The Wrath
Michael R Doody
Published by Michael R Doody through Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Michael R Doody
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The wrath of the Lord is at hand. Beware; for the day of the wrath of the Lord is at hand.
An oracle concerning the book of the vision of Michael, the servant of the Lord
“The Lord is a jealous and avenging God;
The Lord takes vengeance and is filled with wrath.
The Lord takes vengeance on his foes and maintains his wrath against his enemies.
The Lord is slow to anger and great in power; the Lord will not leave the guilty unpunished.
His way is in the whirlwind and the storm.”
Nahum
“Woe to you who long for the day of the LORD! Why do you long for the day of the LORD? That day will be darkness, not light. It will be as though a man fled from a lion only to meet a bear, as though he entered his house and rested his hand on the wall only to have a snake bite him. Will not the day of the LORD be darkness, not light, pitch-dark, without a ray of brightness?”
Amos the Prophet
“When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come. Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places, and famines. These are the beginning of birth pains.”
Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ
"This is not the end. It's not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."
Winston Churchill
There is no time.
There is no yesterday, no tomorrow.
There is only where you are right now.
There is only what you do right now.
There is no need to fear.
There is no death.
There is only the resurrection.
There is only the ever-present.
There is only the eternal now.
There is only consciousness, a gift from the love of God.
Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
There is only the love of God, His eternal creation.
There is no fear in the Lord.
Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.
That is eternal.
That is all.
That's where you are or where you're headed.
The Lord sits on the mercy seat for those that seek Him.
He sits in judgment of all else.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe
Some days are magical and full of goodness. Some days there is evil in the air. We are born, survive for a time, and that time passes away, as do we. The best we can hope for is peace in our circumstance. Since man has been sentient, he has pondered his place and the place of others in this life. If no man stands alone through the entirety of his life, it's also rare for a man to fully connect with those around him.
That's the nature and sometimes the isolation of personal reality. Perhaps that's why some seek communion with God; to fill the void created by the isolation of self. For others, the pain of the singularity is simply too great. That pain prohibits them from accepting even the idea of God, let alone the possibility of fulfillment through Him.
For a special few, their soul ties them to each other in ways too difficult to explain. It's rare and special, but when it happens, the critical mass of personality, spirit, and mental capabilities formed by a small group can have cosmic consequences. This story is predicated on the circumstance of great events foretold through the ages being brought to fruition; the Divine impulse to create on a cosmic scale, channeled into three lives, each with a critical part to play.
They would be the catalyst for chains of events that would bring great cosmic destinies to a conclusion. Each would live most of their lives without knowing the other. However, none could fulfill their destinies without engaging deeply with their preordained spiritual counterparts. This is the story of extraordinary miracles facilitated through ordinary lives performing logical and mostly mundane works. Some days are magical and full of goodness. Some days there is evil in the air. Some days there is a share of both.
There is never a great pronouncement of a mundane event. But, as it is written, do not despise the day of small beginnings. Although no one would know this as a special circumstance, it was. November 9, 1955 fell on a Wednesday. Thousands were born on that day; thousands died as well. Four baby boys who shared that day of birth would play a crucial role in events about to unfold. Only three of the four would live to witness the great times they were born for. It wasn’t until they met that their destiny could be fulfilled.
The small family group gathered in a cramped waiting room of the State Hospital, joyous of the news that a new baby boy was part of a growing family. The grandparents, father, two small sisters, and an uncle waited impatiently to see the new man of the family.
“Viktor, have you and Natty decided on a name yet?”
Before another word was spoken, a nurse entered the waiting room. She motioned to the father. “Please come with me.”
With that, the two went through a door and toward the maternity wing of the hospital. They ended up in a large open ward full of patients. At one end of the room the baby awaited his first look at his father, from the cradling arms of his mother. She looked exhausted.
The nurse held the man back for a moment. “She's weak. She lost a great deal of blood. Don't tax her. She needs rest badly.”
The delivery had taken eighteen hours. The pair approached the bed.
“Natty, look at this little man, he will make a fine boatman for the river!”
“Viktor,” she replied in a weakening voice, “this one is not for the Party. He's for God. Promise me that.”
“Natty, you need rest. Let him work the river as we all do, then he can decide his fate.”
Natty cradled the baby in one hand and made a sign of the cross on his forehead with the other. She whispered, “You're my son, Nicobar Mihai Viteazul, and you will know the living God; and He will call you chosen!”
She looked to her husband with dim eyes. “I'm tired. I'm leaving now. You were my only love, and you gave me my children. They were the only gift I ever received in this world. Remember this day, Viktor. I've made an oath on my life. Nicobar is for God. If you honor that, you honor me. If you don't, you'll curse the family. Promise me. Promise me now!”
Viktor was 36 years old and had never shed a tear since his eighth birthday. He leaned to his wife’s ear while picking up his son. “Sleep, Natty. We will be here when you awake. I love you.” He kissed her cheek as a single tear ran down his own. He cradled the baby and stood by the bedside. Within the hour his wife was dead. A new nurse came to take the baby and attend to the corpse.
Viktor stood before the bed, a shattered man. His wife, his life, was gone. Before he gave the baby to the maternity nurse, he held it tight to his heart with his left arm. With his right hand he rubbed the child’s forehead.
He spoke stern somber words to the child. “You're my son, Nicobar Mihai Viteazul, and you have the blood of Rumania in you. Your mother is gone. If there is a god, let him honor her. I'll honor you and you'll honor the family. I'll raise you in the ways of man, for the honor of man. If there is a god, he's yours; you're not his. And you'll prove this with your blood.”
He handed the child to the nurse, turned and walked backed toward the family in the waiting area. Viktor realized an odd thing had occurred. The entire time he was there, he hadn’t heard his son cry; not one sound, no tear. He stopped in the corridor for ten minutes and wept bitterly. His heart grew harder. He dried his tears and went to gather the family. Upon entering the waiting area he said commandingly, “We must leave this place. I'll come back for my son tomorrow.”
Half a world away a few hours later, another father stood at the bedside of his wife and newborn child. This was an easy birth at home, attended by family and a midwife. The proud father looked at his newborn son. “Chaska Muñoz! Welcome. We're so happy you're finally here. There's so much for you to do! But first you must rest after your long journey. You've already met your mother. I'm your papa. Stay with mama for a while until you're comfortable.”
This man was beside himself with joy. The mother took the child back into her arms and suckled him. The man looked down. “You're both tired. I’ll be outside. You've made me so happy; I love you! I love you, too, Chaska. I’ll be back!”
A first child is a wonder to a young man. As the father stepped outside in early evening air, he kneeled in the small garden of his front lawn. He prayed fervently and piously. “Virgin Mother, only you can know the joy my son has put in my heart. Thank you for this great gift from your Son! I pray for his health, his mind, and his soul. Let him grow to be full of courage and passion. Let him serve you and honor God. Let him be a good man. Thank you with all my heart.”
The new father kneeled in that garden praying for another hour. His joy made him lose his sense of time. It was late as he left the cool evening air of Purranque for the warmth of his new family. A sense of silent peace filled the home.
A dozen days before John Kennedy was shot in Dallas, there was a birthday party for a set of identical twins in Omaha. Tim and Pete Slaton were eight years old and had already taken quite a bite out of third grade. The family party had been great, and things were starting to wind down. It was a stroke of luck that this birthday had fallen on a Saturday. But it was 8:30; now baths and bed were in order. Harry Slaton walked into the boys’ bedroom to make sure they were on the right track. Harry noticed one of the boys was finished and on the top of his bed reading a book. The other was still brushing his teeth in the adjoining bathroom. “Pete, did you've a good time at the party?”
“Sure Dad. It was a blast. Thanks.”
“Looking forward to the week? You know, Thanksgiving is just around the corner.”
“What’s the matter, Pete? You know, you’ve been moping around all day. Did somebody say something or hurt your feelings?”
“No Dad. It’s just, I don't know.”
“I bet you do know. If you can’t talk to me, who can you talk to? Come on. What’s up?”
Harry was taken aback. He wasn’t a religious man, and he wasn’t sure how to answer the question. “Where did that come from, Pete? Has someone been talking to you about Jesus? Where did you get that?”
“Well, I met Him; last night. He was big and bright and He was so nice. He talked to me.”
“What did He say? Where did you meet Him?”
“Well, I think I was in Heaven. Anyway, He talked with me about you and mom. He talked about Tim. He told me some stuff about who He was. We talked for a long time. Why don’t we go to church?”
“Well, I don’t know. We just aren’t churchgoers. We believe in God, but you don’t have to go to church to believe in God. I know we don’t talk about it, but you know about God, don’t you?”
“I do now, Dad. Jesus told me all about Him. He also said the family should all start going to church and start praying, too!”
“Well, I guess we can do that. We’ll start slow, though. We’ll start praying first before we find a church. Maybe you can be the prayer leader in the house.”
“Why not, I thought Jesus told you to pray?”
“Nah, he told you and the family to pray. He told me I was coming to live in Heaven with Him soon.”
Harry Slaton was truly shocked. “Sounds like you just had a bad dream to me, Pete. You’re not going to Heaven anytime soon. Don’t even think like that.”
Another voice sprung up from the bathroom door behind the two on the bed. It was Tim.
“Yes he is, Dad. That’s what Jesus told him. No lie!”
“Tim, you startled me. How do you know what Jesus told Pete?”
“I was there, too. He told us that you'd worry about it, but not to be scared. It’s okay. It’s just part of His big plan.”
Pete spoke, “He told us that he’d show you later on.”
“Look, why don’t you kids hit the sack. Time for some sleep; and if you have anymore dreams like that, come wake me up and tell me.”
The kids spoke in unison, “Good night.”
“Sleep tight kids." And with that the lights went off.
Harry walked downstairs a bit shaken from the conversation. His wife was finishing up some cleaning in the kitchen. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he turned too quickly and knocked over the bookstand. It was mostly there for show. His wife’s family heirloom Bible sat as an ornate decoration. Now it was on the floor. It was a loud noise, and Betty came in from the kitchen.
“Just tripped into the book stand, I guess I'm preoccupied.”
With that, he reached down with both hands to grasp the heavy tome and place it back on the pedestal. He noticed it had fallen face-up and was open. Harry wasn’t much on Bible knowledge. How many insurance executives were? He did notice that it was open to a chapter heading. As he peered at the gothic script of the heading, he remembered the conversation with Pete. He didn’t know the Bible, but he had heard of this chapter. It was Revelation.
He placed the big book on the stand. His wife looked oddly at him. “Harry, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m going to get ready for bed, are you coming up?”
“I’ll be a little while. Have to do some reading.”
Betty gave him a peck on the cheek and went upstairs. Harry stood at the podium and read the entire book of Revelation. He didn’t understand all he was reading, but he couldn’t get his son's words out of his mind. Harry went to bed after he finished reading and studying the book as best he could. It was 5:30 in the morning.
Peter’s funeral was a solemn affair. A child dying is especially tragic. This was no exception. There were so many people and no words to express the tragedy. Just a month after his eighth birthday, and he was gone. After the service there was a small get together at the house. The family retreated to their grief. Betty had been given a sedative, and was already sleeping. Harry walked in to check on Tim. “Hey, buddy, how are you?”
“I'm good. You don’t have to be scared you know. Everything is okay, Dad.”
“Tim, the time will come when you need to talk about this. You can always talk to me about it. You can talk to me about anything.”
“I know, Dad, but it’s alright.”
“No it isn't. It's a terrible thing. It hurts, and you might not know it yet, but it's hurt you, just like it hurts your mother and me.”
“I know, Dad. I know. But Jesus told us what was coming, and He said He would take care of the family."
“Look, Tim, I can’t explain your dream. I can’t explain Pete’s dream. But that’s what it was; it was a dream. This is real. Pete is gone, and we can’t get him back. That hurts.”
“We're gonna be fine, Dad. Pete’s with Jesus, and he’s great.”
“What about you, Tim? Why didn’t Jesus take you? Did He tell you that? Did he tell you what you're going to be when you grow up? Did He tell you what this would do to your mother?”
“Yeah. He told Pete and me all kinds of stuff. I’m supposed to be here. He said you and mom will get through this, and I did ask Him what I was going to do when I grew up.”
“He told me I wouldn’t grow up. I didn’t need to worry about it.”
“No, no, Dad, I’m not going to Heaven to be with Him anytime soon. He’s coming here to get me.”
Harry stood, turned, and left the room without a word. He joined his wife in bed, in grief.
On the other side of the world it was early morning. Nicobar had struggled with the strangest dreams throughout the night. People he didn’t know were milling around. A young boy was lying dead in a coffin, yet he was sitting in the audience that watched the funeral. It made no sense. He knew that he would someday figure out this strange circumstance. Perhaps he would meet this young dead / living boy.
From the Journal of John Harriston
From 1969 to 1997 I was involved in the occult. I was a professional psychic for years. I predicted many things for many people, and they gave me money for my vision. In my youth, I felt strongly that I would die in my early twenties. I didn’t. At 24 I felt strongly that I would die in my early to mid 30’s. I became a born again Christian when I was almost 33. On my 40th birthday I didn’t have any idea what was coming. That was the only time I was correct.
I keep having these dreams that some people have a big secret. Even if they told it, no one would believe them. In my dream, these secrets have been around for a long time. A lot of the secrets have become common knowledge. Even so, most people don't believe the secrets are true. Most people only pay attention to the stories when they want to get scared, or scare someone else. No one thinks it will happen to them. It will.
ab initio.
February 13, 2005 Coimbra, Portugal
“Not today. She's in and out of consciousness.”
“But you're sure the end is here?”
“She can’t see. She can’t hear. Her breathing is shallow. Yes, this is her time.”
“Only the two who met you, and me. The rest are in prayer. The three of us have been caring for her over the last week.”
“Fine, no one else need know. Discretion is critical.”
“Brother, don’t be troubled. It's assured. Please follow me. There's little time left.”
The pair walked through a shadowy hallway into a darker corridor. It was early morning actually deep into the preceding night, more of the old day than the new. The false dawn approached. The pair slipped quietly through an ancient wooden door into the cell. The accommodations were sparse. A plain cross hung on a dull white plastered wall. There was no window. Several candles flickered light into the still space. A small trunk was tucked into a corner of the room. Two wooden chairs flanked a thin bed.
She was lying there. She looked dead already. The casual observer couldn’t tell. A young nun was kneeling on one side of the bed, deep in prayer while reciting the rosary. The two walked into the room, and those prayers continued without interruption. The Mother Superior moved slowly to the bed and leaned over the dying woman.
She spoke softly. “Sister Lucia. Sister Lucia. You have a visitor, your visitor. The Holy Father has sent you his emissary. Sister, he's here to pray with us. It’s just as you asked last month. He's arrived, so just rest in the Lord, Sister, while we pray.”
The heavy set man joined the older nun next to the bed. Both moved to their knees and began hours of prayer. The deathwatch began.
Daybreak gave way to morning, morning to afternoon and afternoon to dusk. The young nun had been replaced by another, but the earnestness of prayer continued. Peace filled this room.
The ancient nun in the bed stirred. Slowly, over the course of tens of minutes, she moved her hand. Her eyes flickered open, but they were obviously weak unto death. Her hand inched to the monk kneeling at her side. He slowly joined hands with her in what he knew to be a comforting gesture of physical communion. He leaned forward to whisper a prayer in her ear.
She moved first; still slowly, but deliberately, as if she had summoned super-human strength. She brought her mouth to his ear.
She whispered softly, but clearly. “Tell him it has begun.”
Her head rested back on the pillow, but she looked into the monk’s eyes for acknowledgement of the message. He nodded. She understood; message delivered. She closed her eyes peacefully and died.
Bellevue, NE, December 23, 1975
The therapist’s door was closed tightly as usual. As usual, so were Tim Slaton’s emotions. There was a cold snap in the air and snow for Christmas. Tim seemed to be concentrating more on the bare trees he could see through the doctor's windows than on the work at hand. This wasn't typical of Tim, for in everything he did, he gave it his all and excelled. Therapy was the one exception. This session was just another foray into a two-year attempt to connect with something other than scholastic achievement. Tim had just turned twenty and was already well into work on his Masters in History.
“Tim. Tim! I’m over here. You aren’t going to accomplish much today looking through that window. Perhaps that’s your intent?”
“Huh? Oh, no, no, not at all, where was I?”
“You were telling me how deeply you feel the pain in your life.”
“No, I wasn’t. I might be crazy, but I’m not forgetful. We were talking about the holidays. Hey, maybe the pain is in your life, and you’re trying to get me to experience transference.”
“Reading up on psychology again, Tim?”
“A little.”
“Let me ask you something. What good is it going to do you to be the smartest man in the world and never know peace?”
“Do you mean what if a man gains the world only to lose his soul?”
“Yes.”
“I'm not the smartest guy in the world. I’ll never be, but I know for a fact I can’t lose my soul. So I guess I’m in good shape.”
“How can you be in good shape by any standard? You're driven, yes. But you have no joy for living. You have no sense of accomplishment. Have you ever had fun?”
“Once or twice, I guess.”
“Tim, you've been seeing me for two years now. You refuse to do the work, yet you refuse to walk away from it. You're functioning at an enormously accelerated level intellectually, but your growth is stunted emotionally. You’re so depressed I don’t think you could have a genuine feeling. Is that how you want to live the rest of your life?”
“No.”
“Then do the work!”
“I’ll do better.”
“When?”
“I don’t understand it. I can’t figure it out. I want to try and, when I get here, it’s just lights out.”
“You can fool yourself, but not me. It’s up to you to turn the lights on. Do you still have the dreams?”
No answer.
“Tim, you just told me you wanted to do the work. This is the work. I know you heard me, but I’ll ask again. Do you still have the dreams?”
Tears streamed down his cheeks, but his voice was monotone, “They aren’t dreams. I know they’re not dreams.”
“Tim, Peter has been dead a long time. You don’t have a relationship with him anymore. You can’t talk with him. He’s dead. You dream those conversations. Perhaps you should study more about transference. See what it means, then apply it to these dreams; they are dreams. Where does your transference come from? Work on the problem!”
“Dreams aren’t real. Pete is, and I talk with him all the time.”
“Yes, at night, while you’re asleep. During some of the few hours you allow yourself to sleep. Pete was real, and he died. You must come to grips with it and let it go.”
“I will.”
“That doesn’t cut it, Tim. That's your way of checking out. That's you playing possum so you don’t have to face this conversation. You can do this week after week and get nowhere, or you can buckle down. Only you can make that decision. I guess it won’t be this week. Our time is up. I’ll see you next Tuesday.”
“Okay.”
Tim got up and headed for the door. He was exiting and turned slightly. “By the way, Merry Christmas Doctor Jenison; and I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Merry Christmas Tim, and what about my mother?”
“Didn’t she. . . Oh, I must be confused. Sorry, I get mixed up sometimes. See you next Tuesday.”
Slaton walked out of the office and headed for home. Christmas Eve was the next day, and he hadn’t done any shopping yet. His mind was racing. What would he get the folks, maybe another Bible for his Dad and the Book of Martyrs for his mom? Yeah, that’s what she wanted. And his Dad could always use a new Bible. He’s murder on them. He bends the pages, writes all over them, memorizes passages, and loses his Book. Gosh, he’s getting to the point where he doesn’t even need a Bible; I think he might be able to recite it all by heart. I guess that’s a valuable talent for a minister.
Two nights later, on Christmas 1975, Dr. Mila Jenison received a call from her brother in Toronto. He had to tell her some terrible news; their mother had just passed away. It was completely unexpected, but not unannounced!
When something truly extraordinary occurs to one person, it can rightfully be considered an anomaly. It's a singular point peculiar to the perception of the person involved. If two people witness the same event, there is more credence to the story, but it's still circumspect by the population at large. Three witnesses provide a greater degree of certainty; however, depending upon the nature of the event, the circumstances of the witnesses will draw intense scrutiny. People who don’t believe simply won’t be convinced by anecdotal evidence. Those who do believe will not need to be convinced.
The Holy Scriptures of the Bible demanded witnesses for an accused man to be found guilty. The New Testament saw the transcendence of the Holy Spirit as the great witness to the mystery of life, and it's the Holy Spirit that witnesses to the truth in a man's heart. When the truth is written in man's heart, regardless of how extraordinary it is, no further testimony is necessary. The evidence of that truth is found in the transformation produced and the fruit he bears in his life.
What follows is a series of events. They have all been documented. Some of the events have been given more credence than others. Taken in total, they all become part of a tapestry that presents a dark picture in close proximity to us. A scientist would dismiss all of these cases as superstition, or hallucination. Men of faith are divided on the origin and meaning of some of these events. Nevertheless, each note resonates in the larger context of the symphony it's meant to support.
Vatican Chapel, October 13, 1884
Men come and go, as do Popes, who are, after all, men. To be sure, they're High Priests with a calling and blessing from God, but they're still men. The Church continues as the population in the temporal world changes. In 1884 the Pope, Leo XIII, was engaged in the duties of his position.
On this day, he was celebrating mass in one of the private chapels in the Vatican. For Christians, worship is truly a time of celebration. It's a communion of the temporal world with the spiritual world, both ruled by God. During this time of worship and joy, it's not unusual for mystical events to unfold. After all, the mystical is just the confluence of the known and the unknown using the bridge of faith. This service was like so many of the hundreds of others this priest had celebrated during his life. He had no reason to believe it would be extraordinary. Neither did the small group of fellow priests in attendance. Of course, God never operates through the expectations of man.
The Pope was finishing the mass. The entourage was preparing for dismissal as the Pope walked toward the altar in final adoration and the peace of the Spirit. Suddenly, at the foot of the altar, he stopped. His head tilted slightly upward. His complexion turned ashen. A Cardinal to his side was the first to notice, and stopped as well. He didn’t understand what was happening. He could see the Pope was frozen in motion and thought, but his spirit told him not to intervene, so he stood there.
After a few minutes, he motioned to the others in attendance to remain still and pray. The small group did just that. More minutes went by, and the Pope stood transfixed. After about ten minutes, the Pope's head moved ever so slightly to his right. Then he slowly turned and stared at the entourage for a brief moment. His face was pale white, his breathing deep and quick. He spoke, "Oh, what a horrible picture I was permitted to see!"
He turned from the altar immediately and went straight to his private office, which was close to this small chapel. A group of Cardinals followed and waited outside. Twenty minutes passed and he emerged from behind his door.
The three Cardinals who had been holding vigil outside the office entered.
He walked to his desk and sat, picking up a piece of paper that he had just finished writing on.
“I've composed this prayer. It's to be said at the end of every mass from today.”
He moved the paper closer to his face and started to read. “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the Divine Power of God, cast into hell, satan and all the evil spirits who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”
A Cardinal spoke. “Your Holiness, what has happened? Are you well? Should we call for the doctor? What can we do?”
“No, I'm not well, but there's no medicine that will take this from me. We must all pray.”
“What happened, your Holiness?”
The Pope looked at the inquisitive Cardinal with compassion and perplexity. He would try to explain. “I was crossing the altar to finish my prayer and end the mass. Suddenly, I was alone and beyond time, yet I was still by the altar. I felt the Holy presence and was overcome. At that moment I heard voices. One was the voice of the Lord. It was unmistakable. The second was the voice of the devil, and I'm sure of that as well. I could hear the conversation with clarity.
Satan, taunting the Lord, was boasting I can destroy Your Church!
The Lord's gentle voice answered him, you can? Then go ahead and do so.
The great evil responded, to do so, I need more time and more power.
Our Lord said, How much time; how much power?
Darkness replied, Seventy-five to 100 years, and a greater power over those who will give themselves over to my service.
Our Lord gave him permission and said, you have the time, and you will have the power. Do with them what you will."
The pope was full of anguish. "At that time I was shown a vision of the future beyond comprehension. Men killed for pleasure. Women were wicked in their ways. A great apostasy ruled in the world. The prince of the air had power over man, and man called his lies the truth. Great nations and peoples rejected the Lord, and some openly mocked and ridiculed Him. The Church was in turmoil. Morality was gone. The Spirit was assaulted at every turn. At every juncture the nature of perverse acts and appetite for destruction increased. It's truly beyond words. It's beyond reason. I turned my head as I watched more destruction and saw a flash of fire. At that moment I was delivered back to this time. My heart was broken. But my spirit was resolved, so I knew I had to come here and write this prayer. The church must pray it earnestly at every mass. This must start today.”
The prayer to Michael the Archangel was said continuously until the Mass was restructured in the Second Vatican council eighty years later.
Vatican Counsel Chambers, 1909
This Pope was called Pius X. The office of the Papacy is an office, an elected office. There are politics involved in the election. But the primary elector is the Holy Spirit of God, for Spirit works in the hearts of those who vote. Given that, it's no surprise that men elected to special spiritual office have special spiritual insight and gifts. So it was with this Pope.
A group from the Franciscan Order was visiting him this day. As he was addressing them, in mid-sentence the Pontiff stopped. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling. His face went motionless, and then his eyes closed. Those present remained silent. They sat transfixed, wondering what was to come. In less than a minute the Pope opened his eyes. He stood quickly and was in an obvious state of agitation.
“What I've seen is terrifying! Will I be the one, or will it be a successor? What is certain is that the Pope will leave Rome and, in leaving the Vatican, he'll have to pass over the dead bodies of his priests!"
He was starting to reclaim his faculties. He began to understand that he was in the middle of an audience with these Franciscans. He regained his composure and issued a soft command, "Don't tell anyone this while I'm alive."
Five years later in the early summer of 1914, with his health failing and World War One commencing Pius X had another vision. "I've seen one of my successors, of the same name, who was fleeing over the bodies of his brethren. He'll take refuge in some hiding place, but after a brief respite, he'll die a cruel death. Respect for God has disappeared from human hearts. They wish to efface even God's memory. This perversity is nothing less than the beginning of the last days of the world."
Fatima, Portugal, mid-April, 1916
There were three of them, two girls and a boy, peasant children leading their tiny flock into the fields of Fatima to graze. The mountain plateau was dotted with a few small villages and pastureland. Lucia, Francisco, and Jacinta were carefree and full of childlike joy this morning, as they prepared to spend their workday watching the flock, and playing in the fields. Just beyond the village of Fatima were two outcroppings of rock, called Loca do Cabeco (Place of the Head) and the Cova da Iria (Cove of Irene), where the children were prone to go to graze the sheep. There was a practical side to the choice because the rocky outcroppings could shelter the children from the drizzle that would frequent the fields. This morning they had drifted to the Loca do Cabeco and spent the better part of the day there.
As the skies cleared, the afternoon sun made the day brighter and more stimulating for the kids. They ate lunch, prayed, and, like all children, began to play. Each noticed the wind picking up. It became stronger in a short time. The trees shook, and this was unusual, for it was a calm afternoon of sunshine. A bright white light appeared and grew into the form of a young man, transparent and crystalline, and bright as the sun. The children went toward him and could plainly see his features. Then he spoke, “Do not be afraid. I am the Angel of Peace. Pray with me.”
This visitor appeared to the children on two more occasions. Each event filled them with awe and wonder, each preparing them for the next. In May 1917, a new apparition appeared, a woman, who talked and prayed with the children. She would become known as Our Lady of Fatima. The children’s secret visits with the Lady wouldn't stay secret for long.
The visitations occurred in the field on a monthly basis into the summer and fall, each visitation gaining more notoriety and sparking more controversy among the locals. The local priest investigated. These visits began to take on a life of their own. Some saw the children go into ecstasy during their visions, but couldn't see the Lady themselves. Finally, in September, Lucia gave word that the woman would reveal who she was and a great miracle would be performed on the next, and last, visitation at the site. This would happen on October 13.
“Miracle of the Sun”, Cova da Iria, Portugal, October 13, 1917
“I hate the crowds. I hate the rain, and the mud. I hate this foolishness. I'm soaked to the bone, and for what, to see a miracle? I’ll tell you the miracle. The miracle will be that I don’t catch my death of cold in this wretched weather. And look at all these fools. There are thousands. Are they all so gullible as to expect to see God arrive in Portugal? I have to be here. It's my lot in life to report and write. But they could be warm in bed. Don’t forget it’s seven in the morning. When is our miracle to occur? Someone said at noon. All I can say is that this had better be the best miracle around because this assignment may make me reconsider my career choice. There's still time to go to France and fight. I’m sure I’d be more comfortable there at the moment.”
“Oh, Jaco, you complain at every turn, at every story. Perhaps you should go to France. Your complaining may put an end to the war. I believe your editor at O Seculo had that in mind for you. Ordering your tail into the countryside to find God; and, of course, when He doesn’t show up, perhaps you'll be frustrated enough to quit. Then your editor will work in peace. But if that happens, God help the French and the Germans!”
The two newspapermen waded into the early morning crowd toward the pasture. The children had informed the local people that a miracle would occur this day as part of the apparitions. The Lady had been appearing each month since the late spring, and the crowds of on lookers and curious had grown with the publicity.
For this final event, it was estimated that 100,000 people had gathered. This happened in the middle of a downpour of torrential proportion. Mud was everywhere. The children reported that a miracle would occur, and that it would all happen at noon. The two reporters could get no closer than just off a road that led to the field. They were within half a mile of where the children would be.
“Tell me, my Catholic friend, will an agnostic like me be able to see a Catholic miracle? And what more do you know of these children? You're closer to these people than I.”
“Jaco, perhaps God has nothing to say to you since you've nothing to say to Him. I guess we’ll see at noon. Yes, there's a lot of talk about the children, and I have my sources. These kids are peasants. They live the peasant life. Perhaps the visions are something to spice up a dull existence. That's what I believed at first. But I was able to talk with the local priest, and I was here for the last two visitations. Something is happening. I don’t know what that is.”
“What do the children tell the priest?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. But supposedly there are secrets that the children have been given, and they have been urged to tell everyone to pray.”
“That's no miracle of God, Peitro. I've been urging you to pray for hours to stop this rain. If we're ever dry again, at least on this day, I'll believe in God’s miracle.”
The morning inched toward noon. The crowd continued to grow in size and expectation. The rain continued, but was less intense. The children arrived and made their way to the appointed place. All was in motion, but nothing was happening. Noon came and went. People waited and grew anxious. The children prayed. Some of their close entourage joined in this prayer as well. Thousands waited as the rain continued. The sky was grey and overcast with downpours punctuating moderate rain. It was almost fifty minutes past noon.
“Apparently this Lady doesn't have a watch. I guess our noon miracle was even less eventful than I thought it would be. Still, I'll wait. The crowd is too large to fight my way through, and the mud is too deep. As you are my witness, Peitro, I was here. And I want you to write a note to my editor stating that you believe I should be given an extra day off for this day's miracle work.”
“Jaco, look at the center. The children are praying. They seem to be stirring. I can’t see from this distance with the motion of the crowd.”
Suddenly the heavy rain ceased. The clouds and overcast cleared. The sun was visible in a blue sky. In a moment Lucia pointed to the sky and said, “Look, the sun!”
The thousands looked at this weather oddity with little alarm at first. It wasn't unusual for storms to clear, but it was highly unusual for them to clear in seconds. The effect was more like the parting of the Red Sea than a casual clearing of a thunderhead. Because of the swiftness of the clearing, people’s attention naturally moved to the sky, even as the child spoke. What they saw was remarkable.
They could look directly at the sun without pain or injury to their eyes. Many colors were cast from this orb, and it began to move in the sky. At some point the sun began to spin wildly, and then it started to grow. As it became larger and larger, terror gripped the crowd. It appeared that the sun was falling from the heavens and was about to crash onto this field in Portugal. Then it simply stopped. Gradually it took its place back in the sky and returned to normal. People could no longer look at it, as it was too bright; everything returned to normal. The miracle had lasted twelve minutes.
Peitro and Jaco were kneeling in the mud. Both were speechless. The thousands around them were in various states of agitation, excitation, and exhilaration. At that time, on that day, in that field, there were no atheists. Both reporters slowly recovered their composure and stood.
“What did you see, Peitro?” came the feeble voice of Jaco.
“I saw what you saw. The sun was at its zenith, noon in the sky, and I saw the hand of God.”
“I believe the . . .” Jaco was so overwhelmed he couldn't finish his sentence.
“Jaco, look at your clothes. Look at mine!”
The reporter was pointing out the obvious to his friend. Even though they had been drenched by the rain for hours, and spent the last five minutes kneeling in the mud when they were overcome by a miracle, there were no mud stains, and they were both completely dry. As they looked around, they noticed others, and they were all dry.
“Jaco, remember this morning? Remember? You said if we're ever dry again on this day, you'd believe in God’s miracle.”
“I remember.” In a whisper he followed his declaration with another. “I believe.”
Friary of San Giovanni Rotondo, Italy, Late Winter, 1950
He knew he had a spiritual calling from the moment he could think with any clarity. He joined the Capuchin Friars in Morcone as a Brother. He became a priest in 1910. In 1916 he was sent to the Friary of San Giovanni Rotondo where he remained until his death.
His given name in the world was Francesco Forgione, but he was known in the church as Padre Pio. He was a true mystic, contemplating and praying for the presence of God. Spiritual powers were attributed to him. It's said that he had the gifts of bi-location, levitation, and the ability to heal by touch. If so, these gifts weren't the central theme of his life. His life was dedicated to God, the search for God, and the quest to help shed the light of God into this world. He was totally committed to relieving the pain and suffering of others, although during his life he was in constant physical pain and suffering. He bore stigmata, the wounds of Christ, from 1918 until just before his death, when oddly enough, his body healed.
In the early months of 1950 a series of revelations were given to Padre Pio. Pius XII was Pope at the time. The texts of the message reached him. Pius XII was a mystic in his own right. He was subject to visions and angelic events. After one of his visions an assistant queried as to the nature of his revelation. Pius explained, “Mankind must prepare itself for sufferings such as it has never before experienced." He expressed dismay at what he saw facing humanity in the not so distant future, describing those times as the darkest since the deluge.
It isn’t known what effect, if any, Padre Pio’s vision had on the Pius XII. It's certain that their common visions of coming catastrophe were simply added notes to the symphony of warning. Pius died in 1958, never seeing his vision fulfilled. Padre Pio died in his cell at the friary on 23 September 1968. Both men had spent their lives praying incessantly for mercy for mankind.
Garabandal, Spain, June 18, 1961 Commentary
The visions came to children again, this time in a small town in northern Spain. For four years, four teenage girls experienced visions and documented supernatural phenomena. Some of the events were photographed. A series of disturbing messages prophesying chastisement for humanity came to these children. They spoke of secrets that would be made known in the future. There would be a coming sign from Heaven that all men would see, then a warning, and after that, a great chastisement. Many things happened at Garabandal. The question among church authorities was what spiritual force was behind them?
When a supernatural occurrence happens it's up to the local authorities of the Church to accept or deny the claim. Some visions, like Fatima, are claimed authentic by church authorities. Actually, it's left to the local Bishop to determine if the miraculous has taken place.
In the half century since the apparitions of Garabandal, each successive Bishop has made it clear that nothing supernatural occurred. This verdict is contrary to the evidence presented by the people who saw the affectations during the visitations. The girls would swoon into ecstasy, and abnormal physical events would take place. There were witnesses. So, to be more accurate, the local Bishops of Garabandal should have said they didn't believe the events were of Heavenly supernatural origin.
Christians often point out that satan is an imitator, not a creator. The devil mimics the creative love of God for his destructive purpose. The devil is also a liar; he's the father of lies. Given this, it shouldn't be surprising that some supernatural events take place from demonic sources, but to suit an ill purpose, they're disguised as coming from God.
Garabandal, Spain, August 8, 1961
He was a young man who never had health problems. At 38 years of age, Father Luis Andreu, a Jesuit Priest, walked toward the pine trees at Garabandal to be with the girls. There had been talk of an apparition and continuing visits. Father Andreu was there to watch and listen. He'd be a first-line witness to help determine what, if anything, was occurring. The girls were moved into trance and ecstasy quickly. The crowd couldn't see what the girls could see, but they could see the profound effect the vision was having on the girls. Father Andreu witnessed this as well.
Without warning, Father Andreu’s composure changed. His face reflected the incredulous as he spoke, “Miracle! Miracle!” He was caught up in the vision, as were the children. He collapsed from the emotion of the event and was brought back to the town.
As a cadre of caretakers watched, he became more agitated and full of expression. His eyes were gaping, and he was smiling. He lay on the bed and said, “Oh! What a sweet and lovely mother we have in heaven. How happy I am. What a favor The Blessed Virgin has bestowed on me. How fortunate we are to have a mother like her in heaven. There's no reason to fear the supernatural life. The girls have given us an example of how we must act with the Blessed Virgin. There's no doubt in my mind that the things involving the girls are true. Why should the Blessed Virgin have chosen us? This is the happiest day of my life."
That night he died of unknown causes. The town physician remarked that it was as if he had been overcome by joy.
The town was taken aback. More and more people heard of the visitations at the pines of Garabandal. Odd phenomena became commonplace. The girls spoke in languages they didn't know while in trance. One of the girls prayed the Lord's Prayer in Greek. Their bodies were sometimes contorted in trance. The girls levitated many times. At times they moved swiftly above the ground down rocky hills, backwards. When going into trance, in every case the children were seemingly forced to their knees quickly, sometimes upon rocky ground that should have injured them, but didn't. Sometimes, the girls lifted each other on their shoulders to kiss the Lady. At other times three grown men couldn't move one of the children in trance. Doctors studied them during trance. People were transfixed, watching the behavior of the girls.
Each month produced more oddities. The children would walk the village at night with no light, but never injure themselves. They often entered people's homes while walking in trance. However, the most significant event came one evening during a church service.
As the local congregation was celebrating the mass, blood-curdling screams came from the girls just outside the tiny hamlet. People rushed to the scene to see what was happening. The girls were in trance and in obvious terror. Later they would explain that they had been given a vision of the punishment God would inflict on the earth. However, on that evening they couldn't explain their behavior, since they were too agitated. To the local townspeople, this evening, June 21, 1962 is still remembered as the Night of Screams.
Santander, Spain, April 11, 1965
The Bishop sat at the head of the table and convened this conference. Four others, three trusted confidants and one investigator, sat around the table with him. They had difficult work to do. The Bishop had determined, before they left the room this day that work would be done. He was only partially correct.
The Bishop opened with an authoritarian tone. “Tell what you've found, nothing more and nothing less. Let me judge this case on the merits. However, I know you've spent a great deal of time on these matters. Your insight and feelings will be valuable to my sense of the events. However, make sure you distinguish between the two.”
The Priest looked at the others slowly and deliberately, each one in his turn. His gaze ended with the Bishop. “Your Grace, I'll do my best. I've observed the evidence. I've seen the proofs. I've made some conclusions and will report them as such. Because of the complexity of these matters, it's difficult to tell this story in an abbreviated fashion. I'll outline the case and ask for your indulgence. Please hold your questions until I'm through, at which time we can delve into any example I provide in much greater detail.”
The spiritual detective began a long tale of the events at Garabandal. He introduced the players, articulated the events, and outlined the time frame. The panel listened intently. After an hour and ten minutes he came to his summary.
“The salient points are these. First, I believe the four girls went into ecstasy and had visions on multiple occasions. During these encounters they claim to have seen the Blessed Virgin. Furthermore, they claim that she has given secrets pertaining to coming world events. Specifically, there will be a sign, a warning, and a punishment visited on the entire earth."
"As I've previously explained, there are numerous other details, many of which don't make sense. Some subtle details are non-scriptural. For instance, the word chastisement is used in prophecy, not the word punishment. There are instances of inconsistent directions. For instance, the term you must be very good is inconsistent with the grace of the Lord and inconsistent scripturally. Also, the girls have stated the Lady used the term Pope several times. This alone gives me pause for every other claim."
"The Blessed Virgin, in true apparitions, has used the terms, Holy Father or Vicar of Christ. Only satan would use the word Pope as an official title. This would be a sly insult, to usurp the Holy Father's spiritual authority by suggesting he holds a political office in the temporal world as opposed to the leadership of the Body of Christ on earth.”
The Priest paused for effect, and drank some water from the crystal goblet in front of him. He continued, “There are numerous instances of behavior which is inconsistent with a Holy visitation. The girls often fell on sharp rocks with a thud and loud noise, but were never injured. These actions appeared to be forced upon them. I do believe their trance state was real. They were tested in trance several times while I was present. There was no reaction to pricks, burns, or blows. All attempts to distract them failed. Powerful beams of strong light were focused on them, yet their eyes didn't even flicker, blink, or show any signs of discomfort. Quite the contrary, their eyes remained wide open."
"These trances lasted from several minutes to, on occasion, several hours. There were confirmed events of levitation. There were instances where the girls were seen running backwards or, in one case, floating backward down a staircase. The girls intruded into homes at all hours of the day while in trance. They seemed to possess supernatural agility. Dark in the night, they were able to avoid obstacles guided simply by their visions."
"Finally, and most disturbing to me, is the Night of Screams incident. Keep in mind this happened during a mass and disrupted the worship of Christ. Second, the terror in these children was real, and I do not believe it was introduced by God’s goodness. During this lengthy episode, the girls were inconsolable and undignified. This is the only time that we have recorded where visionaries were held in anguish by their vision for no seeming purpose.”
The Priest drank more water, this time a deep slow drink. He finished the glass. “I've reported to the best of my ability and have written detailed notes that you each have before you. This is my estimate and mine alone. I do believe these events are supernatural. I don’t believe they're from God. Thank you, I'll try and answer any questions you may have.”
One of the other Priests looked up toward the Bishop and spoke his question to everyone, “Why would the evil one go to these lengths?”
The Bishop answered without hesitation, “For he's a false prophet and the father of lies. Much of what the girls have said is corroborated by other visions the Holy See is privy to. However, the subtle difference in message content is significant. The message of Garabandal isn't a message of hope or spiritual mortification. It's a brash warning given in an ungodly manner. Only the deceiver would act like this. These visions seem to have some common ground with Fatima. Would you all agree?”
“Fatima is a true meeting of the Virgin with a world in need of direction. These visions could confuse the true meaning of the miraculous from Fatima. These actions are designed to sow confusion in the faithful and mislead the Body of Christ. The time for discussion is at an end."