This otherwise empty cell still has its original clock on the wall. Most people have never seen a clock with hands, but I rather like them. The second hand on this one makes an audible click as it moves, which I think is intended to be part of the psychological torture. When you have no way to see the passage of time, it may pass slowly or quickly, depending on your perception. When you have nothing but a clock and your thoughts, you realize just how much time you really have in a day, a year, a life.
Luckily, the experience of time travel - that unending blackness where you are stuck for a lifetime between two ticks of a clock - has conditioned me to the point where watching seconds pass in a cell is not only tolerable, but possibly enjoyable. I smile when I think it was all part of God’s plan for me. God prepared me to be here, and I’m exactly where God wants me to be - like a piece in a puzzle.
My sleep is broken by the video of the woman pleading: “Help us, Cephas” and bright lights coming on every hour. I think they’re timed to invade my dreams. With my head wound feeling much better, I’m also ravenously hungry and thirsty; but all I’ve been given is about a liter of water. I know sleep deprivation, starvation, and dehydration should be having a cumulative effect on my ability to think clearly; but as far as I can tell, my mind has remained sharp. On the other hand, maybe my thinking has become too fuzzy to even recognize it’s getting fuzzy.
At precisely nine AM, the screen comes on for the morning news, and the guard delivers my food - along with a gruff warning to be ready when he comes back.
“Be ready? It’s not like I’m taking a shower and putting on a suit in here,” I reply, but get only the clunking of the door and the locks being activated as a response.
My breakfast is a slice of coarse bread, two sticks of dried meat, dried apricots, and a small glass of water. I pick every crumb from the plate.
The morning news moves to a live feed that must have been specially ordered by Henry. It’s an aerial shot of the smoldering remains of Gethsemane House. The government claims the cause of the explosion is unknown; but the view from above shows two entry points - like the fangs of a viper - where missiles penetrated the roof. Henry wants to send a clear message.
I start to have some doubts about whether the Four staff survived the attack, when I notice something flashing every few seconds in the lower left corner of the screen. Someone is hacking the live feed. It’s very small and subtle; so I walk closer to the screen and focus on it. It says, . Only Martha knew what I carved into the wall of the tomb in Giza. This is from her, telling me she’s okay. I touch where the symbols appear on the screen, trying to connect with her. Although I feel a newfound strength in knowing she’s alive and reaching out, I rest my head against the screen in the agony of missing her. I hope Henry interprets it as me starting to break.
At exactly ten minutes before ten o’clock, the door opens and the guards command me to follow. We arrive in the Presidential studio, and I’m chained between the two posts. The distance between them keeps my arms outstretched to the point where I’ll find little rest while I’m here. If I lose my footing and fall, my own weigh pulling down could dislocate my shoulders. Even breathing will become difficult eventually if I fall - much like hanging on a cross.
At exactly ten o’clock, the lights in my area of the stage go dark, while the stage lights to my left brighten - revealing Henry. He’s wearing full stage make-up and is dressed in the latest fashion, like a game show host. Janet must be in charge of his wardrobe.
“Welcome, world!”
Henry is practically screaming in his excitement.
“I know we’re breaking in on some of your favorite shows worldwide right now; but I think everyone will find what we intend to present so interesting and entertaining that you won’t mind a bit. I’m your host, Henry Portman. Most of you came to know me, not as the Director of the F.B.I., but as the heir to my family legacy as leaders of the worldwide atheism movement. No family has done more than mine to clear the world’s collective mind of theology and focus it upon human potential.”
“I believe so devoutly in human potential that I’m taking a week off from my duties at the Bureau to put my beliefs on the line, and stand toe to toe with a man who has recently dedicated his life to confusing you. You know him as the man who went back in time, and now claims to have witnessed the resurrection of Christ - not once, but twice. You also know him as the man who loves being on camera so much that he’ll hack into his old lectures; so we’ve decided to save him the trouble and just give him his own show. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Dr. Cephas Paulson.”
The lights come up on me. There’s a large monitor in front of me so I can see what the world is seeing. There I am, with matted hair, standing chained in my brown “Jesus” robe. Henry crosses the stage and enters the shot to provide a remarkable contrast. Here he stands in his fashion statement - representing a clean, shining future - while I’m portrayed as a disheveled figure of the past - one that’s better off forgotten.
The monitor also has a viewer counter. It’s registering over one hundred million, and growing rapidly. That’s many times the audience that I ever reached, and many times the number of known or suspected Christians in the world. Are people watching because this is on in place of their favorite videos? Or are they really interested?
Cindi was right. I didn’t arrive on a colt, but Henry arranged for me to have a modern version of Christ’s Triumphal Entry.
“Let’s tell everyone the rules of our show,” Henry says. “Everyone who has followed Cephas since he returned from the Travelers Initiative knows he’s an advocate for being more like Christ. For that reason, he’s dressed in his “Jesus Robe.” Every day at this time, Cephas is going to be given the opportunity to tell you how you too can be more like Christ, while I argue against him. At the end of the week, we’ll have a final debate. That all sounds fair, doesn’t it? So, without further ado, it’s time for Cephas to make an opening statement.”
I say nothing. Henry is puzzled at first, but his expression quickly shifts to anger.
“Come now, Cephas. You have the floor. You must have something to say.”
“Book of Matthew, Chapter 27: When accused by the leading priests, Jesus remained silent,” I reply.
Even under the heavy makeup, I see his ears turning red with rage. He wants a point for point debate, but I’m not going to give it to him.
Make him lose his cool.
“I had thought you might not want to debate and, given the weakness of your position, I can hardly blame you,” he says.
Henry is playing to the camera instead of me.
“So why don’t I start? I think you can still be coaxed into responding.”
I give him a penetrating stare, but smile pleasantly.
“Societies are made of rules,” Henry says. “Without them, we would wander. That’s why, one hundred and fifty years ago, the United States amended its Constitution for the thirty-fifth time, to give everyone the basic right to be free from seeing or hearing unwanted religious expression. The world was such a mess, back then. There were too many voices expressing too many belief systems; so many, in fact, that a nuclear and biological holy war erupted, killing one-third of the earth’s population. Three point four billion people died - because of religion. It seems clear to me that God’s rules killed those people, not the sensible rules we’ve passed to govern ourselves.”
He stares at me, and I stare back. He can’t believe that I won’t respond to correct all the inaccuracies and outright lies he just spewed.
“Our rules are so much simpler,” he says.
Henry gets up into my face.
“We’ve built a society where we take care of everyone. We’re free to pursue whatever pleasures we choose, and I - for one - like to choose among many pleasures. Just ask your Aunt Jennifer.”
Why is he so desperate to bait me?
I want to respond, but instead, I think about The Travelers Initiative and the time I spent muted by the injury to my neck. At the time, I thought I was muted so I could finally learn to listen. Maybe the time was also meant to teach me how to stay silent.
“You still have nothing to say?” Henry asks. “Then I guess I’ll need to handle both sides of the debate. I guess I’ll have to figure out for myself what being more like Christ is all about.”
It’s working. I’m not following his script, and he’s definitely losing his cool.
The camera moves to a wide angle so Henry and I both stay in the shot, while he crosses the stage and picks something up.
“Lucky for me, Cephas has kindly provided me with a manual so we can all see what it’s like to follow Christ.”
He holds up the Bible that belonged to Mrs. Pierce.
“This should be very enlightening. What did you quote earlier, Cephas? The twenty-seventh chapter of Matthew?”
He turned right to it. He knows how the Bible is arranged.
“I’ll get to twenty-seven later. Twenty-six looks like a better place to start today. According to this, part of being a Christian includes having people spit in your face,” he says, as he reads how Jesus was treated by the Jewish leaders after his arrest.
He walks up to me and spits in my face, hitting me on the forehead. I shake my head and most of it flies off. I catch a glimpse of the viewer counter, which is shooting up. Henry follows my gaze. He sees it too, and smiles as he makes the connection.
“It also says right here, that you should be slapped.”
The sting of the slap, and the loud crack, are shocking. It was so hard that Henry has to shake his hand from the pain he inflicted upon himself. A few moments later, the counter soars and Henry smiles again.
“I have some assistants here who also want to explore Christianity.”
Henry gestures to the big security guys to come onto the stage. He holds the Bible in front of himself and pretends to read.
“According to the Bible, a good Christian should expect to be hit with fists, too.”
He motions to the two agents to start beating me.
I know the first blow came to my face and started my nose bleeding, and the second was delivered to my stomach and knocked the wind out of me; but after that, I lose track. Outstretched as I am, I fight to stay on my feet by tightening the muscles in my arms and chest. My attackers realize what I’m doing and sweep my feet out from under me. I go down with a jerk, hanging from my wrists. The cuffs cause deep cuts in each wrist, but luckily neither of my shoulders dislocate.
“These are two zealous new Christians, aren’t they folks?” Henry says to the cameras.
“I didn’t read anything in the Bible about using a knee to the chest, but apparently my associates here have created a new Christian doctrine.”
The blows are countless, and hanging by my wrists, I’m defenseless. When I can open my eyes, I see my blood dripping onto the floor. I manage to look up for a moment and see that the viewer count is over three hundred million worldwide.
Eventually, new blows don’t add any new pain, and my mind calms down for a moment. I remember the conversation I overheard between Martha and Cameron. Martha said: “I had a dream where Cephas was captured and tortured, and everything they did to him I felt and I’m telling you it’s real. I may not feel it on my body, but every strike of the lash they give to him, I’ll feel the pain in my soul.”
“Martha!”
When I yell, Henry raises his hand for the beating to stop.
“So you can still speak?”
Henry’s gloating over the small victory.
“Shouldn’t you cry out to God instead of your beloved Martha? Maybe there’s some Humanist in you after all.”
“Martha. Close your eyes.”
“That’s it? No Bible lesson?” Henry asks.
“All the answers you need are found in the Bible.”
I see blood spray from my lips as I speak.
“Go on. Please enlighten us,” Henry says.
“We all walk different paths on our way to Jesus.”
I’m starting to feel lightheaded, and my vision is blurred.
“To follow my path, look to Noah, Obadiah, Ruth, Abraham, and Daniel.”
I hear Henry paging through the Bible as I watch my blood continue to drip onto the floor.
“The rest look boring, but Noah and Daniel look like good suggestions. We can probably put you through some sort of flood, and a lion’s den sounds like great viewing.”
I try to focus on Henry, but my head is wobbling too much. I try to smile at the camera, but I think my face is already too swollen for my satisfaction to come through.
You missed it, Henry.
*****
I’m dumped into my cell and promptly pass out, despite the video blaring the latest anti-Christian news. In the middle of the afternoon, I’m awakened by the doctor, as he cauterizes, and then bandages the cuts in my wrists.
“If those had been deeper, you might have bled to death,” he says.
He hands me a large bottle of water, which I gulp down.
“If you’re cooperative, you’ll get more water and some bread.
“That’s Henry, always the humanitarian,” I reply.
“Henry ordered me to reduce the swelling in your face. He’s afraid that if you look too bad, you could inspire sympathy.”
“Do I have a choice?” I ask. “I could use a little sympathy.”
“If you fight me, the guards will hold you down while I treat you. So, no; you don’t have a choice.”
He applies cool-feeling bandages to my face, and the skin instantly feels better. When he’s done, there are only holes for my eyes, nose, and mouth. It must have been quite the beating.
“It’s not so bad, you know,” I say.
“This treatment should feel pretty good,” he replies.
“I don’t mean the bandages. I mean the beating isn’t so bad - when you think about it from my perspective.”
“How so?” he asks.
“Although he’s trying to replicate the torture given to Christ at the crucifixion, all Henry can do to me is the beating one man can give to another man,” I say. “Christ endured much more than I ever will. God gave Christ the punishment that all of mankind deserved, so we wouldn’t have to be punished. Worse than that, for the first time in his life, Christ felt what it’s like to be separated from God. Henry can’t separate me from God more than I already am; so anything he does to me is pretty weak in comparison.”
The doctor stares at me.
“I’m not a trained psychologist, but Henry has asked me give him regular psych evaluations.”
“Tell him what I just said, and let him draw his own conclusions.”
“Thank you for cooperating, Cephas. I’ll get you that food and water now. You’ll look better by morning, but I’m going to include some pain killers and some drugs that’ll help you heal faster,” he says.
“Keep the painkillers, doctor. I won’t take them.”
“Why?”
The very idea is foreign to him. Nobody in this culture ever refuses painkillers.
“Because they’ll numb everything - including my mind - and I don’t want that. Jesus suffered an excruciatingly painful death as a representation of what sin does in our lives, it causes us pain and separation from God. I want everyone watching to see the pain that sin causes the way I saw it when I was back in time: Up close and personal.”
Besides, when you’re drugged to the point of feeling nothing, you also miss out on feeling love.