The Journalist
He felt a chill go down his spine, despite the summer heat rolling around in the arid darkness. Walking briskly down the shadowy alley just made his mind fill with all sorts of horrors. The large garage type doors that opened into the alley felt like they all had monsters hidden inside. The high arched frames over the columns of the previous courtyard and the mountains way in the distance seemed to all be snickering at him with an evil smile.
How did they even think they could get away with this? Why was he joining with this church that was pastored by the zealous Parsa, when he knew that real men, with real guns, with real threats were close by. He was not really a part of this movement. Why was he here?
Parsa had been an interesting person to make as the centerpiece of his article, but that interview in the light and laughter of the day seemed so long ago. And now?
Mark quickened his steps as he saw the dimly lit window in the distance. “That must be the place,” he told himself. It just looked so different in the dark.
As he approached his heart calmed a bit as he heard the low and even chanting and singing, despite his rising fears. They must have already started the service, but couldn’t they be a bit quieter? Anyone walking on the street could hear them, not that too many people were out and about right now, but whomever might be patrolling the area, they would hear and they would know . . .
He steadied his hand as he knocked the precise rhythm he was instructed with.
Knock, knock . . . knock, knock, knock . . . knock, knock. Mark felt like he was typing out an SOS signal.
Roya opened the door, as light poured onto the street. Ah what a beautiful sweet face she had, just like her name. She was not shy about her part in this society, but she humbly accepted any role that she could play. Tonight, it was the role of door keeper. The intensity in her eyes was deafening. He could tell she was anxious, or was it excited? Did she really believe in the miracles that they were proclaiming?
As Mark took off his shoes and went to gather with these die hard Christians in the middle of Iran, he thought back to the time he left the states. . .
This was going to be a great piece. Who knows but a Pulitzer, or some new writer’s award, might be in his future? He had smiled as he swaggered in his thoughts that he was going to show his moral high ground. His fellow church members would be really impressed now as he braved the intricate details of Iranian life as a Christian.
Mark shook his head at the idea, “God, I had no idea what being a Christian was. I thought I believed in You. I thought I was a Christian. I am not so sure now.”
The American idea of Jesus seemed almost far-fetched here. But here, there was an air about the place that made one sense the spiritual world as if it were tangible. As if one could reach out and grab a swatch of the Holy Ghost.
Darius saw me and smiled a wide teethy grin. He grabbed me and gave me his usual friendly hug, “Brother! So glad you could make it. I knew you believed. This is more than just an assignment for you. Come, let us pray and sing with the others.”
As we walked into the small back room, it was like walking into a sweatshop. The body odors mixed with the incense felt oppressive, but more intense than that were the prayers going up. Some who held a good grasp of English were praying with the boldness of triumphing over East and West. Others were praying in their native tongue, to be as intimate and connected to the God who loved them individually. Others were not speaking any language that Mark knew at all. He knew that some were praying in the Spirit, others were moaning and crying out.
“Abba, Father, protect our friend, our brother, Parsa. Watch over him in his prison cell. We know he is grave danger, but you O Lord are able to pluck him out of that danger and bring him safely home.”
Pluck him out of danger? Hah! The government officials were meaning to make an example of Parsa. He had been so outspoken in the marketplace. Mark had almost felt scared to be seen near him. He knew the officials were smoldering. This kind of outspoken declaration of who Jesus is might make people turn from their Muslim faith and thus begin the insurrection of their well protected livelihoods. It was there, in the middle of that seemingly bright sunny spot in the marketplace that the darkness of Mark’s thoughts began to swarm. He began to grasp deep in his soul, just how unsafe this type of Christianity really was. He wasn’t even sure he should be here; he feared that even his own doubt could cause a “rupture” in the spiritual atmosphere of the place.
Farrokh’s outspoken tongue broke into Mark’s uneasy turmoil of thoughts, “Shouldn’t we be praying for something that we truly believe? Do we actually believe Yesu will come and “pluck” Parsa out of the prison? Shouldn’t we be praying for, I don’t know, his life? Aren’t we more afraid of him being tortured or killed?” Roya translated into Mark’s ear without even being asked.
“True brother, we should pray for his safety. We should pray for his life. We should pray for protection. But what if our Father chooses to release all his bondages by this very act of releasing him? If we pray for more, not less, will we not see our one true God work in amazing ways?” Zana always the eloquent one of the group, turned around and lifted his hands towards heaven, in that act of boldness that only Christians in Iran can embrace and continued praying,
“Aaah Yesu and our Father in Heaven, hallowed be your name. We come to you with our hearts heavy. Our brother, Parsa is before You. Do Your will O Lord, do Your work. We pray for miracles. We pray for protection and hope and mercy.”
Another distinct knock came at the door, everyone hushed in silence and breathed a collected sigh of relief as the perfect rhythm of the knock assured us that we were ok, for the moment.
Roya went running to the door, and the men and women continued to pray in unison, also something of a freedom that Christianity brought to individuals here in this set apart section of the world.
The inner door opened and slammed shut in an excited fervor, Roya stood before us gasping and wide-eyed. The intensity that Mark had seen before was no match to - whatever it was he was seeing now.
Darius reached out to her and said, “What is it my sister?”
Between excited breaths we heard her exclaim, “It’s Parsa . . . It’s Parsa . . .It’s Parsa!!”
Mark felt a tingling run down his spine. There was electricity in the air. All of them in the room felt it. And then in a moment it vanished, it was as if the Spirit of God lept off of the people.
“What do you mean ‘it’s Parsa?’” Farrokh insisted as he rose to meet her. “Are you saying he is here? Actually standing outside our door? In the dangerous dark of the night?”
“Is he alone? Does he have a halo over his head?” Another chimed in.
“Were you drinking the communion wine?”
The accusations started slow and then came at a more rapid pace focused on Roya. She stepped back and her own glow began to dampen. One could even see her question her own mind. But, no, she raised her shoulders and looked directly at everyone and in a much slower, deliberate pace, spoke in both her native tongue and in English (perhaps for Mark’s benefit as she was looking directly at him when she did,) “I am telling you the truth. Parsa, himself, is standing outside our door. He is not dead. He is not a spirit. He is not my imagination. He is real.”
The uproar that commenced was deafening. Until the steady knocking broke through and the hushed silence once again spread over the room. This time there was no rhythm to the knock but a repeated “knock, knock, knock, knock . . .” The electricity that had been excitement at one time, now grew in intensity of fear. Mark could taste the bitter anxious sweat in his mouth and breathed it in his nose, until it filled him completely.
Roya did just say she saw Parsa. Could the officials have tortured him already? Did he cave so soon in sharing his secret meeting places? Did they come with him, using him as a lure to open the door. Good thing Roya did not open that door right away, but come tell us first.
“Wait, that’s Parsa. I know it.” Roya’s voice was strained, but emphatic. Zana looked at her gently, and restrained her posture with a hand on her shoulder.
The knocking continued.
“What if that is Parsa?” Mark eeked out. All eyes turned on him. “I mean, that is what you have all been praying for. His release? What if that is Parsa? And we are just letting him stay outside in full view of all who would be following him?”
In an instant, Roya broke free, ran through the inner door to the foyer area and we could hear the opening and the exclamation of Roya’s high-pitched joyful laughter.
At once, everyone realized the miracle, not understanding it fully yet, but a burgeoning knowledge of what God did through their prayers, and rushed to follow Roya.
The outer room and inner room were now filled with people milling back and forth. Laughing, hugging, and crying took place.
“I thought you guys were never going to let me in,” boomed the large oratory voice of Parsa. Definitely the largest person in the room, both in size and in presence.
Embarrassed laughter swept around the room.
“But I understand, I did not believe it myself, even while it was happening to me.”
“What happened? How exactly did you escape prison and the host of impeding checkpoints between the prison and the street?” Mark’s brain was running a million miles a minute as question after question entered his brain.
Parso looked directly at Mark, “Aah, it would be the American, the journalist, to finally voice the questions on everyone’s mind. The questions got so full, that you had to burst forth and ask them, eh? Well, let me tell you my dear brother. I have felt the presence of Yesu in the past, I have seen His miraculous work in others, but never before had I experienced what I did this very night.”
Parsa was a story-teller in his own right. And the audience of enchanted followers waited anxiously.
“There was a high window in my cell. I could sense the moonlight coming through but the floor and the walls were so cold and damp feeling that it seemed like even the moon could not break through the despair. Despite the bars, the Gaste Ersad (Guidance Patrol) felt it necessary to shackle me in cuffs as well. It was uncomfortable, but I knew that by morning that would be the least of my comfort worries. So I felt the need to try to get as much sleep as possible to be ready to defend my Lord with a clear mind. As I was sleeping, I felt that moonlight expand on my back and through the cell. Touching the floor, the walls, the bars and even the chains with its light. I looked up and it wasn’t the moon, it was an angel. Large and formidable, he filled every nook and cranny of that cell until one could not tell the difference between where the angle stopped and the light began.
You think my voice is loud, you have never heard such a heavenly being speak!
‘Quick, Get up!’ boomed through my ears and inner being. The presence of that voice nearly knocked me over. I was trembling as I stumbled up onto my feet and as I did, this amazing thing happened: the cuffs just broke into pieces like they were made of porous clay and now lay shattered on the ground.
I stood for a moment just staring at my arms, forgetting anything else to say or think.
‘Put on your clothes and shoes and follow me,’ the thundering voice woke me from my reverie. And behold in front of me were the clothes and shoes that I had worn before they took my outer possessions. I had to hurry, this angel was in no mood to wait for any more delays.
The barred doors opened up. The guards were all asleep. Everywhere. At every station, every person was asleep. And every door opened up for me. The thing was I could not tell whether this was a dream or reality. I assumed it was a dream. Perhaps a vision.
What was this vision trying to tell me? That Yesu was the only one who could break our chains of bondage? The bondage to the ways of our forefathers? The bondage to the ways of this world? The bondage of our own dark sins and past?
While I was contemplating the meaning of this vision, I found myself outside alone. The angelic being had vanished. I looked back at the remarkable structure that had been my prison, but here I was on the street!
As I gathered my thoughts together, I thought I must go where they are praying. These followers of Yesu, need to get a glimpse at the power of their own prayers. I came to see you, my family.”
“But even though we prayed, we didn’t really believe.” Farrokh interrupted, with his head hung low. “Perhaps others believed, but I know that I did not. Not really.”
“It wasn’t just you,” Darius added in quickly, “we all were too full of our own words, but when it came right down to it, none of us truly believed.”
“What about you, American?” Parsa looked with intensity and compassion at Mark who had slinked off to the side of the group. “Did you believe? I know that you have struggled with your faith since you came here with us. What about now?”
“I . . .I,” stammered Mark, never at a loss for words, now not a single thing came into his head. “I guess I don’t really belong here do I?”
“Nonsense. Do you not hear your fellow brothers share their doubts? Did you not hear even my own doubts? Yes, I too was praying for a miracle. That desperate panic miracle of fearing what was to come and wanting my pride to show a good face to the world. Yet when God answered all of our prayers, I did not believe, even in the midst of the miracle.”
“Our God is a God who understands us.” Parsa continued, “Our God is a God who works in all of us despite our lack of faith. After all, it only takes the faith of a mustard seed to come to Him to begin with.”
“Mark,” Parsa’s eyes bored into Mark’s soul, “You will be used by our God. We are your family in the faith, and what you share and how you share this story with others, God will use. You do not need to be amazing in your faith, you just have to be here in this moment and be able to trust God in this moment and let Him do the rest.”
Murmurings of agreements and repentant crying and rejoicing started as a slow wave around the room until the crescendo of praise overwhelmed not just the people, but overwhelmed the spirit of fear. The voice of praise was so deep, and so real that fear could do nothing but leave. Mark’s eyes started filling up and pouring out with tears. Not shameful, angry, hurtful tears, but a release of joy. A joy of knowing that he was counted with God’s family, not just the one in America, but the one here in Iran as well. His heart filled to the brim, joy had nowhere else to go, but through those windows of his soul. He had never felt so light, or so free, as he did in this place right now. The irony did not escape him as he burst forth in not only tears, but laughter.
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The sound of the praise and the feelings of release still echoed in Mark’s soul as two days later he found himself in an airport, having made it through security once again. The journalist tags had been both a help and a hindrance as he would go through one checkpoint or another. But each time a “door opened” through one of the security stages and he made it to the next level, he could not help but think that it wasn’t his journalistic credentials that got him through this airport in this foreign land, it was his God. That’s right his God, the one he found in Iran, that opened his doors and directed his paths.
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“Blessed are those whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the Lord their God. He is the Maker of heaven and earth, the sea, and everything in them--He remains faithful forever.
He upholds the cause of the oppressed and gives food to the hungry. The Lord sets prisoners free, the Lord gives sight to the blind, the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down, the Lord loves the righteous.
The Lord watches over the foreigner and sustains the fatherless and the widow, but He frustrates the ways of the wicked. The Lord reigns forever, your God, O Zion, for all generations.
Praise the Lord.” (Psalm 146:5-10)
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