by Bill Myers
He turned to Sarah in astonishment.
“That’s not all.” She motioned toward the hills surrounding them.
He turned to look. On every hill, as far as the eye could see, stood thousands of the same creatures … all glowing, all watching.
He knew who they were. And with that realization came the understanding that he and Sarah were not alone. Regardless of what would happen, they were not alone. As he stood there, before the host of heaven, he felt a confidence and a faith begin to swell inside of him. And with that faith came the warmth of the fire. It started in his belly, then slowly rose into his chest.
Ponte greeted them as they arrived. “Thank you both for joining us. I can imagine it is not easy to appear before such a large audience — not only in front of the hundreds of thousands of people here in Jerusalem, but before the billions of people watching on television around the world. To appear in front of so many people must be very intimidating, very intimidating, indeed.”
Brandon knew what Ponte was doing. He could feel the terror at the edge of his mind eager to rush in. And it would take so little effort to allow it. A tiny choice of his will. But he also knew that was where the battle was being fought. Regardless of the odds, regardless of the outcome, the real battle was being waged within his will.
Keeping that in mind, Brandon chose not to look out at the audience, nor back at the serpent head. Instead of caving in and obeying his fears, he did as Sarah had suggested and looked upon the Lord. Quietly, in his heart, he began to worship him. And, as he worshiped, the fire grew hotter.
“Dr. Weintraub.” Ponte smiled warmly. “It’s so good to see you again.”
Brandon watched as the man focused his gaze upon her. He could only guess what doubts and feelings of unworthiness he was stirring inside her mind. She took an unsteady breath, and for a moment Brandon thought she might crumble. But as she exhaled he saw her lips begin to move, almost imperceptibly. She was also praying.
“So tell us, Mr. Martus …” Ponte continued to speak as he gave Brandon a microphone which a stagehand had passed up to him. “As briefly as possible, have we in any way misrepresented your beliefs? Is there anything you’d like to clarify for us?”
There was another surge of panic. Brandon still had no idea what he was to say. Judgment of the world or warning to the bride? Which? But before he allowed the fear to take hold, he forced himself to blurt out an answer. “Yes!”
Instantly, the clouds of confusion parted, as if this act of faith alone had cleared his mind.
“Well,” Ponte said, “we’re waiting.”
Realizations poured in. Now, Brandon understood why he’d been unable to decide which of the two topics he was to speak on. He was to talk about them both. He wasn’t sure how, but that wasn’t his concern. He turned to Ponte. And, in another act of faith, he opened his mouth. The words began to come. “The Lord would say two things to you.”
“Two things?” Ponte asked.
Brandon nodded. “The Word of his mouth is a double-edged sword.” The fire had risen to his throat now, emboldening him until he could look out into the audience. “One edge will protect and instruct the righteous … the other will cut down and destroy the evil.”
“I see.” Ponte pretended to chuckle. “Sort of good news, bad news.”
Amusement rippled through the audience.
“Please” — Ponte motioned to him — “share with us. Tell us what more we can expect from this God of yours.”
The fire burst from Brandon’s mouth. Words barely came to mind before he spoke them. And the more he spoke, the hotter they grew. “Who will have pity on you, O Jerusalem? Who will mourn for you? Who will stop to ask how you are?”
Ponte turned his back and walked a few steps away, obviously distancing himself from what was being said.
“You have rejected me, declares the Lord. You keep on backsliding. So I will lay hands on you and destroy you; I can no longer show compassion. I will winnow them with a winnowing fork at the city gates of the land. I will bring bereavement and destruction on my people, for they have not changed their ways.”
Once again the audience began to voice their displeasure. But the broiling intensity inside Brandon could not be contained.
“I will make their widows more numerous than the sand of the sea. At midday I will bring a destroyer against the mothers of their young men; suddenly I will bring down on them anguish and terror.”
Boos and catcalls began, but Brandon would not be stopped. He started focusing upon specific faces in the crowd, pleading with them, begging them to see.
“The mother of seven will grow faint and breathe her last. Her sun will set while it is still day; she will be disgraced and humiliated. I will put the survivors to the sword before their enemies, declares the —”
“Yes, well, I think you’ve made your point, Mr. Martus.”
“But —”
Ponte approached. “Once again you’ve proven to us that your God knows nothing of love. He cares only for his own interests and nothing for ours. And, as far as I can tell, that’s anything but love.”
“But it is.” Sarah leaned over and spoke into Brandon’s microphone. There was a brief squeal of feedback. Brandon handed it over to her and she continued. “It’s a deeper love. It’s a greater love.”
A flicker of concern crossed Ponte’s face. He was not expecting this.
Sarah continued. “It’s a love that tells us what we need to hear, not what we want to hear. It’s a love that cares more for our lives than our feelings.”
Brandon looked at her, marveling. She glanced at him, as pleased with her performance as he was. Obviously, the same fire had ignited her soul. She turned back to the audience. “Don’t you see? God loves us so much that he’ll sacrifice anything to save us … even our love toward him. If it means disciplining us, he’ll discipline us … even if it means our hating him.”
“Please, Dr. Weintraub,” Ponte interrupted, “it makes no difference how you try to spin it, the truth of the matter is —”
“He loves us so much that he destroyed his own Son … for us.”
“Dr. —”
“And” — she turned directly on him — “he will destroy anyone who tries to cut off that love.”
“Love?” Ponte was no longer able to hide his scorn. “How can anyone describe what we saw up on the screen as love? Human suffering, indescribable agony, unspeakable sorrow? That’s not love. The writhings, screamings, the ignored cries for mercy? How can you call that love?”
The audience applauded in agreement, and Ponte turned to them. “The intolerable bondage we, the human family, have been under all of these centuries … that is not love!”
Cheers of agreement followed.
Ponte grew more agitated … which had the desired effect upon the audience, giving them permission to vent even more anger. Brandon looked back out at the shouting faces … and that’s when he spotted him. Just a few rows back, moving toward the stage. Salman Kilyos.
As Ponte worked up the crowd, Salman took advantage of the distraction, moving closer and closer. He was holding a sweater. Brandon’s mind raced. Why was anyone carrying a sweater on such a hot day? Unless they were hiding something underneath. Unless they were —
Instantly, Brandon understood.
Ponte continued to rail. “You talk about a self-sacrificing love. An interesting theory … but where is the proof? I ask you, where is the truth to validate such claims?”
Brandon watched Salman, praying that someone would stop him before he got himself hurt or killed. He was in the second row now, working his way through the agitated crowd. Surely the dozens of security personnel around the stage would spot him. But they didn’t. They saw nothing, almost as if they were blinded.
“Real love is based upon action. Like stopping the deadly Scorpion virus.”
The audience broke into cheers.
“Like uniting every person, tribe, and nation.”
The cheering
grew louder.
“Like ushering in an age of peace and prosperity such as the world has never known!”
The Mount roared in approval. They were ecstatic — shouting, stomping their feet, waving their arms.
Salman made his move. He pulled the large black revolver from his sweater and lunged toward the stage.
“No!” Brandon shouted. But he couldn’t be heard over the crowd.
Ponte stood less than six feet from the edge of the stage when he glanced down and saw Salman taking aim. Everything turned to slow motion as he began to turn, as he began to shout.
Brandon started toward him. He could not stop Salman, but he could knock Ponte out of the way.
Salman prepared to fire.
Brandon leaped toward Ponte, once again shouting. “Nooo …”
Salman pulled the trigger.
Brandon slammed into Ponte, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him to the ground … just as Salman fired once, twice, three times.
The first bullet went wide, the second shattered Brandon’s clavicle, and the third pierced his lung and pulmonary artery. The impacts were so powerful that he didn’t feel himself hitting the stage … though he did hear a multitude of shots fired and knew security had finally discovered Salman.
“Brandon!”
Lying on the stage, he saw Sarah’s approach. He wanted to yell at her to stay back, that they’d misunderstand. But he could not move. Instead, he watched in numb horror as a half-dozen red laser dots found her body and a half-dozen hollow-point bullets tore into her flesh.
She landed inches from his face.
Security swarmed the stage. All Brandon saw were rushing feet and legs. What had gone wrong? Why had he only been allowed to deliver one-half of the message, the judgment? What about the other, the message to the bride?
Reality began disintegrating, strobing bits and pieces flashed at unexpected moments. He saw Ponte rising. Heard him shouting. He knew the man wasn’t happy. He knew Ponte was all too aware of how Brandon’s self-sacrifice would be construed. He’d been double-crossed. He’d been out-loved. “No,” Ponte was shouting. “This isn’t right! This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!”
“What’s he doing?” the technical director cried.
Ryan Holton shook his head as he watched Ponte rant and rave over the monitors. “It’s not right!” the chairman was shouting. “It isn’t fair. You tricked me, you tricked me!”
“He’s lost it,” Ryan answered.
“We got to get off him. Cut to something else!”
Ryan nodded and quickly spoke into his headset. “VTR … give me a segment.”
“What do you —”
“Anything. I don’t care what you have, just give me something, now!”
“Stand by.”
Ryan watched the monitors in amazement as Ponte’s anger continued. The man was definitely out of control. He was standing on the stage, seeming to shout at no one in particular. “It’s not fair, you promised, it’s not fair —”
“Tape ready,” came the response through the headset.
“Roll tape,” Ryan ordered.
“Tape rolling.”
The VTR monitor before him came up. It was another segment on Brandon Martus. Only now he was standing in what looked like ancient ruins. Behind him were broken arches and stone rubble and beyond that was what looked like the remains of an ancient stadium. The kid turned to face the camera. Tears were streaming down his face as he began to speak.
“Where’d that come from?” the technical director demanded.
Ryan shook his head and leaned forward to listen.
“When I shut up the heavens so that there is no rain, or command locusts to devour the land or send a plague among my people …”
“Punch it up,” Ryan ordered.
“But we don’t know what it —”
“Punch it up. We’ve got to dump Ponte, punch it up!”
The technical director reached down to the board in front of him and hit one of the dozens of illuminated buttons. Suddenly Brandon Martus was on the main monitor. Suddenly he was up on the two Jumbotron screens. And suddenly he was being broadcast around the world.
“If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves …”
The technical director turned to Ryan. “Do we really need more of this guy?”
Ryan watched the screen. “Let’s see where it goes …”
“My children!” Brandon cried, “my bride! I have chosen you from before the beginning of the world. You carry my name, yet you do not live my life. Though I have given you power, you have not used it to pursue my holiness. Hear my plea. Heed my warning. Quit seeking your desires, quit seeking your kingdom. Humble yourselves and receive mine. Receive all that I am.”
Brandon heard his voice echoing through the Mount. Consciousness came in fits and starts. For a moment he thought he might be hallucinating … until he heard the familiar verse … until he realized the other edge of the sword was now being wielded.
“If my people will pray and seek my face …”
He looked over at Sarah. She lay in an expanding pool of blood staring at him. She was struggling to breathe, every gasp a torturous ordeal. But she heard his voice, too. And, for the briefest instant, a smile broke through the pain and flickered across her face.
He returned it.
His voice continued. “I am eternal. All else you pursue will burn.”
Then he saw her hand. It was outstretched, just inches from his. To touch it, to hold it these last remaining moments suddenly became the most important thing in Brandon’s world. He struggled to move his hand toward hers. The effort was excruciating, but it was something he had to do.
Ryan continued to watch the monitor.
“You fast in vain. You pray and plead and beg, but your efforts are futile. Look into my eyes and know what is eternal. Only when you behold my glory will your desires conform to mine. Only when you know me can you pray in my name.”
The technical director cleared his throat. “I don’t like this. I’m not sure what he’s doing.”
Ryan said nothing. He was looking at the love and compassion in the boy’s eyes, and he was thinking about his last conversation with Tanya …
He really got to you, didn’t he?
Yeah, he really got to me.
“Let’s cut to something. Ryan?”
He thought of the message she’d left on his service, the report he’d been given of her trying to break in, and of the “accidental shooting” by the guard …
“Ryan? Ryan, do you hear me?”
… and he thought of his own ever-present emptiness.
“VTR,” the technical director spoke into the intercom. “Give us something else. Maybe a —”
“No.” Ryan cut in firmly. “Keep it.”
“But —”
“Keep the tape rolling.”
The technical director gave him a look, but Ryan had made up his mind. And, as he settled back into his seat, crossing his arms to watch, he half-whispered, half-prayed, “This one’s for you, kiddo. This one’s for you …”
Brandon’s voice continued to reverberate across the Temple Mount.
“Repent! Turn! I have given you the power to overcome. All you need to do is choose: your wickedness or my holiness … your death or my life. For without repentance there is no forgiveness. And without forgiveness we have no fellowship.”
But, lying on the stage, Brandon barely heard. He was using all of his concentration and strength to reach for Sarah’s hand. He no longer felt pain. And he knew by the blurring and spinning that he’d be losing consciousness any second. If he could just get to her hand, if he could just move his hand those last fractions of an inch — there! He had it! His heart swelled with gratitude as he glanced back to her face. But her eyes were already closed.
No! his mind cried. Please, God, not yet!
But he was also going. He could feel it. He’d fought the fight and he’d won. He’d deliver
ed the message. How it would be received was not his responsibility. His task was over. He gave Sarah’s hand a tender squeeze, a gentle good-bye. Sights and sounds slipped away. He could no longer see, he could barely hear. And then, to his surprise, he felt Sarah’s hand respond. It was weak, no doubt using the very last of her strength. But there it was, two distinct squeezes answering his one.
Then she was gone.
And, smiling faintly, Brandon followed.
“Humble yourselves! Seek my face! Turn! Then will I hear from heaven and will forgive your sin and will heal your land. My bride … my precious bride. How my heart yearns for you. How I love and adore you … more than I did my very life. How I long for this time of suffering to end, and for the cup of my wrath to be emptied. But you will not have it.”
In Washington State, Beth O’Brien woke her husband, Dr. Philip O’Brien, and their two girls to watch the great Chairman Ponte speak. It was an important moment in history and one she felt they shouldn’t miss. She’d even fixed coffee and hot chocolate to coax them out of bed. But as the family sat on the sofa watching TV, Beth began to think. It had been several years since she’d given God any serious thought, and longer than that since she’d attended church. And yet, watching and listening to this young man, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t hurt to expose the children to what she once believed in so strongly. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt at all.
“You try to stop evil by changing others. Yet you do not cease from your own evil. Repent. Repent and turn your heart toward me. Repent and see if there is anything I would withhold from you. My arms are opened wide. Turn from your adultery.”
Frank shook his head sadly. He’d just returned from a late-night, full-on party, and despite the booze and beer, he stood before his TV set stone sober. That had once been his friend on the screen there, a fellow “townie” — before he’d gotten religion, before he’d turned fanatic. Of course Frank had tried to get him to see reason, and they’d had more than their fair share of shouting matches. After all, it was one thing to believe in something, but to let it take over your life like that? No way. Yet Brandon refused to see reason. Even when the people had shut down the clinic. Even when he made a total fool of himself in L.A.
