Solomon's Porch (30 page)

“Anderson Media Inc. is whom you should be bullying,” he told the arrogant government lawyer. Martz came up through the ranks as a news reporter before he made it to the executive suite, so while he was angry as hell at Alex Anderson for manipulating him, never would he be a willing participant to any prior governmental restraint of a television broadcast. That such an affront to the Constitution was used as a threat only intensified Martz’s determination to see the matter through, and further confirmed his gut instincts that Alex hadn’t lost his mind, and therefore whatever he was planning had to be incredible.

As would later be much discussed, a series of unfortunate and unlikely coincidences from noon onward on the nineteenth delayed Federal police intervention. Everything from stalled vehicles to missing approvals, lost paperwork, misdirected communications; a virtual cornucopia of bureaucratic bungling got in the way. For whatever reasons, the rather straightforward task of sending in fifty or so heavily armed United States Marshals to restore order to a minimum security federal prison camp quickly became a debacle. In hindsight, no one could really say for sure just how it was possible that with nine hours advance notice, the most powerful government on earth was unable to secure a tiny piece of real estate in South Carolina.

“Good evening. My name is Alex Anderson. Tonight, those of us here at the Parkersboro Federal Prison Camp and all of you in the viewing audience shall witness history. For His reasons, and in His time, the Lord God through His son Jesus Christ has chosen this day to once again declare Himself to the world, to give hope to all of His creation.”

“Since when is Anderson a Jesus freak?” Martz asked, as he monitored the broadcast from the network’s main New York studios.

“Don’t know, boss,” a tech replied, “but if what his people are telling me is on the level, he might not be exaggerating.”

“It was here, just over my right shoulder in fact, in a prison library less than one year ago, that a former stockbroker and convicted white collar felon, Mr. Peter Carson, was given a vision and called by Christ to lead a small group of disciples on a holy crusade. Through them, God has a message to deliver to each of us individually and to humanity as a whole. The men you will meet tonight have been chosen by the Lord to help us reach for the Light.”

“What do you think, Peter?” Gail asked, looking over his shoulder at the video monitor. “Is Alex doing what you expected him to?”

“Everything is going according to plan,” Peter answered. “The Spirit is strong here, Gail! Can you feel it? There is a Divine Energy all around us.”

“I am not merely reporting on these events, I am a part of them. Jesus Christ has given me the great honor of being His spokesman, of sharing with you what I and many others have seen and heard. A prophet of the Lord has once again come among us, and like Moses before him, he will use His mighty power to perform signs and wonders in the sight of all men.”

“What was that? I didn’t catch that,” the President said, as he reached for the remote control to turn up the television in the oval office.

“I think, sir,” the aide replied, “that this Carson fellow is going to walk on some water.”

The President and his two most senior advisors chuckled at the aide’s quip. They were meeting tonight to discuss an energy bill that was stalled in the Senate. Someone in the group suggested that they “check out this wild program Alex Anderson was doing” as they ate a late dinner in between strategy sessions.

“That’s your cue, Mr. Carson,” the stage hand said. “Just walk on over and stand by Alex as we rehearsed.”

Peter took a deep breath. His time had finally arrived. As soon as he stepped out in front of the cameras he knew that his fate was sealed. He rejoiced in the blessing of offering himself up as a sacrifice for Christ.

For a second, Peter glanced over his shoulder at the now dark prison library. A year ago his life had no meaning, he was broken and alone, a piece of garbage discarded by society with no hope. Then for some reason, the Power, the Force that created and sustains the universe, chose him to witness to the world. So much had happened since then. It was an impossible imagining that had become reality.

Peter felt the Holy Spirit move in him, quickening his mind and his physical senses. Like the original twelve of the Gospels, Peter Carson was now never alone; the Uncreated Energy that was God had become an inseparable part of his soul.

In a way difficult to precisely describe, Peter began to shine. Not like Gabriel did in his glorified state, but rather like a finely polished diamond reflecting sunlight. He was changed, not into a different person, but rather he became a more perfect version of himself.

Alex immediately noticed this transformation and was awed. As Peter walked toward him, he had trouble maintaining his composure, so overpowering was Peter’s aura.

“Brothers and sisters,” as Peter began to speak, many watching from in front of the porch fell to their knees in prayer, “my friends and I are here tonight for only one purpose, to witness to the world the power of the Living God, and through that witness to offer hope for the future, for without the Lord we shall have no future.”

“What is it about this guy?” the President asked, in between bites of his sandwich and gulps of soda. “Is the TV on the fritz? He looks too bright or something.”

The President’s advisors and their aides agreed with grunts and nods. As political experts, the image on the screen had them transfixed, they sensed the ability of Peter Carson to grab and hold an audience. They were drawn to the Power like moths to a flame.

“Last July,” Peter said, gesturing toward the library, “God blessed me with a vision. He made it clear that He has provided everything we need to prosper. Given His benevolence, the fact that millions suffer daily for lack of food, shelter, or medicine is inexcusable. That we continue to use violence and hatred as means of controlling ourselves is inexcusable. That most of us are only concerned with satisfying our own selfish passions and have no mercy for others is inexcusable. And, most of all, that after two thousand years few choose to truly embrace the Son of the Living God, to make him their Lord and Master, is inexcusable.

“But while this is true, it is also true that God loves us, all of us. He desires that we should succeed, that we should become the glorious images of Christ that he intended us to be. For this purpose, to help men see the Light, my brothers and I were called.”

“I ask everyone who can hear and see me now to stop whatever it is that you are doing, take a minute and ask God to enlighten and strengthen you. Your prayers should be simple and short. If it helps, I’ll get you started.”

“Alright. Close your eyes and repeat after me: Lord have mercy on me a sinner. Help me to hear Your word and respond to Your call. Amen.”

Martz looked over at his studio crew. More than half had bowed heads and closed eyes. “That’s amazing,” he mumbled, wondering if his small sample was indicative of a larger trend.

In the oval office the tone remained casual, but the pull from the television set was undeniable.

No one in the room was interested any longer in energy legislation or the remnants of dinner. The only thing that broke their attentive mood was a commercial.

“That’s just not right,” the aide said.

“What?” another one asked.

“Selling soap during this program. Seems almost blasphemous.”

“That’s America for ya. God bless Madison Avenue.”

For the select, the vast majority of whom had managed through one means or another to tune into the broadcast, events were falling into place with unconscious expectations. The Divine seeds planted in them were germinating, breaking through the soil that had been their previous lives and reaching toward the Son.

Blessed to attend the broadcast at Parkersboro were around a hundred inmates and two hundred or so additional guests, some of whom were from the national and international media, others were people who had been healed or otherwise touched at Parkersboro during the past few weeks, and a few more were invited by God directly as part of His plan.

One of these invited guests was the powerful Roman Catholic Bishop of Boston, Cardinal Reardon. High officials from several mainline Protestant churches were also present, along with four Buddhist monks from Los Angeles, an Islamic Imam from Detroit, a conservative Jewish Rabbi from New York, and a Hindu Fakir from New Delhi.

Since the next twenty minutes of the program were tape with Alex doing voice-over narrations, Peter wasn’t needed on the set, so he took this time to greet his religiously prominent guests.

“Mr. Carson, it’s my pleasure to meet you sir,” Cardinal Reardon said, extending his hand in friendship. “You are even more charismatic in the flesh than you were in my dreams.”

“Cardinal?” Peter asked, looking for clarification.

“After talking with your Mr. Cohen and Mr. Graham, it appears that I had the same dream as they and many others did; the one where the seven of you are standing on a platform and are receiving the Holy Spirit.”

“So you’re here then because you’ve been called?”

“I’m here, Mr. Kallistos, to see my dream become a reality, to be a witness. I take it that you and the brothers will be praying in a circle right over there in a few minutes, or am I wrong?”

“Yes, your Excellency. You are not wrong.”

“Praise God. These other gentlemen here with me have also shared this same dream.”

Peter shook each man’s hand in turn, humbly thanking them for honoring him by their presence.

“Mr. Carson,” one of the Buddhist monks asked, in a pronounced Vietnamese accent, “I wonder, why did your God invite us? We are not Christians. This puzzles us, but we are most honored to be here with you and share in this experience.”

“Unity, my brother,” Peter answered. “God’s flame, His eternal essence, burns in many spiritual men of various faiths. Your Buddha saw the Light through a tinted glass. God wishes to reveal Himself now to you directly, to add another spiritual layer to your knowledge, to make perfect your good works.”

The monks said nothing as they slowly bowed. They believed Peter Carson was a Buddha, an “Enlightened One,” and for now Peter would not dispel that or any other faith specific label given him by humble, God-seeking men. The Lord taught Peter to respect the spiritual traditions of others, and not to blindly discard all non-Christian theology as pagan or idolatrous. While, as Christ said, “salvation is of the Jews” because He came to the world through David’s seed, God had not ignored the rest of non-Judeo-Christian humanity either before Jesus’ birth and passion or since.

“Panos,” the Cardinal said, as he gently touched Peter’s arm, “permit me the honor of blessing and praying with you before you leave us.”

“The honor is mine, Cardinal,” Peter replied. “I know you are a righteous man.”

After Reardon offered a short prayer in Latin, Peter looked over and saw Alex’s stage crew motioning for him to return to the set.

“Acts, chapter two,” the Cardinal said, as he gave Peter a holy kiss and sent him on his way.

The Rabbi looked curiously at Cardinal Reardon, asking him with his eyes to expound on his comment.

“Acts, chapter two, Rabbi Rosefielde. You are seeing another version of those momentous events here tonight.”

“A second Pentecost?” the Rabbi asked.

“At least a type of one, my friend. I’m quite convinced that these gentlemen have already received the Holy Spirit.”

“And Mr. Carson, you’re saying he is like Cephas, Christ’s Peter?”

“He is not St. Peter reincarnated, but rather a type of Peter, a new apostle.”

“Then that stage up there, that must be Solomon’s Porch. The area of our Temple where St. Peter gave his first sermon after the Pentecost.”

“You know the New Testament well, Rabbi,” the Cardinal complimented. “Yes, that’s more than fitting. You’ve moved further along in Luke’s narrative to Acts, chapter five, verse twelve, ‘And through the hands of the apostles many signs and wonders were done among the people. And they were all with one accord on Solomon’s Porch.’”

Two newspaper reporters from New York’s biggest daily were not only listening to the Cardinal and the Rabbi’s conversation, they were writing down every word.

“Solomon’s Porch,” one reporter said, reviewing his notes as he watched Cardinal Reardon and the others walk back toward the stage. “That has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Yes, yes it does,” the second reporter agreed as he continued to scribble. “Sounds Biblical, kind of ties the old and the new together.”

“I never liked the constant prison references anyway, seemed clumsy, not really fitting.”

“That’s it then. From now on we’ll tag our pieces as being from ‘Solomon’s Porch’ and give credit for the name to Cardinal Reardon.”

“Done.”

As He intended, from then on the label stuck. After this night, the world would be confounded and amazed regarding the wonders done from Solomon’s Porch.

Seventeen

“At least they’re not all convicts,” the President’s first senior advisor whined. “How in the world Rico Vargas got mixed up in all of this is beyond me.”

“General Vargas is one of the finest men I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing,” the President responded. “If he’s involved with Carson, well then … ”