Gift of Revelation (19 page)

“I hope so,” I said nervously. “If not, Addie is dead.”

“That won't happen,” he said finally. He turned to one of his bodyguards and said, “Take him back to the camp.” Then his gaze landed on me again. “Reverend, wait until you hear from me. Then you follow all my directions. If you do this, then we will get your friend back. Farewell. This has been a very interesting talk.”

Elsa called me the day after my meeting with the bishop. She wanted to hear all about it, what I said, what he said. The Somalia trip had worked out well for her, with good interviews, informed sources, and fine interactions with government officials. What she informed me was that there was a high level of risk involved with me going into rebel territory to negotiate with the hostage takers. I could get killed.

“That's why I might have a surprise for you,” she said.

“What surprise?” I asked. “I need some good news right about now. The talk with the bishop gave me chills.”

Elsa told me I was not going to be alone when I went into the lion's den. A friend in the European intelligence community had informed her that they had an idea where Addie and the others had been hidden, but a raid in the small village would bring much bloodshed. South Sudanese soldiers had revealed that a group of foreigners had been sighted in a remote area controlled by rebel troops that were heavily armed and deeply entrenched.

“That is good news,” I said, grateful for this report.

“Reverend, I got some assurances from the South Sudanese government,” the reporter said. “It made an announcement that it will initiate ‘a massive deployment of men and resources' to put an end to insurgent activities in remote areas of the country. I hope that means they will do something about the rebels.”

I thought that might be trouble for Addie. “If they put too much pressure on the rebels, they'll kill the hostages. These thugs will kill them without fail.”

“You're still worried about that country girl,” she scolded me. “She didn't care about you. You're an honorable man. You deal with hearts and souls. Still, you ignore what she did to you. You refuse to look into her cheating heart.”

My voice shook. “I know what she is, and I know what she was.”

“What does that mean?” Elsa didn't like the countrywoman.

I thought back to the good times in Alabama, when Addie had seemed to be a good-natured country gal. She had got me through some pretty tough moments. I had wanted to make her happy at first, had wanted us to be together, like we'd been back there in the boonies. But now she had gone rogue. She had gone man crazy. It was a matter of principle. Her actions had their fair consequences, but they had killed off any chances of a possible commitment.

“You know she asked for this mess,” Elsa added.

“I know this,” I replied. “Addie caused all this foolishness.”

When Bishop Obote had asked me whether Addie was my lover, I hadn't lied to him. I didn't want to commit to her. Still, back in New York, we used to be able to discuss almost anything. However, she'd changed. As the old bluesman Jimmy Reed sang, “Bright lights, big city gone to my baby's head.” I wished we could have talked about the more serious matters of life, experienced the joy of sharing feelings, ideas, goals. Lately, she had been a stubborn hussy, a tart, and our dream of real companionship had slipped away. I didn't want her like she was acting wantonly in Sudan.

“You know, the government wants to revoke my press pass,” she said quietly. “They want me to plant a few positive stories and make them look good.”

“Are you going to do what they ask?”

“No,” she answered. “But you have more to worry about. You're right about these hostage takers. They are unpredictable. They can't be trusted. Also, the government in the North says Addie and you traveled without their permission. The officials say they didn't issue permits for you, as foreigners, to travel outside Khartoum.”

“They're trying to cover their butts,” I said.

Elsa laughed. “The government is trying to position itself in case the hostage situation goes badly. It says it doesn't care what America says. Still, it wants to keep itself on America's good side.”

“Do you trust Bishop Obote?”

“The bishop always wants to come out on top,” she said. “He had a hand in the Arab Spring. He's got ties to every camp. In Egypt he knows a few of the coup leaders who were trained in U.S. military colleges, as well as several old-timers from the Mubarak camp. I wouldn't trust him, although he can talk smooth and slippery, like a car salesman.”

“I don't trust him,” he said.

“I hope Addie has nine lives, because she'll need all of them,” she said. “She's running out of time. Her aunt is talking her niece into a grave. It doesn't take much courage to talk when you are safe and secure.”

“So what are you saying? That I'm not in this alone?”

“Reverend, you might get help, but you are going to approach them alone,” she admitted. “Nothing happens until you make contact. You must engage them before anything happens. I have got some assurances, but you must go in there by yourself.”

I felt a chill go through me. “What happens if the reinforcements arrive late? What happens then?”

“Then you're up the creek without a paddle,” she said. “Are you afraid?”

“Heck, yes, I'm afraid,” I confessed. “I don't know how I got into this madness. I'll admit it. The bishop warned me about the bogeymen and how they can be brutal.”

“They're butchers,” Elsa asserted. “They're fighting among themselves. They try to outdo each other with their savagery. These blokes are fiends who whip, beat, behead, and slice and dice their victims. They don't care about the West saying they've committed war crimes, crimes against humanity, torture, murder, and such.”

I frowned. “The bishop told me this. He told me that they cut the hands off of men who are thieves, flog men who smoke or drink, beat women if they show their face on the street or get caught being intimate with other men. These men are laws unto themselves.”

“What if they torture you?” she asked. “Are you prepared to die for your faith? Are you prepared to become a martyr for Jesus Christ?”

“The bishop asked me that question,” I replied boldly. “And I answered yes.”

“Suppose they torture you and don't kill you right away?”

I picture myself tied up, with one of the rebels snipping off my toes or fingers, slicing off my ears, ripping off my fingernails. How much courage would I have for the Lord? How much pain and suffering could I stand for the Christ who died for us on the cross?

“Reverend, you must consider all of this before you walk in there,” she insisted. “This will not be a picnic. It could get nasty and bloody.”

“I've prayed that will not be the case,” I said.

Elsa had a little fun. “I wonder if Addie would do what you're about to do for her. I wonder if she would throw up her hands and walk away. Or would she walk right into the lion's den?”

“I don't know,” I admitted.

“The bishop told me that he'll convey the details of the plan to you in enough time,” Elsa said. “Someone will come to the camp with the message from the rebels. He doesn't trust the phones. He has alerted the camp to permit any communication between the hostage takers and yourself. There will not be a problem.”

“Have you heard anything from the State Department?”

“No, not recently,” she said. “I think they're mad at Addie's aunt for going with her story to the mainstream media. She went to CNN, and that is seen all over the world.”

“I wonder how long they will make me wait,” I said. “The bishop said that patience is a virtue in these kinds of things. I'm a patient man. But I can't wait forever. Who knows what they will do to Addie?”

That incensed Elsa. “You need to be worried about yourself, Reverend. Addie will take care of herself. Her kind always lands on her feet. You've got much more to lose than she ever had.”

With that final retort, the reporter hung up. I sat there looking at the phone, wondering if Addie would respond to this crisis like I was doing if I were in her shoes. Or would she go on her merry way? I would never know.

Shortly after the phone call from Elsa, I found a secluded corner in the main building, a small room, and entered and closed the door. I knelt on the hard wood, clasped my hands, and prayed like I'd never done before. I didn't beg or plead. I talked to God like he was my parent, my elder, my constant companion. Inside my head, I pictured him as the Son of God, with thorns on his bleeding head, his torso severely injured by a savage beating, his hands and feet pierced by huge iron nails driven into the wooden cross. This was the holy image I talked to, the divine Redeemer.

I spoke the prayer aloud, not silently within, on the blackboard of my mind. I wanted to hear the words. I wanted to taste the urgency and the power of them.

“O Holy Father . . .” I began the prayer for the Lord's protection with a focused mind.

Just then the roar of trucks penetrated the walls of the building. My ears tuned out the noise, but the powerful motors served as background music for my talk with the Almighty God.

“Dear Lord, my life has been turned upside down,” I continued. “I know you use us, the little people, to accomplish the impossible. Lord, guide my steps toward, and not away from, those who need me. I know I'm not too badly shattered for you to repair. I know you love me, despite my imperfections and defects. Please use me to your advantage. Make me your servant.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the door. I waited for the people to move away before I continued.

“The Bible teaches us that the Lord takes us as we are, but He never leaves us that way,” I said quietly. “I believe that. I believe that He never leaves us the way he found us. The Lord found me after much sinning and backsliding. I resisted Him, coming up with all kinds of excuses, lies, deceptions. The world wasn't finished with me yet. It had a grip on me, and its embrace was firm and seductive. Before I married, I was desperate, praying for salvation and redemption. I was drinking and smoking too much. I loved the ladies too much. Still, I kept talking to the Lord, who refused to answer me at first, denying any communication with Him until I got my mind right. I wondered if all sinners had to go through this barrier. I wanted the Lord to make His presence felt in my life, and I wanted a touch of His divine wisdom, for I was running around in circles.”

My head turned sharply when someone tried the door and opened it. A woman, a stout European lass with long blond hair, saw me, said, “Excuse me,” and promptly closed it. I tried to find the thread of thought for my prayer.

“Maybe the Spirit brought me to this place,” I continued. “Maybe not. As long as I have been here in Sudan, the Spirit has been with me, often through extreme times. Lord knows I've never seen anything like the happenings over here. Never.”

A whiff of human sickness came through the open window. I swallowed, pinched my nose, and went on with my prayer.

“I remember my life has purpose and my faith is strong,” I said. “Inner peace comes from the knowledge that the Lord loves us and is in total control. Some folks say that worry is a burden that God never wants us to bear. Yet I'm worried about this outcome. I understand that the Lord can create a road when you see only challenges and obstacles. Your power can overcome any and all difficulties. As my late aunt used to say, ‘Everything we do produces consequences. Every choice has its reward or punishment. Even doing nothing can produce a result.' As a Christian, I will not postpone the blessing of action. I will not postpone life.”

I paused then. In the silence of the room, I became aware of the ticking of a clock, the minutes and seconds, the ingredients of life.

“The elders always speak of how we molded the agony and suffering of our bondage and transformed the faith of our captors into something we used to guide us on our journey to our salvation and triumph,” I said proudly. “I believe in the dignity of the undefeated. I believe in the dignity of the poor and the displaced. I believe in the dignity of their joy and resurrection. I believe in their unbreakable faith, their strength, and endurance. I believe the Lord hears us when our pleas are heartfelt and our need is great.”

I paused and took a breath. I noticed then that my arm had fallen asleep from supporting me. A moment later I went on. “In Revelation twenty-two, seventeen, the scripture says, ‘Let him who thirsts come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.'”

Again, the door opened. It was one of the medical staffers. He said there was a messenger at the gate with a letter for me. I told him that I wanted to finish my prayer, and then I'd go down to see him. The staffer nodded his assent.

“Hell is to be cut off from the Lord and His presence,” I said. “Heaven is to know Him. Someone once said, ‘Courage is fear that has knelt and said its prayers.'”

The staffer waited and let me conclude my words to the Lord. I was thankful to him that he was so patient.

“Under these oppressive conditions in Sudan, many Christians have lost their faith and think they must surrender to insult, injustice, and hate. Christianity and Islam are great religions. Historically, they carry in their holy books a message of goodwill, compassion, justice, and brotherhood. People with their own agendas have corrupted their messages. The madness in this place is not between Christians and Muslims. I've seen followers of both faiths, and by and large, they are good, hardworking people who are trying to survive on the land. The madness is generated by bloodthirsty extremists who refuse to let people worship the God of their choosing.”

I felt the staffer's presence in the doorway. That didn't matter to me.

“Although this situation is dangerous, I feel an inner peace and the power only God can give,” I said in a louder voice. “To quote Adam Clayton Powell Jr., ‘There is no easy way to re-create a world where people can live together.' This is the case in Sudan, where prejudice, intolerance, and greed rule. Only God's warriors can put an end to the suffering. This violence is evil and immoral. The faithful must pray to Almighty God to stop the bloodshed and ease the hate. Christians must rise up. They can't remain silent or submissive.”

Now growing impatient, the staffer coughed harshly. I knew I had little time to finish up.

“Freedom, as Dr. Martin Luther King once said, is like life,” I said, concluding my prayer. “‘You cannot be given life in installments. You cannot be given breath but no body, nor a heart but no blood vessels. Freedom is one thing—you have it all, or you are not free.' I trust the Lord. I know He will see me safely through this ordeal. Praise be to God. Hear my prayer. Amen.”

Smiling, the staffer helped me up, then led me down the stairs and out through a side entrance. He pointed to a shabby child surrounded by a group of armed guards, their weapons trained on the thin figure. I ran off in that direction.