“LATEST PREDICTION FROM MAITREYAS SENDS SHOCKWAVE THROUGH WORLD HEADQUARTERS.”
“In the wake of his accurate predictions of two major world disasters, world leaders scramble to make sense of Maitreyas’s latest prediction which he made to followers earlier this week. He told a stunned audience, ’In the eighth month of this year, the “Glory of the Olive” shall
be cut off in the city of seven hills, and in the final persecution of the Holy Roman Church, there will reign Petrus Romanus7 who will feed his flock amid many
tribulations. . . .’”
Becky scratched her head trying to make sense of the riddle. “If the president doesn’t know what it means then I certainly don’t have a chance of understanding it,” she whispered to herself.
* * * * *
The words of Maitreyas took on clear significance on August 11. Becky and her brother sat in the air-conditioned living room and watched in solemn silence as crowds of mourners stood in pouring rain at St. Peter’s Square.
Suze Graham’s voice spoke over the images. “His Holiness the pope was declared dead at 1:00 P.M. local time. Thousands of people, faithful and non-faithful alike, have crowded into St. Peter’s Square to pay their respect to the man who strengthened the Catholic church through perilous times.”
Becky imagined her mother, who was at work, whispering a prayer and crossing herself when she heard the news that her pope had died.
Suze Graham’s voice continued. “It has become clear that this is the event Maitreyas predicted two months ago. With the death of the pope the ‘glory of the olive’ has been cut off from the ‘city of the seven hills,’ which, of course, refers to the city of Rome. Many are now wondering when the rest of the prediction will be realized. Who is Petrus Romanus?”
In the weeks that followed, Becky could no longer remember a time when she did not know of Maitreyas. His name was everywhere; on the radio and television, in newspapers and on the internet. Life slowed as people waited anxiously for his next move. Weddings were postponed, trading in the world markets virtually stopped, parliaments put their debates on hold and homebuyers stalled in signing their mortgages as everyone knew that Maitreyas and his revelation of the mysterious Petrus
Romanus could forever change the destiny of all mankind.
On a dull, cool evening in November, two days before Grandma Silver succumbed to the flu pandemic, Becky sat at the dining room table leaning back in a dark-cherry wood chair, her feet propped up on the table with her pink phone plastered to her ear chatting with T.J.
The clanging sounds of pots and pans rang from the kitchen as Momma slammed the doors of the solid white cabinets and wiped clean the black granite counters and shiny stainless steel appliances. She busily rinsed leftover spaghetti noodles down the drain and put the dishes in the dishwasher.
In the family room in his big brown leather recliner watching the sports channel, Dad sat comfortably in his Levis and white T-shirt, slightly stained by a drop of spaghetti sauce, while David sat cross-legged on the family room floor, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin cupped in his hands. A blue-and-red space helmet headset fit snuggly to his skull as he played “Timmy Time
Traveler,” a virtual reality game played by using your mind.
Dad’s football game was interrupted by an alarming buzz that screamed from the television and shattered the evening’s domestic tranquility. Becky recognized the noise as the emergency notification system that had become so familiar in recent years. The alarm would be followed by the announcement of another quake, flood or war, or perhaps the pandemic had claimed more lives in the heartland of the North American Union.
“We interrupt this program to bring you the following special announcement.” Suze Graham appeared on the screen, a flush of excitement in her cheeks.
“Kirsten! Come in here quick! It’s on!” Dad yelled. The recliner squeaked beneath his weight.
“Rebekah! Get off the telephone!”
Momma rushed into the living room, wiping her wet hands on her tan cotton shorts as she sat down on the faded leather couch next to Dad’s recliner. David yanked off the headset and flung it aside. Becky hurried through the arched doorway and sat down on the couch next to her mother. She laughed out loud when she noticed David’s brown hair sticking up all over his head from the headset. The Silvers had assembled around the forty-six-inch LCD TV.
“We now go live to St. Peter’s Square in Rome. . . .” Suze’s voice was excited. Becky gasped at the image on the screen. A picture from high above the ancient city of seven hills showed a sea of people molded in the familiar shape of St. Peter’s Square. The great crowd spilled out of the square and into the contorting, narrow streets between the red-tiled houses surrounding the great basilica.
“Thank you, Suze,” a female reporter’s voice said over the remarkable images. “We are live here in Vatican City where millions of people have gathered from all over the world expecting to hear Maitreyas speak.
“You are looking at pictures from our helicopter above Rome as people continue to stream into the city in unprecedented numbers. The European Union’s government has been working to accommodate these crowds. For the past five days millions of people have arrived in Rome by train, plane, bus. Many even walked here from as far away as Paris. On the outskirts of the city the highways leading to Rome are filled with people trying to make their way here to the Vatican. And everyone is here for one reason. Everyone wants to know what Maitreyas will voice next.”
The picture on the television changed from the aerial view of Rome to a tight shot of the pretty reporter. She brushed her long, jet-black hair neatly to one side with one hand as she held her microphone close to her lips with the other. “Since the Vatican announced that Maitreyas would address the world here on the steps of one of Christianity’s most famous landmarks, many have speculated about what he would say.”
The camera pulled back to reveal a young, unkempt man standing next to the reporter. “This is Trevor Sutton, who came here all the way from Bristol, England.” The young man smiled at the camera. “What do you hope to hear Maitreyas say today, Trevor?”
The young man spoke deliberately into the microphone. “I think he will make another prediction about the future. I hope he will tell us how we can avoid another disaster like the tsunami so we can save many lives.”
The reporter moved the microphone back toward her own face. “I’ve heard a lot of people here theorize that Maitreyas is an alien from another world. Some have even suggested a wild conspiracy theory that he is part of the Reptilian race and that they created humans. Do you believe any of those ideas?”
“Who knows?” The young man shrugged, looking at the camera. “Nobody can explain how he can predict the future, so anything is possible. All I know is that he has great powers and the world needs someone like him now, to lead us and help us.” The man’s smile faded, and he looked at the reporter. His voice quivered. “That’s why I came here. The idea that the world will continue on this way—so much violence, despair, hatred─it’s unbearable. Maitreyas can change all of that. He will change it. He has to.”
“Thank you.” The reporter turned from the young man and spoke to the camera. “As you can see, Suze, there is a lot of hope here. Hundreds of thousands of people have gathered in this ancient square, between these famous, massive colonnades representing the outstretched arms of the Catholic church, hoping to hear Maitreyas deliver a very important message of hope to the world.”
A stir of excitement in the crowd alerted the reporter that activity was taking place on a stage erected at the entrance to the great basilica. The televised image switched to a live video feed shared by all the worldwide networks covering the story. Becky’s father clicked the remote, flipping quickly between channels, confirming that everyone was airing the same image.
A cardinal bishop stood behind a speaker’s podium filled with microphones. Behind the cardinal, stone reliefs of the saints and angels seemed to dance across the
façade of the towering church as the warm glow of the Italian afternoon stretched ancient shadows over the stage. The cardinal was clad in the traditional ruby-red vestment with a scarlet ferraiolo draped over his shoulders and tied underneath his neck.
His sparkly eyes peered through thick wire-rimmed glasses.
As the cameraman worked to establish a shot, his shaky movements revealed a powerfully made man standing behind the cardinal, in the shadows of the basilica. The man was more than six feet tall with broad shoulders. He wore a white-washed robe that hung close to his muscular physique and brushed the ground around his sandal-clad feet. A purple silk cape was tied loosely around his neck and draped down his strong back.
Becky gazed at the screen. I wonder if that man is Maitreyas?
She closed her eyes momentarily and prayed silently. Dear Jesus, please protect me and shield me from anything that may harm me coming through the television. In Jesus’ name, amen.
The cardinal began to speak. His singsong Italian vibrated from large speakers standing to either side of the stage. His voice redoubled itself off the marble columns and bounced down the narrow, marble and concrete canyons of the old imperial city.
“Fratelli, grazie per aver veniti qui. . . .”
The television whispered softly in English, interpreting the cardinal’s Italian for the American audience. “Thank you for coming, brothers and sisters.”
“Oggi e’ il giorno che noi abbiamo aspetato per tanto tempo.”
“Today is the day we have all been waiting for!”
Most of the cardinal’s hair was gone, and he hunched slightly forward as he spoke carefully into the mass of microphones before him. Bright rays of sunlight danced off the large, ornate gold cross that hung on his chest.
“E’ un gran piacere ed onore a presentarvi. . . .”
“It gives me great honor and privilege to introduce to you”—the voice of the interpreter paused as the cardinal hesitated, as if he had just become aware of the weight of the event and worried his words would not measure up—
“Vi do, Petrus Romanus!”
“I give you Peter Roma!”
The cardinal turned with a grand flourish and flung his arm wide, extending his hand to the tall man standing behind him. Peter Roma walked slowly forward out of the shadows and into the bright sunlight.
A roar erupted from the crowd and out through the speakers, filling the living room and rattling Becky’s and David’s school portraits that hung delicately on the wall behind the television. Becky’s father quickly fingered the remote and lowered the volume.
The camera pulled back to a wide shot of the square to capture visually the excitement viewers were already witnessing through audio.
The ocean of people covering the square bubbled and swelled with glee. The flags of the unions waved majestically back and forth over the crowd, their arms lifted high in praise, throwing hats into the air in joyful abandon.
The din rose out of the square and drifted over the city like a cloud. The cardinal stepped aside and sat down in an empty chair in the shade cast by the church.
Peter Roma stood behind the microphones, his dove-white robe fluttering elegantly in the breeze. His black wavy hair framed his long thin face. A distinguished beard rested on his strong jawline and outlined his full lips.
The camera zoomed in tight, and Peter Roma’s beautiful face filled the television screen. Becky thought he looked oddly familiar. He reminded her of a painting she had seen hanging in Momma’s church. Then she thought of the shroud of Turin she had seen in a television documentary and the regal, serene face mysteriously imprinted on those ancient linens. As Peter Roma stared into the camera his face seemed to mimic the cloth. He was beautiful, but like the shroud something was missing. He was not a complete picture. And the mystery of what one could not see was powerful.
Becky saw strength and wisdom in his sturdy brow, kindness and humility etched into the delicate lines framing his eyes. His intense eyes stared into the camera in
St. Peter’s Square and out from the television into Becky’s living room and held her as if he had wrapped his powerful arms around her. Becky stared back into his eyes through the television screen and felt sadness. It was like looking down a deep well and seeing the pain of all humanity reflected up from the dark, glassy waters below.
Becky broke away from Peter Roma’s hypnotic gaze and looked over at her mother. Her eyes did not blink as she stared into the glow of the television.
“Greetings,” the male interpreter said in English over Peter Roma’s strong masculine voice.
“I come to you in love.”
St. Peter’s Square fell into still silence as Peter Roma’s gentle yet powerful voice rolled over the crowd, through the colonnades and into the streets of Rome.
“What is love? Love is a mystery—the greatest mystery of the universe. Love is your true inner self—self-realization that comes from God. It is the fountain of truth. Love is an energy that existed before anything was. This planet was created with love. . . .”
The camera zoomed in on twelve resplendent Swiss guardsmen standing at attention, six on each side of the entrance to the basilica. Bright blue-and-yellow bands of material covered their red doublets and breeches set off by a thick white collar enveloping their necks. A black helmet topped with red ostrich feathers balanced on their heads while one white-gloved hand grasped the halberd, its ax blade and pick with a spearhead on top, glistening in the sun.
“As some of you may be aware, we are entering into the New Age, the golden age of Aquarius—an age of splendor and of light! This new age ushers in a new revelation, and with this new revelation comes a new world teacher. This new revelation will be based on all the past and present world religions and will consist of a new approach to God. Over the past 2,800 years many teachers provided the world with a spiritual knowledge for mankind. Three of the greatest teachers were Muhammad, the Buddha, and Jesus of Nazareth.”
A smile formed on his lips revealing perfect straight ivory teeth.
“Jesus of Nazareth came in love, and because of his love he gave over his body to be crucified.”
He folded his hands together and looked straight into the camera. He stared for a moment then continued, “I am he. . . .”
Becky shook her head, certain she had misunderstood. She leaned into the television and furrowed her brow in an effort to listen as closely as she could.
“I am Jesus of Nazareth. I was crucified more than two thousand years ago.”
“Huh?” Becky’s jaw dropped. A frigid chill worked its way up the back of her spine while goose bumps blanketed her arms and legs.
The picture on the television switched to a shot of the crowd. The camera zoomed in on a woman with tears streaking her cheeks. She fingered the sign of the cross over her chest and lipped, “Father, Son, Holy Spirit, amen.”
A man nearby shook his head in disbelief and gave a mocking smile in the direction of the podium.
“Is that really Jesus, Mommy?” David’s eyebrows lifted high over his brown eyes.
“Shush!” Momma frowned, putting her finger to her lips.
The camera focused back on Peter Roma. The orange afternoon sun bathed the grey stones of the great basilica in a lukewarm glow, offering an uneasy backdrop as Peter Roma continued speaking.
“I was known by many names. I was Joshua the son of Nun. I was Isaiah. After Jesus of Nazareth, I was
Apollonius of Tyana. I am now an ascended master. I am Isa as foretold by the prophet Muhammad, and in my last and final incarnation I am ‘Petrus Romanus, the master of wisdom’!”
Becky felt her stomach tighten into one big knot.
“Please do not be confused. I am not ‘the Christ.’ ‘The Christ’ and I are two separate individuals. As Jesus of Nazareth, I channeled the power of ‘the Christ’ to survive my death and resurrection. It was ‘the Christ’s’ power, not mine.”8
He lifted his hands and held them to the camera.
; “I do not have any scars from my death and resurrection for I have ascended with a new body. . . .”
Becky glanced down at her own hands, smooth and soft. She imagined the blinding pain of a hard, metal nail driving through the flesh. Christ’s wounds were more than mere scars, she thought. They symbolized a bond, a promise, above all, a sacrifice of immeasurable proportions.
She looked at the large, smooth, soft hands Peter Roma proudly displayed to the world. Would Jesus erase the symbols of his sacrifice, his love? she asked herself.
Her blood simmered inside her at Peter Roma’s suggestion of such callous vanity in her Savior. “Peter Roma is an imposter!” she wanted to scream at the television. “He has no scars because he is a fake and a liar! He is not Jesus of Nazareth, and he was never crucified! The real Jesus of Nazareth has scars—scars in his hands and on his feet from when he was nailed to the cross, and he has scars on his side from when he was struck by a spear. . . .”
Peter Roma lowered his hands to his sides.
“I have come to sit on St. Peter’s seat, to lead the churches and guide mankind into the new age and to prepare the way for the Christ’s return. As an ascended master it is my earthly duty to teach the ‘love principle’ and to rid the churches of their manmade dogmas which confuse the minds of millions of people who otherwise would be ready for ‘the Christ-the Logos of Eternal Love.’”
The camera zoomed to a small boy in a blue hooded jacket hunched over on his father’s shoulders then back to Peter Roma.
“In this new age you must allow and invite God to speak to your conscious and join together with him and become one.”
His piercing blue eyes looked over the crowd and focused on the red granite Egyptian obelisk, supported by bronze lions, standing watch over the square since the days of the emperors.
“As I have said before, this new age ushers in a new revelation, and with this new revelation comes a new world teacher. Using the ‘love principle,’ let us all open our hearts and our minds as I introduce you to the new world teacher, Bodhisattva, whose name in Sanskrit is derived from
Scars Page 4
