Scars

by Patience Prence

  He raps the gavel signaling the finality of Brock’s decision.

  The court clerk hands the judge another manila folder. As the judge busily thumbs through the paperwork enclosed in the new file, Brock26 leaves the stand. As he follows the bailiff, he stares at the floor, careful not to look at anyone. Becky keeps her gaze locked on him, hoping he will look at her. Brock purposely evades her, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. He shuffles down the center aisle, past her, and out the courtroom, not once lifting his eyes.

  Becky shakes her head and whispers under her breath, “I was so sure Brock would deny Maitreyas—not Jesus!” A single tear runs down her cheek. “I am so sad for him. . . .”

  Lorraine turns her head toward Becky. “I’se sorry, honey,” she says sympathetically. “Som’times folks seem t’ be strong Christians on the outside, knowin’ a good bit of the Bible,27 quotin’ scriptures, and so on. But on the inside, where it surely counts a heap more, their faith is very weak. Only God knows a person’s heart.”

  “Yeah. . .I guess so. . . .”

  With her brows furrowed Lorraine closes her eyes and lifts her palms upright and prays silently as water streams down her dark cheeks.

  Becky realizes she is praying and decides to do the same. She lowers her head, shuts her eyes and whispers, “Dear Jesus, please give us all courage and strength not to fall apart like Brock did. . .and please give me the right words. . .for I do not know what to say or how to defend myself. Please be with me. In your precious name, amen.”

  Instantly she recalls a scripture. “Now when they bring you to the synagogues and magistrates and authorities, do not worry about how or what you should answer, or what you should say. For the Holy Spirit will teach you in that very hour what you ought to say” (Luke 12:11-12).

  “Quiet, please!” a bailiff calls loudly. “Please be quiet. The court is now back in session.”

  The judge straightens his paperwork and places it neatly into one pile on the table in front of him.

  “Is Rebekah Lynn Silver here?” The judge’s eyes search the room.

  Becky’s body freezes at the sound of her name ringing throughout the courtroom. She wants to disappear and hide under the chair. . .anyplace where they won’t find her. She feels nausea building up in the lining of her stomach. She squeezes her lips tight, fighting the urge to heave the Danish roll the guard gave her earlier that morning.

  Before Becky can say a word the prosecutor speaks up. “Yes. The defendant Rebekah Lynn Silver is here.”

  “Thank you, counselor.”

  The prosecutor turns toward Becky. Earlier signs of victory have been erased from his face. “The World Union calls Rebekah Lynn Silver to the stand.”

  Lorraine reaches over and thoughtfully taps Becky on the leg. “God be with you, girl.”

  Becky feels everyone in the room staring at her. She can hear whispers and giggles around her. She wants the earth to open up and swallow her whole—she does not want to go before the judge or face that awful, loathsome attorney. She slowly stands to her feet. Her long white legs feel like jello. The shackles clang as she moves to the front of the room.

  She stops in front of the very chair in which Brock denounced Jesus. The sight of it makes her skin turn cold.

  “Please rise,” the court clerk says loudly.

  There is a clatter of chairs moving as everyone stands to their feet again.

  “For the record,” the clerk continues as the court reporter’s fingers begin typing their quick motions on the keyboard, “the honorable Judge William Davis presides over case #RLS2450124, the World Union vs. Rebekah Lynn Silver. The defendant Rebekah Lynn Silver is on the stand. This court is now in session.”

  “You may sit down.” The judge’s hands are folded while his elbows rest on the table.

  Becky slowly sits in the empty metal chair still warm from Brock’s body. She tugs the hem of her shirt over her knees and folds her hands in her lap.

  “For the record, please state your name,” the prosecutor says in an informal tone as he approaches Becky.

  “Re. . .Rebekah Silver.” Her shoulders slouch forward.

  “Rebekah, what do your friends call you, Rebekah or Becky?”

  “Becky.” She avoids his eyes.

  “Okay, then, we shall call you Becky.” He smiles warmly. “Becky, do you know why you are here?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says timidly.

  The prosecutor walks over to the big oblong table and pulls a black book out of a black leather briefcase.

  “Your Honor, please enter exhibit A.” He briefly holds it up for the judge to see then walks back and hands it to Becky.

  Becky accepts the book without looking up. She holds it gently in her lap and fondly traces the familiar gold letters with her finger, “Holy Bible.”

  “Becky, you are here today because you are accused of breaking one of our most important laws. Breaking this law is punishable by death.”

  He reaches out and gently places his forefinger under Becky’s chin and lifts her face up toward his, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Becky?”

  She nods.

  “Counselor,” the judge interrupts. “Do not touch the defendant!”

  The attorney pulls his hand back. His face turns a shade of red. “I’m sorry, your honor. It won’t happen again.”

  He stands tall, trying to compose himself. “Now where were we? Okay, for the record, please note that the defendant Rebekah Silver nodded her head yes.”

  The prosecutor turns toward the crowd then back to Becky. “Now, Becky, I want you to know we are not your enemies and we are here to help you. So please feel free to speak openly when you feel like speaking. You may ask me any question at any time if you like.”

  He reaches over and takes the Bible out of Becky’s hands and places it on the table in front of the judge.

  Clasping his fingers behind him he begins to stride back and forth. “Now isn’t it true, Becky, that when you were living with your mother in Valencia you had secretly purchased the Bible on the internet and kept it hidden away?”

  Becky keeps her eyes on the floor. “Yes, sir.”

  “Why then did you purchase a Bible on the internet if you knew owning a Bible was illegal and punishable by death?”

  “I bought the Bible before Bibles were outlawed.”

  “So you bought the Bible before it was outlawed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, Becky. . .after the Bibles were outlawed, did you turn your Bible in or get rid of it?”

  “No.”

  “So you kept your Bible hidden away even after the World Union passed the law banning all Bibles?”

  Becky doesn’t answer. She keeps her eyes on the floor. Her mouth is dry, and her chapped lips are burning.

  “Becky, do you know why the Bibles were outlawed?” He cocks his head to one side and regards Becky as a dim-witted child. “It is because man has distorted the truth of what God really meant to say. The Bible was never intended to be taken literally. The Bible is symbolic. This is why the World Union has replaced the old outdated Bible with ‘The New Gospel.’”

  He pauses for a moment then continues. “Becky, while you were in prison, were you given the book titled ‘The New Gospel’?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, good! If you read its precious teachings then you already know what a dramatic impact it can have on your life.”

  A wry smile creeps over her face as Becky recalls the pages of “The New Gospel” disappearing down the toilet in her cell.

  “Do you have any questions about ‘The New

  Gospel’?” She can feel his gaze boring into the side of her head.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good! Now, Becky, we can be done with all this boring, legal stuff right now and you can go home to your mother if you will just acknowledge that Lord Maitreyas is the one and only Christ.”

  Becky swallows hard. “No, sir, I can’t.”<
br />
  She hears gasps and loud whispers from the room.

  The prosecutor stands and shoots a quick look of frustration to his assistant, who nods approvingly and continues writing feverishly on a long yellow notepad. He takes a breath and continues. “You’re just a child, Becky. How old are you, sixteen, seventeen?”

  Becky has to think for a second. “Sixteen.”

  “So is all this just some kind of stupid teenage rebellious thing?” His words are harsh. “Are you trying to teach your mother some kind of a lesson? Because, really, no one can be this stupid!”

  Snickers and laughs bounce off the walls.

  “Order, please!” The judge looks disapprovingly as he hits the gavel on the table.

  There is silence.

  “Becky, all reasonable people can see that Lord

  Maitreyas is the true Christ. All of his predictions have come to pass; he has healed thousands of people and raised the dead, and even he himself has died and was resurrected.” He kneels down and puts his face close to Becky’s. “I know you aren’t that stupid, Becky. Tell me, how can you look at all that Maitreyas has done and not believe in him?”

  Becky speaks calmly. “Because Jesus said he is coming in the sky, ‘as lightning flashes from the East to the West, so shall the coming of the Son of Man be.’ He is coming in the clouds, and every eye will see him!”

  “Yes, Becky, you are correct, but his coming in the sky is not literal but symbolic. Lord Maitreyas has fulfilled those prophecies. He did come back in the sky; he came unexpectedly ‘like a thief in the night.’ Don’t you remember the great star that heralded Maitreyas’s emergence? It was just like the star of Bethlehem that announced the birth of Jesus in his first initiation.”

  The people murmur in agreement. Becky’s blood simmers as it rushes to her head. Her brows contract into a deep scowl, and she grits her teeth.

  The prosecutor continues mechanically, as if reading from a script. “And on the Day of Pentecost, Maitreyas fulfilled the scriptures, ‘every eye shall see him’! So you see, Becky, Lord Maitreyas has passed every test you can think of. He has proven beyond any doubt that he is the Christ.”

  Becky suddenly lurches forward, fire in her eyes. “MAITREYAS IS NOT THE CHRIST!” Her voice cracks as she shrieks at the top of her lungs. The judge jumps back in his chair, startled by her sudden outburst. “He is the Antichrist. He’s tricked you. He has tricked all of you.” She stares out at the faces in the room who stare back in disbelief. “His name equals six-six-six. The Bible warned us he would come. It warned us that his name would equal six-six-six. He is not our savior. He is the beast of Revelation!”

  Offended gasps ripple in the air. Several people stand and gesture violently at Becky.

  “Death to the resister!” someone shouts.

  “Execute the traitor!” says another.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. The court reporter beats at the electronic keyboard.

  “Order! Order now!” The judge bangs his hammer on the table. “I will clear this courtroom if I don’t have order now.” The judge shoots a disdainful look at Becky, this insolent little girl who dares to try to turn his courtroom into a circus. The room suddenly falls silent. He nods at the prosecutor to continue.

  “Becky,” the prosecutor says in a calm voice, appearing not to be bothered by the earlier outburst. “The beast John was referring to in Revelation was the emperor Nero. He was the one persecuting Christians at the time John wrote those letters. And when you translate ‘Nero Caesar’ into Hebrew letters, his name equals six-six-six. So you see, Becky, Nero was the beast John was writing about. And besides lots of people have names that equal six-six-six. Are all of them the so-called Antichrist too?” Soft laughter comes from behind him. “But”—he maintains a dead-pan expression and continues—“I mean, I’m sure there is some wild, superstitious calculation that can be applied to your own name that would render the dreaded number six-six-six. That doesn’t make you the Antichrist, does it?”

  He carefully adjusts a dark strand of hair that dangles near his left eye. “The scriptures said there were many antichrists in the world. The truth, Becky—the truth you must accept—is that the Antichrist is not a person at all. It is a force, a destructive energy that has worked its evil through the disasters that have plagued our world since the beginning of time. Earthquakes, tornados, hurricanes, tsunamis, drought and the starvation of millions of people are all the works of the antichrist energy.

  “Again, reasonable people can see this as proof that Maitreyas is in fact the true Christ, because, as we have all seen, only he can overpower this energy.”

  A sullen look covers Becky’s face. Her lips tighten, and her forehead frowns. Help me, Lord, she prays silently. I need you, and I need you now. . . .

  “Becky!”

  “Huh? Would you please repeat the question?”

  “I said even the ascended master Peter Roma has said that Lord Maitreyas is the Christ! How can you deny that?”

  Becky shifts her shoulders back and sits up straight. Her eyes focus directly up at the intimidating man standing in front of her. “Because Peter Roma is not the same Jesus of Nazareth.” She speaks slowly and confidently. “He is an imposter and a liar! Peter Roma is one of the fallen rebellious angels who were cast out of heaven with Satan. He is the false prophet of Revelation!

  “And Peter Roma claims that as Jesus he was crucified and resurrected. Then I ask, where are his scars? He has no scars because he is not Jesus. He is a fake and a liar! The real Jesus of Nazareth has scars because he was nailed to the cross on Calvary! The real Jesus of Nazareth, who died more than two thousand years ago, is the one and only Christ, not Maitreyas!

  “The Bible says, ‘Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God,’ and there are 333 fulfilled Bible prophecies that prove that Jesus of Nazareth is the Christ!”

  She stops for a moment to catch her breath and deeply inhales the stale air. She struggles to organize the thoughts and scriptures flooding her mind. The prosecutor parts his tight lips, but before he can utter a syllable Becky continues.

  “‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. . .and the Word became flesh. . .and dwelt among us.’

  “‘Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.’

  “‘Therefore also God highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of those who are in heaven and on earth and under the earth and that every tongue should confess that ‘Jesus Christ is Lord’ to the glory of God the Father!’”

  She stops. Her breath is fast and shallow, as if she has just finished a hundred-yard sprint. She stares at the prosecutor, ready to deflect any salvo he fires back at her.

  “Oh, brother,” murmurs a black-haired young man in the front row, his words cut short by a dirty look from the judge.

  Frustrated, the prosecutor’s eyes look up and to the left as he pauses like a laptop computer downloading a large file.

  “Becky, didn’t you read ‘The New Gospel’?”

  “Uh. . .yeah. . .a little bit.”

  “Well, if you did read it, then you would know why Peter Roma has no scars. It is because he has ascended with a new body.”

  Becky sighs. Now he’s starting to sound like

  Momma.

  “You see, Becky, Peter Roma is an enlightened master. Let me explain: There are five expansions of consciousness, which makes a man an enlightened master by symbolically going through each of them. Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem symbolized the first initiation. I won’t explain all of them, but when Jesus was crucified this symbolized the fourth initiation. Three days after Jesus died it was the Christ Maitreyas who entered his body, and it was the

  Christ Maitreyas who resurrected his body. This symbolized the fifth initiation.”

  The prosecutor smiles to himself when he realizes he has everyone’s utmost attention. He continues. “Jesus became a master of wisdom
when he achieved the fifth initiation. In his next incarnation he was born as Apollonius of Tyana. As Apollonius he ascended with a new body therefore erasing his scars. History tells us he traveled to India where he died and was buried there. This is where the confusion comes in about Jesus not dying on the cross.”

  Becky feels her energy draining as the prosecutor rambles on.

  “So in his last and final incarnation Peter Roma has ascended with yet another new body. So you see, Becky, that is why he has no scars.”

  The prosecutor’s hands rest on his hips. “Becky, it is Lord Maitreyas’s will that you choose him and choose life. If you deny him, Lord Maitreyas will deny you.

  “And remember, Becky, if you deny Lord Maitreyas, it is not Lord Maitreyas who condemns you to death. It is your own doing.”

  He bends his knees and squats down beside Becky’s chair, careful not to touch her, and looks directly into her eyes. In a kind and soft tone he says, “I plead with you, Becky. Do the smart and sensible thing. Live and choose Christ Lord Maitreyas.”

  He stands back to his feet. Becky recognizes the same posture he had taken when he called on Brock to make his decision.

  “For the record, Becky”—he pronounces each word loudly—“what is your decision?”

  The very air in the courtroom seems to wait for her to speak. Everyone’s eyes stare at her in a quizzical manner. Their shoulders are hunched, leaning forward, waiting for her answer.

  She glances at the red-headed newspaper reporter, who called himself Bob Brown, seated in the front row. His eyes prod her, and he mouths the words “Choose

  Maitreyas.”

  She looks toward the back row and sees Lorraine, her eyes closed and her hands folded tightly together. She realizes Lorraine is praying for her. All the prisoners are praying, their hands knit together. A loud clang breaks the tense silence as one prisoner’s shackles rub against the metal folding chair as he raises his hands up toward heaven.