Untimely Visitor

Untimely Visitor

by

J.M.MacLeod   

Perhaps if I write it down while it’s fresh in my mind it'll make sense. I've never been so challenged, confounded, or benefited as when…. No… I doubt I'll ever understand it. But, if I write it down, I'll at least have a record of those unnerving events, if, for no other reason than to remind myself that it really happened.

            It was snowing—not an accumulating snow, but a nuisance snow, the kind that makes roads slippery and dampens clothing—that night as I walked home from the evening class on “Old Testament Prophets in Twentieth Century Literature”. The wet weather helped settle the dusty haze created in my mind by the dreary lecture. Alice had winked at me halfway through class, mouthing, "Do we really need this?" Alice is a trip! A good friend, but—that's all.

            Anyway, I first saw him two blocks from my apartment. I mistook him for one of the homeless derelicts that proliferate during hard times. He acted drugged, slowly circling, staring up at a streetlight, clothed in what could easily be mistaken for bed sheets and sandals. It was his non-wintry attire that drew me in for a closer inspection. He obviously was out of his element, exhibiting, according to my sketchy recall of Psych 101, classic psychotic behavior. The man needed help, and I, a pastor in training, felt obligated.

            I stopped within twenty feet to observe, trying to decide if his symptoms indicated hostile behavior. He glanced my direction but resumed his investigation of the streetlight with all the intensity of an aborigine discovering an escalator in the outback. He rapped his knuckles on the hollow metal, pressed his fingers to the molded edges, always looking up at the light as if ascertaining what effect, if any, his taps had on the illumination.

            "Aren’t you cold?" I ventured, trying to engage him without triggering a reaction.

            He paused and observed me as if for the first time. "I'm sorry, did you address me?"

            Surprised at the lucid response, I said, "Uh, I asked if you were cold." Best keep to simple subjects; for all I knew, psychotics could be polite and deranged at the same time.

            "Cold? Yes, now that you mention it, I am cold. Quite cold."

            "If you care to come with me, I'll get you some warm clothing." What was I doing? Had I gone mad as well? Nobody—not even pastors in training—invited full-fledged lunatics home!            

            "That’s very gracious of you. I accept your offer."

            Now I was obligated. Roughly my size, though at least twenty years older, he was lean, but wiry; if I didn't follow through he might become enraged, even though his balding pate gave him a harmless appearance. I'd heard about the supernatural strength psychotics could summon, so I decided to humor him, especially since, at that hour, the two of us were alone on the street. It was unlikely any of my dorm-mates would be back from Christmas break yet, since no other profs were holding classes. Only good old Prof. Smidley had the angst to hold class the day after New Year's.

            I started to walk away, hoping the nut would forget me and resume his study of the light pole. But he fell into step beside me asking, "Are they molded iron? How is it that they glow so brightly without flickering?"

            "What? The streetlights?"

            "Streetlights," he said as if he'd never heard the term. "And are these 'streetlights' used on all roads?"

            "Umm, yes, pretty much so." My answer disturbed him. "Well, mostly in the cities," I qualified.

            "Cities? Do you mean there are more than one?"

            "Well, yes, of course! Every nation has many cities, and most of them—."

            "Nations?" he stopped abruptly and stroked his chin-line beard. "Then... I'm not... This is still… the world?"

            I wasn't sure how to answer.

            Grabbing my jacket lapel, he demanded, "Tell me, is this still the world? Am I still… alive?"

            "Yes, this is the world, and you are alive!" I blurted.

            He released his grip. "Well, that explains the cold."

            "Yes, I suppose that would," I said.

            "Well come along then, man, let’s be going. I could get frostbite. If you have warm clothes to give to me, hadn't you better get on with it?"

            "Uh, sure, of course. This way."

            After a short distance he asked, "They’re molded iron then?"

            I looked blankly at him.

            "The streetlights," he answered my quizzical look.

            Ahh, understanding dawned. Obviously a streetlight fixation. "Yes, they’re manufactured in mills, I guess."

            "And how do they put the glow at the top?"

            Was he kidding?

The look in his eyes revealed he wasn't, nor did they bespeak dementia. Something weird was going on. I gave an answer that any second grader could grasp. "Wires carry the electrical current to the light bulb, making it glow."           

            It was his turn to look blank.

            "You don't understand, do you."

            "No, I'm afraid I don't. Your use of unfamiliar words has me quite at a loss."

            "Which words?"

            "'Wires', for one, 'ekklekial(?)' is another."

            "Electrical?"

            "That's it. Elec—."

            "Trical."

            "Elec—trical. What does it mean?"

            "Surely you know about electricity? Even Third World nations use electricity, after all, this is nineteen-ninety."

            If I had slapped him his reaction would have been no less stunned. "As in the year nineteen-ninety?"

            "That's right. In ten years, it will be Anno Domini two-thousand."

            "Two Thous—!" He paused in mid-stride and closed his eyes. Then he opened them and looked directly at me, repeating, "Two thousand! The year two thousand? Still here after two thousand years? You have so much to learn from me, and so little time to learn it in."

            It was my turn to act slapped.

            "Come, come man, don't look so dumbfounded," he said, tugging my sleeve to get me walking again. "Fear not, I understand now, at least as to my being here."

            I was glad one of us did.

            "Do you still have names?” he said. “I ask, because you haven't asked mine, which would be a customary thing to do upon first meeting someone, er, where I come from."

            "Names?" I parroted stupidly, caught off-guard by the sudden swing to the mundane.

            "Names by which we are known. Of course, if you’re all numbered..."

            "I know what names are! I'm Michael, but everybody calls me Mikey because I resemble the kid on the cereal box."

            He had that uncomprehending look again. "Do you not use your names very much?"

            "We use them all the time. Uh, look, I was caught off guard for a moment."

            "Michael, er Mikey, be honest with me, are you slow witted?"

            "Am I slow witted?"

            "I mean if you are, that's alright, I understand. But, if you are, I'm not so sure that you’re the one I must needs instruct."

            "Must needs instruct? You don't even know what electricity is, and you 'must needs instruct' me?"

            "That is correct."

            "Just who do you think you are?" His quiet demeanor and insinuations were beginning to bug me.

            "In your familiar terminology, I suppose I would be called 'Pauly.'"

            "Pauly?"

            "Yes, and I am from... but maybe you've never heard of my nation."

            "Look Pauly, I don't know who or what you are, or where you're from, but you’re the one acting bizarre. I thought I could help you. Your condescending attitude is making me lose patience. If either of us 'must needs be instructed' it isn't likely me!"

            "Oh, but it is you, brother Mikey. It’s for your sake I’m here—arriving by most unusual paths—to help you warn your generation of the danger it faces, for it seems you’ve all fallen asleep."

            "All right, this has gone far enough! Who put you up to this? Alice? Did Tim and Phil come back early just to pull pranks on me?" I turned and shouted to the empty street "You can come out now, I'm on to you. Come on, you've had your fun."

            "I assure you Brother Mikey, I’m involved in no prank. Indeed, that was my first thought too, upon encountering your marvelous streetlights. I thought I’d gone home, but if so, it was far different from what I'd been led to expect. Yet I had no other explanation. When you found me, I was trying to expose the trickery by which the lamp stayed lit."

            "Alright, who are you?"

            "As I said earlier, I’m called Paul, and am an apostle of our Lord Jesus Christ, recently come…here… from Antioch."

            My hand went to my forehead as I remonstrated with myself for questioning my original diagnosis. Delusions of grandeur could now be added, which, I supposed, meant he had a touch of schizophrenia as well. "Oh well, that explains it then, doesn't it? So you're the apostle Paul! How do you do? I've always wanted to meet you."

            "You have? You know of me?"

            "Know of you? The man who wrote half the New Testament? Who wouldn't want to meet you?" I didn't know if I was helping or hindering, but at the moment, it was the best I could do.

            "Oh, but, that’s not good. Why should anyone beyond my own time care to know me? It is Him you must know, not me." He seemed truly grieved that his assumed personae had achieved some notoriety. That was odd, for everything I knew about personality disorders dictated that such individuals gloried in the achievements of their borrowed identity. This man had really figured out Paul's character: self-effacement that Christ might be glorified.

            But, I thought I still might catch him off guard so as to learn his true identity and notify his family—who, no doubt, were quite concerned that 'Uncle Ned' or 'Cousin Harry' wasn’t in his padded room. The man evidenced breeding and culture despite his activities of late, and was obviously intelligent. He must be loved and missed by someone.

"Here we are, Paul, this is my dorm. My roommate, Phillip, is home with his family, so we're here alone." Now, why had I said that? Of all the dumb things to tell a psychotic, that had to be at the top of the list.

            "Oh! It's so warm. But, where is your fire? Keeping such a large building warm must use considerable fuel."

            I smiled. He was consistent, down to the minutiae that most people would overlook; for instance, his interest in the doorknob’s action. Only an exquisite actor, or a man who truly believed his delusion would be so raptly fascinated.

            "Yes, well, the building is heated by the same source that keeps the streetlights lit."           

            "Indeed. What a wondrous age."

            "It is that." I shut the door and ushered him upstairs. Phillip Osgood and I lived a Spartan existence in our final year of preparation for ministry. We’d decided to forego radio, TV, internet surfing and stereo so we could concentrate on studies. Our denomination had no strict rules regarding those forms of entertainment, but Phil and I dedicated ourselves to the pursuit of excellence which required as few distractions as possible. That’s also why Alice MacAdams was still just a friend. Two beds, two desks, two chairs, two bureaus, and a mutual bookshelf comprised all our furnishings besides Phil's floor lamp and my desk lamp.

Paul approached our sparse accommodations with all the anticipation of a child at Christmas. He fiddled with the pull chain on the floor lamp, pulling it on and off, copying me. He caught me amusedly watching him, and asked if he might continue to investigate. I gave him permission, pulling a sweatshirt and jeans out of my drawer to give him. He was so authentic, asking carefully about the zipper and how to pull them on. Everything intrigued him.

            "Paul," I asked as I went to the bathroom to prepare my shower, interrupting his study of the sweep of my alarm clock’s second hand, "…before you became who you are, weren't you somebody else, with a family and friends, and place to live, and a job?"

            He looked up at me. "Yes."

            Ah-ha! I was getting somewhere. Maybe I should shift my major. "And who might you have been before you became the Apostle Paul?”

            "I was Saul, a tentmaker of Tarsus." He picked up Phil's digital alarm and asked, "This isn't Arabia, is it?"

            I fell into that one! Forget shifting my major. "This is America. Why do you ask?"

            "These numerals have a decidedly Arabian style. I suppose it also works on the same principle as the streetlights?"

            He didn't miss a trick. I'd heard that mental illness was just a snap away from genius; now I saw why. I turned on the shower and regulated the water temperature. The hiss of the steaming water caught his attention and he came to investigate. He stared wide-eyed at the shower stall, sink, toilet and mirror. It was only then, in the brighter lighting, that I noticed the huge bruise on the right side of his head, as well as several smaller ones here and there on his body. "Paul, you've been injured. Do you have other injuries?"

            "Oh, they're slight, nothing serious."

            "Well, this could be serious," I said, gingerly touching his swollen temple. "I should call for an ambulance to get your skull X-rayed. Who did this? Muggers?" Perhaps this severe bump was the source of his disorientation.

            "What are muggers?"

            "Hooligans, roughnecks. People who beat you up and steal your money."

            "Ah, Sons of Belial! Yes, I suppose you could say they were muggers. We had just—."

            "We! Someone was with you?" Perhaps his companion was still lying in an alley, bleeding, his life in danger. "Think carefully, Paul. Where were you, and who was with you?"            

            "Barnabas, er, I suppose in your familiar style, Barnaby, was with me. They ignored him, intent on stoning just me. When I saw this one coming," he indicated his swollen temple, "I thought surely I was going home. Indeed, that’s the last thing I remember. When I opened my eyes, I saw the glow of your streetlights and was surprised that heaven was not what I'd expected."

            Had the mugging triggered the delusion, or had the delusion altered his perception of the mugging? "Let me call an ambulance so you can be properly examined. I'm sure your family has coverage. They must be worried sick about you, and the hospital can contact them and let them know you’re in good hands."  

            "I have no other family now except the brothers and sisters of the Lord. Nor do I care to go anywhere else. You’ve brought me to your abode, and here is where I'll stay until my task is done. You’ve shown yourself worthy by taking me in, and will receive your reward."

            This guy was good! Probably a pastor who'd gone over the edge. He knew the precepts of the First Century Church to a tee. I doubted he was dangerous, at least to me. In fact, his whole demeanor was harmless. Yet, there was a quiet air of authority about him.

            "I've heard of heated baths in Rome and Laodicea, with hot water flowing from the spouts. May I?"

            "Of course. I'll leave you in privacy. The towels are in that little closet there."

I closed the door behind me and went to the pay phone in the hallway. I dialed the police and a sleepy sergeant took my information, promising to get back to me after checking the city's mental wards for missing patients.

Re-entering my room, I spied my Bible on my desk, still open to Acts 14. I began reading. Verse nineteen seized my attention. I sat down and rubbed eyes. This was too weird. I should never have watched Twilight Zone as a kid. Was I thinking the unthinkable? Paul was too lucid to be insane, too authentic to be an actor, yet the alternative was unbelievable. Maybe I was the one going over the edge.

            The bathroom door opened and Paul emerged, dressed in my jeans and sweatshirt, smiling and apologizing, "I'm sorry, but I don't know how to stop the flow."

            "That's alright. I'll jump right in. You can just relax on that bed. Phillip won't mind." As I went into the bathroom, scenes from Psycho rose unbidden to my mind. This would be one of the quickest showers of my life.

            Seconds later I emerged from the bathroom. Paul sat at Phil's desk looking out the window. In the distance was a highway.

            "How is it those torches move so quickly?"

            "Enough is enough. You must know what cars are? You've ridden in them, probably even driven one. You surely remember cars?" The 'Straight-Forward Approach' was good for at least one attempt.

            "No, I am sure I never have. You say you ride in them? So swiftly?"

            If not for him, at least for me the shower had returned a sense of reality. "Yes, they’re swift vehicles." I decided to close that category and try a new tack. "You speak English rather well. I'd have thought we'd need to converse in Aramaic, or Hebrew or something."

            His lips parted, his nostrils flared and his eyes widened. Was reality crashing in? Was the amnesia being driven out?

            "We aren't speaking koine, are we?" he said. "Have you any written material?"

            I handed him my Bible. He received it with genuine wonder, eyeing it curiously, turning it over and over, inspecting the binding, opening it gingerly. He seemed delighted that the pages didn’t fall out. Then he held it very close to his eyes, squinting to decipher the upside-down words on the page. I reached over and righted the book, turning as I did so from the Concordance to I Corinthians. "You'll recognize this, I'm sure." I hoped the sudden logic wouldn't throw him into despair, but something had to be done soon to salvage my own hold on reality.

            He pursed his lips pronouncing some of the consonants under his breath, but finally gave up. "It's no use. They’re unfamiliar characters. Whoever scribed them however, is very, very good. Is this the script of the language in which we are conversing?"

            Before I responded, the pay phone in the hallway jangled and my guest jumped with alarm. He followed me as far as the doorway.

            I picked up the receiver. "Is this Michael Anderson?"

            "Yes."

            "This is Sergeant Love of the Fourth Precinct."

            "Oh, yes Sergeant. What did you find out?"

            "Well, County has one psycho unaccounted for, but they think he's somewhere in the building. Likes to impersonate good, helpful people. Usually doctors."

            "Ahh, well, I think he's promoted himself."

            "You think you have him?"

            "Probably."

            "Six-foot-four, about 230 pounds, in his sixties?"

            I sized up my guest. "Subtract about a foot, 100 pounds, and ten to twenty years."

            "Can you talk freely?"

            "Not really."

            "Got a Christmas Fruitcake on your hands, eh?"

            "Sort of, well, I'm not so sure." I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece so only the sergeant could hear and whispered, "I'm beginning to think it's some kind of practical joke."

            "Izzat right? College hijinks eh? Just the same, you want I should send a black and white to check him out?"

            "I'll get back to you."

            "Okay, but be careful."

            I hung up.

Paul eyed me suspiciously. "A communication device?"

            "You don't remember phones?" I challenged, re-entering my room.

            "You don't believe me, do you? I guess I see your point of view. If you were to show up suddenly in my age, talking about streetlights and buildings that stay warm in winter, lightning-quick chariots and ringing talk things, I'd think you were possessed, which is what you must think of me."

            "Don't take it personal, but you do have some rather acute symptoms of mental illness."

            "Mental illness? Ahh, I know what you mean. Possession. I assure you I am not possessed. Though they try, I don’t allow evil spirits to drive me mad."

            "No, of course not!" Whew, touchy subject! "We’ve learned what was once considered evil spirits is really body chemistry out of order. Science has taught us to cure all manner of disease, and now we can apply the same principles to mental illnesses. People with symptoms such as yours can sometimes resume normal lifestyles within a few days with proper care."

            Paul's eyes blazed, but he remained in control. Had I said too much?

            "I have no doubt that your medical arts have accomplished much. I bear witness in my spirit that I have little knowledge of such things. This much I do know, though your medicines may help some cope and maintain a normal life, there are evil spirits abounding in your age, causing more physical and mental problems than your science recognizes. He paced back and forth. "Deception abounds greater than I’d thought possible! The saints have truly fallen asleep if they’ve forgotten to wage war against evil spirits. Why, if unchecked, Satan's minions will cause all manner of lasciviousness, lewdness and perversion to creep out of the shadows into broad daylight. Disease will run rampant, and the Church—the Church will be fragmented and useless, quarrelling over foolishness and competing with one another, even denying the true Faith which was once and for all given to the Saints. Tell me, how bad is it?"

            What could I say? I found his analysis painfully accurate. "All that could be caused by not recognizing evil spirits?" I asked lamely.

            "That and more."

            "But couldn't it just be stress and the age we live in?"   

            "You doubt the existence of such malignant, spirit beings? Have you a written account of the life of our Lord?"

            "Yes," I mumbled, wondering how I’d lost control of the conversation, and how he was making so much sense.

            "Does it tell of the demoniac of the Gadarenes?"

            "Yes."

            "And would your physicians diagnose him as mentally ill?"

            "Probably."

            "Then consider, if mental illness isn’t evil spirits, what entered into the swine and made them run madly to their own destruction when our Lord cast them out of the man?”

            I saw I was going to lose this point. "The account tells it from your point of view, alright." Could it actually be that the source of many of our “modern problems” could be traced to demonic activity? But this was all too absurd! Here I was arguing about mental illness with a man who claimed to be Saint Paul!            

            "Do you not see the damage caused by putting the word of science above God's testimony of His Son?"

            "Look Paul, or whoever you are, I see where this is leading, but you have to understand that you can't really be Paul, but someone who thinks he’s Paul, thus making you insane. I happen to know time travel is impossible!"

            "I understand how you feel. I don't fully comprehend it myself, but I know that nothing is impossible with God! Barnabas and I barely managed to dissuade the crowd from sacrificing to us when—uh, muggers—arrived from Iconium. They whipped the heathen masses into a frenzy. Barnabas barely escaped, but I was dragged out of the city. A circle formed around me and stones fell like hail. From the corner of my eye I saw a large rock coming at my head and only had time to utter my Savior's name. Instantly I found myself beneath the streetlight where you found me."

            I studied his face for some evidence of insanity while he related the story of Paul’s stoning. But other than claiming to be and acting like the apostle Paul, there was none.

            "Mikey, it is imperative that you and I trust each other, for I sense that your days are even more perilous than my own. It’s quite possible I was killed when that rock struck me, and before I enter my rest, our Lord briefly placed me here to commission you to begin the work that will return the Church to truth."

            "I need to think," I stalled.

            "And pray. I discern the Spirit of God about you lad, but you don't seek Him enough. Ask Him to show you who I am. Speaking of prayer, is there somewhere I might resort to pray, alone?

            "Uh, sure. I'm going out for a walk; you can stay here and pray. I don't expect to be gone long, and if you feel like sleeping, use that bed."

            "Thank you. I'd like that very much."

            Outside, I snugged the zipper close to my throat. The temperature had dropped several degrees and the snow had stopped. The slush froze hard on the sidewalks making travel treacherous. I prayed, not to believe the unbelievable, but for wisdom on how to handle the situation. I absent-mindedly retraced my steps to where I’d found Paul. I paused, wondering how a nice guy like me had gotten into this dilemma. The slush beneath my feet had hardened, so my return to the scene hadn't left any tracks. Looking up the street I saw my previous footprints as I had approached Paul. There were no other footprints leading in. The only other marks were Paul's, as he twice circled the lamppost, along with a depression in the frozen slush, which suggested the form of a reclining body. He’d probably been sleeping there prior to the snow, and thus, would have left no incoming trail, Yet, it coincided with his story of suddenly appearing in this century.

A glint caught my eye from the middle of the depression. It was a coin; I pried it loose. It gleamed with a yellowish cast. I scrutinized the quarter-sized coin and was shocked to see Greek writing. I bit it, as I'd seen done in countless cowboy movies, and sure enough, my teeth made a slight indentation. If cowboy movies were any authority on the subject, what I held in my hand was a genuine gold coin. A visage of some ruler named Phillip scowled from one side, on the other was a date stating that the coin had been minted in the thirty-seventh year of Phillip’s reign. The striking was clear, and of excellent quality. This couldn't be an ancient artifact, it was too new, too unused. But who would fake a coin using real gold?

Prof. Smidley was a knowledgeable collector of such artifacts, and lived on campus, not far from where I stood. If I hurried, I might catch him still awake...

            An hour later I stood outside my own door, shaking, afraid to enter. According to Prof. Smidley's books, the coin was both genuine and unexplainable. I mustered enough courage to enter and face my guest.

He was asleep across Phil's bed, still on his knees. I draped a coverlet over him. Who was this man who had interrupted my tidy life with such confusion? I sprawled on my own bed; could this really be Paul, straight from the first century? I got up and went to the bookshelf and pulled out a Bible Dictionary. Under “Paul” I found a mountain of data, including a time line of his life. The stoning in Lystra happened in A.D. 46, when the apostle was forty-one years old. Though this wouldn't prove who he was, it might be useful in disproving his claims. Too many unexplainable things were piling up; I needed to expose the fraud for my own peace of mind. In the morning I'd challenge him. If he answered wrong … or stalled, or evaded the question, I'd be able to keep my sanity. If he answered correctly, I'd be no worse off. Finding that coin had thrown me, but I had a new game plan.    

                                                                        ~

                                               

            "Come Brother Mikey, the sun rises, and so must we."

            I opened my eyes and saw my guest’s cheerful face. I’d struggled through dreams all night long, and wasn’t rested. "What time is it?"

            "Sunrise, the first hour."

            I looked at my alarm and moaned. No wonder I wasn't refreshed.

            "Let's be off to the market for breakfast. I should like to see this age of yours. I suppose you still have gold and silver currency? I’ll provide for the meal." He held a leather pouch by drawstrings.

            I was instantly awake, remembering Prof. Smidley's reaction to the coin I’d shown him. "May I see your money?"

            "See my money? Of course." He withdrew several coins of varying colors and sizes from the pouch. "This was given to us, Barnabas and myself, by the saints at Iconium to meet our journeying needs."

            Museum pieces all. Mostly Roman, I guessed, though one looked Arabic, and a couple of them looked Greek. The metals were bronze and silver predominantly, with a couple of gold; all in excellent condition.

            "You begin to believe me, I think. I prayed that your eyes might be opened."

            The room tilted. "Now just wait a minute! Just because you have a pouch of ancient coins, and left no tracks in the snow, and seem, well, genuine, doesn't mean that I buy it—yet."

            Was I caving in? The time had come to play my trump card. His response was more important than ever. "Tell me how old you are, and what year you left your century."

            "I don't see what good that will do."

            Hedging? "It's important to me."

            "Very well, I am forty-one years of age, and, as we followers of the Way reckon time, it is, or was, fifty years since the birth of our Lord."

            I hadn’t anticipated a right and a wrong answer. My perplexity persisted. Then a previously insignificant tidbit of information that had been stored away in my memory came to the fore. There was some dispute about the actual date of Christ's birth, most experts agreeing that Christ had been born about 4 BC, which would make 46 A.D. the fiftieth year! I sat.           

            "Mikey, are you alright? All the blood has drained from your face."

            "It can't be. It just can't be."

            "But it is; your face has gone white."

            "No, I mean you can't be. It's impossible."

            "Other than that I don't belong in your time, have you any proof I'm not who I claim?"

            Inspiration hit me. "Yeah! As a matter of fact I do!" I was angry at my inability to crack the deception. I was also afraid that if I didn't soon crack the deception, I'd have no alternative but to believe him. "I have a whole New Testament of proof!"

            "New testament? What is that?"

            "A Bible. Scriptures."

            "Scriptures! In writing I can understand?"

            I pulled my Greek New Testament from the bookshelf. Why hadn't I thought of this before?  If amnesia made him forget how to read English, he would surely have forgotten any Greek he might have learned.

            He received it with wonder, cautiously opening to Matthew. His eyes watered as he squinted, holding it close. Tears dripped onto his cheeks, and he gave a small gasp. "Yes, yes, oh thank you, Lord. It has been faithfully preserved." Then to me, "Some of the characters are different, but I understand them. You have a marvelous documentation of our Lord's ministry." He sat on Phillip's bed and continued leafing through the book.

            "Y-you really understand it?"

            "Oh yes!" He scanned through Matthew, openly weeping for joy. "What a great treasure you have! I'd heard that some manuscripts existed, but never saw one. How blessed is your generation to have such a complete record."

            "There are four such records of His life in that book."

            "Indeed? Four?"

            "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Then there are the Acts of the apos—." I stopped, suddenly realizing that if he was who he claimed, his future lay on the printed pages in his hands.

            "Mark? Marcus? John Marcus?" He hadn't noticed my hesitation.

            "Uh, that's right."

            "I doubt that very much." he was uncharacteristically indignant. "That young man will need some major changes in his life before he can be used in the work of the Gospel. He lacks commitment."

            "Keep reading," I said, declining comment on John Mark.

            "John ben Zebedee wrote an account as well? Blessed be the Name!" He rapidly leafed through John to the book of Acts. "A record of the beginnings of the church is included? How marvelous." His finger hurriedly traced down the lines, his agile mind quickly assimilating the modernized Greek letters, reading expertly. I watched as he sat hunched over, eyes inches from the page. Minutes later he stopped reading and looked at me. "You know of Stephen's stoning?"

            I nodded.

            "Do you know I was there?"

            "Keep reading."            

            He bent back to the book, dabbing tears from his eyes, carefully reading Stephen's defense. I had rather expected some reaction when he read about his own part in the stoning, but saw none.

It was then that I realized that I’d been persuaded—he was the Apostle Paul, somehow brought to my twentieth century dorm room! This giant of the faith had invaded my life, and I was terrified. Why me? Why now?

            He scanned Acts, absorbing information—remembering—till half-way through the fourteenth chapter when he abruptly closed the book and sat upright. "The Spirit will allow me to read no further."

            Just like that? “But, surely you must be curious. Don't you want to see how it turns out?"

            "Tempt me not! Nor speak of these things to me."

            "How much do you know?"

            "That I'll return to my own time. I understand now. Just as the stone that would have dashed my brains out touched me, I was temporarily removed to this time and place so as to preserve my life; as well as bring you instruction and encouragement. The rest of those stones landed on other stones; I was translated. I shall, no doubt, go back when my mission here is done. I wonder if I’ll remember any of what happens in your time."

            "Paul, I believe you."

            "Yes, I can see that you do. I prayed that you would receive a gift of faith, for I knew the impossibility of what you needed to believe. No amount of evidence would convince you, it had to be by faith. There is much I need to know about your age—but be careful what you tell me. Too much knowledge could bring harm."

            "Where shall I begin?"

            "The Church. Does she still present the picture of a bride, chaste and pure, waiting anxiously for her consummation and union with her husband?"

            I suddenly saw the various movements within the Church in a new light. Instead of advancements, they caused her to retreat to the low ground of compromise. She, for the most part, had left the moorings of Holy Writ and was adrift with tangled doctrines, worldly philosophies, neo-traditions and spurious theories. She was far from being a chaste bride adorned and anticipating her Betrothed. She was more like a harlot who’d forgotten she was promised to One Who provided her daily needs, instead becoming enmeshed in earning her own living by worldly ways and means. She was fractured into denominations, well-known ministries had been exposed and embarrassed, she’d lost her influence for righteousness and was obsessed with superficial entertainment and personality worship, laden with unspiritual and immature leadership, and a lack of dedication among parishioners; all of which contributed to her bland, impotent existence. There were exceptions, of course, but how could I relate to Paul what the seed he’d planted so long ago had now become?

            "You delay in answering?" His penetrating eyes read my silence. "I see."

            "I never realized how different we are from first century Christians until now. I'm afraid there's not much you'll recognize. I assumed, like everyone else, that as the world changed, so also the Church needed to adapt as well. Somehow, sitting here talking with you, those adaptations seem ill-conceived. The Church is competitive, and creative, but her credibility suffers."

            "You’re never too dead for resurrection." Paul’s eyes twinkled.

            "Oh Paul, you mean well, but you have no idea how entrenched the deviations have become."

            "And you don't know the power of the Holy Spirit to effect change in the lives of those who love truth. Now, tell me of the Church."

            So I told him the history of the Church in a rambling, almost incoherent way, from the second century to present.

He paid rapt attention.

When I finished, he sat in contemplation for several moments.

            "Esais, son of Amoz, at the beginning of his oracle, prophesied that seven women would grasp at one man, saying they would not need him to provide food or clothing, nonetheless they wanted the dignity of his name lest they be reproached for their arrogant independence. He saw the Church of this age: fractured into many parts, feeding themselves with philosophies of vanity, clothing themselves with things other than His righteousness, but wanting to bear the name of Christ so they wouldn't be scorned as false. I must go see this for myself.”

            "I'm not so sure that's a good idea, Paul."

            "Why not? I feel no restraint in my spirit."

            "Well, for one thing, you’re certain to draw attention. There are many inventions outside these walls that will make you gawk like a, a...."

            "...Man from another time and place? That's what I am. Besides, if you prepare me for what I will see, I think I’ll not be too conspicuous."

            “Well, tomorrow there will be services. We have until then to catch you up. I know!  Somebody upstairs, Tom, I think, has a television. That will be the quickest way to get you up to speed on our science and culture. Come on."

            Paul rose and followed me. "Tele-vision? A curious combination of words."

            I smiled, leading to Tom's room. I briefly described electricity again, adding radio wave theory, and then turned on the TV. He sat silently as I switched channels, explaining cartoons, sports, newscasts, rock 'n' roll, movies, sitcoms and commercials. The ads proved most helpful: cars, toothpaste, beer, airplanes, real estate, toys, magazines, foods, loans, toiletries, insurance, charities, energy resources, clothing, utilities—all provided a crash course in modern lifestyle. After an hour his questions began; intelligently grasping our society; he’d formed an accurate perception of our era.

            He was most fascinated with the all news channels. My capable guest eagerly soaked up the non-stop flood of information. Feeling the pangs of hunger, I decided to leave him alone for a few minutes while I popped out to get a pizza. It was midday already, and breakfast had been forgotten in all the excitement of introducing Paul to the twentieth century. I was amazed at his ability to absorb so much foreign information in one gulp. "Paul," I intruded. "I'm going to get us lunch, er, food. I won't be long. You'll be okay?"

            He smiled, nodded and returned his attention to the President's speech on the shaky agreements being pioneered with the G7. I walked down the hallway stairs, hearing the echoes of, "...we are on the brink of forging a New World Order, an order where mankind's hopes and dreams can at last be fulfilled, and peace will rule our planet."

            Nearly half an hour later, my hands toasty underneath a large mushroom, anchovy, extra-cheese pizza, with two carbonated beverages precariously balancing atop, I approached my dormitory door. The inner door was wide open! I was certain I had pulled it tight when I’d left. I climbed the stairs and was relieved to hear the sounds of the television. "Hey Paul, wait'll you sink your first century teeth into Mama Malone's twentieth century pizza! I'll bet you've never had it so good. Paul? Paul?" He wasn’t there.

I set the pizza and sodas on Tom's desk and raced downstairs to my room. Paul had been there and collected a few items, but now was gone. On my desk were some coins and some Greek writing in pencil on my memo pad. How long had he been gone? Which direction had he gone? This modern sin-city was no place for a first century apostle who was alone and friendless. I had to find him. I took off out the door jogging, hoping to overtake him, praying as I ran that he’d be so overwhelmed that he’d stop and study some aspect of modern life. He shouldn't be hard to spot if I kept my eyes open.

            Several minutes later, lungs aching from the rapid intake of cold air, I paused, rethinking my options. I was in center city; the Saturday traffic was fast and furious. I hoped he hadn't tried to cross any streets. Why had I left him alone? I should’ve known better. I looked around in frustration, but it was useless. Dressed in my jeans and sweatshirt, he’d look like anyone else. Should I report his disappearance to the police? And just what would I say? "Officer, the Apostle Paul is loose in our city, naive and vulnerable to our evil ways. By the way, he's wearing my jeans and a ‘Go Tigers’ sweatshirt!" They'd lock us both up.

What about hospitals? Unless he was in a serious accident, he wouldn't be found there.

            A sudden shift of wind brought snatches of a strained voice, crying out, "Citizens of America, upon your generation has fallen...little time left to repent... are even now plotting the enslavement of the entire world..."

            Across the busy street, perched on a streetlight base, stood Paul, preaching and gesturing with one hand, gripping the pole with his other. Most people passed by, totally ignoring him. A few stopped to listen for a moment or two, shook their heads and continued on their way. The only ones who stayed were heckling teens. I ran to the corner crosswalk, but there was a prolonged green.

He disappeared before I could cross. I arrived at the lamp where he had been, and stood, wondering what to do. People grumpily shuffled past. I started jogging again, searching as I went, but with no success.

It had been months since I'd jogged, and both legs complained about the sudden workload. Four hours later, exhausted, I limped back to my room, sank into my chair and resorted to my last option—which should have been my first. I prayed more earnestly than ever, struggling to break through layers of guilt, time no longer a distraction. Paul's need compelled me to pray until I was answered. Eventually, a peace settled on me; I knew things had never been out of control. I’d been overwrought, taking on more responsibility than I’d been delegated. I was content that what He had started, He would finish, in His own way and time. When something was required of me, I’d be informed. Those thoughts comforting me, I fell soundly, dreamlessly asleep.

            The ringing of the phone in the hall awakened me. Rising to answer it, I noted it was dark outside. The whole day had passed. Where was Paul?

            "Hello," I mumbled into the receiver.

            "Sergeant Love of the Fourth Precinct. Is Mike Anderson there?"

            "Speaking."

            "I'm calling to check on your ahh, complaint, from yesterday?"

            "Uh, oh yes."

            "Well, I'm wondering, has your er, problem been resolved?"

            "Uh, yes, it has, Sergeant. It was a visit from a guy I knew only by his letters, but had never met."

            "Penpal huh? And you're sure everything's alright?"

            "Yessir."

            "Your visitor was about five-foot-four, 130 pounds, in his fifties, and acting a little unusual, as I recall."

            "Well, that's a pretty general description, but—."

            "Mr. Anderson, is your friend there at the moment?"

            "He, uh, he stepped out for a bit."

            "So he isn't with you. Do you know where he is?"

            "Not exactly."

            "How long has he been gone?"

            "Sergeant, is there something I should know?"

            "We've had some complaints about someone fitting your friend’s description, making a bit of a nuisance of himself. I noted the similarities and thought I'd get in touch with you."

            "Might I inquire as to what this nuisance was wearing?"

            "Suppose you tell me."

            "Uh, was he wearing a dark suit, pin-stripes, red tie?"

            "Suit you say? And tie? No, not at all. I guess maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree. Oh well, it was just a hunch. The fella we're looking for was wearing jeans, sweatshirt and sandals. Sorry to have bothered you."

            "That's alright Sergeant."

I couldn't help but smile. What had Paul been up to? First century or twentieth, Paul still stirred things up. I passed a sleepless night, waiting—and praying about my own spiritual condition. Sunrise caught me dozing, still on my knees. Still no Paul. Where could he be all this time? I hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday, since meeting Paul, yet I wasn't hungry. It was a fast. The pizza I'd bought lay upstairs on Tom's desk, preserved by the coolness of the unused room. I called the Sunday School Superintendent who lined up a substitute for me; I had no responsibilities but to wait for Paul, which I did, with Bible on lap. I wanted to understand just who this enigmatic man who had so abruptly entered my life was. I started reading in Romans and progressed through all the Pauline epistles, not to learn doctrine, nor even for devotion, but to see what kind of person the Holy Spirit had chosen to write so much of the New Testament. I wanted to taste his character, having met him in person, to see how he thought, expressed himself, disciplined himself. There was so much more of Paul in his writings than I’d ever previously seen: his fatherly love, his involvement in the lives of those he was accountable for, his dedication to truth regardless of the cost, and his desire to manifest the presence of Jesus. Such was the humble man who shared my room. Now I could see it, but only after having taken the time to look. I wept and prayed, and re-read, passing the morning.

            Long into the afternoon the door to my room opened and Paul entered as if nothing unusual had happened.

            "Paul, where have you been?" I was on my feet, torn between joy at his safe return and the outrage that he'd left me in a pool of guilt. The latter quickly faded, the joy remained.

            "Mikey, I've learned much. We have not much time left, you and I, so let's be about our business. First, what is there to eat? My strength lags, after all, I haven't eaten for nearly two thousand years."

            I caught the twinkle in his eye and laughed. "There’s pizza, but it’s a day old now. I'm afraid that's all there is on hand. If you like, we could go out—."

            "Day old ‘pisa’ will be fine. We must not waste time. I have much to relate."

            I led up to Tom's room and cut the pizza after he gave thanks. We sat on the floor and he began his narrative.

            "As you took leave of me yesterday, I heard your television people saying things that the Lord had already shown me in a vision. But these things were no visions, they are coming to pass in your generation. I was about to call out to you, when an angel of the Most High stood before me."

            "An angel?"

            "He was fierce, strong and full of fire. I knew he’d been sent by our Lord, yet I felt compelled to ask his name."

            "And?"

            "He said, 'My name is Avenger of the broken covenant', and I went weak before him. 'Come,’ he continued, ‘I must show you the harvest of the seed you planted'. He led me outdoors; I saw you coming towards us in the distance. I wanted to call out, but the angel silenced me, saying, 'You will instruct him after I've instructed you'. I followed him to several buildings, and he told me they were meeting places of the saints. He commanded me to return to each one of them and do as the Spirit of the Living God showed me, which I did this morning."           

            "You- you visited several churches this morning? What happened?"

            "In due time. First, let me tell you what the angel showed me yesterday. He took me into the buildings without opening any doors. He showed me their books and styles of worship, their supposedly holy vestments and machines of comfort and pleasure. Then he asked me, 'What is the price of all this?' I answered that I had no idea. 'Come,' he said, 'I will show you.' We went outside to a high traffic area, many people passed by. The angel instructed me to climb on a streetlight base and warn the people of impending judgment. I protested, telling him this nation would not hear a simple man such as myself. He again commanded me to address the passersby. I complied, calling out to them in the Lord's name, but none responded. Only sons of Belial, muggers, who would have caused me no small amount of injury, led by evil spirits as they were, had not the angel been with me. I told the angel this people's heart had grown cold to repentance, love and redemption. 'Only a small part of the price paid for adopting the lifestyle and pleasures of this nation,' he replied. 'They build monuments to themselves, deceiving themselves that they do the Lord's work. This nation's heart will not warm to truth until they see a people of faith, humble and obedient to God. Those who claim to have the light have lost the knowledge of that light, and the godless shut their ears, for the Church offers nothing they don't already have. Come, there is more.'"

            I sat aghast, listening as Paul matter-of-factly related his experiences.

            "The angel touched my eyes, saying, 'be opened, and see.' He then took me to a part of the city where there was much entertainment. I was—and still am—amazed that this nation of yours has so much leisure time. He took me inside buildings where audiences indulged lusts which were not so openly displayed even in Babylon, Greece or Rome! But, I was most appalled by recognizing those who had once come to our Lord for cleansing again defiling themselves by what they allowed to re-enter their hearts and minds. I saw acts displayed on a great wall too carnal to mention. I tried to thwart the immorality, so I climbed on a platform, blocking the obscene images and appealed, 'Citizens of America, you have been deceived, led astray to slaughter by your own lusts! Can you not see that God's wrath will certainly come upon any nation that indulges such concupiscence?' I implored them to repent and be cleansed by the blood of Calvary, before their own blood was required of them."

            "You didn't!"

            "I did! And I find it incredible that you—and others like you—know of such goings on, but say nothing. I would have said more, but two uniformed guards were summoned to quell the riot.

            "The angel whisked me to another building where books were sold. At first I thought it was a scripture market, and was glad. I did not know that other books were bound like the scriptures. These books were flimsy, and were filled with pictures of Sodomites and harlots. I was horrified. Again I was given to recognize those who had given their lives to the Lord purchasing such literature. I seized a rack of books and threw it through the front window, weeping and bewailing such sin, entreating everyone to repent and to flee from such idolatry. Angry men reached out to hold me, but the angel smote them and removed me.

            "I found myself in a hall of justice, empty but for the angel and myself. He explained how freedoms in this country have been perverted and used to harass law-abiding citizens while allowing the lawless to inflict hurt through their larceny and wickedness, with more innocent victims falling prey, destroying family life in this upside-down society. The laws of the land protect the evil and punish the upright, and the Church is to blame."

            "The Church! Wait a minute, Paul. Sure our generation is evil, but to blame the Church—."

            "Hush. I have more to say, and not much time."

            "What do you mean 'not much time?'"

            "The angel said I would have only an hour with you before I was to be removed from this age of impending wrath. So interrupt me only if necessary."

            "I'm sorry."

            "Very well. Then I was shown another market building. I could see evil spirits lurking in the very air around the place. The angel bid me enter, and as I obeyed, the evil spirits saw and recognized me. They frantically communicated to the proprietor, but the angel pointed at them, invoking the Lord's name, commanding them not to speak. Immediately they fell silent and backed away. All around me, on shelves, floor displays, countertops, and tables were charms, spells of magic, witchcraft and sorcery: all devices of Satan to ensnare the foolish. The man, having lost contact with his familiars, seemed confused, startled. I went straight to the man, ignoring his customers, each with his own familiar spirit lurking in and upon them. I said to the man, 'You have but this moment to renounce all traffic with your spirit guides and be washed in the blood of Jesus.' He looked pleadingly at me and begged to know, 'Isn't it too late for me?' I assured him it wasn't, that even he could be saved. He fell to his knees right there and prayed for mercy. His customers were outraged at me and dragged me out of the store, but I shouted back, telling him to leave his business and seek the truth. He tearfully agreed that he would. The angel forbade the mob to hurt me, but they pushed me back and forth among themselves, saying evil things to me. A self-propelled chariot arrived with uniformed men, the angel grasped my hand.

            "Instantly I was in a larger building with many small shops. Many young people were gathered, and I was given to know that music-repeating devices were sold. The music was strange, but the words alarmed me most. Can you be unaware that this music puts a spell on young people, leading them to reckless abandon, rebellion, idolatry and worship of themselves, and worse? Why have parents not kept such a menace from their children? I raised my arms and shouted, 'Children, return to your parents, repent of your rebellion and you shall find grace. Desist from the sorcery in this music. Your singers lead you to destruction, even as you adore them.'

“They laughed at me. The storeowner demanded I leave, shouting about violating his customer's civil rights, that there would be no censorship in his store. Two men, calling themselves ‘mall security’ drew me out to the lighted cavern that had many markets lining each side. There I saw that despite this nation's marvelous inventions, wealth and imagination, it hasn't been delivered from the deceptions that blinded men's minds in my own day. The hearts of your generation are as devoid of wisdom as the hearts of my generation. The angel told the men to release me. One turned to the other and said, 'Look, I've got a date tonight, and if we have to fill out a report and wait for the police to come and collect this guy, I'll never make it on time. What say we let him go?' And with a word of warning, they released me."

            "Did they see the angel?"

            "I think not. Do you see him?"

            Tingles ran down my spine, and I suddenly found it hard to swallow. "You mean, he's...he's...."

            "Right beside you."

            The hairs on the back of my neck stood erect.

            "He's assigned to you. I was with him temporarily, so as to instruct you about your ministry. He's been with you since your youth, when you first responded to the word of grace."

            I resisted the impulse to look around. "My ministry?"

            "I'm coming to that. When the men released me, I was shown many more things about this age: that the Church has lost its saltiness and light, becoming shallow, imitating the world instead of confronting it."

            "Like...?"

            "Particulars are too numerous to mention. Suffice it to say that the Church must return to her basic principles and traditions to avoid further contamination. Some of the purest reminders of the Lord have been put aside in favor of man-made traditions. In our customs, when a man betrothed a bride to himself, but had to leave for a time, he gave her keepsakes to keep his memory alive while he was away. A faithful bride would review these articles daily, keeping her longing for his return fresh; whereas a faithless bride would soon lose interest in her keepsakes, and would begin casting her eyes upon other men, soon forgetting her lover."

            "But, surely those keepsakes… er, traditions you refer to, are just legalistic relics of ancient customs, leftovers from now irrelevant cultural practices?"

            "Nothing the Spirit of God took pains to inspire and preserve is legalistic or irrelevant! I know not how many writings of myself or others have survived to this generation, but if our Sovereign God caused such teachings to survive to the present, you can be sure it is His will that they be observed. I despise the insidious legalism creeping into churches, masquerading as tenets of the Faith. Legalism is adding to what God has decreed. Keeping the traditions He’s commanded is not legalism, but obedience. Indeed, proof of love for Him is keeping His commands! Our salvation isn’t supported or aided by such traditions; that’s solely in His blood. But the commands and traditions given to the Church don’t purport to add to our salvation, or maintain our standing before the Lord; nonetheless, it is to our benefit to keep them, for they have a great effect on the Church's fondness for Him. And not only that, but they demonstrate to the godless, lost world surrounding her what her Lover is really like—all through those little keepsake traditions He’s given."

            "I never thought of it like that."

            "This morning I visited several places of worship and observed how lifeless and stilted some were, while others, though full of excitement, lacked the depth or insight to sustain spiritual growth. Few of the traditions held dear to my generation were in evidence except in some vestigial form. Correspondingly, I sensed no longing for the Lord's return! Your generation has dismissed the very keepsakes intended to keep desire for His return fresh. The Bride's love has grown cold, as is evidenced by her lack of influence in this evil society.

            "Can't you see how the abominations of the world have been welcomed into the Church? Meanwhile, the traditions and ordinances of the Holy Spirit have been expelled as 'legalism'! Indeed, your generation seems to label everything it doesn't want to obey as legalism. I tell you that lawlessness, not legalism, is this generation's plague! Grace is much more than God's unmerited favor. It is God’s power active in a believer's life to engender obedience to His will.

            "This is a time of unspeakable peril. Men pursue wickedness, and at the same time try to ease their alarmed consciences with an empty form of religion. Satan has invaded and neutralized the Church’s authority, causing spiritual adultery. I tell you, this is not an enlightened age, but the darkest hours ever to face the human race."

            There was no denying his condemnation of our age and the pitiful role the Church has played. A curtain had been pulled away from my eyes. "But, what can be done now? The damage is too widespread."

            Despite what Paul had exposed, his eyes were full of joy and hope as he replied, "First, you must know that whatever God calls you to do, He will supply the strength to finish. Ask the Spirit to open your understanding of the traditions and ordinances in Scripture; discover how they reveal a likeness of our Blessed Lord to those attuned to the Spirit, and that such traditions are to be obeyed in their original context. Rather than impede worship, this will rejuvenate a church's appreciation of her Lord. In the renewal of that love, she’ll find a rekindled love for lost mankind and will again minister in truth, not compromise. Only a deceived church tries to meet sin's predations with man-made methods. The Church must regain her position as a pillar of truth and righteousness, holding forth the gospel of forgiveness and new life. This she will only be able to do if she returns to her first love and does the things she did at the first: even in such humble things as returning to the keepsakes given her."

            "What has all this to do with me?"

            Paul laid his hands on my shoulders and prayed.

I remember almost nothing of that prayer, but I'll never forget the event, for rising within me was a surge of love for Jesus like I'd never known, and an intense commitment to obey Him no matter the personal cost. God was ordaining me to do His will in my generation.

            When finished, Paul said, "I’ve had the privilege of being tossed out of many meetings this morning. I suppose they’d already thrown me out a long time ago. Nevertheless, the Spirit allowed me to speak my heart in each place for a brief moment. Those who were of God heard me; I saw conviction fall upon them. In days to come many who love God will come across your path so you may open their eyes as the Spirit rewards your study of Scripture. The Lord has given you the strength of a horse to carry out this work, for the burden is heavy. Were you in my apostolic party, I would re-name you Archippus—'horse ruler'."

            "Why me? What have I done to be so singled out?"

            "Who can say? Why was I chosen in my time? Indeed, why was I chosen to come to your time, and not one more worthy like Cephas or John? He chooses whom He will."

            "There are so many things I need to know about you, and things written by you that—."

            "No! Knowledge of me will not fulfill the Lord's purpose. It’s a dark age you’ve inherited, Mikey, even darker than my own. You need only know Him. You face powerful spiritual enemies from within and without the Church; knowledge and words will not be enough. The Lord has given gifts of His Spirit to counter the attacks which the enemy will unleash. Mature in your use of them. Without them you'll not be established. You must take care to observe the protocol in your Holy Writ concerning the proper use of these powerful weapons. Otherwise, your enemy will turn your words against you even as he did to Eve.

“The Spirit didn’t bring such instructions down through the centuries lightly. Trust Him, for He loves you and will only lead you in Jesus' will. Make not the mistake of the Pharisees who had the water of the teaching, but not the blood of the life."

            Shuffling footsteps outside the door interrupted us, followed by several loud knocks and a voice demanding "This is Sgt. Love. Open up."

            Paul squeezed my shoulder saying, "Don't worry, my time has come. Give me my original clothes. You do still have them?"

            "Downstairs in my room."

            "Anderson, you in there?"

            "Coming, Sergeant." I opened the door and saw the policeman's eyes widen as he spied Paul.

            "You holding out on me?"

            "Are you mall security?" Paul asked. "I'm ready to go with you. May I just collect some of my things?"

            "They're down in my room, sir," I ventured. "He just wants some clothes and a pouch, is all."

            Two burly officers flanked the sergeant, which is probably why he said, "I don't see the harm in that."

As Paul went with the patrolmen, Sgt. Love took me aside. "Look, you guys are supposed to be religious—you know, bein' good and all that. Now what did he wanna go stirrin' things up like he did yesterday and today for? You religious college people got a reputation for quietly minding your own business; he had no call to interfere with church services like he did—and you had no business covering for him."

            "Yessir. How, if I may ask, did you conclude it was my friend?"

            "One of our black and whites spotted him in this neighborhood about an hour ago. I read the report and thought I'd come to check it out. Our phone down at precinct has been ringing off the hook—all churches complaining about disruption by some aging, bearded hippie in a sweatshirt, jeans and sandals. Now I hope this ends the matter. The law takes a dim view of college pranks, even religious colleges. I'd better not hear your name in connection with any more pranks, or I'll haul you in, too. I'll be watching."

            "Well sir, I would hope not."

            He did a double take. "You bein' smart with me, boy?"

            Before I could answer, the two patrolmen interrupted by rushing back in an alarmed state. "He escaped, Sarge. Clean escaped!"

            "What?"

            "We let him go into the john to change after we checked it out to make sure there was no exit. A second after the door was shut, we heard a strange noise and immediately opened the door to check on him. He was gone!"

            "You fools, he hid in the air vent, or the linen closet, or there's a trick wall or something. People just don't vanish into thin air. Come on."

            "Sometimes they do Sergeant," I said. "Happened to religious people a lot in the Bible."

            He ignored me and went to examine the room for himself.

            Well, that's what happened, written while fresh in my mind. Did it really happen? Even if it didn’t, the message is too true to question. Doubts have tried to make me question my own sanity, but I know the source of those doubts, and how to deal with them.

I’ve recently met people from various parts of the city from different church backgrounds. All of them have a desire to return to the simple format given in the Bible—nothing added, nothing subtracted; but taken as it is, the very inspiration of God, given until He comes again.

                                                            THE END