THE REMNANT- CHAPTER 1

Crack! John shuddered at the blast of rifle fire that echoed through the tiny, barred window that sat between two bare concrete blocks ten feet above the damp cement floor. He knew what would happen next. A uniformed guard would open the rusty iron door, call out a number, and would take yet another prisoner out to the courtyard. John looked down at his number: 7032. He wondered what number would be called next.

The gate creaked and a tall, pudgy man dressed in black military garb entered, casting a look of disdain around the dingy, crowded room. He looked down at a long sheet of numbers. “Seven-zero-three-four,” he said in a bored drawl. John let out a sigh of relief as a surge of adrenaline coursed through his limbs. That had been a close one.

His moment of reckoning past, John looked around to see who the unlucky prisoner was. There- in the back corner, directly under one of the only two windows in the cell, a young man a few years older than John was getting to his feet. Oh no! It was Michael, the youth minister from Seattle. He had been the one who had organized all the teenagers in the cell into prayer groups. He was the kind of person John had always looked up to, always wanted to be.

Michael strolled past, with a calm, unconcerned look on his face. Stepping over a snoring elderly man, Michael winked at John.

“How’s it going, John? Holding up okay?”

“Michael! They can’t call you! What are we going to do now?”

Michael stopped, and with a swift glance at the waiting guard, he stooped down to where John was sitting. “John, man. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine.”

All the emotions of the last month welled up inside of John in a hot, burning surge. He felt tears coming into his eyes. Blinking them back, he said with a quiver, “No! It’s not going to be all right! We’re all stuck here, and they’re going to shoot you, and eventually they’re going to shoot me!” John tried to compose himself, but the tears came, and he buried his head in his grimy arms.

Michael looked at the guard again, and then back at John. “John- listen to me,” he said quietly. “Do you still have your Bible with you?” John nodded silently, reaching around and starting to pull out a tattered book. “Stop!” Michael hissed sharply, nodding to the guard who was looking impatiently in their direction.

“Listen to me, John. Do you remember how in the book of Acts the Christians who were persecuted went singing to their deaths? We talked about that last week during our Bible study.” John nodded. “Well, we’re in the same boat as they were. And what are we going to do about it? We’re going to give thanks.” Michael looked earnestly at John, who finally raised his head and looked back. “John, when I leave, look up 1 Corinthians 15:55 and 57.”

By now the guard was angrily stamping his foot, and Michael stood to leave. “John, remember- we have already won.” With that, he turned and walked quickly over to the waiting soldier. “How are you, friend,” he said pleasantly.

With an angry shove, the guard grabbed Michael’s shoulder and pushed him out the door. “Christians,” he muttered as he locked the door.

As soon as John was sure that they had left, he reached back and pulled out his Bible, flipping quickly to 1 Corinthians. He quickly leafed through the worn pages to chapter fifteen, and read, “Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting? Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

John looked up as the clear sound of singing drifted in through the barred window. It was Michael, and it sounded to John like he was singing Amazing Grace. Despite all the stress, John couldn’t help smiling slightly at the sound of his voice. Michael never could sing all that well.

Then there was another sound- the sound of an angry voice. And then a gunshot, and the singing suddenly stopped.