Fellowship & Fairydust

Twelve years of chaos, seven of war. His eyes searched out the window in silence. Ever since the day when Death had knocked on every door, it had never been as it was. There was something apocalyptic about the scene, echoes of what would one day come and the leader who would guide the nations towards folly.

His stomach twinged with hunger as he considered the war-torn land, laid barren by the bombings and the robbing of its men. He could still taste the fading flavor of the potato-salad and bread that had once nourished him, if only a little. He was grateful for that and for the hope that was within him. It was Sunday, a week past Easter, and he had maintained, as he always did, a healthy form of optimism.

The light of the morning brought with it the sound of the coming artillery, the foreign advance breaking through the defensive lines as surely as the sun’s warm rays broke through the grayness of the clouds to cast their glorious brightness. Soon it would all be over.

He closed his eyes to the world and thanked God for His answer to the prayers which he had never wished to pray. The destruction of his nation was not a cause for celebration, but the eradication of evil was another matter. They had to be punished. Their sin had mounted to the Heavens and come before God for recompense. The blood of the earth which they had spilled called up to God for vengeance and innocence itself cried out for wrath.

It would be a blessed thing to see his own surrender. The lines were drawn up long ago, and he his side had chosen: the salvation of the world for the destruction of his nation. For, such was the judgement of God. Now, if only the question could be answered of whether he would live to see it. It seemed almost irresponsible to wonder, but he could not have helped it where he stood. Freedom was near, no matter how it might find him. Death was but an end to dying, which all the world was already, anyway. But freedom? That was something different, something sacred, revealed only in God.

“Well, Pastor, how about a sermon?” prodded the proud voice of an Englishman with his spirits high.

His eyes sprang open in alarm. Had he just asked a sermon? His heart quivered to think that he might preach again. How could it be allowed him? He drew in breath deep to his lungs and trembled as he turned to face the upright man with the mustache and monocle.

“Dear Best, I couldn’t possibly.” He spoke with great remorse, his heart turning within him for pain. In truth, there was nothing that he would have wanted better, but he was sensitive to the lives of the others and would by no means force them.

“Oh, hogwash! Come on, Pastor! It’s Sunday, and we could all go for a service! I may not be an especially religious man, but I can say that it has been far too long since we’ve had one—” he raised his voice and gave an accentuated nod towards the godless Russian in the corner “—especially Kokorin here!”

The young man laughed to spite his soul and his dark eyes, so depressed and tormented, flashed with a divine spark of light, if only for an instant. “I’d hear it!”

The others answered him the same and insisted until he had agreed with eager heart to take up the old familiar task. He wrapped his Bible tight in his hands and stepped out in front of them. The group of prisoners waited in anticipatory silence as he tapped his fingers on the leather front and prayed so only God could hear. It had all become so strangely foreign to him. It had been so very long. In some ways, it felt, a lifetime.

In truth, he was happy beyond measure, but he knew not what to say. Still, he knew that this was from God, a gift — one way or the other. It had been a silent prayer of his, a desperate wish, to preach just one more time. He had thought the chance was lost for him. There had been the order against speaking and then the drafting of the churchmen, and when he had made up his mind to work for the conspiracy, to him, that was the end. Who would hear an assassin preach, a traitor to the crown? Who could hear a man speak of love and peace who had sought to take another man’s life, even the life of a tyrant, desperate for blood? It had been far outside of his hopes that he should be given the chance by men, much less by God. Yet, there he stood.

His thoughts wound back through the years. He remembered a conversation with his brother-in-law, how soft-hearted and earnest a man that he was. They had gathered late that night in the living room by the light of the flashing fire. He sat back in a comfortable chair with the solace of his best friend beside him. They three were discussing their work.

Hans stood staring deep into the flames, searching for their meaning, when at last his voice rose over the crackling wood. “What about Jesus’ saying, ‘Whoever takes up the sword will perish by the sword?'”

It was a grave consideration for each of them, but he knew he had to answer for it. It was something which had long been on his mind. “Yes. That is true, and we must allow it to be true. This time needs people who will do exactly that and let Jesus’ saying be true. We take the sword and are prepared to parish by it. We are men guilty of blood, and we must accept that guilt as surely as we accept the call to intervene on the innocents’ behalf.”

He thought of Christ, counted among the guilty, numbered with the transgressors. There was a unique love which God had for the world, a love which was willing to be found guilty in the eyes of the world — mocked, rejected, pushed out of the world, and crucified by the very people he had come to save. Yes, there was a sermon there, one which had been festering in his mind and had at times found its way out as poems or letters or notes, scribbled down on a page to be arranged at a later date. But that day it was a sermon, a sermon he had longed to preach, and he thanked God for the privilege to preach it.

“When we think of Easter, we think of a time when Death was overwhelmed and defeated, but if we backtrack just a little, we find a very different scene. We find a time when God himself was arrested and tried, falsely accused, judged by men, beaten, mocked, abused, stripped, scourged, and hung on a tree to die. Such is the hour of darkness.

“Satan thought it was a humiliation of him, but that suffering was the salvation of mankind. Why? Because this spotless, innocent man had taken the guilt of mankind willingly upon himself. His hands, unstained, were there stained with blood, because of the love that he had for the world. For the very people who hung him there and forced him from the world, he would die, and die there gladly.

“We know something of this suffering, of this love which God shares. As we hear the bombshells in the distance, as our expectant hearts jump with hope at the anticipation of freedom, we know that our lives could still be cut off at any moment, because this is the hour of darkness. Perhaps you have come fighting for your countries, for your loved ones, for your homes, but in doing so, you have fought to ransom the captives here, and now here you are in the same set of circumstances as they are.

“Well, for Christ it was the same. He came to ransom every man, those who were condemned to death, but he is counted among the transgressors and he is himself condemned. He received the same punishment as those who truly had sinned, and he did so that their chains might be undone. We are healed by his stripes, through the nails which pierced him, and it is in the hour of darkness that we find our blessed hope in him.

“There are echoes of this hope today, echoes of deliverance, echoes of the resurrection. You can hear it in every blast of the artillery, that darkness has been defeated and the power of Death will soon be vanquished. Therefore, we submit ourselves to the will of God in hope, with the confidence that his love will bring an end to evil.”

He went on and prayed, and he had scarcely finished his prayer when two men entered into the room, strangers dressed in civilian clothes. They were wearing suits and ties much fresher than he wore, and the essence of evil raveled around them.

One of the two looked right at him and stared, his gaze like that of a predatory hunter, destined to kill. “Dietrich Bonhoeffer?”

He swallowed and straightened his stand. “Yes.”

“Come with us,” the man said tersely.

That meant only one thing: the gallows. He bowed his head and drew his Bible close, considering the thing in silence. He thought that it was only through the love of life and the earth that one could really believe in the resurrection and a new world. Now he was confronted by the question, but his opinion would not change. He grabbed a hold of Best and walked him off into a corner. He would have to get a word back to his family.

“I would like to ask a favor.”

Best dropped his sunken eyes in sadness. “Anything.”

“When you get back to England, remember me to Bishop Bell. He’s an old friend. Please, tell him what happened to me. Ask him to inform my family, and when you do, I want you to tell him something from me. Please, tell him I said: This is the end. For me the beginning of life.”

Best nodded and forced himself to smile. “Of course. Farewell, dear Bonhoeffer.”

He smiled and gave the man a pat on his arm. “Safe home, dear Best, and may God keep you. Ending my life here in these conditions—” he glanced out the window and the light hit his eyes like a new day’s promise “—that has a meaning that I think I can understand.”