosions ricocheted from the narthex along the ancient walls that bore the memory of Christ’s Church stretching back to its existence. A choreography of stone chunks and pluming smoke exploded inside the sacred space at angry angles, sending a crescendoing wave of evil biting hard toward the high altar.
For Christ’s under-shepherd, it all happened in slow-motion wickedness. From the stained glass Zakaria had helped clean each week blowing out in confetti-like shards to the black-and-red fireballs rolling over Miriam and Hosea and Isaiah on toward Phoebe. From the agonizing screams of confusion and pain to Christ’s Body and Blood being overtaken by a menacing maw spawned from the loins of Satan himself—sending the priest flying high in a heaping pile of rubble and mangled limbs.
While Father Alexander Zarruq was returning home, nearing his precious parish down a path just outside, his precious parishioners—mothers and fathers, sons and daughte
rs, believers and doubters, men and women—were consumed in a fantasmic show of fire and fury, a promised evil that had been hinted at for weeks that was finally unleashed.
Terrorists had struck the Church of Tripolitania.
The fight for the faith of Ichthus had come home.
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Also by J. A. Bouma
J. A. Bouma believes nobody should have to read bad religious fiction—whether it’s cheesy plots with pat answers or misrepresentations of the Christian faith and the Bible. So he wants to do something about it by telling compelling, propulsive stories that thrill as much as inspire, while offering a dose of insight along the way.
Order of Thaddeus Action-Adventure Thriller Series
Holy Shroud • Book 1
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American God • Book 4
Grail of Power • Book 5
Templars Rising • Book 6
Ichthus Chronicles Sci-Fi Dystopian Apocalyptic Series
Apostasy Rising / Season 1, Episode 1
Apostasy Rising / Season 1, Episode 2
Apostasy Rising / Season 1, Episode 3
Apostasy Rising / Season 1, Episode 4
Faith Reimagined Spiritual Coming-of-Age Series
A Reimagined Faith • Book 1
A Rediscovered Faith • Book 2
A Ruined Faith • Book 3 (2020)
A Resurrected Faith • Book 4 (2021)
About the Author
J. A. Bouma believes nobody should have to read bad religious fiction--whether it’s cheesy plots with pat answers or misrepresentations of the Christian faith and the Bible. So he wants to do something about it by telling compelling, propulsive stories that thrill as much as inspire, while offering a dose of insight along the way.
As a former congressional staffer and pastor, and award-nominated bestselling author of over forty religious fiction and nonfiction books, he blends a love for ideas and adventure, exploration and discovery, thrill and thought. With graduate degrees in Christian thought and the Bible, and armed with a voracious appetite for most mainstream genres, he tells stories you'll read with abandon and recommend with pride—exploring the tension of faith and doubt, spirituality and culture, belief and practice, and the gritty drama that is our pilgrim story.
When not putting fingers to keyboard, he loves vintage jazz vinyl, a glass of Malbec, and an epic read -- preferably together. He lives in Grand Rapids with his wife, two kiddos, and rambunctious boxer-pug-terrier.
www.jabouma.com • jeremy@jabouma.com