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Chapter XXXVII pgs. 245-246
At first Johanna’s dream came in flashes appearing and vanishing like movie teasers. Then the impressions slowed and gelled into a dreamscape below a blood-red sky: Cauldrons reeked and smoked, while horned creatures - almost human - chanted, and writhed and screamed and groaned till Johanna thought her soul would burst.
The smoke snaked outwards - calling, enticing. Street gangs were the first humans to respond and gather – Bloods, and Crypts, Skinheads, and Arian nations, their tattoos and bandanas defining allegiances. Knives flashed. Shots rang. Some shrieked and fell. Still, their numbers grew.
Others arrived. An army gathered - some in tatters, some in business suites, and some in death-white hoods. They marched through time as well as space, some swathed in robes and tunics, others in uniforms, their medals and sabers glowing bright. Some could barely stand; others strutted power. Some wore armor; others were clad in priests’ robes. Some wore street clothes, and some were merely naked.
From man to man to woman to child they passed a smoking torch, that carried no earthly fire, but rather that spirit of hatred residing in the hidden reaches of the soul where most humans dare not look. And they passed it along, one to another, and it seemed the passing would not stop.
The devil laughed – large and black with a drowning roar.
Johanna saw anger, a smoke- brown flame, flashing in gun muzzles and mirrored in the eyes of both victim and oppressor. Fear was there on icy tendrils. And pride - steel gray - it rode as a knight on stallion, and, with a mighty belch, transformed the noble into manure.
The devil’s laughter bellowed inside of her. He’d won the world. He’d won the souls of all - victims and conquerors alike. Some souls, he torched with hate; others he drowned in fear, or poisoned by pride, or froze in despair. It didn’t matter how they died. The devil had them. His rumbling laughter shook Johanna’s stomach and in her dream she cringed from fright.
From one to the next, they passed the torch. Those humans, they were merely carriers, serving the devil as his jeeps and horses.
Johanna watched the furies uniting, like winds twisting into a tornado while she stood naked before the devil’s armies.
And hate filled her heart too. She reached for the words, but shuddering anger appeared instead. And she wanted to destroy the fire and every being that had helped to create it.
But he stepped forward. Johanna thought it was her father at first, but no. He was Jesus, the Good Shepherd, healing and forgiving. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” he said, “for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”
And he was Jesus the rebel, overturning tables in the temple where greedy men used God’s name to turn a profit.
And he was Jesus the man, kneeling in the garden of Gethsemane, “If it be possible, take this cup from me. Yet, not my will but your will be done.”
And he was Jesus the Divine King, a soul in agony condemned to death on a cross, then rising from that cross into glory… And then he was gone.
“I choose love,” Johanna said.
Rumbling laughter shook her like palm branches in a hurricane. “Join us and live,” the evil one roared. “Save yourself from torment. I am stronger than you.”
“I choose love.” Standing alone - so small, so weak - she waited to perish.
“And I choose love,” said a nameless voice behind her.
“And I,” said another.
“Christ’s blessings.”
“Shalom.”
“Allah be praised.”
The chorus swelled from six to thousands, to legions upon legions - the soldiers, the street gangs, the children and beggars and kings - a living hymn to God. And in their midst a voice rang out: “Come! All who are thirsty, let them come. Let them take the free gift of the water of life.” It was the image of Christ pouring water from an urn. Johanna stooped under it and drank and was washed clean. The water filled her spirit and quenched her thirst and dried every tear.
Chapter XXXVII pgs. 245-246
At first Johanna’s dream came in flashes appearing and vanishing like movie teasers. Then the impressions slowed and gelled into a dreamscape below a blood-red sky: Cauldrons reeked and smoked, while horned creatures - almost human - chanted, and writhed and screamed and groaned till Johanna thought her soul would burst.
The smoke snaked outwards - calling, enticing. Street gangs were the first humans to respond and gather – Bloods, and Crypts, Skinheads, and Arian nations, their tattoos and bandanas defining allegiances. Knives flashed. Shots rang. Some shrieked and fell. Still, their numbers grew.
Others arrived. An army gathered - some in tatters, some in business suites, and some in death-white hoods. They marched through time as well as space, some swathed in robes and tunics, others in uniforms, their medals and sabers glowing bright. Some could barely stand; others strutted power. Some wore armor; others were clad in priests’ robes. Some wore street clothes, and some were merely naked.
From man to man to woman to child they passed a smoking torch, that carried no earthly fire, but rather that spirit of hatred residing in the hidden reaches of the soul where most humans dare not look. And they passed it along, one to another, and it seemed the passing would not stop.
The devil laughed – large and black with a drowning roar.
Johanna saw anger, a smoke- brown flame, flashing in gun muzzles and mirrored in the eyes of both victim and oppressor. Fear was there on icy tendrils. And pride - steel gray - it rode as a knight on stallion, and, with a mighty belch, transformed the noble into manure.
The devil’s laughter bellowed inside of her. He’d won the world. He’d won the souls of all - victims and conquerors alike. Some souls, he torched with hate; others he drowned in fear, or poisoned by pride, or froze in despair. It didn’t matter how they died. The devil had them. His rumbling laughter shook Johanna’s stomach and in her dream she cringed from fright.
From one to the next, they passed the torch. Those humans, they were merely carriers, serving the devil as his jeeps and horses.
Johanna watched the furies uniting, like winds twisting into a tornado while she stood naked before the devil’s armies.
And hate filled her heart too. She reached for the words, but shuddering anger appeared instead. And she wanted to destroy the fire and every being that had helped to create it.
But he stepped forward. Johanna thought it was her father at first, but no. He was Jesus, the Good Shepherd, healing and forgiving. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” he said, “for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”
And he was Jesus the rebel, overturning tables in the temple where greedy men used God’s name to turn a profit.
And he was Jesus the man, kneeling in the garden of Gethsemane, “If it be possible, take this cup from me. Yet, not my will but your will be done.”
And he was Jesus the Divine King, a soul in agony condemned to death on a cross, then rising from that cross into glory… And then he was gone.
“I choose love,” Johanna said.
Rumbling laughter shook her like palm branches in a hurricane. “Join us and live,” the evil one roared. “Save yourself from torment. I am stronger than you.”
“I choose love.” Standing alone - so small, so weak - she waited to perish.
“And I choose love,” said a nameless voice behind her.
“And I,” said another.
“Christ’s blessings.”
“Shalom.”
“Allah be praised.”
The chorus swelled from six to thousands, to legions upon legions - the soldiers, the street gangs, the children and beggars and kings - a living hymn to God. And in their midst a voice rang out: “Come! All who are thirsty, let them come. Let them take the free gift of the water of life.” It was the image of Christ pouring water from an urn. Johanna stooped under it and drank and was washed clean. The water filled her spirit and quenched her thirst and dried every tear.
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