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MATTHEW 10:26
ARMAGEDDON
A CATHOLIC NOVEL OF THE END TIMES
FREE! Full text begins below.
Non-commercial.
Spiritual Warfare Guide and Prophetic Primer
* Copyright, 2005, Rick Harrison
Prologue
In 2018 an event occurred that was in large
part beyond the ken of humanity. In the early hours of morning a number of
people awoke from sleep. A startling sound rang out. It rang at regular intervals
of a second or two duration, pulsing with enormous intensity.
There are no words for the quality of this
sound. Shrill, strident, a piercing series of notes, yet notes that came from
no physical source on this earth, intimately accompanied by preternatural light
and a holy presence. The event continued for a scarce few moments of “real
time”—if divine encounters happen in real time—but the impact was enduring.
Great blessings came to those caught up in
this experience, Garfield and Father Bernie among them. Most considered the
phenomenon an angelic trumpet call, some kind of prelude or manifestation of
the Lord’s return. Others were not so sure. They chose to hold their opinion in
abeyance pending a period of discernment.
The only person to correctly identify the
odd sound was four-year-old Julia Scranton. She told her incredulous mother she
had heard God whistling.
---------------
Chapter
1 - “Spooky is Right”
Spring 2022
Saturday, 7:30 p.m.
“The reference again?”
“Zechariah 10 and 12”
“You’re sure it was an angel, not a demonic imposter?”
“I received a great blessing, Father.”
“Very well, add it to the journal. Let’s see, we now have Zechariah 10 and 12, Obadiah, Micah 4, and Malachi 3, with allusions to a Christian move in the military forces of the West. I think it is time we started taking this seriously.”
“I agree; we should contact someone in the Church.”
“How about Opus Dei? They are close to the Pope. Let me know the moment you find out something. I’m going to The Beanery to do some recruiting. We will need to build a team for this.”
“OK, Father. I’ll
step over to the chapel and pray for your success.”
“Goodnight, Father.”
“Goodnight,
------------
Fingering the items in his portfolio, Rick scans the customers thoughtfully. Perhaps I’ll sit down at Clayton’s table. No, I can’t do that; he’ll just laugh me to scorn.
Clayton spots Rick at the ice cream bar. He wiggles two fingers at the waiter who is just leaving with his order and waves Rick over.
“Rick, can I confirm you for Trivial Pursuit Wednesday? Margaret is planning the meal.”
“Yes, I think so, Clayton.”
After catching up on work and mutual friends, Rick takes the first pause as his opportunity.
“The oddest thing happened...”
The Italian milkshakes arrive preempting his disclosure. Sampling the fresh Columbian espresso and premium chocolate, the urgency fades.
“Thanks Clayton, I owe you one.”
“No problem. Really—something odd
happened, in
Clayton reaches for his shake, dipping the spoon into mounds of whipped cream and cinnamon. Not to worry, at 6’7” he can handle it. I’ll work it off in the gym. Three years of power-lifting competitions since retirement have added several inches of muscle to the iron frame chiseled by twenty-years of Air Force pararescue. Clayton nudges the empty stool out a bit, places his feet up and relaxes.
“It’s odd; but first, can I trust you?” Leaning his fuzzy brown head in Clayton’s direction and raising matching eyebrows, Rick emphasizes, “This has to be privileged.”
Having spoken, the redundancy strikes him. Clayton is the most trustworthy man in several counties—bodyguard to the rich and famous, and a Medal of Honor winner.
“OK, you have my word; it’s privileged.”
Leaning back to savor the drink, Clayton scratches his fresh orange razor cut, baffled as to what Rick might be up to.
“I heard something,” Rick reveals.
Whistle stop gossip, Clayton concludes too hastily. Moving on, he mentally reviews tonight’s TV Guide listing. Science fiction marathon at 8:30! He’ll have to swing by the store and grab some corn curls, a few sodas for the kids.
“OK, here’s the odd part, Clayton. I didn’t here it in the usual way. Telepathy—believe it or not I heard something telepathically.”
Rick props himself against the table. Come disparaging comment, abject ridicule or even a straightjacket, I don’t care; I have spoken the truth.
“Telepathically!”
Rick confirms, still bracing for the worst.
“I’ll keep my word. But you are…uh” Clayton clears his throat, squinting at Rick as if he might have missed some indication of instability. “I mean…you’re feeling OK—right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. This actually…” Rick leans over and hisses “happened“ at his best friend through clenched teeth, allowing the exaggerated grimace to suggest perhaps the Hulk sitting on a tack or Tolkien’s fighting Urukai in a death embrace.
Smiling at the dramatization, Clayton continues his challenge.
“How do you know you didn’t just hear yourself thinking?”
“It was different. First of all, it wasn’t the kind of thing I think: I am not in the habit of blessing myself. Second, I wasn’t thinking it at the time; and ‘C’ it was simple and clear. Someone spoke to me telepathically. They said ‘Rick, God bless you.’”
Clayton begins to suspect this might have happened.
“Did you recognize the voice?”
“I think so—Father Bernie.”
“That is odd.”
Odd
was not entirely unwelcome to Clayton.
Photo courtesy United States Air Force
“That’s not all—and you’re still sworn to secrecy. Today my boss, Steve, came over. Steve’s a great guy, by the way. He served in Special Operations Command too, none of which he can talk about for another ten years.”
“So he said. We met at the Habitat for Humanity construction site last week, building affordable homes for hurricane evacuees. Now, there’s a Christian ministry that’s changing the world!”
Rick nods agreement.
“Anyway, the oddest thing happened.”
“More odd than telepathy?”
“Maybe. Steve thought I was oppressed by a demon.”
Clayton coughs. This is unexpected. Taking a draught of the throat-freezing concoction in front of him, he checks Rick’s rugged Scots-Irish face for signs of a set-up. This could all be a practical joke. Finding no indications of a joke, he dismisses the incident as the product of overactive imagination.
His
gaze wanders to the glass door and large window up front, then to the
headlights passing slowly down
Technical Sergeant Rick Scranton, retired, smiles at his reverie.
“Retired” Clayton repeats, adjusting his position for greater comfort...and back home for good.
Cool spring air wafts by as a family comes in for ice cream. The scent of lilac blossoms comes with them, as strong as perfume. It recalls Clayton’s happy childhood in Monon. Life was simpler then. Armageddon was a page in the Bible, not a page on your desk calendar.
“Clayton?” Rick calls him back to the present, reaching
into his backpack to retrieve the icebreaker he had prepared. “Here, Steve gave
me these; I thought you might be interested.”
Taking the items, Clayton reads aloud, “Evolution as a Religion, by Mary Midgley, I’ll take a look. What’s this one?”
“Bones of Contention, by Martin Lubenow, a creationist assessment of human fossils.[1]
“Oh, and here’s the Web address for the archaeological research team at BASE Institute that found Noah’s Ark!”[2]
“Noah’s
“Sorry I ignored you; slipped into a daydream I guess. Where were we? Oh, yes. Whatever gave Steve the idea you were possessed by a demon?”
“Oppressed, Clayton; there’s a difference. Oppression is not so severe. Anyway, Steve’s busy, he didn’t really explain. We’re friends, perhaps he felt he didn’t have to. I apparently did or said something out of character. At his level of faith I suppose you begin to trust your instincts.”
“I suppose. You did remind him the Exorcist was just a movie?”
“I happen to know the Exorcist
is based upon a true story of an exorcism performed by the Catholic Church in St.
Louis in 1949, and it’s not the only one. Thousands have been done,
though mostly in
“I did hint at the fact that my head
wasn’t spinning around, and that I hadn’t levitated—I only do that when my
tax refund comes back.
“What did Steve say to that?”
“He asked my permission to pray for me, I gave it, and he prayed—as simple as that. He cast the thing out with a prayer. He didn’t command the demon to leave in the name of Jesus Christ as I expected. He didn’t wrestle with it, curse it and punch it with holy water. He said that lay Christians should never confront demons directly, it is too dangerous—not until the Church policy forbidding lay exorcisms changes. As of the present, the Church has reserved exorcism to the Bishops and their delegates, the priests. Laymen can, and should, however, effectively heal afflicted persons with prayer, love and friendship. Since Christ’s victory is fully extended to those who affirm it with faith, an exorcism is seldom required; prayers of healing get the job done.
“According
to Steve, healing is usually all that is needed. Full demonic possession is
rare, the news headlines notwithstanding. Cases that, given sufficient time for
prayer, support and friendship to work, do not respond and the clearly urgent
and dramatically obvious cases must be referred to the Church for resolution.
Steve has a letter from the priest who is chief exorcist at the diocese of
“I respect devout Christians. I wish my own faith were stronger. You talk as if you think there actually was a demon.”
“I can’t rule it out. I have always tended to dismiss spooky things as imaginary—but demons are in the Bible. I felt much better after the prayer. Prayer has affected me that way since I was a child.”
“Well, I will at least admit that you’ve established ‘odd’ at this point. In fact, I’ll go a bit further.”
Clayton puts down six dollars. “I’m buying your next one at Kilroy’s—and the sooner the better. Let’s change the subject, shall we; talk of the supernatural gives me the heebie-jeebies. What else is happening of great interest?”
“Well,
Photo courtesy Air Force Space Command
“That’s
a little too interesting. In
“I know it,” Rick confirms. “The spooks in the war plans section out at the base refused to have a beer with me. Not until this is over. They’re afraid they might say something classified. Whatever they are up to, they are very busy doing something. Let’s hope things cool down in a hurry. With seven years to go in the Retired Reserve, if Congress pulls in retirees to fight a major war...”
“Right, I think we should check our uniforms—just in case.”
“Confirmed! I’m heading over to military clothing first thing Monday to pick-up a field jacket and jump boots.”
“Take my advice, Rick; throw in a compass and survival knife. You may never need them, but it pays to be prepared.”
“You would know, if anyone does. I’ll add them to the list.”
By now the adrenalin is flowing in both of them.
“What else is new?”
“Well, back on the home front, the kids are cracking me up again. They are at that age, four and six, you know—just too cute. We are into reading stories now. I read them the Big Friendly Giant by Roald Dahl last week. It was fun.”
“Big Friendly Giant…? No, I think it’s called The BFG, isn’t it? I read that to my kids a few years back.
“I stand corrected, The BFG.”
“Now wait just a minute before you move on…there was something odd about that giant. Yes…he did levitate! Brrrrp!”
Rick laughs.
“The kids thought that was the funniest thing. The mere mention of a soda made them giggle for days. Children are our most honest literary critics, you know.”
“They are our most honest everything. I seem to recall that the lovable self-propelled giant also had difficulties with language. He had to invent his own version of the Queen’s English, being too large to attend primary school. One felt downright sorry for the poor bloke.”
“Oh, his version of the language didn’t turn out so bad, really. He would undoubtedly have been one of the West’s great philosophers, had the situation been real.”
“No question, just ahead of Nietzsche, Hume, Machiavelli, and now, in modern times, our very own Richard Dawkins—guys so brilliant they can’t find the laws of God written on their own hearts.”
“Way ahead of them.”
“What else have you read to them?”
“Well, Julia likes The Berenstein Bears. We read the one on pollution last night, the one with ‘Professor Actual Factual’ in it. They love stories. They’re just too cute. It’s The Boxcar Children next, and then The Hardy Boys.
“The kids already have a fondness for the Bible. We read a few verses each night before bed. I decided that what is wrong with the world today is that we are not teaching our children a real friendship with God.”
“Precisely right.”
“We should tuck them in at night with a wink and a hug, reminding them that God loves us and will protect us in our sleep. That way, they will meet God in their hearts before the world gets a chance to teach them otherwise. Knowing that God is real, they will be immunized against the incessant materialist propaganda that has been woven into every aspect of this convoluted experience we call modern life.”
“Right again.”
“Kids can surprise you. As I was tucking Julia in last night a tear came into her eye and she said, ‘God is holy, Daddy!’ and with that magical twinkle that only children can have she whispered ‘God loves us. How much is a secret. But he told me it’s a lot!’
“Sometimes, Clayton, I think children are our teachers, not the other way ’round.”
“Christ confirmed it: ‘Unless you become as one of these little ones you will not enter Heaven.’ You’ll have to protect the little ones; there’s a lot of evil out there,” Clayton reminds. He has seen his share of it.
“I hope the evil is not as ambulatory as Steve thinks it is, out walking around in other people’s bodies. You know something, Clayton, life has become surreal. Sometimes I think the whole world, present company excluded, has gone nuts!”
Father Bernie, unbeknownst to Rick, slips over from
the ice cream bar to stand behind Rick’s chair.
“My own observations tend to support your mass insanity
hypothesis, ‘Sigmund’.”
Clayton passes an accusing glance toward Father Bernie, silently mouthing “If the shoe fits…”
Missing his meaning, Rick continues.
“The senseless terrorism that’s been going on, the nonsense that passes for intelligent commentary on the news, junk shows all over TV—and, have you noticed how people look on the street? Something is definitely wrong with society. People’s pants fall off them—and their faces. They look awful. The whole thing is unnatural…almost—” He’s cut off.
“Demonic” comes matter-of-factly from behind.
Startled, Rick turns to find a priest standing immediately behind him.
“Oh, Father Bernie.”
Rick and Clayton exchange a conspiratorial glance.
“I didn’t notice you come in. Did you just get here?”
“No, I’ve been here since ‘I did or said something out of character.’ I heard the whole thing from the counter—you’ve been exorcised!”
Father puts his hand on Rick’s shoulder, leaning on him with much meaning.
“Couldn’t hurt your personality.”
“It’s been said.”
Father Bernie corrects himself. “Actually, I should have said, ‘healed by prayers of deliverance’; only Bishops and their delegates can perform the Holy Rite of Exorcism.”
“So Steve has been telling me. Good to see you Father. All well at St. Mary’s?”
“Yes, and no.”
Father Bernie, an athletic middle-age Black intellectual, handsomely distinguished by graying around the temples, is a military veteran himself. Being closely matched, he and Rick often have real battles on the tennis courts.
Father eyes the Italian milkshakes.
“Got the cinnamon and the whipped cream I see.”
“Yep.”
“Add the double shot of espresso this time?” (Father’s favorite)
“Uh-huh,” Rick hums over the oversized straw.
“The espresso does make it good!”
Father deliberates about one for himself. “If my charity regimen could handle it… I’d sit down and join you.” His willpower wins out by the smallest margin over his taste buds.
“Charity regimen?”
“Yes, I allow myself only one treat a month during Lent. The price of the other two or three I would normally have goes to the poor.”
“That’s a great idea. Mind if I borrow it?”
“I beg you to borrow it! The poor urgently depend upon us to make our best effort for them, as we would depend upon them should the situation be reversed.”
“But if this is your off day for treats, Father, what were you doing at the ice cream bar?” Clayton assumes the demeanor of a police inspector, poking his large finger into Father’s chest.
“I only had a cappuccino, if you must know. It’s not a treat. It keeps me awake long enough to put the finishing touches on my book. Writing a book is the most exhausting thing you can ever do. Take my word for it. I could probably justify the espresso shake for the same reason, but I’m not going to press my luck with God.
“Listen, why don’t the two of you stop by St. Mary’s when you have some time, and we’ll talk. I could use your help on something.”
“Sure Father.” Rick enthusiastically agrees. “Always glad to help. It will probably be Tuesday before I can make it. Maybe we could do lunch?”
“Great! See you Tuesday for lunch.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Father turns to go, but calls back over his shoulder: “Keep an eye on the news. I don’t like the way things are shaping up overseas.”
“Right, Father. Goodnight.”
Turning to Clayton, Rick remembers something. “That reminds me, I heard a good story today.”
“Well, it’s against my better judgment—but let’s here it,” Clayton says with a grin.
“OK, I have this from not so reliable sources, but I am convinced that it is an absolutely true story.”
“When have I ever questioned your sources?”
“Well then…
It seems
that a retired Catholic gentleman, Mr. Smith, had been diligently following the
lottery for many years, playing the same numbers each week; had them posted on
his refrigerator door, you know—specialized in power ball. He never doubted
that he would someday win. Sadly, on the day he did win, he was so ill in bed
with a heart condition he was unable to check the numbers.
His wife,
however, knowing he would eventually ask, did remember to check them. Calling
the store to find out how much the lottery was worth that week, she was stunned
when the clerk told her $225,000,000. She was in a quandary as to what to do.
The news, although good, could very well kill her husband in his weakened
condition. She debated for several days and then finally called her Bishop, who
only lived down the street, and had been a family friend for many years.
“No
problem, I’ll come right over. I’ll break it to him gently—he’ll be fine. See
you in fifteen minutes.”
True to
his word, Bishop Walker was on her doorstep ringing the bell in fifteen
minutes.
“This way
Bishop, but be gentle, won’t you.”
‘Not to
worry, not to worry, everything will be fine.’
So, the
Bishop greeted his old friend, sat down and after a few moments of small talk,
worked the conversation around to hobbies.
‘You’ve
been playing those same numbers on the lottery for thirty years now,
Paul, what would you do if you actually won?’
Paul never
hesitated. ‘I know exactly what I’d do, Bishop. I’ve been planning it for
years. If I won the lottery, the first thing I’d do is to give you half my old
friend.’
The Bishop
immediately fainted away, dead of a heart attack.
“How’s that for a twist of fate?”
“Not bad,” Clayton chuckles. His watch says 8:10. “I have to go. See you for lunch on Tuesday.”
“Later.”
Stepping into the clear night air and breathing deeply of the invigorating scent of lilac, Clayton relaxes. This will be a great couple of days. Twilight Zone, The Night Stalker, X-Files, a Robert Heinlen special to boot, and the original version of The Body Snatchers. I better make that two six packs of soda…and a case of popcorn. David and Jeanette always want popcorn with movies—and they are growing so fast.
Despite his children’s being eleven and fifteen now, they sat glued to the sofa each under one of Dad’s powerful arms for the entire marathon. The three of them remained happily in their childhood until Monday. This, of course, is their way of catching up, Clayton having been so often away with the Air Force. They never told their mother how they missed Dad back then when they were toddlers, so afraid he would never come home again. They believed their secret was safe because Mom had never caught them crying themselves to sleep. But that’s over now: Dad is home.
Margaret joined in for The Body Snatchers and a bowl of fresh buttered popcorn—she knows. She also enjoys snuggling up under those powerlifting arms.
-----------------
Tuesday,
12:30 P.M.
Strolling across the plush lawn of St. Mary’s, Rick felt his mood lighten.
“I always feel good around Father Bernie. It’s not just his jokes and dramatic impersonations. According to the stress management experts, some people are just like that—eternal optimists. ‘Zappers’ I think is what they call them. They lighten our load somehow, zapping us with positive energy. Of course, there are the negative types as well, people that will drain the energy right out of you if you give them half a chance. I believe the psychological literature calls them…”
“ ‘Buttockses’ ” Clayton interjects. “At least, that’s what Professor Irwin Corey called them last night on the comedy playoffs.”
“Yes, but ‘Buttocks’ is grammatically correct, as I believe the professor pointed out. However, ‘sapper’ was the word I was looking for. These people actually sap your strength.”
Clayton nods, “I know the term—and the people. It seems like the world is filling up with the negative types: they’re ruining life as we know it.”
“Well, at least we’ve found an optimist in Father Bernie—and his dramatic impersonations are to die for.”
Clayton laughs. “That much is certain.”
They
pause to inspect the inscription on a small grave stone set into the lawn: “IN MEMORY OF ALL
THOSE CHILDREN WHO WERE NEVER GIVEN THE CHANCE TO RUN AND PLAY.”
The main force of it hit them both at the same time.
Father Bernie happened out, noticing their bowed heads and emotional expressions.
“That’s a blessing! It happens there all the time. That was a blessing from God.”
Rick, being nearer, responds for both. “It was powerful. Really a sad thought, though—about the children.”
Father crosses himself. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen.”
Looking up far beyond the rich blue atmosphere of Earth, he smiles. “God takes good care of the little dickenses. We should do as much while they’re here.”
“Well said, Father, well said” Rick offers, planning a donation to children's charities.
“How’s your anti-abortion argument coming Rick? You go to court soon, I understand.” [Read the anti-abortion brief]
“Almost complete—it’s a strong case. I have a copy in my backpack. Perhaps we can read through it at lunch.”
“Great idea; I can’t wait to here it. I need to step back into the office and grab some things before we go. Why don’t you two come in for a moment? Here, let me just get my briefcase out of the car.”
Though
not Catholic, they gladly accept Father’s offer. St. Mary’s is a fully imposing
architectural marvel of
They love being inside the cathedral. Father Bernie knows this.
Clayton’s hunger demands his attention.
“Father, where are we eating today?”
“I don’t know. Where would you like to go?”
“There’s the steak house, Billy’s Pizza—how about The Beanery?”
“Perfect”—almost simultaneous from the other two. The Beanery did have the good stuff.
They enter Father’s office. Many books are strewn and stacked about. A beautiful string of burgundy wood Rosary beads with silver chain and crucifix lies in the center of Father’s desk.
Rick, being a lover of books, takes in a few titles at a glance: The Handbook for Spiritual Warfare, by Dr. Ed Murphy; Keeper of the Keys, by Thomas McDermott; Newman: Light in Winter by Meriol Trevor; Bible Concordance; Sign of Contradiction and Crossing the Threshold of Hope both by Pope John Paul II. And there is a beautiful one. What a magnificent jacket! The Way of the Cross, by Benedict XVI.
Not all the authors are Catholic, notably Murphy, and Rick notices two excellent books by Anglican theologian N. T. Wright in the ‘IN’ box: Simply Christian, and Evil and the Justice of God.
The love of books, philosophy, and theology is something Rick and Father Bernie have in common.
Father also has a nice leather bound ledger or journal of some kind lying open on his desk. He snatches it up. The journal is quickly deposited into the wall safe, followed by a brisk spin of the tumblers. This transparent tactic fails in its purpose. Instead of protecting the journal from discovery, Father Bernie has directed their attention to it.
“Check that out,” Father says with pride handing Rick a softbound manuscript. This is an extra printer’s proof of his new book, Darwin’s New Clothes: A Critical Examination of the Accidental Theories of Evolution.
“That’s
my new one. I present a chapter to the
Father signs it with a flourish.
“Great, Father, thanks!” Rick means it. At forty-three he gets as excited about the exchange of ideas and original thought as he did in his first Intro to Philosophy class in college.
Father grabs a shoulder bag from between two stacks, his reading glasses, and an English driving cap. They take a last appreciative glance around the cathedral, and are on their way out again.
Rick carefully loads himself into the back of Father’s bright yellow ‘bug’. This has got to be fun to drive. Rick has admired Volkswagens for years, but never quite got around to buying one. Clayton only just fits into the front.
Breathing the cool forced air through the open window, Rick silently counts the waves: nine, twelve, fourteen—fourteen waves to the door of The Beanery. Not bad, even for a Catholic priest. Father loves his flock, and they enthusiastically reciprocate.
Having placed their orders, Rick begins to read from the legal brief:
Let’s go
back to the start for a moment. Why don’t we consider our unborn
children persons whose right to life is protected under the Fifth and
Fourteenth Amendments of the Constitution? The language of the Constitution does
not explicitly rule them out. They have an individual human genetic
code distinct from their mother’s; and they exhibit signs of life. Most have a
100% prognosis to become fully functioning, independent adult persons. So why
aren’t these individually distinct living human beings considered persons in
the interim, pending certain and extremely rapid development through a process
nature itself requires? Logically, as Pope John Paul II has said, what else
could they be Aardvarks?[6]
A
few pages into it the food arrived and they agreed to study it further in the
library conference room next evening. As they leaned into their hearty sandwiches,
Father Bernie got the charismatic gleam in his eye that was his trademark.
Having known Father a long time, they were forewarned that something was
coming. They first met Father Bernie in
“Rick, are you a Christian?”
“What?”
“Are you a Christian?”
“My friends at church seem to think I am.” Rick is not truly offended; Father is known to be rarely serious outside the cathedral. The fact of the matter is Rick is paying more attention to his sandwich than to Father anyway. The brown mustard here is unique and the flavor of the fresh corned beef exceptional. He takes an enormous bite. That Father Bernie is a real corker! Am I a Christian? Rick is willing to play his usual role as straight man to Father’s jokes. It’s a nice day, let’s see what else Father comes up with.
Rick wonders if all the priests are so comfortable and safe in God’s hands that their joy just overflows in these odd ways…if they seem lighthearted when in fact they are just happy—the way the rest of us could be if we placed ourselves there as well.
Father’s facetious track record aside, something in his face signaled today as an exception. He was serious.
“I mean, really a Christian, as in serving God, and not Satan.”
Clayton looks up with a start. His pastrami sandwich falls onto his lap, and then smacks the hardwood floor. Constantly hungry from his extreme weightlifting program, he glances down at the gourmet lunch with true disappointment. He reaches out to recover it, but a snooty old lady across the isle gives him a disapproving look.
Being an avowed cynic of exaggerated social etiquette, Clayton stares her down, his scowl passing the equivalent of a telepathic message: nothing…significant…has…happened! A moment later as she looks away he quickly snags the larger pieces in his massive grip, doing a double take to ensure he wasn’t seen.
On Father’s cue, Rick had begun his move toward serious. He was momentarily checked by Clayton’s comedic rescue of the sandwich. He now returns to Father’s challenge.
“Wouldn’t that be visibly obvious? Black suit, bloody dagger etc?”
Rick gives Satanism no credibility. Studies in philosophical analysis have led him to be skeptical—the, ‘if you can’t prove it with science, it doesn’t exist approach'. God, is a notable, and perhaps the only, exception to this rule for Rick. He feels the intelligent design argument is a sufficient proof of God.
Father clearly disagrees concerning the visibility of Satanism: “not necessarily.”
Father Bernie, while respecting the disciplined methods of thought used by philosophers and scientists, knows there are limitations, errors and prejudices in philosophy and science nonetheless. In fact, his new book details quite a few of those errors as well as the generally prevailing academic prejudice against God. [read the book, Darwin's New Clothes].
Father
studied at
There was no denying that Father Bernie was generally the life of the party. Something in Father’s tone today, however, was unexpected—even ominous.
Rick leans in to study Father Bernie’s response.
“No one actually ‘serves’ Satan, do they Father?”
Rick is hoping for a quick and definite ‘no.’ He won’t get it.
Rick finds himself staring compulsively at the portraits of famous authors on the café wall. Now he blinks twice, checks himself a third time, then has to allow, that, yes, the portraits of Carl Sandberg and Robert Frost have folded their arms and they now appear to be comically holding their smoke, awaiting Father Bernie’s answer. Well, perhaps they have waited a long time to see this truth revealed.
Sanity check, Rick thinks. He just manages to master these outré thoughts when…there it is again, that surreal feeling! He quickly dismisses the episode as a spike in blood pressure only to have Frost demonstrably wink at him subsequent to Father Bernie’s “Unfortunately, they do.”
Now that actually happened!
Father’s response resonates accusingly across the room, posing a blatant challenge to Rick’s lifelong conservative assumptions and comfortable worldview. Rick prudently decides to keep the mural observations to himself.
“People,” Father pauses for emphasis, “far too many people, do serve the devil in an active way." Glancing pointedly around the café, Father passes as much meaning now with his eyes as with his words.
“Judging from your comments on how society has deteriorated, you must have noticed some indirect evidence of this.”
Rick considers for a moment, taken aback by Father’s startling revelation.
“Well, the devil himself couldn’t have done more damage than we’ve seen in the United States over the past thirty of forty years—I’ll give you that much. That doesn’t prove an active satanic population: rituals, sacrifices, all that mumbo jumbo.”
“Strictly speaking”—Father is forced to pause as a large muscular patron sitting within earshot across the isle distracts them. He is grinning, nodding and jamming his fist toward the floor in the most comical manner. Intentionally catching Rick’s eye, he nods disdainfully at the “living” mural.
“Beetle Juice, Beetle Juice,” he laughs. He breaks from his lunch to silently offer a prayer to Christ to remove the poltergeist from the café wall.
Father Bernie pauses for a wave and nod of affirmation to the comic. He knows there’s a maleficent spirit present. Father takes a moment to pray the appropriate prayers of exorcism.
Respectfully keeping silence for the prayers, Rick inquires at the conclusion. “What were you doing there, Father?”
“I was driving the evil spirit from the Café mural over there. The thing’s been making faces at me since we sat down.”
“Oh,” is all Rick manages.
“Back to your comment. Strictly speaking, you’re right. The evil state of society doesn’t prove a satanic culture, it merely suggests one. Smoke doesn’t prove fire either, but there frequently is a fire. In this case, the fire is harder to see in that the majority of satanic activities are quote unquote underground, generally unseen. But they exist, which brings us to the subject of needing your help. A team is forming and I’d like you and Clayton to be on it.”
Rick, seeing no practical implications from their discussion, fails to make the connection between ‘they exist’ and ‘team is forming.’ He thinks the lecture is over and it is time to discuss the real reason for the meeting.
“What kind of team are you forming, Father? I’m a little out of shape; but,” he pauses as if considering an onerous burden that he might be persuaded to bear for the sake of the community, “I could pitch if you really need me.”
“I’m not forming the team.”
“Oh, who is forming it?”
“God!”
The hammer falls. Clayton slumps into his chair in sudden awareness. His spiritual calling, dormant now for some thirty years, is reawakened. Returning to that awesome day in his youth when the Lord first spoke his name, Clayton sinks into the poignant state of awareness that author Richard Bücke refers to as Cosmic Consciousness (also the title of his classic book), the altered state more irreverently referred to in secular circles as an ‘aha experience’, mysticism, etc. Catholics have even gone so far as to describe this as a personal relationship with God!
The look Clayton gets from Father Bernie is full confirmation of both God’s presence in this moment and of the unique earmarks of the larger event. Somehow Clayton has always known…this would eventually come to be in his lifetime. Something truly exceptional is happening. Its finally happening!
Rick was slower than Clayton, not quite on the same page; but he got it too. Father Bernie had something to say, and they’d both better hear it.
Father was such an expert with patience that one hardly noticed him applying it.
“Now, let’s return to my question. Whom do you serve?”
Rick winces at the bluntness, but has nothing at all to hide.
“Well, I don’t claim to be a very good Christian—never have—but I don’t serve the devil, that much I can tell you.” Then offhandedly, “A little heavy today aren’t we, Father?”
“I have my reasons.”
Father leans in a bit and speaks more quietly.
“Rick, this is important. Have you accepted Christ as Savior? Formally, I mean. Confessing your sins, repenting, being truly sorry, and asking Our Lord’s forgiveness: full reconciliation?”
“I guess…not formally—not like that,” Rick responds, hastily adding “I do believe in God, and in Jesus, though. I try to do the right thing and help people when I can.”
Father Bernie reassures him. “That’s a great start—but not quite enough. A full reconciliation is needed. A close personal friendship with God is very possible—and certainly you are well on your way—but confession is required to fully get there.”
Turning to Clayton to avoid singling Rick out, Father asks, “How about you Clayton?” He knows the answer.
Father’s direct question calls Clayton back into focus.
“Yes, I have reconciled to God through Christ—a tremendous experience—two really, in my case. It happened to me first as a teenager listening to the Reverend Billy Graham on the radio late one starlit summer night. I still remember the time, 11:00 PM. I was intoxicated with the evening, the infinitude of the stars, youthful idealism—and then he said it: ‘Just get out of your seats and come on down here and we’ll pray together.’ I knelt to pray, and that was it.
“God
blessed me so powerfully that night! It was weeks before I stopped crying and
shouting ‘God is real!’ I became a youth evangelist—the very next day. Next
summer I signed up for the peace corps. The Lord touched me again recently when
I was shot pulling Breminger out of that nest of terrorists in northern
Gathering his emotions, Clayton defers direction of the conversation back to Father.
A shadow passes, blocking the light, and they become aware of someone roughly shaking Father Bernie’s hand—a veritable giant. It’s the comic from across the aisle. He energetically departs with an odd “Got your back, Father.”
The snooty old lady pulls a magnificent gold cross out of her bodice. She puts a hand on Father’s shoulder as she gets up to leave, “And so do I.”
Father Bernie smiles, and, with some conviction, returns to both, “Got yours.”
This interchange holds no meaning for either Rick or Clayton.
“This is spiritual isn’t it, Father?”
“Say again.”
“The stuff that’s going on overseas, the problems with society, Rick’s demonic incident. Now your mysterious comments, the enormous blessing I just received. It’s all part of a major spiritual event of some kind.”
“Precisely. It’s a major event—several events really. It appears that the very Trumpet of God has sounded! The time of judgment, first opened with Christ’s ministry and victory on the cross (John 12:31 NAB), is drawing hastily towards closure.[7] Christians on earth are now actively called to participate in the reign of Christ, many having received a glorious outpouring of the Lord’s spirit—an outpouring that continues.
“Satan, bound at least in part and for a time by Christ’s ministry and victory on the cross,[8] has recently, perhaps just prior to World War I, been released from the pit. He has begun his final assault on the Church! We have, by all indications, been living Armageddon for nearly a century, and, thanks to the deceptive power of the devil, hardly anyone knows it!
“In doing it this way, Satan has succeeded in launching a very complex stratagem, one that involves a many layered system of traps and obstacles. The subtlety of it all has taken society unawares. The daily headlines now show the result: massive moral decay and endless personal, family and international tragedy. We are immersed in nothing less than the great apostasy.
“If the Roman martyrdom was the tribulation, what we have here is at least a tribulation, an invisible, spiritually based form of persecution. In any case, modern day persecution of Christians is acutely real, overtly manifested in many countries around the world in martyrdom, imprisonment, physical attack, legal and financial harassment.
“Society’s moral apostasy offers the devil two concurrent tactical advantages: lack of faith and moral compromise. These circumstances greatly facilitate his beginning the final assault in force. There is no question now, the final assault of evil is upon us!”
Clayton is stunned. Always a warrior in spirit, he has instinctively felt he was being groomed for the last battle. With his retirement had come the belief that Armageddon would, after all was said and done, pass him by, occurring outside his lifetime. Now he has to come to grips with the fact that he has apparently slept through the larger part of it. His next response comes as a reflex. He is consciously aware of his words only after he speaks.
“Count me in, Father.”
“Me too.” Rick is dazed as well, and responds on ‘autopilot’, still deep in contemplation. Autopilot or not, they are both prepared to do the right thing if called.
Garfield
feels it; they have joined the team! There is an immediate thud. All look in
the same direction. Outside,
Father takes a moment to consider and pray. He comes to a decision.
“OK, that’s it then…you’re on the team!”
Both of them feel a blessing this time. Overjoyed, they have a thousand questions.
Preempting those, Father offers a brief prayer. Noting that they have made a commitment, Father Bernie chooses not to delve further into the details until their next meeting. In many ways, the whole thing is very troubling, though joyous. He doesn’t want to talk them out of it. He’s had difficulty enough finding anyone in the parish to take this event seriously. Not ours, he was forced to conclude about some of his own staff.
Father hastily closes as if all is set and agreed.
“Meet me here Tuesdays at 7:00 P.M., on an ongoing basis. You’ll learn more as we go. Let’s do a little reading in preparation for our next meeting.”
Despite the fact that both men have formed a list of urgent questions about the end times, their faces reflect the equivalent of I don’t have a lot of time for homework.
“Three or four lines of scripture won’t kill you: Matthew chapter 18, verses 19 and 20—that’s all for the present.”
Given the implication of a major spiritual event, if Father says it, it is good enough for Clayton.
“I’m writing it down.”
He turns to lean on Rick with his huge right forearm. “And so are you.”
Rick smiles sheepishly, pulling out his pen.
“Great!” Father rises. “See you next week. Oh, by the way, the satanic forces will know you’ve joined God’s team. Expect to be attacked.”
“You’re kidding!” from both.
Father, though long adjusted to attacks from the devil, understands their alarm. Only the truth will do, however, especially when dealing with Satan. A simple “no” is all they get.
“I
hope to see you both in
Rick and Clayton share a brief
moment of dismay. In an instant they have decided that coffee won’t be enough tonight.
Without speaking, they know exactly where they will go: Kilroy’s Sports Bar on
Best laid plans may go astray,
however; they are delayed. Three steps out of The Beanery they find their arms
locked in
Recoiling with some fear and fingering the large caliber pistol he carries as a professional bodyguard, Clayton issues a polite but firm challenge.
“Have we met?”
“Yes, just now, in the café. I spoke with Father Bernie. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, but have we met?”
Clayton emphasizes the ‘we’ more to
accuse than to inquire. He opens his blazer far enough to give
“No. Not exactly.”
Again noting the formidable weapon,
“Father put you on the team, right?”
“Did you see that?”
Clayton turns, briskly heading off to Kilroy’s in an exaggeration of Olympic style walking. Peering cautiously back over his shoulder he notices that Rick, who happened to be looking the other way at the time, has not fallen in behind him. Advancing a few yards further, he pivots, instincts and curiosity recalling him.
“What’s
all this about, really?”
“When is your team meeting? I’m on your team: Matthew chapter 18, verses 19 and 20?”
“Answer my
question first.”
“The Lord’s hand
moves over the face of the earth; that’s what it’s about. God is calling the
remnant! He has whistled for them; didn’t you hear it!? The entire planet
is embroiled in the last battle!”
Garfield is now speaking fully in the Spirit.
Clayton
stares, struck speechless.
Clayton is far too much a Christian to deny the Spirit. Nonetheless, he does not yet respond. He remains minimally concerned with their being in a dark alley with this large, strange person, Father Bernie’s warning still fresh. A combination of faith and curiosity finally override the urge to terminate and hail the nearest police cruiser.
Rick
instinctively likes