Rostam took a seat next to Heydar, and Wara noticed by the way all the Iranian’s eyes were glued to the chef that he was going to be in charge of this meeting. Was he their pastor?
“Neelam,” Heydar leaned back into the wall and breathed deep, as if the purple room were full of a sweeter air than anything outside it, “we can share iPods.”
IPods? Wara blinked. Neelam Samadi crossed her legs and leaned into the center of the room, where Wara noticed a black docking station that spouted a tangle of little black cords connected, indeed, to a myriad of multicolored iPods. The Iranians around the room began to close their eyes and fastened sets of tiny headphones in their ears. Mirza Samadi himself actually reached across the room with a wry smile and handed an iPod and headphones to Alejo, who shared one ear bud with Wara.
“Number fourteen,” Neelam said softly, and everyone punched buttons. Mirza kicked the bedroom door closed, which marginally blocked out the rocking music of Muse coming from the living room.
Is that to cover our noise, so the neighbors won’t realize we’re having church in here?
The loud music was distracting, but Wara started as she suddenly heard the beginning of a familiar Christian song in her ear.
“He became sin, who knew no sin,
That we might become His righteousness.
He humbled Himself and carried the cross…”
While Wara peeped from under lowered lashes, the entire house church whispered the words to “Jesus Messiah”, ignoring the strains of Muse, raising hands towards heaven or lying down on their faces on the eggshell carpet.
When they had finished singing, Heydar prayed and nodded towards Mirza Samadi. The rock star pulled a sleek black iPod out of his shirt pocket and cleared his throat.
“Today I’m gonna read from the book of Corinthians,” he explained, and Wara watched as Mirza poked with thick fingers at the tiny buttons of the iPod. Of course, it made more sense to keep a Farsi Bible on the iPod than, say, under the mattress in this bedroom. If the police should ever raid, erasing the Bible and all the Christian music would only take a matter of seconds.
Mirza read a chapter from First Corinthians, dark eyebrows lowered. “We all heard what God’s word said.” Mirza gazed at the believers gathered around the room. “In a country like ours, with so much poverty and inequality, it’s so easy for those of us who’ve got it made to turn the other way, ignoring the cry of that skinny little boy who wants to shine our shoes for breakfast money. We call them dirty and uneducated, and we feel full of pride that we are unlike them. We’re the beautiful, the educated, the only ones who really are worth taking the time to get to know. Am I right?”
Neelam nodded, then reached over to slip the iPod out of her brother’s hands and study it for herself.
“As Heydar read last week in Isaiah 58, for God justice isn’t just optional,” Mirza said. “When we care about the poor and needy, it’s sign that God’s grace has really touched our hearts. I would even say it’s the sign.”
One of the young men in a navy Hollister button-down looked away from Mirza uncomfortably. Wara knew that in a society that valued economic class as much as in Iran or Bolivia, following Jesus into the homes of the poor was truly to die to oneself. If the nervous guy in the Hollister shirt across from Wara began to mix with the poor and work with Hand Up, he would probably lose all his friends who weren’t believers—and make his parents madder than all get out.
“And just for those of us who doubt, today we’re going to read Matthew 24,” Mirza explained while squinting at the iPod and punching more buttons. “Jesus really lays it on the line here. The ones who give the hungry something to eat, the homeless somewhere to sleep, and don’t forget the ones in prison…those are the ones who belong to his father.”
18
Christian Chat Rooms
WHEN EVERYONE FINISHED PRAYING, THE YOUNG guys and Leila said their goodbyes and left the apartment. It was nearly one a.m., according to an alarm clock in the purple bedroom.
“Oh, look,” Rostam grinned as he led them into the living room. “It’s early. We’ve got to pray more next time, because this is way, way too early for our party to be over.”
Wara barely noticed his comment; she was still too moved from seeing all the young Christians praying and hearing God’s word together in that room. Hiding behind the noise of party music so they wouldn’t be arrested and killed for what they believed like Sami may have been.
Mirza Samadi had come up to stand at her side next to the kitchen bar, where Heydar was serving them all soft drinks. Someone had put on some Iranian pop music. “Mirza, those verses are really hard for me,” Rostam shook his head and slurped Zam Zam Cola, the Iranian alternative to Coke. “We were just raised so differently.”
They all talked about Corinthians for a while, and the problem of AIDS in Iran. Wara imagined this would usually be the time when they all hung out together and talked about what they’d learned from the Bible. Having the presence of three unknowns, however, seemed to put somewhat of a damper on the conversation. She knew Rostam had told them why Sandal and the group were here, but Wara was sure it wasn’t easy to trust these people who had just shown up in their lives.
Neelam was leaning over the bar, propped up on her elbows, sipping orange Fanta mixed with a shot of Zam Zam. “You’re coming to the Hand Up fundraiser tomorrow, right? Rostam said he told you about the concert. We’re raising funds to help with the problem of AIDS.” The way Neelam was positioned left her facing only Sandal and Alejo, so Wara gritted her teeth and decided to actually say something to the famous Mirza Samadi, still standing at her side.
“It was, uh, really great to meet you guys. Here at church,” she blurted, feeling like a confirmed nerd. Mirza smiled at her while draining his glass. “Who owns this house here? It’s great they let you use it to meet.”
Mirza swallowed hard, sputtering a bit on his Zam Zam Cola. He eyed her, then his sister, then Alejo. “Rostam said you lived here before,” he addressed Alejo. “You want to tell her?” Alejo leaned back casually against a wall of the luxurious apartment. Wara noticed Rostam’s cheeks had bloomed a rosy pink.
“This whole building is full of bachelor apartments, Petra,” Alejo calmly explained. “Rich guys rent them so they always have a place to hook up with girls without getting arrested. You didn’t see all the people in the hallway?”
Now Wara felt really stupid. It did make sense. She glanced back at Mirza, who was still watching her. “Oh.”
Mirza grinned. “Did you think we just liked to listen to really loud music while we pray?”
“Um, no.” Wara felt her own cheeks threatening to flame. “Ok.”
Alejo motioned through the air with one hand, feeling the need to enlighten Wara further. “So everyone thinks we’re up here…”
Wara cut him off. “I get it. Thanks.”
Sandal whacked Alejo impishly in the arm. Neelam placed her empty glass on the counter, and ice cubes clinked loudly. “Where else could a mixed group of men and women get together in Iran without someone calling the police?” she asked with a shrug of her narrow shoulders. “Our church is made up of young people. No one who sees us all coming up here thinks anything.”
“The police get paid off as part of my rent, too. That’s handy.” Mirza slid down onto a bar stool and wrapped his fingers around a Starbucks mug on the counter. “Whenever we want to get together to read the Bible or pray with each other, we just plan a degraded party.”
“Or so they think,” Rostam winked.
Mirza slouched down lower on the bar stool. His blue eyes slid shut and he heaved a sigh. His fingers were still gripping the coffee mug. Neelam came around the bar and wrapped an arm around her brother’s wide shoulders.
“That was Sami’s mug,” she explained softly to the newcomers. “And his Sudoku book. This is where he always sat, smoking and doing Sudoku.” Her lips curved into a full smile. “Sami did love his Sudoku.”
“We leave his st
uff there, to remind us,” Rostam said quietly. “Heydar is our pastor now, but Sami was our first pastor. He’s the one who started our group, told us all God loved us. He really loved us, too.”
“Well, I have something I’d like to know,” Mirza said abruptly. “Because honestly, I’m more than a little confused. What happened with Sami and Jaime’s church? I mean, one minute they baptized him into the faith, the next they disowned him and said he wasn’t really a Christian. And darn it, that seems to apply to all of us. None of them are doing anything about the fact that the rest of Ashavan is in one of the worst prisons in the world. Do they really think we’re spies and Satan worshippers? Because I can tell you, the only reason they were arrested is because they became Christians.” Mirza was scowling in frustration. Wara took another gulp of her soda.
She had grown up in the church and could pretty much imagine how things had gone down. Well, at least part of it. Rock and roll and Christianity, for many, simply did not mix.
“We’ve never met Jaime Malcolm,” Sandal told Mirza, though in Wara’s case that wasn’t exactly true. She had spent many a Saturday night at youth group with the guy…back in the day. “We’ve been trying to contact him nearly every day, but he seems to be really busy working. Even his mother says he won’t answer her calls because he’s always got something going on.”
“Look on the internet,” Wara interrupted. “I bet I could tell you some chat sites that would have a lot of, uh, comments about what happened with Church of the Valley. They film all their services, too. My mom watches them all. Jaime being fired was kind of a big scandal, so I bet we could find something on YouTube.”
Alejo threw her a nod as he unpacked his laptop and Neelam got them onto the flat’s WiFi. Sure enough, within a few seconds Sandal had found something, a video titled, “Iranian convert blasts megachurch.”
“That sounds good,” Alejo muttered under his breath. They all watched as the now-familiar image of Sami filled the screen. He wore gray pin-stripe pants and a black sweater and was standing on the stage of a church, framed by a large American flag on one side and the white and blue Christian flag on the other. Behind him on the ecru wall a frayed violet banner proclaimed, “Go in to all the world and preach the gospel!” The image swam in and out of focus, showing that it had probably been filmed by someone in the congregation. Soft piano music tinkled in the background. Someone was swishing a rain stick.
Sami told the church in excellent English about the situation with AIDS in his country and about Hand Up, an organization recognized world-wide for treating AIDS patients in very effective ways. From his intonation, Wara picked up that this was a farewell speech before Sami headed back to Iran.
And execution.
“Brothers and sisters.” Those startling eyes bore into the camera. “Jesus said that the ones who will take their place in the Kingdom of his father are the ones who saw someone hungry and gave them something to eat. Those who saw someone in prison and visited them. Those who saw the sick and helped them. I’m new to following Jesus, so I talked with the leaders of this church about how God wants me to use my fame in Iran to help Hand Up and the people suffering and dying of AIDS. I asked for their blessing on me as I begin this. Before, I just used my fame to pick up cute girls, but that was before I knew about Jesus.”
White shone on the rock star’s knuckles as he gripped the mike tighter and leaned onto one hip. Sandal kept up a running commentary, translating what Sami said into Farsi for those who might not catch all the English. “That said,” Sami continued, “I also spoke with the leadership about your church partnering with Hand Up, because I believed they cared about Iran and about obeying Jesus’ words. They brought me all the way over here! And Jalan, Ardalan, and Tarsa.” The camera jerkily panned right, where three young figures clustered at the side of the stage. Wara recognized the dirty blonde as Tarsa, Ashavan’s only girl. The camera went back to Sami’s beautiful face. “But your church leaders have told me they will not help, and can’t even bless my intentions of working together with Hand Up.”
“Oooo,” Wara drew the sound out. She leaned over Alejo’s shoulder to get a better view of his tiny laptop screen. “I bet here is where people began to get mad…”
“You are my family in Christ,” Sami continued crossly, “and I have to warn you: do not fall in to the devil’s lie that religion is enough without works. I was the same as many of you before I knew Christ. I honestly didn’t care about the poor and dying, because it didn’t affect me.”
Only Sami didn’t exactly use that language. The phrase he used was something Wara was pretty sure had never been spoken in that church before, and the audience gasped, taken aback by the foul language. Whoever was filming snickered and Sami’s eyes burned.
“The sad part is, I’m pretty darn sure that after today, the only thing that will stay in your minds is the little bad word I just used. You won’t remember what I said about the people God loves dying of AIDS and how we as believers are called to show love to them. You will only remember one little word, and you’ll use it as an excuse to not obey Jesus’ words. You’ll say, ‘that rock star is a sinner,’ and you will care more about that than the people who are dying.”
The video flashed to black and Alejo stared darkly at the little red YouTube logo. “Wow.” He scrolled down to the comments.
Was the guy right? Had people only cared about the swearing?
You were raised in the pew, Wara. You know that’s all they’ll remember!
“Whoa. There are about ten million comments there,” Mirza remarked. He, Neelam, and Rostam seemed shaken by Sami’s speech, maybe never having heard what had gotten their friend into such big trouble with the U.S. church.
“Sami,” Wara picked up a comment at the bottom of the screen, “sadly seems to have converted only to a social gospel, not the true gospel of Jesus Christ. Just because someone wants to get involved in a social cause does not make them a true believer by any means. Look at Bono from U2, a great example of someone who passes themselves off as a Christian just because they’re a philanthropist, but whose unholy life is a total contradiction. There are plenty of Christians across the world accomplishing more through prayer than Sami ever will through this AIDS program. Unless they are shown the bread of life, Jesus Christ, then no amount of food or medicine will be enough to save them. It is a waste of time to cure a gay man of AIDS if he does not believe in Jesus and leave his sin.”
They both sat in silence. “Wow,” Alejo finally managed.
“Yeah, that was a guy named Jeff,” Wara read. “He says something else a few comments down.”
“Read it,” Alejo insisted.
“I have looked up the website of this Iranian charity, Hand Up,” Wara read sourly, “and what I found there, sadly, has only helped my previous point. This group actually passes out free birth control, not to mention syringes to drug users. And this man, Sami, actually thinks that working with this organization would be compatible with true Christian behavior? We are to teach others to live a holy life, not pass out the very means for them to continue in drug use and sexual immorality. Shame on you, Sami, for calling yourself a follower of Jesus Christ. You put all us true believers to shame.”
Neelam and Rostam both stood with jaws hanging open, but Mirza was absolutely white. “That...that’s why they said Sami wasn’t a true believer?” he said hoarsely. “We’re just trying to not let HIV spread. So more people can have life.”
Wara felt awful. She knew that her mother and most people in her church probably felt the same way as Jeff in his online commentary. “Social gospel” meant someone was trying to do good works instead of preaching.
Mirza looked about to throw up.
“No one was shocked by what he said about the situation with AIDS,” Alejo said, scanning the next page of comment. “There are all kinds of references here to the profanity, people saying John Rainer should speak out against it. Sami was right.”
They sat in unhappy silence a s
econd while Alejo visited another popular Christian website Wara had mentioned to him. “Here are the more recent comments,” Alejo finally noted. “You’re right, Wara. People went on and on about this. Everyone loves a scandal. So, after Sami went back to Iran and continued singing and started supporting Hand Up, there’s just complaint after complaint about interviews and photos on the internet. Sami drinking. Sami smoking, Sami on the yacht with girls in bikinis. Sami still sings rock and roll and hasn’t started singing Christian music and preaching. Sami swearing, again. Sami drinking, again. Pastor Rainer said,” Alejo raised his voice sarcastically, “that he wished he never baptized that boy. He doesn’t understand the first thing about the gospel”
Wara started as she noticed Mirza go down to the carpet, head buried in his knees. “Mirza?” Neelam went to his side. Her eyes had turned red and runny. This must be horrible for them to hear.
“We didn’t know,” Mirza said lowly from his position on the floor. “We knew the Quran forbids drinking, but we didn’t know followers of Jesus couldn’t drink. We understood that the sin was drunkenness. And we didn’t know they would think he wasn’t a Christian if he smoked. If they would have told us, we would have changed. Anything so they wouldn’t just let us die.”
Removing himself from his sister’s touch, Mirza rose and stalked off to one of the flat’s back rooms. The door slammed and the rest of them were left staring at the computer and an unhopeful darkness.
19
Persecution
IN THE SHADOW OF A CAMEL-COLORED CATHEDRAL, Alejo and his team sat slowly licking Popsicles, listening to Rostam give his spiel. They sat on the border of a chill concrete fountain, currently devoid of water, adorned in the center with a dark, hulking monk statue. Cozy canopied shops formed a square around the plaza and in front of them loomed the walled entrance to Vank Cathedral, first stop on today’s tour in Rostam’s little red car.
Reverb (Story of CI #2) Page 12