Sacha—The Way Back

by Stan I. S. Law

  And yet, his whole dissertation lasted no more then the allotted time.

  Time is so flexible. Even on airways.

  The human brain, the wondrous physical expression of our mind, is able to absorb and metabolize concepts at an astonishing rate. It all depended on how it is fed. This same rate of absorption was true for each man, woman and child who turned on their TV, regardless what channel, what language, or which part of the world they were in. Light travels around our globe in just over a tenth of one second. Thought waves do so many thousands times faster. A time lag not perceptible even to our subliminal senses. They all heard him simultaneously. Regardless of time zones. That was how it was meant to be. That was the reality Sacha had created, and sustained for just a few minutes.

  And then he drew his bow across the strings of their innermost memories and by a single tone, a single anabolic vibration he resuscitated their latent memories. Archetype memories so deep, so anchored in the eons of time that neither man, nor women even suspected their presence. And finally he spoke again. The moment wouldn’t last but it would linger enough to reseed their minds with their own memories.

  Regarding God.

  In the Undiscovered Realm, there is no perception of any Overseer. Even the awareness of the gold thread, of golden filament, of connection, is not so much to an external Source but a gentle yet persistent tugging at our inherent Interconnectedness. Of being intrinsically One. The wondrous thing is that each one of us can draw on the Whole for our strength and vitality. It is ever-present. It is omnipresent. It is unresisting. It is nonjudgmental. It is ours for the asking. The extent to which this can be accomplished is not dictated by the Whole, but by our ability to do so. On the time scale of eternity, none of us are equal––but we are all endowed with equal potential.

  In this sense, there is little difference between the Undiscovered Realm and the physical consciousness. All realities are coexistent. They all exist here and now. What changes is our perspective, our perception of truth, or our subjective reality. Do not trust those who insist on imposing an external Force on each and every one of you. Your Force comes from within you.

  You and you alone are the heirs to this ability. No one can take it from you. It is your inheritance.

  Then the objective reality reverted to what his listeners called normal. Only now people became aware that Sacha had risen to his feet.

  All the gods, of whatever religion, are little more than the personification of human, or if you must, superhuman attributes. We cannot conceive of a god unless we endow him with our own nature, with our emotional and mental make up. As we develop, our gods develop. What you call god is no more than a fragment, an insignificant aspect, of the Whole, and such a god has no being other than in a mode of becoming. The modes vary from species to species, but also from galaxy to galaxy. Some gods are so great that no one on Earth will conceive of them for millions of years to come. But even those gods are only as great as the mode through which they find their expression. And they all remain mere expressions of the Whole.

  As Sacha spoke, his body rose some ten feet into the air. It hovered over the aghast audience. This only lasted a brief moment but in people’s minds time seemed to have stopped.

  And then Sacha released their perceptions and waited. His father told him that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. He didn’t have long to wait.

  “Trickery!” shouted an obese minister of some Eastern denomination.

  “Basta! Basta!” echoed an equally fat man hiding behind a scarlet flowing cassock.

  “Enough of this nonsense!” screamed an irate cleric.

  “What of my Personal Savior?!” a woman’s voice screeched from the back of the hall. She didn’t even need a microphone.

  “Heresy!” chanted a chorus of some other equally devoted sacerdotal brethren. They stamped their brightly polished shoes to add weight to their convictions.

  “An insult to the memory of the Prophet!” loudly agreed a group of turbaned representatives.

  “A devil’s advocate!” a man spoke his lips pressed into his microphone.

  “Enough of zis mockery! Zis is not a burlesque!” shouted a man with a strong Jewish accent. “No more tricks!”

  An old man, his hair as white as the robe which covered his sparse body, slowly rose to his feet. Men in scarlet robes supported him at each elbow. Concealed ultraviolet lamps cast their oblique rays on his white robe, giving it a heavenly sheen. His eyes darted over the auditorium to assure that he had the attention of the many that gathered to hear him speak. His sermon was to be given later, but he felt the power of the spirit commanding him to rise to his feet right now. Then, with eyes directed towards Sacha he spoke into a battery of microphones in front of him.

  “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti... BEGONE!”

  He issued the command in Latin, Arabic, Hebrew and English. The command was followed by a wobbly sign of the cross cutting the air with a trembling hand towards Sacha still hovering above the auditorium.

  Exhausted by the effort, the patriarch collapsed into his armchair. He did not intend to attend this session. He’d empowered his right hand, Cardinal Giordano Lucius to speak in his name. At the last minute something inspired him to come. A sign from the Holy Ghost? He suddenly remembered that one of his titles was the Ecumenical Bishop. He had to come. And now he’d done his job. He saved humanity from the devil himself. The devil in man’s form had to be silenced. Thousands of years placed truth squarely on his shoulders. On the throne of Peter. The throne of infallibility.

  He would protect it with his life.

  Moments before Sacha projected his astral body to hover over the auditorium, he’d polarized the refractory photons to make his actual body on the podium invisible, but also to strengthen the image he’d projected upwards. Now he withdrew his projection and carefully, still invisible to those nearest him, left the auditorium. What else could he have done? Those people didn’t want the truth. They wanted power.

  Even as he walked along the corridor outside the convention hall, he heard elated voices rising in volume and intensity. The select few found one they could follow. He, the frail old man, showed them his real Power. The Power to cast out devils. The Power from God Himself. He was anointed to be their leader. The leader of them all.

  “Il Papa! Sanctissimus Papa!”

  “Alhamdulillah!

  “Abba! Rabbi! Rabboni!”

  “Father! The Holy Father!”

  Sacha heard many other acclamations, in many other languages. The finger of God, they cried. The Messenger of God! The Shepherd anointed amongst us! And then more Il Papa, and Father, and the exulted Rabbi.

  Evidently the good sheep have found their shepherd. A unifying force. A fatherly protector. It worked, Sacha sighed in relief. They will listen to one man now, they will join forces to eliminate all minor heresies, and become one. It will reduce the confusion in the minds of people. It would be their first step.

  A single head is easier to deal with than a multi-headed Hydra.

  Sacha was about to reach the outside when four strong hands pinned his arms and led him to a room under the auditorium. The ecumenicists were very well organized. They’ve been prepared for trouble. They knew there could be some maniacs with exulted egos. There always were, on similar occasions. They would not permit any troublemaker to upset or ridicule the proceedings. After all they, the priesthood, represented God––in so many ways. They were the true leaders of humanity. Nor would they allow their dignity to be put at risk. Human dignity was what mattered. Each man had a God given right to worship in his own God given way. Providing they did not impinge on the rights of others in doing so, of course. This and this alone was the purpose of the Ecumenical Movement. For this reason alone there was a need for a Central Control Authority. They could weed out the undesirables. The reprobates. Once unified, their political clout would be greater than that of any secular power on Earth. They would not just represent God, they
would be Gods themselves!

  In all humility.

  The following morning every daily newspaper carried news about Sacha on the front page. They had to. For some unknown reason no one was able to tape his TV appearance. Millions upon millions of people heard him. Had seen him. They’ve even seen his body rising and floating above the main podium. But they couldn’t record him. They didn’t know that they could not, as yet, capture subliminal thought-waves.

  The pace at which the prosecution advanced was fantastic. The ecclesiastical authorities manufactured masses of evidence, so bizarre that even the prosecutors had trouble believing it.

  “I’m not here to show the way. I’m here to help you discover your way,” Sacha answered at the preliminary meeting when accused of misleading people into false, revolutionary byways.

  To an accusation that he was driving people into psychosis he replied: “I am trying to help you make heads and tails of disjointed events. There are none such. Everything, every minute detail in your and my life, has a purpose. And it always leads you towards the fulfillment of your purpose, your destiny.”

  He didn’t tell them that the fulfillment of each individual purpose could take thousands, perhaps millions of years. Up there, in the Undiscovered Realm, there is no time. Duration is of no consequence. Only the purpose. Only the need to raise the awareness of one’s true nature. To widen, even just a little, our perception of reality.

  Sacha thought he’d done that.

  Chapter 24

  The Trial

  Dozens of people that Sacha healed over the years lined the benches in the outer hall, ready and eager to testify against him. He’d healed them, and now they were sick again. This was the devil’s work.

  Sacha was helpless. No matter how hard he tried to help some of them, many had reverted to their old ways, bringing various diseases back into their orbit. Only those who wanted to help themselves succeeded. Sacha had made mistakes. He loved them too much. He felt too much compassion for his fellow man. A very human trait. One cannot live in physical consciousness and not make mistakes. It is a dualistic reality and all things are relative. No matter how hard one tries, one cannot change men who do not wish to change themselves. Such is the nature of our species. Such is the universal law.

  Such is the principle of free will.

  Sacha suspected the truth for some time, but it was becoming more evident as the trial grew closer. There was only one way he could fulfill his destiny. He’d thought he’d already met it. Not so. He’d only laid the ground. He’d prepared the ground for the final chapter.

  The actual trial was to take place in Rome. There was no particular reason for it, but it seemed fit to use Peter’s throne from which to render the final verdict. After all, it was also the throne of Il Papa. Sanctissimus Papa. The Holy Father. The Shepherd of us all. He alone saw instantly through the devil’s subterfuge. He would expose the false messiah.

  As the date of the trial approached, more churches were eager to add their accusations. Within a few weeks the New York bestseller list carried a dozen titles naming Sacha the ‘Incarnation of Beelzebub’ and ‘Satan Incarnate’, among others. He was also accorded the lead role in such burlesques as ‘The Day of the Antichrist’, ‘Satan Walks’ and ‘The Devil’s Disciple’. Other even less complementary titles have also been bandied in his direction.

  Sacha didn’t really mind. What little he’d heard of the outside world, he found it all vaguely amusing. Perhaps he was not capable of taking any of this seriously? In the sixth week of his incarceration Deborah was allowed to see him. Strangely enough, neither Alec nor Suzy have been accorded visiting privileges. Perhaps they were hoping to get some smut on Sacha? Anyway, Alicia told Deborah to fly to Rome immediately.

  “Never mind the money,” she said. “I’ll go myself or you will go for me. Which is it to be?”

  Deborah went. It was she who told Sacha about the New York Best Sellers.

  “Am I really that important?” He sounded almost pleased. The tone of his voice implied: “Little moi?”

  Sacha was in excellent spirits. He always was when his path was clear. When he knew exactly where he was going. It was the uncertainty that he found trying. He had lived in a human body for almost twenty-six years, after all. Deborah found his good spirits contagious. She did warn him, however, that not all sects that had initially invited him to speak did so in good faith.

  “Why are they so sneaky?” she asked, her mind not yet ready to accept the reality of duality. Sacha had told her that only goodness is real. Evil is the product of our ever-changing perception of missing the mark.

  “It is in their nature. Birds must fly. Scorpions must bite. Some men have it in them to be even as Judas was.”

  “And they cannot escape their destiny?”

  “Being Judas is never your destiny. You become Judas by avoiding it.”

  “But you said...?”

  “I said it was in their nature. But only they can create nature in which they find their being. Only they can create their perception of their reality.”

  She seemed more satisfied.

  “Will they kill you?” she asked. Her tone was normal, conversational. She simply wanted to know. She wanted to know if Sacha already knew his future.

  “We all die, sooner or later. Sooner or later we all shed these bodies and return to our true home.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  Sacha did not answer. Instead he took her face in the palms of his hands and stared into her eyes. It didn’t last long. But from that moment on Deborah would have the ability to meet him on Home Planet whenever she chose to.

  “You cannot come with me,” he said. “But you now know that I shall never leave you.”

  She could not explain her knowledge, but she never doubted Sacha’s word. She would gladly leave her body also, and follow Sacha wherever he went. It was not to be. The next moment Sacha extended his aura. She’d accepted the new reality as though it were the most natural thing. They were sitting on a polished rock, a white stone giving under their weight, looking at rolling hills descending gently towards a brook winding its lazy way through a deep valley. It was a picture of serenity itself.

  “And I can come here on my own?” she asked him. “And meet you as you are now?”

  “You did come on your own. No power on Earth can lift you here against your will?”

  She believed him.

  “When you get back, talk to my father. He will help you.”

  These were trying times for his parents, particularly his mother. Sacha met them both here, regularly, and Suzy never failed to come back refreshed, her heart at peace, at least for a little while. It felt like having a gentle massage applied to her heart, to her emotions. He hoped the same effect was in store for Deborah.

  A minute later two men in clerical collars came to their table. Deborah stood up and left without a word. She couldn’t stand the idea of saying goodbye.

  Sacha closed his eyes. He had inspected the room already. It was impressive.

  They sat him in the very center of the round chamber. Directly in front of him sat his principal accusers. An empty lectern with discreet light above it awaited the chief prosecutor and the devils advocate, with room for their assistants on either side. They all filed into their assigned places in total silence. The assistants were the representatives of all three faiths. Higher up sat the three judges, each also representing one religion. On both sides of the judges, though a little lower, sat the twelve jurors. Four Christians, four Moslem and four Jews. After thousands of years democracy was creeping into the Office of the Holy Inquisition. It was necessary. In case something went wrong.

  On the outside of the inner circle were three rows of pews, stepped, one tier behind the other, filled to the last seat with men wearing black, white and scarlet robes. There were many of them. Still farther behind, some men in clerical collars manned cameras of close circuit television. If all went well, the proceedings would be broadcast urbi et
orbi. After suitable editing, of course.

  “I must be some kind of celebrity,” Sacha muttered, a vacant smile playing about his lips. He found it all profoundly ridiculous. “But necessary, I suppose,” he sighed.

  Yet, there was more to admire.

  Behind the three rows of gloating ecumenical conspirators, on the periphery of the magnificent rotunda, there was a circle of closely spaced alabaster columns––silent sentinels, or perhaps petrified witnesses, of previous crimes committed in the same chamber.

  Finally, high above them a renaissance artist must have spent the better part of his life painting a series of frescos depicting scenes from the life of the Apostles. Long, flowing robes in vivid colour made one think of Roman Patricians rather then poor, emaciated bearers of the Good News. But this was the Church’s image. It commanded more respect. The truth was of little import here. The scenes of the early days had been gently lit from below. No natural light came through the upper story, undercutting the dome. Not even a glimmer of the setting sun. It was dark already. Such works as they had in mind were better served at night, when fewer people might identify those present. For Sacha it did not matter. He had no interest in the proceedings.

  “In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Ghost,” intoned the chief prosecutor.

  He’d earned his position. Since Anno Domini 1233, when the Holy Father commissioned his Dominican predecessors to investigate the Albigenses in the South of France, his Office carried out its vital responsibilities without fail. The responsibility for prosecuting the guilty, and punishing them according to the Law, rested upon Its broad shoulders. In the name of the Church. In the name of God. Today he had to share his privilege. They would take turns in carrying out their duties.