by Wid Bastian
While Peter Carson accepted the inevitability of his own martyrdom, he had no such similar attitude about the lives of his brothers. They were his soul mates, his charges, closer to him in many ways than Julie or Kevin could ever be. He continually petitioned God for their protection. Their safety and well being was far more important to him than his own fate.
It was not for Peter to know which of his brothers would die at the hands of the enemy and which would pass on peacefully in their old age. Peter accepted this lack of knowledge as God’s will and took it as a sign that he was to do everything possible to keep his brothers safe.
But now the entire world was beckoning him. Peter could only do so much to protect Saul and the other disciples. God saved each of them for a purpose and that purpose most certainly involved sacrificing everything for others if that was required to accomplish His goals.
“The President wants to see you now, Peter,” Rico Vargas said, as he emerged from the hallway and into Saul’s makeshift hospital room. “Is he getting any better?”
“No. Worse, I’m afraid,” Peter answered.
“What do you want me to do, Panos? I mean if you need to be here I certainly understand that, maybe … ”
“No, General. My duty lies elsewhere. Malik will stay with Saul. We must trust God.”
It was early evening on the twentieth of June. By now every living soul on the planet was aware of the restriction and its unprecedented impact on human life. People spoke of little else. Issues considered vital and urgent only twenty-four hours earlier were now irrelevant.
In every society, the select were showing themselves and using their faith for the advancement of the Kingdom. Peter was miraculously blessed with millions of new witnesses to his claim of being God’s messenger.
Whether they originated in China, Tibet, India, Pakistan, Vietnam, Israel, Greece, France, Brazil, or the United States, it didn’t matter. The stories were the same; the assertions made identical. No one could rightly question the plain fact that something had touched a staggering number of people with nothing previously in common other than that they were alive, blessing each of them with the same spiritual experience.
Reports of phenomenal works began streaming in from everywhere. As might be expected, some of these claims were bogus, but most were not. The power of the Holy Spirit was pouring out like never before, abundantly manifesting itself on those who believed.
But despite this massive demonstration of God’s power, most people only directly experienced the effects of the restriction. The select were a few million amidst billions. By no means did the majority of the world run to embrace the idea that God was speaking to them through His son Jesus Christ.
The President desperately wanted to further God’s cause. He now believed, quite correctly, that for this purpose he was elected to his office.
Peter was the key. Everyone wanted to see him, to talk with him, to size him up, to determine for themselves whether he was a prophet or a fraud. He could not stay under wraps in the White House for much longer. The problem was controlling Peter’s coming out process, how best to engage the masses without being trampled by them.
After an hour spent in solitude and prayer, the President emerged from his private chapel with an answer.
“It was actually Mr. Anderson’s idea,” the President admitted. “I just expanded on it.”
“Alex?” Peter asked.
“I can’t really take credit for it either, Dave Martz was the one who basically thought this thing … ”
“Alex, please. Be direct.” Peter was in no mood for long winded explanations or beating around the bush. Try as he might, the thought of Saul’s suffering was a serious distraction for him.
“Yes, sorry, Panos.” Alex took a sip of water and got right to the point. “Between the network and the President, we have over a thousand requests for interviews with you. And we’re just counting those that cannot be ignored. Even if we wanted to, we could not accommodate all of them, at least not near term.”
“We talked about this, Alex,” Peter reminded his friend. “As I recall, our plan was to avoid the one-on-one stuff and focus on reaching the people.”
“We can do both, Peter,” the President suggested.
“I’m listening,” Peter said.
“Dave Martz had the idea of a roundtable discussion format with a small and influential group of participants. And by influential I mean incredibly influential, Peter. The cream of the crop of our society.” Alex lit up as he discussed the idea. He knew that the Spirit was leading him in the right direction.
“We sit around a table and ask each other questions?” Peter guessed.
“They’ll be the ones asking the questions, Peter. Look at it this way, this set up allows you not only to interact with the world’s elite, but also to bring the message to billions of people very personally. There will be time for the stadiums and the crowds after, let’s establish your credibility first.”
“By responding to questions?” Peter asked skeptically. “Alex, you know by now that I’m not some genius with an answer for every riddle. It wouldn’t be too hard to make me look stupid if I was expected to solve every human problem from bed-wetting to lung cancer.”
“You got me,” the President said, “just by walking into my office. Tell them exactly who and what you are, Peter. ‘I don’t know’ is an acceptable response when it’s honest. You’ll do fine, much more than fine, I’ll bet. Let the Spirit lead you.”
The President’s confidence was infectious. Peter was warming to the concept, Alex was bordering on ecstatic.
“Who did you gentlemen have in mind for the panel?” Peter asked.
“Myself, for one,” the President answered. “The public would expect no less, plus I can be right by your side through it all, offering any assistance as needed.”
Peter had expected this. “Who else?” he asked.
“Cardinal Reardon, Sam Harwell, Reverend Tommy Peterson … ”
“Peterson? Lord have mercy. Why him Alex?” Peter was very familiar with Reverend Peterson’s particular brand of radical right wing evangelism. He found both it and Reverend Peterson misguided and distasteful.
“Because Peterson represents about fifty million plus American born-again Protestant believers, Panos,” Alex answered. “By ignoring or excluding the good Reverend, we would only be giving him and the most rabid of his followers ammunition to use against us.”
“My head hurts just thinking about him,” Peter said, “but I hear what you’re saying. Harwell, he’s the owner of Harsoft, right? The multi-billionaire.”
“Right.” Alex knew Peter would not enjoy facing off with Peterson. But he was also sure that sooner or later such a confrontation was inevitable. “Five more, Peter. Rabbi Rosefielde from New York, UN Secretary General Carlos Benes from Brazil, and Roger Stone.”
“Who the heck is Roger Stone?” Peter asked.
“Nobody. Just one of the millions of people calling themselves the select who shared the Pentecostal dream. He’s an accountant from Wisconsin. Roger has two kids, a collie, and a mortgage. Middle America personified. Not much to look at either. Bright guy, but not what you’d call real smart.”
“You’re begging the question, Alex.”
“Why Mr. Stone? Because he was invited.”
“Okay. And?”
“Peter, I’ve had dreams about this guy. Remember I told you about him. The face that keeps popping up in my head.”
“How did you put the name with the face?”
“Strangest thing. For some reason out of the tens of thousands of e-mails I’ve gotten since yesterday, his was the first on the list. I was going to simply dump them all to a disk and have someone else look at them later when I accidentally opened his message.”
“Uh oh.”
“He had attached his photo to the message. I recognized him right off. Guess what his message said.”
“Wouldn’t even try. Tell me.”
“Stone wrot
e, ‘Mr. Anderson, the Lord says I need to be in some group you are putting together. I’m honored, but hardly qualified or deserving. I think I’m supposed to ask Mr. Carson questions, but I don’t know why. Yours in Christ, R. Stone.’”
“That would just about seal it for me, Alex.”
“Yep, me too. God is good.”
“All the time.”
“Peter, we were thinking about doing this tomorrow night,” the President broke in.
“Why so soon?”
“I believe it is important to move forward while the restriction is still an ongoing event rather than when it’s history,” the President explained. “You might be at the height of your potential influence right now, Peter. Once things return to normal, urgency is diminished, attention less focused. Strike while the iron is hot, so to speak.”
“Makes sense, sir,” Peter agreed. “Where are we doing it?”
“Right here in the White House. We can accommodate a fairly large audience in the East Room. Important people from all over the world will want to come. We’ll have to do a lottery or something to see who gets in.”
“Okay. Who are the last two on the panel, Alex?” Peter asked.
“Dr. Carl Fuchs, a Nobel Prize winner in physics and widely regarded as the world’s top physical scientist, and Dr. Howard Simms of Harvard.”
“Simms, Simms. I know that name,” Peter recalled.
“H. Simms is an astrophysicist and an anthropologist. Reportedly he has an I.Q. over two hundred. He’s known as much for his integrity as he is for his intelligence.”
“And there’s me.”
“That’s right, Peter, and you.” Alex looked Panos directly in the eye as he said this, trying to convey some of the absolute confidence he had in the efficacy of his plan to Peter.
“Like I said and me, Peter Carson. I know God will be with me, Alex, but are you sure this is the way to go? Couldn’t it backfire on us? God forbid I embarrass Him.”
“Peter.” The President stood, walked over to where Peter was sitting and put his arm around his shoulder. “In my chapel a short time ago I was drawn through prayer to a passage of Scripture. Led right to it in fact. Can I read it?”
“Please, sir. All that we do should be grounded in the Word.”
“It comes from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, starting at chapter one verse twenty-five.”
Peter relaxed and smiled. He knew these particular verses well, and if the President was drawn to them it could only be confirmation of the correctness of their course.
“Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men. For you see your calling, brethren, that not many wise according to the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble are called. But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to put to shame the things which are mighty and the base things of the world and the things which are despised God has chosen, and the things which are not, to bring to nothing the things that are … ”
“That no flesh should glory in His presence,” Peter said, finishing the quote. “Mr. President, it is the height of foolishness to assume that a base man such as myself, a weak former convict with no formal training in either religious studies, politics, or science could possibly hold his own with such an elite group.”
“Exactly, Peter. Makes about as much sense as me not being able to punch those two no good former aides of mine in the teeth last night. What do you guys say to each other? God is good?”
“Always,” Peter acknowledged.
At the exact same time that the President was holding his meeting in the White House, another group of powerful men were huddled down the street in the offices of a United States Senator. Darkness was formulating its plan to defeat the Light.
The Vice President of the United States was in attendance for only a brief portion of the meeting, the part where three of the most respected psychiatrists in America and five of the most senior members of the Senate decided that the President had become “dangerous and psychologically unstable.” The term “desperate national crisis” was used to describe the blessing of the restriction, and “congenital liar and possible foreign agent” was the label applied to Peter Carson.
The Vice President needed plausible deniability, so he left after plotting the elaborate smoke screen that the conspirators hoped would obscure their actual intentions.
The two former senior advisors to the President wanted their jobs back, but with a twist; they also needed a new boss. They were intelligent and cunning men of the world, and because the evil one was now controlling them almost directly, they had become ruthless and amoral to the extreme. Nothing mattered to them other than their lust for power. They knew if their plan succeeded that they would become more than they ever were before. The new President would basically serve as their lap dog, a mere puppet that they and their master could control at will.
The beast attended the meeting in the Senator’s office, encouraging lies and treachery. As was always the case, the evil one marveled at how easy it was to turn most men against their own kind. But a righteous few were not so easily swayed. Satan’s most intense hatred was reserved for those blessed people who recognized evil and refused to acknowledge Satan’s falsely claimed supremacy in the universe; vile, worthless monkey trash like Saul Cohen and all of his friends.
“Saul!”
“What do you want from me? If you think I’m going to bow down to you, you’re wrong. You are nothing but a loser, damned for all time for your pride. I think you’re pathetic, actually.”
“If God is so good and powerful and loving, why does He let me hurt you, Saul?”
Into Saul’s mind Satan implanted thoughts of searing flesh. Saul felt as if he was being burned alive. But God only allowed so much agony, within a minute of its commencement the torture stopped.
The nurse watched on in horror as the skin on Saul’s legs charred and bubbled. Then, as quickly as it started, the bizarre effect ended and Saul’s skin returned to normal.
By now she had seen more than enough. Convinced someone had slipped her some LSD or other powerful hallucinogen and not wanting to go mad permanently, the traumatized nurse stood and told Malik, “I can’t do this,” then ran screaming out of the room.
Malik did not flinch. His mind was completely focused on Saul. If it were possible to pray his friend out of his desperate condition, he was determined to do so.
Malik asked God if He would be kind enough to allow him to suffer for his friend. “I’m stronger, Father,” Malik prayed aloud. “Saul has been through enough. Let me carry his load, Lord. I lay down my life for my friend.”
For the first time, Malik Graham audibly heard His voice in answer to a prayer.
“Are you sure, son? What you seek is a difficult path full of sacrifice and suffering. Are you truly ready to serve?”
Malik didn’t need Peter or anyone else to confirm the genuineness of His message. He knew with every fiber of his being that the Lord was calling to him.
“I’m ready God. Let Saul be, let him rest.”
Into the blackness that had once again been projected into Saul’s mind now entered a Light, bright and blazing like a white hot star. Saul immediately sensed that the evil one had fled, unable to withstand the power of His glory.
The Being now with Saul had hair as white as snow, eyes like flames of fire, and feet like fine brass. Saul knew he was in Christ’s presence. He marveled at how accurately both the prophet Daniel and St. John had described Him.
“Well done my good and faithful servant,” Christ said. “It is time for you to come home, Saul.”
Overwhelmed by love, happy beyond any human standard of bliss, totally at peace and fulfilled, Saul Cohen gave up his earthly existence.
Back in the small room at the White House, Malik felt Saul’s hand go limp in his and saw his brother’s breathing stop. He smiled and cried a tear of joy for his friend. He k
new Saul was safely in the bosom of his Father.
Malik looked up. Now he could see the beast in the corner, hovering about like a jackal, hoping to enjoy a moment of triumph over the creatures he so despised.
“Guess what, you filthy son of a bitch,” Malik said boldly. “Now I can see ya! Oh, how I been waitin’ for this day. All the hell you done put me through you sick, evil monster. I’m comin’ to get you, devil! Praise God and Jesus Christ, I’m comin’ to get you!”
For the first time in nearly two millennia Satan experienced an unwelcome, almost human emotion. It was the same one he felt as he watched Christ rise out of His tomb.
Fear.
Twenty-One
“Are you sure, Alex?” Peter asked. “I know we’ve talked about the possibility, but now it is a reality. This is your home we’re dealing with here.”
“Whatever I have is yours, Peter,” Alex Anderson replied. “The estate is owned by a foreign trust that I control. Not even the IRS can touch it. As far as I’m concerned, the place belongs to all of us. It’s our sanctuary. God owns it all anyway, brother. I know you don’t need me to explain that to you.”
Alex didn’t need to explain, but regardless Peter was deeply moved. It was very comforting for him to know where he would be laid to rest. He and Saul Cohen.
“We’ll ship the body down to Georgia tomorrow, Peter,” Alex said. “Turns out along with everything else they have here at the White House, they’ve got a makeshift morgue. What plans do you have for the funeral, Panos?”
“There won’t be time for that now, Alex. We can celebrate and pray for Saul here tomorrow. Julie will see that Saul gets buried properly. Later you and the brothers can pay the proper respects at his grave.”
“Letting the dead bury the dead?”
“Like everything else the Master taught us, there is a time and place for its proper application.”
“Where will you be, Peter?”
“Alex?”
“When we’re all down at the farm mourning Saul, where will you be?”