The Blood Tears Of Jesus

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The Blood Tears Of Jesus

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Prologue

Elizabeth Odom talked to an angel. At least, that’s what she told me after a series of bizarre tragedies changed her life. There was no reason to doubt her extraordinary account of events. After all, she had the gray eyes and red roses to prove it.

The first time I saw Elizabeth Chantel Odom was during a Sunday morning worship service at my little church on Sheldon Road. An athletically built, seventeen year old track star with high cheek bones, dark brown eyes and an effervescent smile, she sat toward the back of the sanctuary between her stone-faced parents. She appeared uneasy that day, clinging intermittently to her mother’s arm.

Sometimes from the pulpit, you see things. Though the old preachers used to say it with a hint of mystery in their voices, I wasn’t a big fan of mystery. I didn’t believe them until it happened to me.

The first time was quite awkward and unnerving. I saw a man sitting near the back of the church, suavely decked in his double breasted Easter Sunday white suit. Halfway through the sermon, I saw his face turn into a woman’s face and his suit turn into a beautiful white dress. This was a momentary flash that reversed itself in the twinkling of an eye.

I didn’t understand it until his wife requested counseling ... more confession than counseling. She had filed for divorce. She felt an obligation to explain to her pastor why she had decided to go against the family, the sanctity of marriage and every vestige of belief associated with the holy union of man and woman.

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Leander Jackie Grogan

“He’s going through the process,” she told me.Process?She meant the process of becoming a woman. He

had begun taking hormones, minimizing his facial hair and augmenting his breasts.

The second time it happened, an old man dying of cancer, exposed his demon face. The two daughters who had brought him to the church against his will, seated him on the front row. He twitched and squirmed and finally exploded into a pumpkin face of parched skin and fiery eyes.

I knew a lot about demons, a dark and unfortunate intellect I had acquired during my own family struggles years earlier. They were spiritual parasites, drenched in pure evil, void of pity or remorse, pushing through the invisible creases of darkness and light to impose their dominant will upon humankind.

That day, I stopped in the middle of my sermon, went down and prayed for him, and dashed his brow with the holy water a deceased colleague had brought back from Jerusalem.

No one saw the pumpkin face, except me. But glory be to God, everyone saw the changes that came over him that day and all of the days that followed. He settled down into intermittent spells of peaceful whimpering and ultimately accepted Christ as his Savior. He lived seven months past the time the doctors had given him, and up until the very end, never missed a Sunday.

That was the thing about prayer. You never knew what you’d get. I prayed for healing as well as liberation from the demon. God slayed the body, but saved the soul. In the spiritual realm, you learned as you went along. The final lesson was always the same: God knows best.

With Elizabeth and her family, I saw three vague lanterns of light. The lantern in the middle shone brightly.

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But the lanterns on either side had all but gone out. The flickering freeze frame seemed to identify Elizabeth as the spark in her family, the bright light emanating from a dark corridor. Of course, that was my interpretation. A pitiful earthen vessel with a limited spiritual perspective, peering through a glass darkly, what did I really know?

Three Sundays later, they officially joined the church. I couldn’t explain my overwhelming sense of relief. But as Elizabeth waded into the baptismal pool, I saw something else ... a gloomy, inexplicable fog hanging over her, over them. It was the same grim canopy that had covered my wife and me during our season of tribulations. I had seen it in the mirror. I had felt its agony creeping through my soul.

I prayed with them and for them and over them. I coated their faces with oil and had the deacons form a prayer circle around them. I assigned Sister Winston, the church’s premier prayer warrior, to call them on the phone and pray with them once a week. I didn’t understand my own sense of urgency. As a pastor you come to realize obedience to the Spirit doesn’t require understanding.

Despite all that we did, tragedy outmaneuvered us. Two months later, the father, a borderline alcoholic and wife beater, lost his job. On his way home from work, he purchased a pistol, came in and shot his wife and then himself.

He intended to kill Elizabeth. But he couldn’t find her. In a counseling session after the tragedy, she told me an angel had hidden her in the attic. I didn’t question her version of the story. In their innocence, children find ways to deal with the horrific storms of life.

Still, one thing stuck with me, and to this day, lingers in the deep crevices of my mind. She said, in gazing upon the brilliant pinholes of light that emanated from the angel, her eyes had begun to burn. When she looked into the mirror the

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following morning, they were no longer dark brown, but a hazel gray.

They were indeed gray. I noticed the difference the moment she entered my study. But in an era of hyper-LASIK surgery and exotic contact lenses and fancy cosmetic dyes, I had chalked up her odd makeover to a teenage fashion craze.

Lingering curiosity spurred me to call a psychiatrist I knew from college. She told me survivors of extreme trauma could experience hormonal shifts that altered the melanin buildup in their retina. And so I left it there, dangling between a spiritual transformation and a medical reaction. With so many other legal, social and psychological challenges facing us, who really had time to dwell on the color of her eyes?

We found a stable home. Presenting her as a popular cheerleader, track star and honor roll student, a British couple gladly took her in. The deacons created a special fund to cover all expenses for her senior year. We even received the church’s permission to pull some money from the renovation and building fund. Knowing the congregation had reached a level of spiritual maturity that placed the love of people over the love of big buildings was a personal blessing I relished in secret. Everyone knew that money matters had a way of putting church members on edge.

Money...It would’ve been more than enough ... except for

the accident.Seven months before her graduation, she and two other

members of the cheerleading square went to a party. On their way home that night, they collided with a dump truck. The two girls died instantly. But Elizabeth miraculously survived.

It took the Jaws of Life hydraulic cutters to remove her from the mangled wreckage, a sixteen-hour operation to extract the glass and steel from her shattered rib cage and two

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months of rehabilitation to teach her to walk with an artificial knee joint. Her left arm was severed at the elbow. The doctors fitted her with a high tech prosthetic hook arm.

We prayed for her and raised more money and visited her whenever we could. But nothing seemed to brighten her dismal spirit. Vicious rumors began to emerge. A student at the church told me most students were embarrassed to be around her. They poked fun at her limp and gave her the nickname: The Hook.

A few weeks before her scheduled graduation, the British couple came to my office. They had taken Elizabeth to a small clinic and placed her under a suicide watch.

“The poor lass has suffered enough for ten lifetimes,” growled the husband. “When does God say enough is enough?”

“Only God knows how much we can bear,” I told him. That was the only answer I had to give.

“You must go and reason with her,” the wife begged. “Please, she trusts you. See if you can reach her before it’s too late.”

At the clinic, sitting next to her bed, I listened with spiritual ears as she explained her life’s journey, old and new.

“They think I want to kill myself. I did. I did want to do it. But not anymore. You know why?”

I shook my head obliviously.“Because I know my purpose now.”“What, what is your purpose, Elizabeth? Can you tell me?”“Suffering,” she spouted out with an unexpected

boldness. “It’s my privilege to suffer for His name’s sake. Of all the wonderful smells in heaven, suffering has the sweetest smell of all. Did you know that, Pastor?”

“No, I-ah, I didn’t know that.”

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She reached over and handed me a small flower pot filled with beautiful red roses. Cluttering the window sill and parquet floor were other pots and vases of roses, all red, all vibrant and impeccably grown. Their sweet scent was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic, a pungent, seductive smell I would’ve expected to inhale while chasing butterflies through the Garden of Eden. There was something unusual about them, beyond their appearance and smell; something I couldn’t put into words.

“They’re gorgeous,” I finally remarked. “Did you grow them yourself?”

She nodded modestly. “Yes, sir.” “Must have taken a while.” As a child, I had learned

a bit about my grandmother’s flowers and their predictive stages of growth.

“These, only seven days.”My eyes swept the cluttered room for confirmation.

Some of the flowers were fully grown, an obvious contradiction in time.

“Is that possible?” I asked.“All things are possible with God.”I couldn’t help but smile. I had preached the sermon so

many times.“So tell me. Growing these beautiful roses; Is it just

a pastime?” “More,” she answered demurely. And then she handed

me a folder with assorted articles and notes. Within the stack were several personal profiles of famous missionaries. She had used a red marker to underline how each of them had died.

Ann Haseltine Judson had died of smallpox in Burma. Lottie Moon had died of starvation in Japan. Sister Lucia Pulici had been raped and murdered in Burundi. The list went on.

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“I had the pills,” she confessed. “Who could blame me for not wanting to go on like this? But the angel came back to me. He told me I was highly favored by God and had a great purpose. He said my suffering would be remembered throughout eternity. Do you believe him, Pastor?”

“I-ah, I suppose.” “I believe him,” she declared. “He said the flowers

grew from the seeds of suffering. He said they’d serve as a reminder of my purpose for the journey ahead. And besides, who in their right mind would turn down a ride on a chariot of fire?”

I frowned. “Chariot of fire?”She smiled. “It’s a long story, Pastor.”“What about the journey?” I asked. “Can you tell me

about that part?”“To Africa,” she replied. “I’m going to Africa to

become a missionary. That’s what the angel told me.” “I, I see.” I was careful not to discourage or condemn.Christian counseling was a tricky business. Everything

came out of or led back into the spiritual realm, an invisible space that hosted both good and evil. Satan could appear as an angel of light, stirring the tender minds of young believers, leading them down a trail of deception that eventually crushed their faith.

Every ounce of her battered countenance said she was certain about her calling. Her hazel eyes and red roses said the rest.

And so I asked the question all pastors should ask young believers sharing their aspirations in the Kingdom. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

I will never forget the expression on her face, the reflection of a child with a juicy schoolyard secret to which

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she had sworn the highest oath. “Yes, Pastor. You can prepare yourself. For, you have a journey too.”

She wouldn’t elaborate, and considering her fragile condition, I didn’t press. Still, her prophetic tone was unmistakable. She seemed to know something that I didn’t know.

After graduation, she and her British parents moved back to London. Except for a single postcard from a Catholic missionary school in South Africa, I never heard from her again.

Elizabeth Chantel Odom had cheated death, talked to an angel and found her purpose in life. Who would’ve imagined it had anything to do with saving the world?

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On the busy streets of Houston, T e x a s , an international

melting pot of two million people, strang-ers are most often indist inguishable. Like windblown leaves fleeing the ancient oak trees of Hermann Park, these nomadic creatures exist in obscurity. Their faces are blurred and easily discarded. Upon completing their trek through the upscale corridors of Post Oak Centre, only the dazzling glass skyscrapers, exotic sidewalk cafes and shiny oil and gas limousines remain.

But not all strangers obey the rules. Some use their dark eyes and scarecrow face to imprint your subconscious. They invade your sleep with indecipherable dreams. They smear clandestine fingerprints all over your reputation, searching your records and questioning your neighbors and friends.

On that rain soaked Friday in March, I spotted the disobedient stranger walking toward me. Tall, lanky and dressed

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in some kind of black ankle-length robe, he could’ve easily been a medieval sorcerer, or perhaps the Angel of Death.

That’s how I imagined him in my first dream weeks earlier. As we passed each other in the lobby of the grand old Methodist Hospital downtown, I noticed him, noticing me. In a sea of white smocks and nurse-faded blues, his purple and black clergy chimere made him stand out from the crowd. Having just visited a sick parishioner suffering through the last stages of cancer, I had dreamed he was indeed the Angel of Death, headed to her room.

As it turned out, the dream was but a figment of my imagination. I know that because Miss Ella is still alive, though barely.

The second dream was no different, just my imagination playing tricks on me. It came after my neighbor told me a strange fellow with a skeleton face had been asking questions about my conduct and character. Was I a trustworthy pastor? How did I treat my wife and family? Did I live the life I preached about in my sermons?

That night I had dreamed the skeleton faced stranger was creeping around outside my house, peering through my bedroom window.

In the Book of Numbers, God says: Hear my words: If there is a prophet among you, I, the Lord, make myself known to him in a vision; I speak with him in a dream.

Yes, God did say it. But after graduating from Dallas Theological Seminary, pastoring for almost ten years and receiving the wisest of counsel from my spiritual mentor, Yacine Bouteflilau, I knew better than to grab a single, disjointed Scripture and run with it.

That was my beef with overzealous, over-commercialized televangelists. They massaged unrelated Bible verses to accommodate their latest fundraising drive and dared anyone to question the great vision the Holy Spirit had given them. Who had the right to

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cast doubt upon the elite spokesperson of God? Certainly not the poor devils scraping up their last nickels and dimes from under the sofa to send in for a prayer cloth.

Not all dreams came from God, certainly not those I had experienced in the wake of this stranger’s unexplained intrusion into my life. What did come from God, however, was the wisdom to know this chance encounter was anything but chance.

I had no business trolling the glitzy streets of Post Oak Centre. My small Beacon Of Light, stingy steeple, wood frame church was located near the Houston Ship Channel in the chemical plant corridor of Blue-Collar Land. My quaint suburban country home was in Friendswood East, near the William P. Hobby Airport. On quiet, windless nights I could hear the faint roar of 747’s soaring into the nocturnal sky. I was only thirty-five minutes from Galveston’s pristine beaches along the Gulf of Mexico and the jumbo shrimp and crab boils at the Kemah Boardwalk. I had no desire for the pretension and stuffiness of the Poodle-walking, designer-conscious Post Oak Centre crowd.

I had driven there to meet with the lawyers ... Pritchard, Williams and Finkle. They were still in charge of Mr. Floyd’s estate and the half million dollars in oil and gas annuities he had left to the church. My mission was to sign the papers for the final installment and take the check to the bank.

But who knew that? Who knew the details of my unlikely visit to Houston’s upscale Tinseltown? You’d have to be a mind reader to peg Pastor Rodney Coleman trudging down the sidewalk in front of Pritchard, Williams and Finkle on a rainy Friday afternoon ... a mind reader or an agent with some secret CIA type organization that had the capacity to tap my phone or place an illegal bug under my SUV.

Both possibilities made my heart flutter more than an old ghetto raised, former rough and tumble All-American fullback wanted to admit.

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At 46 years old, I jogged two miles a day. I still managed thirty-eight trembling pushups and bench pressed 300 pounds. Most of the old, flabby, buffalo fat was gone now, a sort of George Foreman second wind bravado before the rocking chair called my name. I wasn’t looking for a fight. But if the disobedient stranger wanted to tussle over the $150,000 check I carried in my briefcase, then I’d be glad to oblige.

If only it had been that simple.The stranger stopped a few feet in front of me. With a

white cotton cloth, he blotted the rain from his narrow eyes. His morbid expression, reminiscent of an undertaker at the gravesite, remained unwavering. His deep baritone voice exploded in concert with the distant thunder, an ominous disharmony that floated upward into the perilous skies. “You are Pastor Rodney Coleman?”

“Who’s asking?” I kept my distance and matched his intimidating gaze.

“My name is Marcellus, although it will have little meaning to you until we talk.”

“Talk about what?”“A very urgent matter. Please join me. I will explain

everything.” He pointed to a black limo parked near the curbside. The motor was still running and the back door, partially ajar.

I couldn’t help smiling. “Come on. Give me more credit than that.”

His thick eyebrows arched. “I don’t follow you.”“This is a big city, I’ll give you that. But people in my

small circle still try to look out for each other. You’ve been slipping around behind my back, stalking me for weeks.”

“A month to be exact,” he confirmed.“And now you expect me to get in the back seat of that

death wagon with you?”

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“I mean you no harm,” he insisted.“I believe that’s the same sales pitch the Mafia uses when

they give people a free ride to the river.”“If you will just listen to what I have to say--”“There’s nothing you can say that’ll make me want to

crawl off in that coffin with you.”He paused a long moment, allowing the intermittent

raindrops to slither down his rawboned cheeks. “What if I said Yacine Bouteflilau? Would you listen then?”

The name exploded in the deep crevices of my subconscious and scorched my very soul. Yacine had been my closest friend through seminary, my great spiritual mentor, the sacrificial lamb that had given his life during our chaotic exorcism journey five years earlier. Besides Jesus Christ, Himself, there was no other name in heaven and earth capable of shattering my invisible armor and commanding my undivided attention.

“How-aahh, how did you know Yacine?”“I served with him at the Saint Bonaventure Shrine in

New York. We both entered a season of devotion to God under Father Devann.”

“How is Father Devann?” I felt guilt-ridden and embarrassed having lost touch with the man who had rescued my wife from the pit of hell.

The stranger paused again. “He recently joined Yacine in heaven. I suspect the two are running a prosperous archdiocese in the far corners of Paradise by now.”

“When did he pass away? A man of his stature would’ve certainly been in the news.”

“On Mary’s Holy Day of Obligation, the equivalent of your New Year’s Day. Admittedly, a great deal of effort went into restricting the publicity. As a long time friend of Father Devann, His Holiness oversaw the details.”

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“His Holiness as in the Pope?”He nodded.“I don’t understand. Why would the Pope suppress the

news of Father Devann’s death? Was there some kind of scandal?”“No scandal.”“Then, what?”“I will explain everything, as much as I know. But not out

here where curious ears abound,” he said, suspiciously eyeing each passing strangers. “I told you this is an urgent matter. But that is quite the understatement. Indeed, it is a matter of life and death for millions of people. Once you have listened to my words, if you do not agree, you may walk away. We will not trouble you again.”

I frowned. “We? You said we?”“Yes. The Archbishop of Canterbury will fly in next week.

But only if I tell him to. And only if you tell me to tell him. But there is a great clock ticking. In the end, even these precious moments we waste here in the rain will matter. Now, I plead of you. Join me. Hear what I have to say. Then, within the peace and tranquility of your soul, you may decide.”

On that rain-soaked Friday in March, a thousand coherent voices screamed within my head, warning me not to get into the limo. But the mention of Yacine’s name overrode them all.

Now, five days later, as our huge C-32A military jet lifts off from Houston’s Ellington Field headed for a secret air base in Africa, I wonder if I should have heeded the voices of warning. I wonder if, without the slightest concern for a stranger’s desperation, I should have cemented my feet in the glitzy crushed marble sidewalk in front of Pritchard, Williams and Finkle and forever languished in the safety and autonomy of the falling rain.

There was something else I wondered. After hearing only bits and pieces of the unprecedented plan the Roman Catholic Church and United States government had put together, I wondered if I would ever see my family again.

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The ten-hour flight across the North Atlantic Ocean to the small African Republic of Benin was presented

to me as an invaluable opportunity to rest and pray and meditate on all of the things I had learned over the past five days. But how could I rest knowing the mayhem and destruction about to be unleashed upon the earth?

I sat midway the bloated cabin in a plush leather ergonomic window seat, meticulously designed for State Department officials traveling the vast continents of the world. I should have drifted into a state of comfort and euphoria, humming Amazing Grace and counting tender sheep as they leaped happily across the Jordan River. Instead, my restless mind raced backwards in time in flashes of light and muddled voices ... low, methodical voices that matched the faint drone of the engines; profound, illuminating voices that had shattered my spiritual foundation and changed my life forever.

Though the voices zigzagged through my head with no

2“He who saw everything in the broad-boned

earth, and knew what was to be known. Who had expe-

rienced what there was, and had become familiar with

all things. He, to whom wisdom clung like a cloak, and

who dwelt together with Existence in Harmony. He knew

the secret of things and laid them bare.”

-Epic of Gilgamesh-

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chronological rationale, the most profound voice was that of the official liaison from the Catholic Church, the voice of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Bishop Rowan McGuffe.

Tuesday morning, four days after my coerced mini-briefing in the back of Marcellus’ limo, his chauffeur had picked me up at a shopping mall near my Friendswood residence. Although I was quite certain they knew where I lived, I didn’t want them coming to my home. If this was some kind of a deadly hoax, I didn’t want my wife and the twins exposed. I didn’t want them to carry around a visual imprint of the people that had forever taken me away.

The speechless chauffeur drove me fifty miles north of town to a wooded condo on the outskirts of Kingwood. In explaining its isolation and curious lack of street signs, Marcellus later described the property as a holdover from the days when Osama bin Laden and his network of Mideast Jihadists targeted the Pope and other high level officials of the Catholic Church.

Behind a tall, old world Mediterranean wrought iron gate, a narrow cobbled driveway meandered to the front of a two-story brick and glass condominium. A muscular guard in a black suit and dark sunshades escorted me to a lavish second floor suite where Marcellus and the Archbishop sat patiently waiting.

When I entered the room, Archbishop McGuffe stood up. A broad shouldered man in his late fifties, brandishing a white beard, thick glasses and red skullcap to match his full-length red cassock, he walked over and hugged me, then kissed me on both cheeks.

“Blessings unto you, my son. The Holy See is indebted to you for this endeavor. God is indebted to you for your obedience. May your reward in heaven be rich and bountiful.”

Holy See?I wasn’t ashamed to admit it. It had taken me several hours

searching the internet to figure out who and what the Archbishop

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of Canterbury was. As it turned out, he was an official of high esteem in the

Catholic hierarchy, principal leader of the Church of England and symbolic head of the worldwide Anglican Communion. He sat on the highest policy-making boards at the Vatican and constantly rubbed shoulders with the Pope.

But what was this Holy See?I wasn’t going to ask. Strangely, I didn’t have to. Before I

could utter a word, Marcellus chimed in. “The Holy See is another way of saying the central government of the Roman Catholic Church. Sedes Sacrorum it is called in Latin.”

I offered an embarrassing Cheshire cat grin. “I apologize, Most Reverend.” Most Reverend was the name the internet experts had recommended I call him. “I don’t quite understand all of the idiosyncrasies of the Catholic Church.”

“Don’t fret, my son. I’ve been in the Church for 45 years and I don’t either.”

The three of us laughed heartily, a much needed laugh to quell our unspoken anxiety. It was the first and last laugh we’d share all day.

“I take it Marcellus has told you something of our crisis in Africa?”

“Just that there is one,” I replied. “A disease of some kind that somehow involves Yacine and me.”

From the small glass table in front of his exquisitely tufted leather armchair, the Archbishop lifted a crystal chalice of dark red wine to his lips. “Yes, Yacine. An extraordinary servant of the Most High God. I count it a great loss to have never met the young man in person. Marcellus tells me he spoke highly of you and your family, perhaps shared some mysteries of the faith we stiff-necked fundamentalists do not ordinarily condone.”

“He taught me many things.” I responded vaguely, not

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wanting to expose any forbidden practices that might tarnish my friend’s good name.

“Did he ever talk to you about curses?”“No, not that I remember.”“But you do know of them?”I thought for a while. Uncle Willie, my mother’s older

brother, had told us a cat bone fortune teller in New Orleans had put a curse on him for not paying her palm-reading fee. That was the reason he couldn’t keep a job or make any money. That was the curse that kept him borrowing from everybody in the family, that is, everybody still willing to open the door when he dropped by.

In my mind, curses were dark proclamations that couldn’t be traced or verified. Most often, they were issued by people associated with black magic and Satanic rituals. If hard times befell the recipient, the Satanists would claim responsibility. But no one could prove it. No one could confirm their black magic was the cause.

Unaware of the Archbishop’s convictions, however, I carefully navigated the high ground. I said, “Besides God’s generational curses for sin, I mostly associate curses with devil worshipers and cults.”

“Then I will ask you. In Matthew 21, when Jesus cursed the fig tree, do you believe he was worshipping the devil or had joined a cult?”

I had studied that Scripture countless times and marveled at its symbolism. I barely allowed him to finish before spouting out with glowing exegesis, “The curse was a symbolic rejection of the nation of Israel and its spiritually dead relationship with God.”

“You didn’t answer the question, my son. Was Jesus’ curse a form of devil worship?”

“Of course not.” I replied.“Then your beliefs would allow a curse to be administered

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for Godly purposes?”“I-aahh, I suppose.”“Let there be no doubt, my son. Curses are a legitimate

part of God’s arsenal. For his craftiness in the Garden of Eden, God cursed the serpent to crawl on his belly throughout the ages. And from the lips of Moses, God cursed Egypt and Pharaoh with ten highly egregious plagues. Do your teachings confirm this?”

And the Lord God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life...

I remembered the Scripture in Genesis and nodded affirmatively.Archbishop McGuffe took another long sip from his

glistening crystal. “Do your teachings also confirm Jesus’ curse upon the Eternal Jew. I should say Wandering Jew. That was the official reference before the mandates of political correctness scorched our insensitive tongues?”

The Wandering Jew…My mind soared back to those enchanted days of spiritual

discovery at Dallas Theological Seminary.I had first learned about the Wandering Jew from a visiting

professor, a Jewish Priest from Boston who seemed determined to eradicate the curious myth from the face of the earth. His lecture had begun with the highly debated Scripture found in Matthew 16:

For the son of man shall come in the glory of His Father, with his angels, and then He shall reward every man according to his works. Verily I say unto you. There be some standing here, which shall not taste of death till they see the Son of man come in His kingdom.

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Jesus Christ had spoken these words in part two of His Sermon on the Mount, an implication that His Second Coming would be soon; soon enough that some of the people hearing His voice would not taste death, but would still be alive when He returned. When the entire generation that heard His voice died out without witnessing His Second Coming, that seemed to leave a hole in the Scripture, perhaps even call into question Jesus’ prophecy.

In Matthew 24, Jesus described catastrophic signs of His imminent return, stars falling from the sky and the darkening of the sun. And then He added, “Verily I say unto you. This generation shall not pass until all these things be fulfilled.”

The Seventh-Day Adventists and other Christian theologians used this Scripture to close up the hole. They argued the spectacular meteor shower of 1833 represented the falling stars and the mysterious darkening of the sun in 1870 tied that generation to Jesus’ prophecy. The people living in the 1800’s would be the generation to witness Jesus’ Second Coming.

The revised rationale worked well until the mid-1900’s when that entire falling star generation had died out. Suddenly, the dubious hole in Scripture re-appeared. It was then various Christian sects began to embrace the 13th-century legend of the Wandering Jew.

Using portions of Hosea 9 and extrapolating the concept of wandering the earth from Cain and Abel, many worldwide accounts of the Wandering Jew seized their appointed time in history. From England to Germany to Portugal and Rome, they all report a similar sequence of events.

As Jesus carried His unbearable wooden cross from Pilate’s hall to His place of crucifixion on Golgotha Hill, a shopkeeper/shoemaker named Buttadaeus struck Him on the back and mocked Him for walking so slowly.

“Go more quickly,” the shopkeeper ordered.

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Then Christ allegedly responded, “I go, but thou shalt wait till I come.”

These words were designated as the Curse of Immortality, meaning the man would roam the earth desiring to die, but unable to do so until Jesus’s Second Coming.

The story gained further credence when archaeologists discovered an ancient manuscript from 1228, seemingly confirming the Wandering Jew’s existence.

According to the ancient book, a respected Armenian Archbishop told the Monks of St. Albans he had seen the medieval wanderer with a limp and cane, roaming the countryside of Armenia. The man had allegedly repented of his sin and been baptized Catholic. However, this act of contrition did not end the curse. The man still grew old just as any normal human would do. But upon reaching 100 years old, he became very sick, then shed his skin and rejuvenated to the age of 30.

Of course, all this was a bunch of poppycock, according to the visiting Jewish professor. There was no Wandering Jew. And there was most certainly no hole in the Scripture.

He explained the answer to Jesus’ unrealized prophecy was found in the Greek translation of “some of you”. This meant more than one of you, primarily referring to the disciples. John saw heaven and Jesus’ Second Coming in a vision on the Island of Patmos; Peter, James and John saw the fullness of Jesus’ Kingdom during the Transfiguration. There was no need for the Wandering Jew to plug the Scripture. The Scripture took care of itself.

And so I responded to the Archbishop’s question with scholarly confidence. “With all due respect, Most Reverend, the Wandering Jew is not supported in Scripture. It’s a convenient myth, a figment of the imagination.”

He looked over at Marcellus, then back at me. “Yes, of course, an urban legend like your Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster.”

“Exactly.” I was proud to teach the stuffy old Catholics a

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charismatic thing or two.Archbishop McGuffe nodded his head, slowly, approvingly.

“You are as Marcellus has reported, a dedicated, upright servant of God who lives his life with reverence and teaches others by the strict doctrinal principles found in the Holy Scripture.”

“I try, Most Reverend.” I confessed it with the practiced modesty of the cloth. “Although on some days I come up short.”

“And your church? I am told it continues to grow and prosper.”“Beacon Of Light is still small. But I’m not complaining.

From time to time, God sends a new soul into our midst.”“How do you feel about God’s lightning strike on your former

church, the one you initially pastored after leaving seminary?”My God, you know about that? I thought to myself. And

then I sucked my bulging eyeballs back into their sockets. I didn’t want the thoroughness of their background check

rattle me. I had nothing to hide, nothing that would prevent me from sharing the answer that had taken years of prayer and fasting to unfold.

“Looking back, I realize it was all part of God’s plan,” I said. “He allowed me to come to terms with the lightning and the fire and all of the confusion that surrounded those dark days. I have faith in God, an even stronger faith after the trial of that season. That faith has paved the way for me to move on.”

“Yes, yes, a true spirit of dedication,” exclaimed the Archbishop. “Your humble approach to the Christian life is what we hope for. A shepherd’s sheep, treading the beaten path, as we often say.”

“We?”“We, at the Holy See,” he clarified. “Since the early days

of Christianity, we have acted as the primary caretakers of the Holy Word. Although some of my overly ambitious colleagues would like to credit the Catholic Church with providing the Bible

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to the rest of the world, we all know better. Our Jewish brethren gave us the Old Testament. Godly inspired Apostles gave us the New. The Church has simply gathered, organized and disseminated the Scripture ... Bibles, books, decrees, resolutions, you name it, illuminating the journey of the faithful, encouraging them to walk straightway in the fear and admonition of our Lord.”

“It’s a beautiful vision, isn’t it? Faithful sheep, treading the beaten path from here into the glorious hereafter. Hallelujah and praise God!” I closed my eyes and lifted my hand into the air. I could already feel my next sermon coming on.

“Precisely, my son.” And then his large ashen eyes slowly dropped to the floor. “That is why it causes me such pain to remove you.”

I frowned. “Remove me from what?”“From the beaten path,” he said. “After this day, your

journey will never be the same.”

A deadly silence fell over the room, an eternity of nothingness that rang hollow in our ears. Finally, Marcellus stood up from the sofa, retrieved a half empty bottle of Graticciaia from the mini bar and refreshed the Archbishop’s drink.

“While you’re standing, my son, please give Pastor Coleman the book.”

Marcellus walked over to an elegantly polished cherry wood vanity perched beneath a Victorian Black Forest wall clock, and from the top shelf, removed a maroon covered manuscript. With the courteous bow of a curator of fine wines, he presented it to me.

“Do you recognize it?” quizzed Archbishop McGuffe.

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Spiritual

The Blood Tears Of Jesus