If the world hates you, be aware that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, the world would love you as its own. However, because you do not belong to the world, but I chose you out of the world, for this reason the world hates you. – John 15:18,19
“… and on this beautiful Easter morning, let us remember how Jesus has conquered death, has won our resurrection, and gives us a life of victory every day! Let us pray.”
Pastor Jeremy Eastham bowed his head and intoned his long, post-sermon wrap-up prayer.
As his eyes opened and his right arm rose in blessing over the congregation, he noticed movement in the aisle to his left. A male figure in a grey hoodie had risen from his seat at the end of the pew and, as he rose, pulled a balaclava down over his face.
This wasn’t good.
The young pastor froze momentarily, analyzing the scene, his mind racing through possible scenarios. The young white man was not tall nor very heavy. He didn’t appear to be carrying a weapon — at least none was visible. The possibility of a suicide bomber went through Jeremy’s mind, however.
Before the pastor could finish his appraisal of the situation, the figure had swiftly walked to the front, then cut over to the head of the center aisle, directly in front of the pulpit. He stared defiantly into the pastor’s eyes for a split second. Then, in one dismissive motion, spun around to face his congregation, taking charge as if he belonged there.
“Before your pastor finishes his fine blessing on you, I have an announcement that should be of interest to you all.” Though the content of his words was harmless, his tone held a hatred and menace that spread like frost over the crowd.
“Any of you who return to this ‘place of worship’…” he mouthed these last three words in a sing-song, mocking tone, “will be killed. And I must inform you that I am ex-military and have been trained by your good government in the use of all manner of automatic weaponry, sniper rifles, side-arms, knives, explosives, and hand-to-hand. I’ve even dabble in … poison gas.” He paused to let his words sink in.
“Basically, I am skilled in whatever weapon of death and destruction seems appropriate at the time, and whatever will be the most unpredictable to you … my enemy.”
The congregation audibly gasped.
“So, let me repeat, in case any of you were still drowsy from Pastor Eastham’s lovely sermon …. Anyone who returns to this place next week—or any week for that matter, whether man, woman, or child, will be dead. Have a nice day!” At this, he strode quickly down the center aisle, through the sanctuary doors, past the gaping faces of several deacons setting up the after-service coffee in the narthex, and out through the door. Before anyone could stop him, he had mounted a bicycle, was down the block and out of sight around the corner.
* * *
The congregation of Redemption Community Church sat in stunned silence, some with necks craned facing back towards the doors the stranger had just exited through, others facing forward to their pastor. Handkerchiefs and Tissues flashed into sight as several old women began weeping. Parents hugged their children closer. Some of the teenagers in the balcony guffawed awkwardly, thinking that this was all a skit—some dramatic new way to engage them and show them what “the persecuted church” was all about. But then they went silent as well.
The pastor stood like a statue, his arm still half-raised in benediction. His mind continued to process what had just happened.
His thoughts finally began to coalesce and he took a deep breath. “Ladies and gentlemen, I will ask each of you to … to go about your business for now. Continue your usual routine; head home, celebrate this greatest of days in the Christian calendar as you had already planned.
“But as you go, I’ll ask two things of you. One, spend time in prayer this afternoon. Pray for yourselves and pray for our church. And second, I will ask all the leaders of the church—elders, deacons, and staff—to meet with me downstairs immediately to discuss what has occurred here this morning and how we are to react. Thank you, and … may God bless each of you.” His voice almost cracked.
The congregation filed out of the sanctuary, slowly, the musical postlude as printed in the bulletin was not heard. Clusters formed outside the door in the warm spring sunshine. Crying was heard. Low murmurs. But mostly just long, group hugs and questioning, concerned glances. The crowd finally dissipated, the cars rolling slowly out of the side parking lot, proceeding more like members of a funeral cortège than Easter celebrants.
* * *
“Ladies and gentlemen … gentlemen, please … let’s come to order. Please find a seat as soon as you can. Thank you.
“Well, we certainly weren’t expecting something like this on a beautiful Easter Sunday,” Pastor Jeremy began, trying to keep it light. He immediately sensed that that wasn’t the right approach. The looks on the faces staring back at him were scared. Very scared.
He cleared his throat. “The first thing we need to remember is, as the apostle John says, ‘Greater is he that is in you than he that is in the world’”
“Did he say he has poison gas?” someone questioned aloud. “And explosives,” another voice chimed in. A murmur swelled across the room. Eyes darted back again toward the pastor.
“What are we going to do?” another asked, putting into words the consensus of all present.
“The first thing we are not going to do is panic.” It was the voice of Ben Jenowski, one of Jeremy’s most trusted elders—one whom he had looked to before in times of crisis.
“Thank you, Ben,” Jeremy Eastham continued. “Yes, indeed, this is no time for panic. Certainly, we’re scared. I am too.” He glanced around the room. He knew it was crucial to keep this group from going out of control.
“Let’s first spend a few moments in prayer, then we can discuss our options.” He bent his head, paused a few moments, then began, “Dear Father, you have seen what happened here this morning. And we give you all the thanks …” A murmur of surprise rippled across the group. “… that we have been chosen to be persecuted because of your name. And as Peter and John prayed, ‘consider their threats, and enable your servants to speak your word with great boldness.’” He raised his eyes. Slowly, the rest of the group did likewise.
“Now, we have been threatened by a lone individual that, if we return to worship next week, we’ll be in danger…”
“He said we’d be killed, Jeremy!”
“Yes, that is what he said, we’ll be killed.” The pastor fully intended to face the issue head-on and try to diffuse it. He wondered if that technique would work with everyone in the room, however.
“Pastor Eastham, all that quoting the New Testament stuff is well and good but we’re facing someone who is trying to kill us here, and, well, I have a family to support … what are we supposed to do? I mean, this isn’t the first century. We’re civilized now … I mean this guy needs to be hunted down and … strung up. Or at least thrown in jail. We can’t just turn the other cheek or something like that … I mean, that’s just not realistic. Can’t you see that?” Other voices behind him murmured in agreement. Jeremy knew he was in a tough spot.
“Okay. I think the point here is that each of you is going to have to make up your own minds about how you’re going to face this. I mean, we are all in this together and that is how the Lord wants it to be. But still, you’ll have to listen to what the Spirit is saying to you. Each of you is going to be tested in his own way with this and each of you will have to answer to the Lord in his or her own way. I can’t tell you what you should do. And I can’t honestly say that there is only one answer.
“Even in the Bible, when someone was facing persecution, several things happened. Sometimes they faced it straight on, other times they did what was needed to avoid it.
“So, again, you will have to pray for yourselves and your families and decide what you’ll do. But just don’t forget that we’re in this together as a family, as the body of Christ, and if one part suffers we all suffer. I know, that’s quoting the Bible again … but that’s all we have to hold on to.”
“Pastor Jeremy,” Ben Jenowski spoke up again, “perhaps each of us should go home as you suggested earlier, and pray about this … together, with their families. Then maybe each of us should … should write down what we plan to do and we should meet again mid-week to share and discuss what the Lord is telling us.”
“Ben, that’s an excellent idea,” Jeremy responded. “Anything we would come up with right now would only be a knee-jerk reaction, and would possibly do more harm than good.
“Let’s close our time in prayer for now, bowing our heads together. Father, you are here with us. This is all in your plan. You said the gates of hell will not prevail against your church. We pray that you give each of us a measure of your wisdom, and give us the bravery and strength to trust you in whatever you lead us to do.
“And we don’t forget to pray for this individual who has threatened us so publicly and cruelly. You have his heart in your hand, so we pray you would turn it, in your good pleasure. We pray all this in the name of Jesus your risen Son, Amen.”
* * *
Paul Yahn pulled his dull green Ford Explorer into the back lot of his six-flat apartment building. He glanced briefly in the rearview mirror at his bicycle in the cargo area. The back seats were folded down to make room for it. He thought for a moment to bring it in and stash it in the common laundry room with the other tenants’ bikes. Then he decided against it. It felt safer locked up right here.
He pocketed the car keys and headed for the door. Once inside his apartment, he tossed the balaclava into a heap of other clothing in the corner of the kitchen by the back utility door. When are you going to pick those up, you slob? His mother’s voice. He grabbed a Red Bull from the fridge, spun the oven dial to 450 degrees, and crashed onto his duck-tape-patched fake leather couch. He was mildly exhausted but excited at the same time.
My mission has begun. He reached over and grabbed his laptop. He clicked open the internet and a blank Word document. His browser automatically opened to his own personal webpage CrossOutChristianity.com, with its overblown motto: “Dedicated to the Extermination of Religion and the Establishment of Freedom.” The color scheme of the site was boldly black and red — admittedly 1990s style — and it had a special section locked behind password-protected, members-only credentials, where comments, opinions … and plans … could be shared. Paul typed in his Admin password and began to recount his exploits of the morning. “I have begun the battle. I have taken up …” Then he remembered he needed to write some notes for himself. He moused over to his blank Word doc and began to write:
NOTES TO SELF:
- Practice your threat delivery.
- Lay out your escape route in more detail.
- Memorize the priest’s name before you go in among the enemy.
He saved the document, then clicked back over to his webpage and continued his thought: “I have taken up the flag of freedom and have begun my march. Those weak and cowardly adherents to organized religion have heard their first warning. How they cowered in their seats! My voice will continue and grow louder across the land till all have heard and fled before my army. Freedom! Freedom! FREEDOM!!” His heart raced as his fingers pounded the keys. He pushed the “post” button and the text magically formatted and appeared as the top, featured post on the site.
“Yes!” he fisted the air. He headed to the kitchen, put a frozen pizza in his now pre-heated oven, and popped open another Red Bull.
* * *
Paul woke at ten o’clock the next morning, having managed to go back to sleep after the people upstairs got up at six o’clock for work. He was so glad he wasn’t in that rat race. Dad, I miss you, but thanks for the nice inheritance! He really only had to work if he got bored—and he definitely was not bored. In fact, he was more excited now that he had been for years.
He grabbed his computer again later as he munched some cold pizza from a paper plate on the floor next to the couch. That should be in the fridge. And sit at the table, you bum! He gritted his teeth unconsciously. Shut up, ma! You’re dead! The memory of a body — caked with pink makeup — lying in a cherry-wood box, surrounded by more flowers than he had ever seen in his life. She was such a sweet lady. Everyone in the church loved her, someone said. Oh, Arthur, you were so lucky to have her as your mother, another stranger hugged him from the back whispering in his ear. He just stared at the face. That wooden face. He wanted so much to reach out and …
He squeezed his eyes shut, took a breath, then focused again.
He hated that. His mother had named him Arthur. But when he reached school-age and kids started calling him Artie, he felt embarrassed and quickly dropped it in favor of simply the initial “A.” and his middle name, Paul. Since then, he had gone through life ignorant of the verbal results of that choice. For had he known any Greek, or simply had read the biblical books of Revelation or Job, he would have seen that he had indeed named himself, phonetically, after Satan himself, portrayed in his name Apollyon, ‘the destroyer.’
For now, he merely, unknowingly, played the part of a minor, itinerant, ‘assistant destroyer.’
He clicked over to Google Maps and started planning his route. “Choose starting point” the screen prompted. He typed in “Kansas City” as his departure. “Choose destination.” Okay, the next stop heading east … he typed in “St. Louis,” and Google dutifully filled in “…, Missouri.” Gee, Google agrees with me, he thought with twisted humor.
So, taking Highway 70, it’ll be 248 miles, taking me 3 hours and 36 minutes. He thought out loud. If I leave here on Friday morning, get a hotel for Friday night … He puzzled it out in his mind. He didn’t want the hassle — and expense — of a downtown hotel … and suburban churches are so much easier targets. So, he let the cursor wander over the western suburbs.
Hmm, how about this “Clayton, Missouri?” Looks like a nice enough suburb. Now, “churches” he types in the search box. Okay, there’s a few. Let’s see … Episcopal, Presbyterian, Catholic. And what’s this “The Quest Church,” “The Freedom Church,” And hey, cool, here’s one just called “The Hangout Church.” These religious people are really getting creative. Guess it’s all about marketing, even for them.
Okay, how about the good old “St. James Catholic Church.” Sure, let’s mix it up. Wouldn’t want to create a pattern, especially this early in the war. Fine old brick building, probably built around the early 1900s. Click. Click. Oh, what pretty pictures! Let’s see, Mary over there in the corner. Wow, fancy statue of Jesus over the altar. Didn’t know he was crucified on a carved marble cross!
Right, this should do nicely. Let’s see, check my notes. Ah, yes, the priest’s name … there it is, “Rev. Msgr. Thomas Glynn.” “Msgr.?” Is that “messenger?” Well, have I got a message for you, Rev Glynn! He chuckled. So clever.
He chose a hotel. There was a Hampton Inn with free wi-fi — just up the street. Perfect! He made the reservation and was all set.
* * *
“Mommy, I can’t sleep,” the little one poked her head in her parents’ doorway.
“Aww, come here. What’s the matter, Matty?” Her mother spread the coverlet over her daughter’s legs as she climbed in between her and her husband.
“I’m scared.”
“What about?”
“The bad man,” she pulled the cover up to her nose.
“What bad man?” her father joined in.
“The one in the hoodie.”
“The one in the …” Then it dawned on them both as they glanced at each other in the dim light. Their daughter was with them for the first time in the worship service last Sunday. Of all days!
“You’ll be okay. Mommy and daddy will keep you safe. You just snuggle in and go to sleep right here if you like.” They all curled closer together in the dark and tried to get back to sleep.
* * *
The next morning over breakfast, Martha raised the issue from the night before. “Jeff, how are we going to make Matty feel safe in church next week? Or ever?” She poured him some more coffee. “Maybe we should just skip for a few weeks …”
“Yeah, I admit I’ve thought the same thing.” He gazed into the steaming cup. “I mean, I’m supposed to protect you guys, but what can I do against bombs … or gas.”
Conversations like this were taking place all through the congregation in the Kansas City suburb as the week crawled by. Multiple meetings were held. Dinner table discussions were strained and contentious. So many opinions. This had never happened before. What to do? Be brave and heroic? Look out for your families? Avoid church for one week, hoping it will all blow over? Several families discussed the positives of other churches they had considered attending in the past. Then the question was, what if some strange masked man showed up there too? How many of them were there?
Seeds of paranoia were already germinating. Young Mr. Yahn would have been so pleased.
* * *
Wednesday evening was the agreed upon day for the congregational meeting and most of the church’s members were in attendance. The group was solemn. The pastor noted that, unlike at other business meetings of the church, the physical distance between the people in the pews was significantly less than usual. He hoped that this showed that the body felt a need to be closer, in more ways than one.
“Let’s come to order, please. Take your seats, thank you.” It took very little effort to settle the crowd. Most were already seated and conversation was minimal.
“I want to thank you all for coming out this evening. I’ve asked the elders and deacons to sit at this table up front to assist us in our discussion. None of us is an expert in this type of situation and we are definitely seeking the Spirit’s guidance, as I’m sure you all are. In fact, as in any church crisis, the best way to proceed is trusting the Lord to work through his body. We hope and pray that you have come with the intent of listening and submitting to the will of the body represented here. Let’s begin in prayer.”
Solemn and silent faces bowed throughout the room. A brief prayer was offered.
“Let us, first of all, inform you of some of the actions that we have already taken on your behalf,” Pastor Jeremy began. “We have already informed the local police of the incident, and they have pledged to have officers present in and around our building this coming Sunday. We have given them the best description of the assailant—I guess we can’t call him an assailant at this point … “
“He did attack us … verbally,” someone in the back piped up.
“And attacked our sense of security,” another added.
“Yes, I … I think that point will be the most important one of the evening. We have always enjoyed a great sense of freedom, peace, and security here in our church, our community …” the pastor began.
“… in our whole country,” another parishioner added.
“Yes, in our country. And I’m sure most of you are aware that this feeling is far from common across the whole globe. So, now we start to have a small — dare I say, “harmless” — taste of what believers in other countries feel every day.”
“So, what are we going to do this Sunday, Reverend Eastham?” someone pressed the question out loud. It was followed by a quiet ascent across the room.
“I concur with the leadership of this church that we will hold worship as usual,” the pastor declared. “We cannot let one threat stop us from being the worshiping body of Christ in this place. He has promised to watch over us, and we will trust in his promises.”
The room was silent for a few moments. He knew the next word uttered would be crucial to set the tone for the entire body present, now and in the weeks to come.
“Amen,” someone in the middle row declared bravely. Yes, Amen, others joined in.
* * *
Friday morning. Paul Yahn had his car packed, including the bicycle. He had even pumped up the bike tires. He wanted nothing to go wrong. He climbed in, hit his favorite gas station, and headed for the interstate. The ride was uneventful and the Google estimate was on the money. Before checking in to the hotel, he had the urge to drive by his next target
Its 1900s brick-and-concrete was strangely flanked on the three opposite corners by mid-level office building of steel and glass. How out of place and archaic it looked, like some fearful little nerd cringing in the shadow of its cooler classmates. He wondered whether its faithful attendees felt the same thing as they went through their weekly rites and rituals. He also bet any number of property developers thought the same thing and hoped someday to run them off, making way for a more lucrative venture on that prime corner. “Well, maybe I can do my part for the local economy,” thought Yahn. Better check my ingress and egress points first.
He surveyed the entrances and walkways surrounding the antique edifice. I couldn’t have chosen a better spot, he thought. A piece of cake. In through the Gothic front door …. and being downtown on Sunday, there should be little traffic if something were to go wrong. The hotel is less than a mile north—almost too close. And the hotel only had on-street parking, so storing the bicycle might be tricky if any of the local constabulary got smart and canvassed the neighborhood. Well, he’d throw in a tarp to cover it, and he wouldn’t be staying long after the “attack” anyway.
Now, which Mass should I hit … 7:30 am, 9 am, 11 am … these Catholics do it far too often. But then again, that makes it easier. Though he also wondered what effect hitting only one mass would have on all the others. A childhood friend had told him that each mass thought of itself as a separate church, and “never the twain shall meet.” Well, I’ll make a big enough splash; it’ll get around. His arrogance was never far below the surface.
A crowd started appearing at the front door. 12 noon. That’s right. According to the sign, the next mass was about to start. Should he go in, play the devout papist, and scope the joint from the inside? No way he’d be spotted – anonymity is one strength of the Catholic church, he knew.
He decided to chance it. What religious experience he did have was mostly on the protestant side of the aisle, so it might be best to check out the lay of the land … what did they call it, the litter … liturgy?
As he approached the door he heard it again. “Pauly, pauly, skinny and smally…” His head jerked to one side, eyes sweeping the sidewalk, looking for the little monsters in their pinafores and pin curls. Then he caught his breath. There’s no one there! Get a hold of yourself! You’re endangering the mission! He paused on the concrete, took another deep breath, and joined the throng.
He ended up squeezed into a gummy brown wooden pew between a middle-aged woman cloaked in Chanel #5 and an old geezer sharing a contrasting aroma of tobacco and urine. He almost retched. Steady, soldier. You can do this.
The service was all an interesting study. He was numb to the content. He was making notes of the ups and downs, the backs and forths, the ins and outs. All the time considering when the best moment to strike would be. Then it was time for the Mass—the gagging on the holy cardboard that his old friends always talked about. He followed the crowd toward to front, trying his best to remain totally inconspicuous. Just one of the sheep.
He approached the priest, trying to blend in with the gray woolen coat in line in front of him. What was the Monsignor’s name again? (‘Msgr’ didn’t mean “messenger,” he had learned.) Thomas Glynn. There he was. The puffy, insipid little face. Paul involuntarily focused on the broken blood vessels around the priest’s nose. A little too much of the Communion wine, eh, Fah-ther?, the voice in his head mocked, with a perfect Irish brogue. Eyes down now, soldier! Tomorrow you’ll look him square in the face. Today you’re not here. You’re invisible.
He shuffled forward, received the delightful disk, turned and headed back for his pew. If God only knew who was eating his flesh and drinking his blood today.
* * *
He spent the rest of the day in the Starbucks across the street. He chose a seat with a window facing the church. He felt like a private eye staking out a suspect. It also gave him time to confer with his online co-combatants. His pretend friends — the Internet was full of them. The illusion of fellowship. A brotherhood. He knew that a common interest among strangers hardly equates to blood relations, but it felt good nonetheless.
“so what are u going to do at the kc church while ur in st luis” his online correspondent asked.
“what u mean”
“u said u kill ppl moron .. whos going to do the job”
“I didnt plan to hurt nybdy, tho Id like to…”
“wtf ..”
“these Xns r wimps just scare em will be enuf to close down ther show — jus watch”
“ur crazy .. jus watch . ?”
“how bout we at least tag em”
“like front door maybe”
“that b good”
“hit em sat nite before church start”
“xcelent >> whos out there in KC”
“im in kc .. will get er dun > sen me adres”
Paul Yahn signed off and ordered another coffee. This is shaping up just right. Good to have creative troops in the ranks. He looked out the window one more time. Piece a’ cake.
* * *
Jeremy Eastham opened Outlook and started composing an email:
“Dear Manfred…”
Manfred Fulgren was a professor of church history at West Central Theological Seminary. His specialty was persecution and martyrdom.
“This has been an eventful week and I am so grateful you are there to talk to. We had a beautiful Easter Sunday and my sermon went very well, if I say so myself. But that was all for naught when a hooded stranger walked up at the end and verbally threatened my entire congregation with death if they returned to worship next week.
“Manfred, I had never been so scared in my life. I nearly wet myself. All I can say is the Lord took over from there. He gave me the peace and presence of mind to dismiss my folks to their homes, asking for their prayers in the meanwhile. I also called an immediate leadership meeting and thankfully my most faithful elder Ben Jenowski was there and really helped to rally the troops. Without him I think we would have had a mutinee … or a full-scale retreat, or whatever.
“Anyway, we are going to hold services next week and hope for the best. I have an excellent congregation I must say. They’re strong. But I’m sure we’re going to lose some families to fear because of this. We’ve already contacted the authorities and we’re hoping for no threatening incidents and to be prepared if there are any.
“I know your wheels are probably turning on this already, trying to equate it with Nero or Hitler or some other historic church persecutor. So I might as well ask you for your input and guidance on words I should say to my people and actions we could take.
“Thanks again for being there, Manfred.
“In Christ, Jeremy”
The next day, Professor Fulgren wrote back:
“Dear Jeremy,
“What a challenging situation. I am not at all jealous of your situation. Sounds like you’re handling it as well as could be expected.
“A researcher at the World Evangelization Research Center says that, in one part of the globe or another, over 10,000 Christians have been killed every year since 1950, due to clashes with anti-Christian mobs, infuriated relatives, state-organized death squads, and so on. So we shouldn’t be surprised that something like this has happened. It is only a matter of time before such things start happening in the United States.
“I’d be curious to know if your hooded stranger is for real or just a lone nut case. I bet he’s busy on the internet, probably has a hate site of his own I wouldn’t be surprised. I guess next week will tell … Sorry, I’m being very calloused, aren’t I? Been an academic too long, I suppose.
“It sounds like you’re handling the situation well, meeting with your leadership, getting the police involved – at least they’re still on our side so far, or they still want to keep the peace if nothing else. I will forward your email to a colleague in the Practical Theology department to help with more tactical things you can do. I’m sure he will also have a group of other pastors in the field that can lend support with encouragement and recommended actions.
“I will be praying for you – am already, in fact – through this. As God said to Joshua, ‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee.’”
“In Christ, Manfred”
Read more in Chapter Two…
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