by Bill Myers
“What does that mean?”
“It means everyone believes in reincarnation.”
“But what’s that got to do with these poor —”
“If a child’s parents are killed, people figure it’s judgment for the evil the child committed in his past life. It’s his punishment.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Of course I am. People don’t want to interfere with the judgment of the universe, so they leave the kid alone.”
“They won’t help him?”
“Worse than that. Usually the child is thrown out of the village in hopes that he’ll starve to death and die quickly.”
“I can’t believe that. It’s so … inhumane.”
“That’s because you’re looking at it through Western eyes. People here feel it’s the exact opposite. By helping the child die, they’re doing him a favor. They’re helping him pay for his past sins, so he can be reincarnated to a better life.”
“That’s terrible!”
“That’s reincarnation.” And then Katherine had added, “Guess it doesn’t matter what religion people believe in … the Supreme Being still winds up embarrassingly short in the love department.”
“You really hate Him, don’t you?”
Katherine had shaken her head. “I don’t hate Him. I just don’t believe Him. Truth isn’t in words but in action, remember? And I sure don’t see any action of a loving God here.”
That conversation had been over an hour ago. Sarah had wanted to come to God’s defense, but over the weeks, as she had learned all that Katherine had been through, from widowhood, to alcoholism, to fighting for the survival of her only child, she knew there was little the woman would hear. As a preacher’s kid who’d seen the worst of life and then some, Katherine seemed to have every reason to doubt God’s love. And Sarah, with her own personal doubts and frustrations, knew this was not the time to try and stand up for Him. Yes, she still believed there was some sort of call on her life, but every day that believing grew just a little bit fainter, and every day that call became just a bit more dim.
Now the two of them stood in the doorway watching the crowd and the burning frame of bamboo approach. But it was more than just the burning bamboo that the people held above their heads. Lashed to it by his hands and feet was a nearly naked man, his body painted with various symbols and images representing evil. It was he and not the burning bamboo that the crowd was shouting and screaming at.
“Do you know what’s happening?” Sarah yelled over the noise.
Katherine nodded. “The man tied up there represents Ghanta Karna, one of the world’s most dreaded demons.”
“Demons?” Sarah shouted.
“That’s right.”
By now the man and burning frame were directly in front of them. He writhed and screamed, shouting oaths back at the crowd, which only agitated them more.
“They’re not going to burn him to death?” Sarah cried.
Katherine laughed. “No, no. It’s all a show, part of the ceremony. By the time they get to the river, he usually frees himself and makes his escape.”
“Usually?”
Katherine shrugged and smiled.
Sarah turned back to the crowd. The burning bamboo had passed, and the mob was already beginning to thin.
“So you see, my friend,” Katherine said, no longer shouting, “Western religions don’t own the market in their belief in demons or, how did you put it the other day, in ‘counterfeits.’ ”
Sarah nodded, watching the last of the crowd head down the street. “I see your point.” Then with a grin she added, “But I think our way of handling them is a little easier.”
“A good old-fashioned exorcism?”
Sarah looked at her. She was unable to tell if she was mocking her or not. “I’ve seen it work, Katherine. A half-dozen times at the clinic, I’ve seen people completely delivered of demonic influence in the name of Jesus Christ.”
Katherine glanced away, pretending to watch the remaining stragglers, but it was obvious her mind was someplace else. “Do you think …” She cleared her throat. “Do you think that might be what Eric is suffering from?”
Sarah said nothing. The suspicion had been growing in her mind throughout the tests. Eric’s psychic abilities, his hosting another “consciousness,” his violent behavior — these were all classic patterns of demonic activity. Then there was the increasing difficulty in regaining control from Heylel.
Katherine turned to her, waiting for an answer.
As always, Sarah carefully chose her words. “There’s a strong possibility, but his problem could still be physical or psychological. I know others have run tests, but there’s still a possibility he may be suffering from schizophrenia or from multiple personality disorder.”
“They’re not the same as possession?”
“Not always. Possession can display those symptoms, but they can also be created by a chemical imbalance or a psychological disorder. It’s not always easy to know the differ —”
“The stuff I’ve seen my son do, what he’s been through — it doesn’t sound like any psychological disorder to me. And Heylel … there’s no way that creep is a part of my son. There’s absolutely no way they’re connected.”
Sarah slowly nodded. “You may be right. But it’s important that we finish checking out the natural causes first.”
“Aren’t you done with that yet?”
“Just about.”
“Well, I suggest you hurry and get a move on, Doctor.”
Sarah looked at her.
“The sooner you finish up your tests and get down to a major face-to-face with this Heylel thing, the better off we’ll all be.”
Surprised, Sarah asked, “So you think it’s demonic?”
“Come on.” Katherine stepped into the street. “Let’s head down to the river and see if the poor guy makes it.”
To the angel of the church in Smyrna write:
These are the words of him who is the First and the Last, who died and came to life again. I know your afflictions and your poverty — yet you are rich! I know the slander of those who say they are Jews and are not, but are a synagogue of Satan. Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer. I tell you, the devil will put some of you in prison to test you, and you will suffer persecution for ten days. Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you the crown of life.
He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. He who overcomes will not be hurt at all by the second death.
Brandon stared hard at the page. It was the second letter Christ had sent to the churches in Revelation. But instead of commanding the people to repent and return to their first love, as he had at Ephesus, this letter promised persecution and urged the church to be faithful “even to the point of death.”
Persecution? Death? For the church? For His beloved bride? All of his life Brandon had been taught that God protected His own, that Jesus, the loving Shepherd, would not allow anything to happen to His flock. But this …
You will suffer persecution … even to the point of death.
It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t the gospel he’d been taught.
“Mr. Brandon, Mr. Brandon, why the scowl?”
He glanced over to see Salman climbing the steep stone steps of the fortress wall. In his hand he held a sheet of newspaper rolled into a cone. “The children,” he called, “they have given us more sunflower seeds.”
Brandon smiled. There was no doubt about it, the two of them had become the local children’s special project. This was their third day living inside the ruins of Kadifekale, an ancient acropolis of broken walls, crumbling arches, and an underground cavern suitable for sleeping. For three days they had sat atop this nine-hundred-foot hill overlooking the city of Ismir, which in ancient times had been called Smyrna. And for three days the Kurdish children who lived around the ruins had been bringing them sunflower seeds, goat milk, and flat bread baked on the inside roof of stone ov
ens. These Kurds were the outcasts of Turkish society, yet they were the first to offer hospitality. By day the impoverished children came to them with food. And for the nights, though it was so warm they really didn’t need it, an old woman who sold handwoven goods to tourists insisted upon giving them two brightly colored blankets.
Salman remained by Brandon’s side the entire time. He didn’t have to. He could have easily found a cheap hotel down in the city. But he stayed. Regardless of the discomfort, regardless of the inconvenience, he stayed to explain, to translate, and to tell his stories. Salman Kilyos was a born storyteller, and he loved to practice his gift whenever he could. Their friendship had grown, and a day didn’t go by that Brandon didn’t thank God for the man’s commitment. Their bond was strong … and unlikely. But no more unlikely than the journey they were making.
“Hold out your hand.”
Brandon obeyed and Salman poured out a large pile of the unshelled seeds.
“Thanks, Salman.”
“No problem. But you still do not answer my question. Why the frown?”
“Take a look at this.” Brandon handed the Bible to him and pointed to the two small paragraphs in Revelation chapter two. Salman took it and began to read. Although he claimed to be a Christian, Brandon had his doubts. Somehow he suspected it was all part of the Salman Kilyos con. A sincere con, but a con nonetheless. After all, ninety-eight percent of Turkish citizens claimed to be Moslem. For Salman to be part of the two percent and to be a Christian to boot seemed more than a stretch. Then there was his hatred of Ponte and the Cartel. During their frequent conversations with local Muslims, Salman would be the first to side with the most radical fringes, agreeing that Ponte was up to no good, and insisting that he was an “infidel of infidels.” An interesting description considering Salman was supposed to be Christian. Still, each time Brandon tried to talk to him about the Lord, Salman insisted that he already knew.
As Salman read, Brandon looked back out over the city from their vantage point high atop the wall. A wall that, according to Salman, had been built by Alexander the Great around 300 B.C. It was a million-dollar view of the city and harbor beyond. A million-dollar view that he and the Kurdish children had for free.
“Of course … this is nothing.”
Brandon turned to Salman as he handed him back the Bible. “What’s nothing?”
Salman shrugged. “Christians, they have been martyred and killed in my country for hundreds of years. Remember what I was telling you about the Imperial Cult?”
“The religion forcing everyone to worship Caesar?”
“It lasted two hundred fifty years.”
“That long?”
Salman nodded, pouring a half-dozen sunflower seeds into his mouth. “And the very first martyr to give his life in Asia, he was killed right here on this hill.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, of course, right here. His name, it was Polycarp. Surely you have heard of him?”
Brandon shook his head.
“His death, it is most famous.” Brandon didn’t answer and Salman continued, a little incredulous. “Your father he was a preacher, and you do not know this story?”
Suddenly, Brandon felt a little stupid. Truth be told, other than the Bible, he knew next to nothing about Christian history. But as Salman repositioned himself, and poured a few more seeds into his mouth, he had a feeling that some of that was about to change …
“The year, it was A.D. 156. And the Imperial Cult, they are after Polycarp in a bad way. He is eighty-six years old and as bishop of this church, he was ordained by none other than Saint John himself.”
Brandon nodded. Once again he was impressed at the country’s rich history.
Salman spit out a couple shells and continued. “His congregation, they insist Polycarp flee the city for his life. Reluctantly, he obeys their wishes, but his location, it is soon found out. And instead of trying to get away, he stays. In fact, he offers the arresting officers food and drink.
“Later, as they drive him back to the city in their carriage, they beg him to change his mind and vow allegiance to the emperor. But he refuses. When they arrive, they take him to the amphitheater to meet the governor just on the side of this hill.”
“This hill, here?” Brandon repeated.
“Yes, yes, of course. Anyways, the governor, he orders Polycarp to deny Christ. ‘Have respect for your old age,’ he says. ‘Swear allegiance to Caesar and denounce Christ, then I will release you.’ ”
Salman paused to drop a few more seeds into his mouth and to no doubt create more suspense.
Brandon fell for it. “Well, what happened? What did Polycarp do?”
“This story, I do not believe you do not know it.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“I thought everybody —”
“Tell me.”
Salman couldn’t hide his amusement. He spit out some shells, then continued. “Polycarp, he says, ‘For eighty-six years I have been Christ’s servant, and he has never done me wrong. How can I blaspheme my king, who has saved me?’
“And the governor, he says, ‘I have wild animals I will throw you to.’
“And Polycarp says, ‘Bring them on.’
“Now the governor, he sees Polycarp is not afraid so he says, ‘If you are not afraid of my animals, then I will burn you by fire.’
“Meanwhile, the Jews inside, they are really getting hot under the collar, so they race to the gates screaming to the crowd outside, ‘Polycarp is a Christian, Polycarp is a Christian, Polycarp is a Christian!’ And the crowd, they yell back, ‘Burn him! Burn him! Burn him!’ ”
Salman paused to drop a couple more seeds into his mouth.
“And?” Brandon asked.
“The governor, he agrees. But Polycarp, he says he doesn’t need to be lashed to a stake. He says all they have to do is tie his hands, and he will remain in the fire. So they do. They tie his hands, put wood all around him, and light the fire. And Polycarp, he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t scream, all he does is shout to God, ‘I thank You that You have thought me worthy to share the cup of Christ among Your witnesses!’ ”
“So he was burned to death?” Brandon asked.
“No … not yet. The wind keeps blowing the flames away from him. He feels the heat, but the flames will not kill him. The pain, it must be unbearable, yet eyewitnesses say he had a look of joy on his face until the end.”
Brandon ventured, “And the end came —”
“— when a soldier finally runs him through with a sword.” Salman said nothing more.
There was no sound, only the hot wind blowing up the hill and through the coastal pines overhead. The story had unnerved Brandon. This was not the “happily ever after” gospel he’d been taught in Sunday school. Why hadn’t Polycarp gotten away? Why didn’t the governor suddenly have a change of heart or be converted? And why the long, lingering death?
Something was wrong. This was not the good-times, trust-God-to-fulfill-our-American-dream message that Brandon had heard from his father’s pulpit all of his life. This was a faith where people gave up their lives. It wasn’t a faith where they recited the magic words and cruised to heaven. Yes, there was salvation, yes, it was free … but it wasn’t cheap. It cost Christ his life, and it cost these people theirs.
Of course there was joy, Polycarp had it even as the fire surrounded him … but the fire still surrounded him.
And he was still killed.
Was the church ready to hear of such a thing? If, God forbid, persecution ever returned, was the bride prepared to give up everything for Him?
Was he?
Was Sarah? In all of his excitement to share the gospel with her, had he forgotten to mention the fine print … that to live Christ’s life, she may have to die?
Brandon looked back down at the Bible.
Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you the crown of life. He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. He
who overcomes will not be hurt at all by the second death.
For Brandon, the first two messages had been revolutionary …
If the church in Ephesus wanted to maintain their lampstand they had to return to their first love. If the church of Smyrna wanted the crown of life they would have to be faithful even to the point of death.
But there was more. As radical as these first two messages were for Brandon, he could only guess what the next five would contain …
“So you believe that this Heylel, that he’s some sort of … spirit?”
Sarah toyed with her soda straw as she sat at a wrought iron table next to the Cartel’s lap pool. “I’m not certain,” she said, “but it’s a possibility we have to consider.” She looked up, searching Lucas’s eyes for any sign of ridicule. There was none. There never was. Just the deep thoughtfulness and consideration she had grown to expect.
And there was something else … the connection. She’d felt it the first time they’d spoken in the hallway. And, over the past three and a half weeks, it did nothing but grow each time they met. Which they did, frequently, but only if it applied to business. That was Sarah’s unspoken code of ethics, the perimeter of defense she’d built around herself. With what she felt stirring inside of her, she needed a defense. But it didn’t stop her from wondering what would have happened if they had met just a year earlier.
He cleared his throat. “And as a scientist, by using the word spirit you mean … ?”
It was a good question, his questions always were. She took a breath and began to explain. “As you know, there is growing scientific evidence to support what you and I would call the supernatural. You’ve no doubt seen the results of some of the tests I’ve run on Eric.”
“Yes, I have, and they have been most impressive.”
“But it doesn’t stop there. Many physicists and mathematicians agree there is evidence that our universe does not end with three dimensions.”
He looked on, waiting for more.
“There are several mathematical models that point to at least eleven dimensions, probably more.”
“And the reason we do not see these dimensions?”
“Lower dimensions can never see higher dimensions.”
