by Wid Bastian
Fear is evil’s most effective weapon.
Addressing a filled-to-capacity crowd at a football stadium in Oklahoma, the Reverend Peterson boomed, “Who is Peter Carson? He is a man who claims to be God’s apostle, someone who can heal the sick and even raise the dead. But, brothers and sisters, do not be fooled! In reality he is a con man, a person of such low moral character that he stole from his best friends. Carson is a manipulative liar who is playing out the ultimate scam. I believe without a doubt he is the most dangerous and ungodly man alive.”
Other clergy denounced the inclusion of Buddhists, Muslims, and other non-Christians among the select. A group of Anglican Bishops issued a terse statement asking the question, “Why would Christ not seek His own? A large percentage of these so called ‘select’ are brand new to the Christian faith. By no means are the ‘select’ from among our own congregations in any way outstanding in character or reputation.”
While as yet there was no official word from the Vatican, several small groups of Catholic Bishops joined together to denounce the “heresy being proclaimed in the name of our blessed Lord.”
The central theme of all of these religious objectors was the same; Peter Carson was not who he professed to be, but rather he was a twisted, evil man or mutant intent on destroying America first, then the rest of the world.
On the political front, former high officials from previous administrations and current cabinet members and department heads being quoted as “anonymous sources” said that the President of the United States intends to “unilaterally disarm, or reduce our nation’s ability to defend itself to a dangerously low level within a matter of hours or days.” The President’s vision, an unexplained and mysterious event, was used as exhibit A in his public lynching.
“The damn fool means to blow up the world,” a former Defense Secretary opined. “He must, because if America drops its shield of armor, every two bit dictator and nutjob, and maybe more than a few of our so called friends, will seek to do us in.”
Who stepped up to defend the President? Not many. The “rulers of this age” were overwhelmingly against him. A rational evaluation of the situation could only yield one conclusion; the President’s sanity had been compromised. He was no longer fit to perform his Constitutional duties. Either this thesis was true or the finest psychiatrists in the world, virtually every influential current and former member of the American government and the vast majority of the established religious hierarchy were in error.
During this chaos, the select continued steadfast in their efforts, gathering people together to proclaim the truth, to defend Peter, and to perform miracles. They were noticed. Millions of spiritually destitute people, sick at heart from years of accepting the unsatisfying lies and false promises of happiness and glory spoon fed to them from those who advance the living of a selfish, hedonistic life, found peace and comfort through these impromptu ministries.
But millions more saw the select and their activities as a pernicious effort to eat away at their values system. To discredit vain materialism, to challenge blind ambition untempered by true mercy, to zealously proclaim a duty for every man to be his brother’s keeper was not only taking a good idea too far, it was heresy. The select were blaspheming their god, who these ignorant and unfortunate souls thought was capitalism, social order, individual responsibility, stability, and progress; but who in reality was a fallen angel, a liar, a thief, and a murderer, and most of all, an eternal hater of humanity.
“Do you ever wonder, Peter, if the people who you are trying to save are really worth saving?” The President was dismayed by the depth and intensity of the hatred allied against him.
“Sir, I know how difficult this must be for you,” Peter empathized, “but, if it’s any comfort, not so long ago I was more confused than any of our critics. Don’t forget that what these servants of hell are saying about me used to be true. If Christ can save me, turn me away from sin and toward the Light, I’m convinced, sir, He can do it for anybody.”
“Lord, give me your faith, Peter!” the President shouted. “I’ve been in this world for too long, I’m afraid. There is no part of me any longer that even approaches innocence. Believe for me, will you, Peter? Reassure me that we are not wasting our lives and our time.”
“Long ago, Mr. President, another ruler of men asked God the very same question you are. His name was David. What a marvelous and faithful King he was, sir, yet David fought his demons and had his doubts.”
“One day he prayed, sir, ‘Vindicate me, O Lord my God, according to Your righteousness; and let them not rejoice over me. Let them not say in their hearts, “Ah, so we would have it!” Let them not say “We have swallowed him up.”
“That’s it, Peter. You’ve nailed it. I do feel swallowed up by these damn fools,” the President said.
“Let them be ashamed and brought to mutual confusion who rejoice at my hurt; Let them be clothed with shame and dishonor who exalt themselves against me.”
“Amen, Peter,” the President agreed. “What happened to David? I mean, I remember some of his story, but not all of it.”
“God never left him, sir. Whether it was the lion or the bear or Goliath or King Saul or even his own children, no one could defeat him. His progeny includes Christ Himself. Despite all his doubts and faults, the Lord loved King David and prospered him in all of his ways.”
“But I’m not David, Peter. America is not Israel. I fear our circumstances differ greatly from those facing the ancient Jews.”
“Hebrews chapter thirteen, verse eight, sir.”
The President grabbed his Bible and quickly looked up the quote. He then returned his full attention to Peter.
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever,” Peter recited. “No sir, you are not David and I am not St. Paul, but we serve the same God as they did. If we remain obedient, evil can never prevail against us. Remember, Mr. President, “the righteous cry out, and the Lord hears and delivers them out of all their troubles.”
For Peter it was like looking into a mirror and seeing himself forty years hence. His blonde hair was streaked with grey and thinner on his uncle. His athletic, wiry frame was also recognizable, softened but not destroyed by age. Father Gregory’s sharp, nearly perfect nose, his high cheekbones, and most of all, his penetrating blue eyes were striking features shared by both men.
“Panos! Praise the Lord for His mercy, son!” the old priest yelled. The excited Greek held nothing back. From the second he arrived at the White House and first saw him, Father Gregory showered affection on his nephew, inundating Peter with enthusiastic hugs and kisses.
For Gregory Kallistos, a lifetime’s worth of patient and faithful waiting had finally been rewarded. Decades of separation and anxiety had come to an end.
Peter was profoundly drawn to his uncle, as if just by being near him he became more complete. He fell in love with the man instantly and knew that he could trust him. Everything about Father Gregory was soothing and reassuring to Peter. A sense of peace radiated from him, and peace was the blessing Peter needed now in most abundance.
The Kallistos family connected Peter to a legacy, to a tradition of men and women who have faithfully served the Lord since the church began. To Peter and the disciples so much of their experience seemed brand new, as if they had been cast into the world by God to do what no one had done before. Like everything else, this state of mind was by divine design, but so now was the context Father Gregory would provide.
“Panos, do we have place here son where, how you say, we can be alone short time?”
“Of course, Father, follow me,” Peter instructed.
Gregory Kallistos brought with him from Greece one small suitcase and a leather satchel. The tote was plain and brown and quite typical, but the satchel was unique. Peter noticed that it was shaped much like an old western saddlebag. It had two separate pouches tied together with long straps. Every inch of the bag’s ancient leather was covered with etchings, representations
of men and women dressed in unfamiliar clothing.
The old priest picked up the satchel and took it along with him as he and Peter walked down the hall and found an empty office.
“If I embarrass you in front of friends, Panos, please forgive me, my son,” Father Kallistos apologized. “My demonstration is, how you say, perhaps too much.”
“No, Father. Please. I’m delighted that you’re here.” Peter found himself on the verge of tears. “You have touched my heart, Father, reached into my soul. But I suspect you knew I would react this way in your presence.”
“My boy, you are so much like Nicholas when you speak,” Father Gregory said as he opened one of the pouches. “Your words, your, how in English, voice manner is all Nicki. I loved your papa very much, Panos, he and I were close, more close than just brothers.”
The priest handed Peter a small and very old photo album which contained twenty or so black and white snapshots.
“God save me! That’s my father, isn’t it!” Peter felt like a child on Christmas morning. “And that must be you, Father Gregory, standing behind him. Where was this picture taken?”
“In village north part of Greece, Panos. We was so young then, Nicki and I. Your father was, I search for phrase, most handsome man. Women always after Nicki, but he never know any of them other than your mother. He love Neitha since they were small children together in village. No doubt they would marry, all people knew this.”
Peter took his time and absorbed the photographs, reveling in every detail. He saw that his mother was indeed a most beautiful woman, strikingly so, in fact. He wished Julie and Kevin were with him to share in his happiness.
Father Gregory was bringing Peter’s parents back to life for him. The last two photos in the album were of Nicholas, Neitha, and a baby.
“That’s you, Panos,” the old priest explained. “This picture taken maybe day or two before the murders. Seems like, how you say, last yesterday my son.”
“Murders, Father? The Carsons always said that no one was sure if my parent’s deaths were accidental or not.”
“Oh, we always sure, Panos. Your parents killed by the evil one. Satan been after you since you born, my boy. Poor idiots that killed my Nicki and Neitha they, what is word, weak in mind, easy to deceive.”
“You know who did it, Father? Were they ever brought to justice?”
“My son, yes, my son. Not in human court. God took His vengeance upon them. Horrible what happened. Burned alive in fire, roasted like pigs. No doubt still burning in hell also.”
“Father, why were my parents killed? How did I end up in America? Why didn’t you raise me, I mean I would … ”
“Panos, son. How you say? Take slow. Give me opportunity to explain, but first we pray.”
Gregory took his nephew’s hands in his. Peter immediately felt the Power, a magnificent gentleness was conveyed to him, a strength through humility that was without limits. Peter could sense his uncle’s incredible spiritual discipline, as if nothing on heaven or earth could possibly disrupt the connection between Father Kallistos and the Lord.
It was the first time Peter had heard the Lord’s Prayer recited in Greek. Father Gregory said the few words of the prayer slowly and with a rhythmic elegance Peter found hypnotic.
“Panos, listen very carefully. My English not so good, but I try. Most important you understand clearly what I say. You cannot make fool mistake. Evil one, he will try and deceive you.”
“Yes, Father, go ahead. If I don’t understand I’ll stop you and ask a question.”
The priest then reached into the open satchel and removed a small wooden box which was covered by a velvet bag. Father Kallistos held it gingerly, treating the object as his most precious possession, which it was.
“Panos, I know that you are expert at Holy Scriptures so we, how you say, skip step or two. You remember where St. Paul founded first European Christian Church?”
“Philippi.”
“Yes, my son. St. Paul wrote many letters to the churches he established in Asia and Greece; Philippi, Colosse, Thessalonica, Corinth, you know. Some of letters are in New Testament.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Some of his other letters mentioned in New Testament but not been, what is word, preserved for study.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Panos, one of Paul’s lost letters not really lost. Has been kept safe for almost two thousand years, but shown to few people. Not even Holy Synod knows about this letter. Romans don’t know. But Panos I know and your father, he know. We part of, how you say, chain long of priests from church in Philippi given sacred duty to keep letter safe and secret.”
The Spirit confirmed for Peter that his uncle was not only being honest with him about what he knew, but also that the letter in the old Greek’s box was indeed authored by St. Paul.
“Panos, you know what I say is true, do you not?”
“Yes, Father, I know.”
“Good. We must read together then, Panos. Month ago had young priest translate into English. I read from first original in Greek, make sure no mistakes made in English language.”
Carefully, as if he was handling a most delicate and priceless object of art, Father Kallistos removed the letter from the box. It consisted of two pages of yellowish, thick paper, or what Peter guessed was paper. The writing on the sheets was in a foreign language, Greek, Peter assumed.
But something was strange. While he was as far from being an expert in ancient manuscripts as anyone could be, he noticed that the letter had a peculiar quality about it.
“Father, that letter. It looks … ”
“Like written hour ago, I know. For almost two thousand years document does not age. But Panos, how you say, need not worry. Expert in field verify age by science, of this I do not doubt.”
Father Gregory then produced a plain white envelope from his satchel. He handed it to Peter.
“This English translation, son. You read, I follow along.” Peter opened the envelope and removed the letter. The first thing he noticed about it was its odd salutation. He had to read it twice to himself to be sure he wasn’t making a mistake.
“Father, I mean how can this be?” Peter asked.
“My son?”
“The salutation, Father.”
The old priest smiled and let out an odd sounding chuckle.
“Well, my boy, what you, I search for phrase, should expect it say?”
“You mean this salutation was written by St. Paul!” Peter had assumed that Father Gregory or the translator had added it to the English language version.
Then it hit him. Peter’s heart began to race. He sat back in his chair, took a deep breath and tried his best to stay composed. He was beginning to more fully understand and appreciate God’s magnificent plan.
The letter began;
Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ by the will of God, To my beloved son in our common faith Panos Kallistos, heir by grace to the gifts freely given to the elders, who in the last days shall come forth from a new land, to proclaim to the Jew and the Gentiles the righteous judgment of God, and upon whom rests His glory, His trust and our fervent hope. Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.”
Twenty-Three
“Read on, my son. You must learn what Paul, how you say, intention for your life.”
Peter flinched, momentarily overwhelmed by the impact of the letter’s revelations. All that he’d been through should have prepared him to confront anything; but this, this was a radical twist in the midst of the bizarre. The Apostle to the Gentiles, witness to the risen Christ on the road to Damascus, the great Saul of Tarsus had written him a personal message and “mailed it” to him through the hands of generations of priests from the ancient town of Philippi. One of whom happened to be his uncle, a pure and gentle soul in this holy chain of custodians, who was right now staring at him, anxiously waiting for Peter to read the epistle and by doing so bring St. Paul’s vision to life in the twenty-first c
entury.
“Panos, you have problem my boy?”
Peter was doing his best to maintain, to stay on task. He prayed silently for strength.
“Uncle, I guess it’s just too incredible. I’m not worthy of such an honor. God expects much of me, Father, sometimes I feel … ”
“Like you are big sinner and who you are to say things God tells you?”
“Yes, Father. Why didn’t God pick someone like you for this job? I’ll bet you’ve been a pious man all your life, always dutiful in your service to the Lord. Why me? I’m not at all like you. Until last year I couldn’t have cared less about God.”
“You want answer to question?”
“Lord forgive me, I do, Father. I need some answers.”
“Then, my son,” Father Kallistos said, as he reached over and gently touched Peter’s hand, “you must read. Paul address all concerns for you.”
Calling on help from Above, Peter was able to steady himself. He picked up the English translation and began to read it aloud.
Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ by the will of God, To my beloved son in our common faith Panos Kallistos heir by grace to the gifts freely given to the elders, who in the last days shall come forth from a new land, to proclaim to the Jew and the Gentiles the righteous judgment of God, and upon whom rests His glory, His trust and our fervent hope, Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
“Wow,” Peter gasped. “Reading that salutation again stirs me up, Father, like someone’s lighting a fire in my belly.”
“Angels want your attention, that’s all,” the old priest told his nephew. “Go on Panos, do not stop.”