The Spy

He stoked the fire and asked her about redemption. His questions made her uncomfortable. It was unlike the boss to discuss such things. He was too open, too interested.

The fireplace was ancient. Paintings and artifacts ringed the room, each older than the next. A table stood in the middle of the floor. It seemed made of stone. She'd touched it once, just to see. It was solid and heavy and cold like the fireplace. 

Why was he building a fire? The room was warm enough. He was an important man. Couldn't someone build it for him? 

On went the questions. What sins can be forgiven? Is there ever a time when sins are too great and will weigh a man down forever? Is there forgiveness for someone who is not sorry? She ran out of answers and suggested he pray about it. He laughed. Given the conversation, it surprised her.

He left her in the room while he went to speak to the staff. Other than the blazing fire the room was silent. The boss returned, placed a pile of papers in the middle of the huge table, and left. 

She waited for what seemed like an entire day, then another, and one more. She stared at the fire, touched the table again, walked around and studied the art on the walls. Some of it had been famously stolen. How had it wound up here? The carpet was worn, probably ancient too. That would explain why it hadn't been replaced. She had a lot of time to think. 

Her eyes were drawn to the papers on the table. What was all of this about?  She tried to see what she could see without disturbing the pile. Not much. A phrase, a notation, subtle strokes of a pen, and the edge of an official document. It looked like a report, the kind she'd seen before when the boss had caught someone guilty. If this was evidence of wrong-doing, it was a lot of it. 

She knew better than to look. If she was caught peering into the secrets she'd be in more trouble than the subject of the investigation, but curiousity got the best of her. A little glimpse. That's all. She peeled back the top paper to reveal a name. She knew who it was. She'd known of this person's guilt for a long time. She was well aware of what he had done, but if it were humanly possible to unwrap a man's sins from him and pull them away, she would have. Compassion settled in her heart.

The door opened slowly and she had just enough time to move silently from the edge of the table and fake innocence.  In walked the boss, and his men, and the accused, a spy turned traitor. Guilty as sin. All of them.

The spy looked deeply afraid. In cases like this, the boss and his men usually did not need an interpreter. Why was she here?

She watched the boss. He said things, important things, all the things. He nodded. He motioned. She began to consider what was happening. Why had he built the fire? Why did he leave her alone for so long with the evidence? Why did he ask her all those questions about forgiveness? She looked from face to face. Everyone in the room was guilty of something, herself included.

The deliberation continued. They were close to proving his guilt. 

The boss must have built the fire for a reason, she thought. He asked me about sin.  I am standing here with crimes written on paper and within my reach.

She was putting it all together in her mind. Suddenly, a sense of purpose moved her. She paused, stared directly at the guilty spy, leaned in, awkwardly grabbed the pile of papers, turned and shoved them into the fire. 

The men were stunned. The boss moved toward her in a rage as she realized he hadn't intended for her to do that. But then why all of this? She was able to hold the men back for a short second, their shock and her suddenness acting in her favor. All of the papers went up in flames.

Now she was the guilty party. Two of the men held her arms while the boss faced her, speechless, angry, and worst of all, surprised.

"Why did you build the fire?" She asked the boss with uncharacteristic boldness.

He stared at her, unable to fathom why she would do this. She had misunderstood him completely.

She turned to the spy, certain they would share the same fate. He seemed as confounded as the boss.

She was sure the questions earlier meant he was thinking of redemption, forgiveness. She thought it was a set-up. He wanted to see if she would do it. But now she did not know. She only knew she had probably saved the spy, who was guilty, and condemned herself. 

He wanted an honest answer. She wasn't a traitor. He knew that. Why would she do this?

"I thought you wanted me to," her voice shaking. 

He paused for a long moment, just staring at her.

"Why?" He asked finally.

"Because," she answered quietly, whispering so the others wouldn't hear. "Your name was on the paper."

Redemption

The lines of the scroll read destruction, but she heard redemption. Not in the way that the story was told or the phrases that were used, but as an interruption. The thin paper was unfurled and a man with an aged, white beard read it in two languages, one she knew and one she did not recognize. It was a tale of woe. The words were precise and easily understood. The meaning was clear. It was a proclamation of despair. If you heard only the words of the story, all was hopeless. But as it was told, she heard a whisper, a quiet shout, a still, small voice, repeating over and over: redemption. Your destruction has come, you deserve it, you've earned it, but before it reaches you, a rescuer intervenes and carries you to safety. All of your wise men, prior experience, and hidden knowledge have not predicted this salvation. You will see it with your own eyes.

The Day Before Tomorrow

It is the glory of God to hide. 
But the glory of kings to seek and find. 

Proverbs 25:2

What will the future be like?

Adolph sat alone in his golden room. Its art was imbedded in the walls, its grand luxury chains around his feet. He was a man held in place by wealth and position. He was a king. A slave to history. What would he do on behalf of all mankind? 

He hated his name. It was his, no doubt, but it tarnished his legacy. No one wanted to say it. No one wanted to remember the past that had brought them here. He tried changing it, adding an o or an accent or choosing an entirely new one, but he was who he was and the name held onto him.

He had pushed many evils in his time, a lie leaned on until it seemed true, a deception here or there, a threat to bend a subject to his will, force when needed, fear always. But now he wished he could go back in time and change it all. The destruction he had wrought was more insidious than he'd imagined it would be. It was infecting people he needed to be healthy and weakening the world to ruin. He couldn't even fill his army with good men anymore. What is a leader without a great army?

In new humility, he prayed for a sign. He asked the God of Heaven to give a message for him to a person with no grandeur. That way he would know who had sent it. Even the God of Heaven could find no such person. Each human being is grand. There is no one insignificant. 

Instead, the Almighty sent a bear. It left the forest at dawn and strode easily on muscled haunches to the palace, greeting the stunned guards and courtiers with silence. It remained so until the king heard there was a beast in the court and, knowing innately this was the answer to his prayer, burst into the courtyard in his chamber garments and approached the bear. His people were aghast, but curious. 

The animal spoke to the king, loudly and clearly, with incomprehensible words. He didn't understand, of course, but waited for a translation. It continued in growls, roaring, and ear-splitting bellows for several days because it was a message with all the detail of the world. No one moved in all that time. They were like statues, confused and worried about what it meant. 

Days turned from bright to hushed to brilliant and, when he was done, the bear left and the king stumbled into his throne room and fell asleep on the floor. When he awoke he miraculously understood all that the bear had said. The message was simple. He would one day watch the world collapse and change in ways he could not imagine, and not slowly, but all at once. He understood it deeply. What was would cease to be and what was not would become.

Gaul was communist in those days. It was what they wanted, so they worked and made it happen. All of them together, like a parade or an orchestra. They wanted to be slaves and so they were, boldly. He found it disgusting, but the bear told him he would see the evil he had wrought show up and destroy other places instead of where he aimed it, farther from his intent than he could have dreamed. He would watch the fire he had set burn elsewhere, as though it had leapt of its own freewill. He would try to put it out and fail. 

He would live in peace and pray for those he had harmed. With great heartache and weeping he would cry out for God to forgive him and break their chains. He never had the nerve to ask that the fire come back on him. He knew it could and he was devastated to realize he would rather watch the rest of the world burn than to feel the heat himself.

The island of Prague was free. If you wanted to make piles of gold or advance your interests or walk along the way with somewhere meaningful to go, that is where you went. If you wanted quiet, you did not go to Prague. It was alive and noisy and moving. Solitude was found elsewhere.

Oil poured from the Church of the East. In time it became known as the Rejoicing Church of the East because there was simply no other word for what was happening. The healing of the West comes from the East. The Spirit flowed from it in waves no one could stop. No one even wanted to.

Praise swept the Earth in those days, gangsters and fools and wanderers raised their hands in it like American evangelicals, like fans or worshipers or souls being pulled from a sunken ship in a frozen sea. Sinner joined with Saint. Everywhere. 

It wasn't what anyone had imagined it would be like. It was good and it was terrible. 

The king repented and interceded and wept. He had long been forgiven, but still tried to work for it, to repair, to make changes and redeem himself, until the day he realized he did not have the ability to do it. He could only be saved from the fire like everyone he had harmed. He could only be rescued.

End

His oldest daughter was the Wisest. She understood her father, why he did what he did, though she was too young to see all of it. She knew he did it to prove something. To be something. To win. 

The Smallest was hurt. She didn't understand. Instead, she was swept away by each ebb and flow of the tide. She was away so much she was not sure anywhere else existed, though she hoped it did. She was the one who would grow up to be just like him, seeking the same affirmation, in the same ways. 

His Closest pulled her words and her story out of the air and held them too close to see, so there is nothing to tell. She doesn't breath, doesn't hope, doesn't dream. She allows no mention of it, how she felt, how she feels. She leaves no footprint, no breath, because to do so would make his actions real and she does not want that.

They sat waiting for the pot to boil. It was a rare night that he was home with them. Maybe the only night. No one knew then that was the day the wall would come down. No one knew it would come down at all. So when his friend arrived and invited him out, they knew nothing different than all the days before when he left them. 

His friend had a job to do and needed help. 

They walked the whole way. It was dark. He was afraid. His friend's job was to confront someone, get information from them, and kill them. He was afraid of his friend, the target, and the information. It couldn't implicate him, but it was frightening for a reason he couldn't articulate.

The conversation between the three men went like this:

Friend: You refused?

The Target: I couldn't do it. Things have changed. I have changed. I'm out.

He: You can't be out. No one gets out. 

The Target: I am out. 

Friend: Why?

The Target: They didn't tell you? I am a changed man. I am different.

His eyes were serene. Solemn. Resigned. He would not bend. He would not break. They could see it plainly. This was no longer the same cohort they had worked with, no longer the man who they had come to respect, no longer the man who had ordered others killed like they were about to kill him. 

Friend laughed. They had told them. Now this man believed in God. Now he would not work with them. He was on his own. He was different.

Friend: You're a traitor.

He: Traitor.

He hated the Target now. How could he turn away from them? After all they'd worked for. After all they'd achieved. He would just give up now? They did not believe him about God. Who believes that? They assumed he was an ordinary traitor, one with his own reasons. It was no concern of theirs what he said now.

Friend: Do you know we will kill you? 

Friend didn't really want to do it. They'd been through a lot with this man. He was their colleague. Their comrade. He had helped each of them. He'd sacrificed for them. He had given to them. And he was different now. But they didn't know why.

The Target pulled a weapon from his right side coat pocket and shocked them both when he placed it on a table instead of firing.

The Target: I won't kill you. And I want you to know I forgive you. Both of you. I forgive you and when I am dead I will pray for you at the foot of the throne. 

His words were incomprehensible to them. He sounded like a madman and they killed him.

Friend: Do you think he really forgave us?

He was taken aback. It was a stupid question, one he didn't know how to answer.

He and Friend parted ways then, each heading for home. He wondered how his family was, something he didn't normally allow himself to do. And as he walked his steps drew him closer to the wall. Tall, impenetrable, protective. Something was happening on that night, however. People were gathered around. He stopped to observe the commotion. There was shouting and singing. Pieces of the great facade were being tossed, thrown to the ground. They were tearing it down!

He was caught up in it, watching but not helping. He was done helping. He thought about all he had done. He thought about forgiveness. He'd just killed someone. Someone who said he forgave him. It was unsettling. And now the wall was coming down. He hoped it meant something. He hoped he was forgiven. He stared, unblinking, and as he watched, he saw the shadow moved. It was jolted out of place, obstructed, directed, pulled. He saw that something reached out to the shadow and pulled it away and, as he watched, he hoped it would do the same for him.

Middle

He was swept free. He was brought out of deception. And he could see. With his eyes. With his heart. With all he could hold.

As he watched the wall come down and the shadow move and remembered his friend's, his victim's, words, "I forgive you," he wished, he hoped, he prayed and cried out and couldn't believe he got a reply. His burden, lifted and thrown, his darkness gone in the grip of a light that caught it and held it and brought it down.

He was free.

But he had ordered someone killed. He was not directly responsible, he reasoned, which gave him space between himself and the guilt. But he'd done it just the same. He'd watched a murder and had not intervened. In fact, he'd approved it.

In his life were many sins. He had abandoned someone who needed him. He had hurt someone who loved him. He regretted it. How could he be freed from that? But he was and he found it difficult to take. Not that he wasn't grateful. He was overwhelmed with gratitude, tears streaking his face, his heart, everything he could hold. He was paralyzed with it. He moved only by the force that held him up and led him. He was no longer his own.

He stood motionless in the center of his small town with the wall now down around them and the inhabitants strolling harmlessly around. They kept walking, not pausing, not stopping to say hello, everyone just going by with no destination other than "I can go here now" with no restriction. He began to stroll too, for hours or minutes he couldn't tell, and finally went home to tell his family they were free.

But they weren't. His family was still imprisoned by him. The wall was down. The shadow was gone. The weight had lifted. But his Closest remembered his cruelty. His Smallest remembered his absence. His Wisest knew. She just knew. He was free of his guilt, but they were still under it, pinned to the floor by unforgiveness and resentment and the truth. It was true. He had done it all. 

So he set out to change the truth. He hoped. He promised. But he failed, horribly, spectacularly. He was a changed man, broken, serene, a man who had been unable to rescue himself and now he needed help to clean up the mess. He needed a rescuer. They needed a rescuer, to be saved from all he had done to them.

Beginning

The darkness met him, cold and sharp, and promised him power, but he no longer wanted it. He wanted sunlight. He yearned for hope. His heart, his hands, everything he could hold with wanted only to hold purity. 

It was a new feeling for a man who had spent his entire life on temporary pleasures, always looking in the same place for something different and finding the same over and over again. He feared he was a slow learner, but he was meant to learn this lesson well so that he would remember it with his heart, his hands, everything he could hold.

His mind changed when the wall fell. It pulled the darkness with it. He saw the shadow tugged by the weight of the collapse. What can grasp a shadow and pull it down? He thought he must have seen an illusion. The wall must have hit something real and moved it, of course, and that altered the shadow. Of course? But he was slowly losing belief in the course of things and gradually accepting that he had seen a shadow moved. A shadow that was not a reflection, not cast by light, not a mere effect of something real- this shadow was its own entity. He had seen evil moved and he knew it.

"You don't need to be afraid of the dark anymore."

He would not admit to being a fearful man. Maybe, once, or twice, he had felt fear as a small child or in a strange circumstance, but never as a man, never unless he was half asleep or- but it was futile. He was afraid. Fear led him. Fear drew him. Fear called his name. Fear ate his meals before him and arranged his home to suit its needs. 

Fear had been the boss for so long he did not recall another time, until that moment, and he realized, instinctively, then with logic, that there was something that could move differently than everything else. Something could rescue him. He winced at the thought because the last thing this strong man wanted was to need rescue. Then it happened.

True

Resistance is not futile. 

Some have escaped.

Simcha and the Seed

 

Simcha tended his garden with great care, gingerly cultivating the important things: forgiveness, joy, the kind of grace that leans in and speaks directly to the heart. Rescue grew on a tree by the river, with branches that swept shade over the delicate plants blooming nearby. Simcha watered and pruned all things green and pulled out life-stealing weeds. He sang as he worked because a cheerful heart brings life. He succeeded in his effort and with his garden Simcha fed many souls.

In the evenings the elderly man would kneel in the dirt and bring in the harvest, making heaping mountains of redemption with the fruit of the land. And he'd drag it, carry it, and convince it to follow him to the open markets of his village. From there it would make its way to the backs of pack animals, the bottoms of carriages, and into the holds of great ships about to go out to sea. In this way Simcha's garden was carried to the whole world.

When he traveled to new places he was amazed to see some of his offerings had been transplanted into gardens of their own. Great sweeping vines and graceful trees lined deserts, reaching in to transform the barren landscapes into lush vineyards. He was joyful, exceeding so, at the sight.

"All this," he said, awe-struck, "from just one seed planted in rough dirt under a glaring sun."

It had been a withered, undignified seed. Simcha could not have imagined how it would sprout and bloom, never mind grow into so many varieties. It had only come from his heart. He'd pulled it out himself, with more strength than he knew he had. What he thought was the decaying remnant of pride, maybe selfishness or some other destructive attribute, turned out to be something else entirely. In its atrophied state and buried deeply in good, healthy soil, it became life. Life took root and became blooms of every kind everywhere the light shone and some places it didn't. His effort had been worth it.

That throwaway seed had turned out to be vital. But it wasn't easy to remove. He felt like he'd climbed a mountain to get to the point where he could pull it out. His days were spent reaching and grasping, squinting for a view of the top, hanging there just long enough to realize he needed help. If he needed help, was he really in the right place? But each time help came, with a breeze or a glimpse of hope to lift him up. Each time he encountered resistance Simcha learned to persevere. After a while, it didn't take as long to recover his strength, not nearly as long as it had before. His arms and legs became strong. He had the ability to climb.

And just when he thought he needed to rely on that ability and newly acquired strength, a gust of air, a breath, lifted Simcha from his effort and carried him higher and higher. In a flash, the desperate climber was at the top of the mountain. He'd been lifted. Not by his own hand, but by something he couldn't see, something that was not dependent on Simcha himself.

In his hand was the seed. His pride, withered and defeated. It seemed he should bury it as deeply as he could, somewhere with the unflinching and direct desert sunlight. Someplace that would kill it, so he would never have to deal with it again. He had no idea what would happen once he buried it. After that, he began to look at withered things with a little more expectation.
 

 

Simcha is part of a series published online.

Hope

The
Lord

Restores

Psalm 28:7

The Lord is my strength and my shield;
    my heart trusts in him, and he helps me.
My heart leaps for joy,
    and with my song I praise him.

To Live

Forgive.

Well

He needed to go through Samaria. John 4:4

 

What if He came through your town,

to your well,

just to find you?

 

 

 

 

Too

...I will cut off the pride of Philistia.

I will take away its blood from its mouth,

and its abominations from between its teeth;

it too shall be a remnant for our God;

it shall be like a clan in Judah...

Zechariah 9