The following is a conglomeration of non-fiction missionary stories developed into a fictional story of four missionary men who gave their lives so that men like their executors could know the grace of God.
~
The harvest was plentiful that day. Three souls were granted life, and a celebration was under way. We wanted our three new brothers in Christ to understand the importance of what they had just done so we invited them over for a born again party, or a “fiesta de nuevo cumpleanos” as our three new amigos called it. I am pretty sure their names were Gustaba, Francisco, and Pastor, but do not hold me to that.
We knew there was something different about that day, but we didn’t know that it would be that fulfilling. We didn’t do anything routinely different, but because of the emotions that we now know were brought about by the Holy Spirit, we did pray more earnestly than we ever had before. We didn’t want to stand in the way of what God had in store.
Even though I was excited, I was still a little nervous about that day’s journey through the streets of Bogotá. The devotion from the night before was on what God could do when He moves and the changes that may take place. As soon as I realized that God was moving that morning, I immediately recalled the devotion from the night before. Selfish pride began to stir inside of me and I was not sure if I was willing to let God make a change in my life. I was not about to allow that to ruin the Spirit filled atmosphere, though, so I pushed my selfish pride away, and begged God for a harvest.
We left our bite-size apartment we were renting from a kind old Colombian native and made our way to the business district of Bogotá. We had already covered the business district, but we heard God calling us back for another visit. We weren’t very happy about this either. The time we had gone there before, everyone, with the exception of a hand-full, didn’t seem the least bit enthused about the good news of the gospel. We made the assumption that the lack of response was because of the people to whom we were trying to minister. The majority of the folks in the business district were high class business owners or executives. They had life figured out and thought that we were trying to ruin that for them with a book of rules and regulations. We even considered being disobedient and going to a new spot, but Peter straightened us out and rightfully insisted on going where God had called us.
We arrived at the Hotel de la Opera on 10th Street at about 10 o’ clock and began approaching people who were relaxing on the benches and planters along the streets as soon as we stepped off of the bus. For hours, Peter, Tim, Jim, and I spoke the word of God with passion to everyone that listened. A couple of folks let us speak to them for what seemed like eternity about our Savior, many people let us speak to them for couple of minutes before they asked us to stop or told us they had to be somewhere, and everyone else barely let us get out a word. Non-stop, till three forty-five in the afternoon, we asked people if we could share our hope with them, but there still wasn’t a harvest. It hadn’t been a terrible day, but we expected more. At three forty-five, we decided it was time to go back to the apartment for a meal and prayer and then continue our route after that. So we all piled into a bus stop and sat on the very-used green bench under the foggy glass roof. As we were waiting there, Gustaba, Francisco, and Pastor walked up beside us and stood waiting for the bus. They looked rough. Their faces showed signs of exhaustion and grief. After a short silence, Jim asked if they would like to sit down in our places. They gladly accepted and sat down. “How are you?” Jim asked in his practiced Spanish tongue. The men were slow to answer, but Gustaba finally spoke up and said they had just been fired from their job. He said that they were all in on a business project together which failed miserably. There wasn’t time for anyone to take a breath when Jim jumped on the opportunity to tell them that Jesus loved them no matter how successful they were in business. With intensity Gustaba asked if what he was saying was true.
“Oh yes. He loves you so much that he gave His life for you,” Jim answered. It was at this time that I noticed that the three callous hearted, middle aged business men sitting in front of us were teary eyed. They finally started to get a grasp on what they were hearing. The Truth was finally starting to settle on their hearts. After going through the Roman Road to salvation, Jim asked if they wanted to make God the Lord of their life. Jim asked like he was speaking to children, and like children they answered, “Yes”
Our three new friends were excited and a little confused about what just happened. They knew that Jesus lived in them and they made Him there Savior, but like any new believer, they didn’t quite get it all, so we invited them to our apartment to talk with them and throw a “fiesta” for them. We got to know them a little better and invited them to come back Sunday morning in time to come with us to church. After exchanging contact information they left, and we praised God for what had just happened. We couldn’t help but scream and shout a little bit. God had answered His promise there would be a harvest that day. Three men had found what they had been looking for all their life.
An hour later we were still celebrating and thanking God for His miraculous works and simply for keeping His promise. After Tim let out a shout of praise, we heard a knock at the door.
“It is probably old man Diego coming to ask us too keep it down. It is about his bed time,” I said as I made my way to open the door. I unlatched the multiple gold and silver locks on the door and twisted the handle. Before I could pull back the heavy wooden door, it was violently slung open throwing me against the wall. I was disoriented for a moment. The complete surprise of the door being slung open and the knock I took to the head sent me to the floor. After a moment of confusion, I opened my eyes to see three masked man with silenced pistols violently pushing Peter, Tim, and Jim to the ground. I immediately knew what was happening.
I quickly got up despite the throbbing in the back of my bleeding head, and made an attempt at tackling one of the men. With ease, he knocked me off of his shoulders, putting me on my back and issuing a quick kick to the forehead. I felt the blood start trickling down my face. The man who had just thrown me to the ground, with one arm, pulled me to my knees.
By this time, they lined us up on our knees, and we were all sore from the blows they had given us on their entrance. Peter, who had been looking out the window, was the first in line, followed by Jim, then Tim, making me the last one in line.
Without a moment to react, and only for the motive of persecution, one of the masked men gave Tim a quick lash to the head with the butt of his pistol. Peter went to his feet to retaliate before he received a sharp blow to the stomach from the dark black boots from one of the masked men.
“Can you not tell that no one wants you hear?” the apparent leader of the group asked.
“We came because we wanted to tell you about a guy we know,” Jim said. With a quick jab, he was on his back. I was on the end of the line but crawled to help him get back up to his knees. After Jim was up, I received another sharp blow, this one to my stomach I doubled over gasping for breath. “Are you alright?” Tim asked.
I was speechless. I never thought that life would come to this. No more than two hours ago we were praising Jesus for a harvest, and now we were being persecuted by men we didn’t even know.
“Why are you doing this?” I could barely get the words out of my mouth.
“We don’t like people like you brainwashing our people. We saw what you were doing today. You were preaching in the name of Jesus. As a matter of fact, you approached me today.” As he was saying this, he pulled off his black mask, and I recognized him. He was the kind man eating lunch who gave me the time of day. In the café square earlier that day he looked so kind.
“I prayed for you.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t need your prayers. We are fine, so stop bothering us.”
“You are not fine!” Peter said with a raised voice. “We are not trying to disturb you. We came here because we know that there are people here who yearn for something that lasts. We know what lasts. Give us a chance. We couldn’t wait because there are people here who are going to…”
“Hell? Am I going to Hell? Do you think I am going to hell?” the ring leader asked us as his two lackeys tried to look intimidating.
“I don’t know you!” Peter said. At this time tension was overflowing from the room. “I can’t judge you. But, what I do know is that despite what you believe or what you have done, or what you are doing, there is a man named Jesus who died for your sins and is looking down on you- And…and you know what he is doing? He is crying and saying ‘Don’t do that. Please stop. I have something better.’ That is what he is saying. And until you breathe your last breath that is what he will always say.”
As Peter spoke with power and confidence, I remembered Peter’s story. He had been in this situation before. While on another missionary journey two men kidnapped him on the streets and persecuted him for spreading the gospel. It was different that time. Peter wasn’t that strong and by the time they told him to denounce Christ or die, his walls had broken down. He denied Christ. I remember praying in that room in Bogotá on that day for Peter to be strong.
“Do you believe that? Do you really believe that?” asked the man with the gun pointing at his head. “Denounce this Jesus or die.”
At that moment in time, the Heavens opened up on Peter. He had lived his life. He had run the strong race.
“No.” he whispered.
“What?”
“NO.”
The pistol didn’t ring through the building and people didn’t rush to see what was happening, but a nine millimeter bullet silently sent Peter to his face. Blood leaked from the whole in his forehead, and he was pushed aside for the men to move on.
“You look like a nice guy with a family at home. Don’t do this to them. Don’t go back in a box. This isn’t that hard.” I prayed for Jim’s family. “Do you have a son?”
“Yes.”
“Denounce Christ for your son.”
With the rays from the setting sun lighting up Jim’s face he answered the only way he knew how. “NO.” Jim tumbled backwards, and white washed blood leaked from his lifeless flesh.
The silence pierced my ears. With only Tim between my Maker and I pray. I prayed for courage.
“Don’t be a fool. Denounce Christ…”
“No.”
With almost a satisfied look the killer pulled trigger. Tim fell face first, with blood from his body splattering on my face and clothes.
The blood from my three sleeping friends crept across the floor till it surrounded my bare knees. My hands that were holding me up were now covered in the blood of saints and it was my turn to decide who my master was.
“Your friends were fools. But you look like a smart guy. What is your name?”
“Jo…Joh...John.”
“Don’t be nervous John. It is an easy answer. John, denounce Christ or die.”
The butterflies from the morning were back, but I was ready for a change. “I will not denounce Christ.”
“You are stupid.” The man who seemed so loving that afternoon sitting at the table with his family pulled the trigger.
CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.
“You are lucky.”
There I knelt, wading in the blood of my new found heroes as the evil men began leaving. “Wait, you have to have another bullet. You can’t just leave me here like this.” I began to bawl. “I don’t have a family, they do, take me instead,” I cried in shock.
“What’s wrong with you kid?”
~
It is like my parents knew what would become of me when they named me John. They must have known that one day their little boy would end up like his hero, the apostle John, alive while his best friends died for the same reason he was living. The blood that covered me that day burned like the oil that covered John. It burned because I did not understand why I was left. I should have been the first.
I have finally come to understand why I am left, and that is because I have to tell people what it is like to stand in the presence of martyrs. I have to tell them what it is like to stand in the presence of courageous saints like Peter and Jim and Tim. I have to tell their story of loyalty and love. I wonder if John was thinking the same thing- while on Patmos.
