Scars
Page 16
She suddenly feels a strong supernatural power. Her skin begins to feel cool, and goose bumps blanket her arms. She swallows as she chokes back tears. She feels the overwhelming presence of God and his holy angels near her. She can almost see them, surrounding her, protecting her and whispering words of comfort in her ears. A sense of peace fills her innermost being. She sits up straight and lifts her chin, proudly.
“I choose Jesus Christ of Nazareth, King of kings and Lord of lords, whom God sent down to earth to die for our sins, who has scars from when he was nailed to the cross and who was resurrected three days later and who now sits at the right hand of God. For if I die with him, I shall also live with him. If I endure, I shall also reign with him. If I deny him, he also will deny me. If I am faithless, he remains faithful; for he cannot deny himself. I choose Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God!”
“Praise Jesus!” a prisoner yells from the back row.
The prosecutor huffs in disgust. “Well, Becky.” His voice is cold and harsh. “I can see that you have been brainwashed. I cannot do any more for you.”
He steps up to the table and speaks impatiently to the judge. “Your honor, the World Union requests permission to strike that last paragraph.”
Surprised, the judge turns to the court reporter. “Renee, please read back to me the last paragraph.”
Renee tugs at the roll of tape in the stenotype machine. She twists strands of hair with her fingers as she reads aloud the transcript. “I choose Jesus Christ of
Nazareth, King of kings, Lord—”
“Stop there!” the judge interrupts. “Strike the paragraph after the sentence, ‘I choose Jesus Christ of Nazareth.” The judge frowns. “Is that all, counselor?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He walks to the table where his assistant has already begun assembling the files for the next case. “The World Union rests, your honor.”
The judge picks up an ink pen and scribbles on a sheet of paper. He makes a fist with his right hand and covers his mouth to clear his throat.
“Will the defendant Rebekah Lynn Silver please stand.”
Becky takes a deep breath and slowly pulls herself out of the hard, metal chair. She stands to a full five-foot seven inches; her tattered orange shirt rests slightly below her knees. With her hands bound together she holds her head high, her ponytail dangling in the middle of her back.
“The court finds the defendant Rebekah Lynn
Silver”—the judge’s voice is gruff—“guilty beyond a reasonable doubt on all three counts under article 130 of the World Union Constitution.
“Count one: W.U. 130.28. ‘Any person or persons having in their possession, and or on the premises of their home, any translation of the Christian Bible part or in full; printed, electronic, or audio, shall be put to death.’
“Count two: W.U. 130 (a). ‘The following shall include all person or persons over the age of one year, section (43), any person or persons refusing a World
Union approved microchip implant with Christ Maitreyas’s name, his number or his mark28 inserted on his or her right hand or forehead shall be put to death.
“Count three: W.U. 130.42. ‘Any person or persons refusing to bow down to Christ Maitreyas or any graven image of Christ Maitreyas shall be put to death.’
“The court hereby sentences Rebekah Lynn Silver to death by beheading with the guillotine today at 6:00 P.M., on the lawn behind this World Union courthouse.”
The judge places the papers into a manila file and hands the file to the clerk. He slams his gavel on the table and stands. “The court will now adjourn for lunch until 1:00 P.M. I’m famished!”
Then they will deliver you up to tribulation and kill you,
and you will be hated by all nations for my name’s sake.
Matthew 24:9
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when they revile and persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely for my sake. Rejoice and be exceedingly glad, for great is your reward in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you.
Matthew 5:10-12
8
The Execution
With her wrists and ankles shackled, Becky takes tiny steps as two black-hooded executioners, one on each side, grip her elbows firmly and escort her down the long narrow hallway. Their boots fall heavily on the floor alongside Becky’s bare feet.
They stop before the glass exit doors and wait as the W.U. guard on the other side pulls the aluminum handle and holds the door open. They pass through to the outside and slowly descend concrete steps and into the courtyard.
Tall steel-and-glass buildings pierce the gloomy grey-and-red skyline, while a giant World Union flag snaps and flutters lazily in a warm evening breeze.
“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me,’” Becky whispers under her breath as they move forward. Water pools in the corners of her eyes.
Several people huddle together holding signs and waving small World Union flags. Large, garish silver jewelry jiggles from their pierced ears, lips and noses. A rowdy group of young men whose heads are shaved descend the steps and immediately begin chanting, “Death to the resister! Long live Christ Maitreyas!”
A large, black-haired lady smiles while waving a red flag bearing a black silhouette of Maitreyas high over her head. Her face is painted blue and white, the colors of the World Union. Next to her, a boy no older than six holds a poster board over his head that reads, “Resisters are the cancer. Maitreyas is the answer.”
A hand-scrawled sign catches Becky’s eyes. She reads, “Behead all who insult Christ Maitreyas.”
“Ugh!” It feels like someone has just socked her in the stomach. “I can’t believe this is happening. Lord
Jesus. . .come quickly!” she mumbles.
On a rough-hewn wood platform erected in the middle of the courtyard, beckoning its next victim, sits the “death machine,” its broad razor-sharp blade mocking those, reminding them of their doom if they refuse to worship Maitreyas.
Adjacent to the guillotine sits a statue29, a smaller version of the five-hundred-foot bronze Maitreyas statue in India. It is an image of Maitreyas sitting on his throne, his left hand resting on his leg while his right hand is held up in the air, his third and fourth fingers slightly forward. “Maitreyas the Christ, Lord of Love” is engraved in marble at the base of the throne, and below that, “Maitreyas,
Messiah, Krishna, Imam Mahdi and World Teacher.”
Flowers and candles litter the base of the giant statue. Small scraps of paper, held down by stones and pebbles, bear the hopeful prayers of worshippers who visit the statue regularly.
Becky shakes her head sadly as she pictures Brock kneeling before the bronze beast, sealing his fate for eternity.
“It’s not too late,” the hooded man to Becky’s left whispers in a gritty, low voice. “Peter Roma has ordered statues in front of every guillotine, because it’s never too late. You can always repent and worship Lord Maitreyas.”
“Corporal, remain silent!” Becky feels the glove on her right arm tighten as the second executioner reprimands the one on her left.
“Yes, sir.” She hears the man to her left take a deep breath beneath his hood. “I just thought. . . .”
“Save yourself!” shouts a teenage girl dressed in black, gothic-style clothes. A black X30 is boldly tattooed on her forehead. “Worship Lord Maitreyas the Christ!”
Terror rips through Becky’s soul as the men stop in front of the steps of the guillotine. With an anguished groan she looks toward the orange and purple sky one last time. Salty tears gently course down her innocent cheeks. She tries to ignore the crushing weight that has leeched itself upon her chest.
One of the executioners stops and releases her elbow as the other turns her body toward the sturdy stairs that lead up to her demise.
Becky and the hooded man slo
wly ascend the steps. Her throat is dry, and it feels like someone is strangling her. Her ankle shackles clang as they step onto the platform. She looks down at her feet; the wood is stained brownish-red.
Her eyes dart back and forth from the executioner to the crowd to the silver blade hanging high above. The smell of stale blood lingers like perfume in the dry air. She shudders as she wonders how many people have died here before her.
Wood splinters dig into her skin as the executioner pushes her down to her knees. His black leather glove grasps her ponytail and guides her head through the notch of the guillotine and rests her neck on the wooden slot. He secures the brace.
She leans her shoulders forward against the wood to release the pressure that is pinching her back.
She squeezes her eyes shut, blocking out the statue of Maitreyas and the jeering crowd gathered to watch her die.
She silently mouths the words, For if I die with him, I shall also live with him. If I endure, I shall also reign with him. If I deny him, he also will deny me.
Her head spins, like a Ferris wheel spiraling out of control. She whimpers an urgent prayer. “Lord
Jesus. . .please help me! Please help me to be strong. . . .
Focus, focus on Jesus, she tells herself repeatedly.
In her mind she pictures Jesus, his half-naked limp body mangled from the countless hours of whipping and beating. He dangles high from long rusty nails hammered into a hefty splintered stake. Flies collect on the crossbeam where red ooze trickles down from his pierced hands. They buzz around the droplets of bloody sweat from his forehead as it streams down his puffy black-and-blue face and pools in his matted beard.
She imagines herself looking up into his sorrowful bloodshot eyes. She hears him groan in sheer agony as he turns away and lifts his weary head up to heaven and says, “Father, if it is your will, take this cup away from me; nevertheless not my will, but yours, be done.”
Her chest aches as she feels his pain.
She writhes in discomfort as the wood brace pinches down hard on her neck. She tries to twist her head but is only welcomed by a nagging, gnawing pain.
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,” she says as she forces her tormented mind away from that atrocious metal blade that will come crashing down on her neck separating her head from her body at any moment.
“Lord Jesus,” she whispers, “please let it be quick, and please, don’t let it hurt. . . .”
There is silence.
She feels a light tap on her shoulder.
She ignores it.
Focus on Jesus. . .focus. . . .
There it is again.
Have they changed their minds? she wonders.
The tapping turns into a tug. Someone has grabbed her elbow and is pulling her up to her feet.
Her eyelids flutter open.
Her gaze is met by a tall incredibly beautiful angelic being. His clear blue eyes twinkle as he smiles warmly down upon her.
Puzzled, her eyes cast down to see her crumpled beheaded body lying lifeless on the wood platform, crimson blood oozing from the neck.
Am I dead? But. . .but I never felt the deadly blade. If my body is dead. . .then my spirit31 must still be alive!
“Becky,” says the angel, a luminous aura surrounding his blond curly hair. “Come with me.”
In a transport of delight she follows the angel down the steps onto the sunburned grass, his long white robe flowing gracefully behind him.
The crowd of people gathered to watch the execution is now dispersing and scattering throughout the courtyard.
Tears stream down the face of a hunched-over, grey-haired woman clutching a cane as she shakes her head in grief. “Poor, poor child. May God rest her soul.”
Skateboards tucked under their arms and their baseball caps turned backward, two smiling boys strain their necks to get a look at the motionless body.32 “Oh, man, cool.” They cackle, emitting loud inarticulate noises. “Look at all that blood!”
People chant, “Long live Lord Maitreyas! Long live the Christ!” as they wave their World Union flags in approval of what they have just witnessed.
The crowds pass within inches of Becky as she stands on the courtyard lawn. She realizes that although she can see them they do not see her.
The angel stops. He reaches for her hand and gently tucks it under his left arm. She smiles as she feels the silky robes wrap around her arm.
The angel lifts his chin up toward heaven and extends his right hand in the air. Suddenly a massive beam of light parts the sky, like a zipper, to show darkness, and then out of the darkness thousands of equidistant bursts of meteoric explosions of light appear. It is like a flashlight shining across a room on high beam.
Their feet slowly lift off the ground as they are drawn into the tunnel of light. Becky is astounded as she tries to absorb everything that is happening to her. She cannot stop herself from smiling.
Together they traverse through the shimmering white tunnel at speeds Becky cannot comprehend, cutting through the dark space that surrounds the earth toward the third heaven.
Becky gasps as a brilliant halo of clouds emerges, displaying a magnificent spectrum of violet, blue, orange and red ice crystals.
“We are almost there,” the angel says reassuringly.
The colorful clouds part to expose a bright yellow metallic stairwell that extends upward.
They slowly descend to the base of the stairwell. Is this heaven? Becky wonders as her feet touch a hard transparent floor.
The angel gently squeezes Becky’s hand as he takes it off his arm. “Follow the steps.” His finger points up the stairs.
Her eyes look up at the giant stairwell of lovely golden steps, white clouds hovering about.
She lifts her leg to take a step. She takes another step and another. Step after step she climbs the stairs through the clouds. As she takes each step, she notices the golden steps seem to grow bigger and she grows smaller, like a child.
She climbs and climbs. Her skin feels warm as though the sun is shining on it. She inhales deeply and smiles at the scent of lilacs and roses, jasmine and honeysuckle.
She continues climbing and climbing. Step after step.
The clouds begin radiating more and more brilliant rays of light.
Her eyes are wild with exaltation as she comes to the end of the stairwell. She gazes down to see her reflection on a sea of transparent glass, like flawless diamonds mixed with orange and yellow flames. “Wow!” She beams excitedly.
Her eyes look up and focus on a beautiful bow of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet, illuminating over a large emerald throne that is grander than anything she has ever seen before. She is amazed at the beautiful colors waltzing through the air.
Waves of orange and yellow ripple below her feet like waves of fire as she sets her foot on the transparent glass.
Her small frame slowly moves toward the giant throne. Her heart speeds, and she catches her breath. She sees that a Man of great stature is sitting on the throne, great beams of light emanating from his body like the sun.
She pushes herself closer. Exultant happiness fills the depths of her soul as she recognizes the Man wearing the bright, lamb-white robe, a golden sash draped across his broad chest, so glorious and magnificent!
She suddenly realizes this is the moment—the most important moment in her whole tiny existence—she is standing face-to-face with the Creator of the universe.
She is overwhelmed by his intense beauty and the splendor of his presence; goose bumps swallow her, and her body becomes weak. Her legs buckle beneath her, and she tumbles to the floor shielding her face with her arm.
“Do not be afraid, My child.” His strong voice echoes through the jewel-studded air.
Becky’s hand slips away from her face.
He is leaning forward, his snow-white hair reflecting red, yellow and blue. He stretches his right hand toward her, beckoning her to come forward.
Slowly she stan
ds and moves toward him. She reaches up and places her tiny hand inside his large outstretched hand.
His hand is so soft and warm. Becky’s body trembles in awe, and yet she sighs as she relaxes in his strong grasp. A puzzled look crosses her face as she feels something rough in the smooth cup of his hand.
She peers closer to get a better look.
Suddenly her eyes sparkle, and her smile stretches from ear to ear. She places her thin, delicate fingers inside his hand and strokes his beautiful, jagged scar, formed more than two thousand years ago when he was nailed to the cross.
She looks up into his gentle fiery eyes. He smiles lovingly down at her and says, “I am the living one.” Diamonds, rubies and sapphires encrust the wide band that forms the base of his gold crown. “I was dead, and, behold, I am alive, forever and ever!”
He carefully lifts her up onto his lap and wraps both of his arms around her small shoulders. She feels his breath against her cheek. He squeezes her tight as a father squeezes his child after being away for a long while. He strokes her golden-blond locks and whispers softly in her ear, "Well done, Rebekah, My child, well done!"
Then I saw the souls of those who had been
beheaded for their witness to Jesus and for the word of God, who had not worshiped the beast or his
image and had not received his mark on their foreheads or on their hands. And they lived and reigned with Christ for a thousand years.
Revelation 20:4
These are the ones who come out of the great tribulation, washed their robes and made them white in the blood
of the Lamb. Therefore they are before the throne of God and serve him day and night in his temple. And he
who sits on the throne will dwell among them. They shall
neither hunger anymore nor thirst anymore; the sun
shall not strike them, nor any heat; for the Lamb who is in
the midst of the throne will shepherd them and lead them
to living fountains of waters. And God will wipe
away every tear from their eyes.