[“Sanctuary” fulfilled]
These days he always dreamed about terrible things, things that mirrored the fearful realities in his waking hours; it was as if all those fears were being dragged into his restless nights.
Chris was no longer discernibly devout at this point in his life. He had been brought up in a distant country by an old woman and an even older man after being abandoned by his mother. Well, perhaps “abandoned” was not the right word. The old man had told him that she had left her baby—Chris himself—with them for safekeeping, as she was being pursued because of a death sentence on her head. On both their heads, or so she said, and she wanted her boy to be saved. But the old people had always been vague about what danger could have threatened an innocent baby. Instead, they showed him, daily, the reality of their faith and devotion to God, even in the harsh religious climate in which they lived. Over the years, Chris learned about their Christian faith; he learned where it came from and what it meant. He participated in their daily worship services, which were held quietly and unobtrusively, because of the ongoing religious intolerance.
There were times they insisted he hide, explaining it as only an exciting game. Only much later did he learn the truth about that.
When he was a young child, he thought of his real mother with some curiosity and a little regret, but thankful that she had made sure his life would be spared. As he grew older, though, he began to doubt much of what he had been told. By the time he reached his teen years, the old man had died; Chris’ mother’s complete story went with him into the grave. Chris continued participating in the hidden services he had known since early childhood, mostly because it meant so much to the old woman who had looked after him with care and devotion from his infancy. Years later, the relationship between Chris and the old woman reversed. She had been all the mother and teacher he had needed for his entire life; now he was her caregiver as she slowly faded and failed, giving her back the love and devotion she had always shown him. He moved with her to another country, far away, to be closer to a large community of people so that her needs could be addressed, and where she could be free to express her love of God more openly. Through all this time, until the day she died, he gratefully and dutifully took care of her.
After her death, he stopped even the daily prayers that he had learned through the old people’s faithful word and example. The story of how he came to live with them receded in his memory, and his life took on more normal outlines. As an adult, daily life kept his entire focus on making a living and fitting into the world around him. Because of that, the faith of the church no longer held much of a part in his life. Nevertheless, he retained a general respect for what he had learned about the teachings and deep history of the church.
This was how it was for a long time. But gradually, incrementally, he became aware of accounts of violence and hatred concerning Christians and the Christian church—violence that reached appalling intensity in the country where he used to live and then spread further, like a devouring fire. That was when the dreams began…
Almost every night he dreamed of mayhem, torture, and murder, of destruction and loss. He woke from such dreams and was afraid to go back to sleep again, because the dreams always continued, picking up exactly where they had stopped at his waking. He couldn’t escape them. They seemed to be hideous warnings.
One memorable dream was a double-barreled blast of horror, because it was all about him. He was trying to escape from violent danger, from the certain knowledge of evil pursuing him, intent on completely destroying him. No matter where he turned in the dream, no matter what he tried to do to barricade himself in some imagined safe place, he knew that the evil would break through and ultimately catch him. Finally, his dream showed him a possible escape and he leapt at it—but then a second dream inserted itself. In it, he was in a store, looking for something he knew to be very important, but they didn’t have what he needed. He tried to leave then but found that every possible way out led to a dead end: stairs ended at solid walls, doors had no knobs, store personnel that he might have asked for help were nowhere to be found. He couldn’t get out because there was no exit. He was trapped. His doubled dream said, “You have to save yourself-- get away, get away!/There is NO way out—there is NO exit”. In this dream-filled night, he knew that he was a prisoner of inescapable doom. The faint sound of mocking laughter hovered over that realization.
In his waking life it all echoed. Day after day, week after week, he read accounts of the persecution and murder of Christians, world-wide. He had been vaguely aware of such things for a long time, mostly from barely understood cautions from his early life, but thought he had escaped that when he and the old woman had moved. But now it had accelerated; things were happening everywhere, gruesome and terrible things, and he did not see that anything was being done about it.
It came to a point where he could think of little else other than the injustice, the tragedies, the helplessness. Was the faith the old people had loved and taught him about, being destroyed? It seemed so, and he despaired. It had been a given in the early part of his life—not personally heartfelt enough to remain in the forefront as he grew older, but he realized that it was deep in his foundations, so he felt shaken. He began praying again, praying for all those in peril, praying for those who had been killed, praying night and day. He wished there was more that he could do, but he didn’t know what that might be.
One night, his disturbing dreams included a growing storm. Continuous rattling of glass forced him from his bed and over to a window, from which he saw tree limbs thrashing wildly. He felt a strong compulsion to go outside, so he dressed and opened the front door. At once, he was hit by a battering wind, strong enough to make him struggle to stay upright. He began to force his way down the street, following whatever was leading him. The wind howled; he heard the clamor of harsh voices in it. Dust and grit scoured at his eyes and his skin. Part of him wanted to turn back to the shelter of his home, but he kept on going.
Out of the night’s turbulence a dark shadow appeared: a large church building which he did not remember ever seeing before. He was simultaneously apprehensive and drawn forward inexorably. He entered the church. As the door closed behind him, the howling sound of the wind died down. It was quiet inside the church, but Chris could still hear the muffled noise of the violent storm outside the walls.
A worship service was going on. There were many people seated in the pews and a celebrant was speaking from the pulpit. Chris was hesitant to create a disturbance, so he turned to the right and quietly made his way down the side aisle. He wasn’t really sure why he was going to join the congregation, but he felt that he should.
He found a pew with only two or three people in it and sat down at a distance from them. As he settled himself, he looked around the church. It was large, the ceiling high above his head. All the lights were on.
In the front part of the church, the person who had been standing in the pulpit stepped down and another took his place and started to speak. Chris tried to listen to what was being said, but it was as if he had walked into a service in an unknown language. He could hear words, but he could find no meaning in them.
Clearly someone was speaking, but nothing was understandable. Was it only a problem for him? Did the rest of the congregation understand what was being said? He didn’t think so. He knew that all the others were physically present, but he sensed that they were detached from what was happening, and also from each other; there was no real connection between any of the people. Some were shifting in their seats, some crossing and uncrossing their legs, others moving their heads around randomly, gazing at nothing in particular. Every person in the church seemed to be waiting for something to happen—or maybe they were just sitting there for no reason at all.
An organ started to play. As he listened, he had the feeling that he had heard the music before, and he tried to remember where. But then the notes began to lengthen and drag out, until the sound became only a faint background drone and then stopped. He lost the memory just as he was almost grasping it.
He realized that everything in the church was slowing down: the celebrants’ voices sounded muffled, distant, and stretched out; all the light and colors in the church faded bit by bit until everything was dim, grey, and insubstantial. He looked to see if anyone else had noticed anything, but no one appeared conscious of it. Everyone other than himself had also slowed down their movements; there was a faint blurring in the air, as if a veil had been placed between him and everything else. He had no idea what was going on but continued to look all around him. As his eyes searched throughout the entire church, he realized that one thing was not dimmed or blurred, one thing had remained clear; it actually was becoming increasingly sharp and clear, as if in opposition to the fading light.
It was the altar.
He rose from his seat, edged past the people between him and the center aisle, and then walked forward, with his eyes fixed on the altar. No one paid the slightest attention to him or to the altar, not even the celebrants conducting the service. Their words were now so dragged-out as to be almost just pure sound. Their movements were in ultra slow motion; they were, in fact—like everyone else in the church--almost motionless. He continued to walk forward and then stepped up into the chancel area; he kept walking until he stopped in front of the altar. He stood mesmerized by its color, its shape, even by the acute sharpness of the wood grain, all in total contrast to the blurred outlines of everything else around him. And then the altar itself started to change.
A faint glow emanated from it and it became partially transparent. He began to see outlines of images within it, images of countless people: old and young, male and female, families holding their children, husbands and wives with their arms intertwined. A line of orange-clad figures being led to a beach—a priest stepping forth, offering to die in another man’s place—a group of women religious climbing wooden stairs to a scaffold—a young man pierced with arrows—men, women, and children lashed to stakes with flames enveloping their bodies—a woman with a brand on her arm. Figure after figure, face after face appeared before him, through a time which seemed endless. Then…knives were lifted, spears thrust forward, torches held high, axes falling, rocks thrown, ropes knotted, guns fired. Bodies being crushed, beheaded, disemboweled, burned, impaled, hanged, flayed, shot, gassed, strangled, frozen… He suddenly became aware of movement around him. He looked up and saw shadowy images of people coming through the walls and the roof of the church, moving towards and then disappearing into the altar.
As he watched them and watched scene after scene within the altar, he lost the despair that he had been carrying for so long. Instead, he was filled with a growing energy, a growing hope, a growing conviction. Instead of being burdened by fear, he felt his soul soar and cry out in courage and exultation. And the souls in the altar cried out, too: “Their God is my God”, “Here, take me instead”, “I will never forsake Him”, “Oh, Lord, lay not this sin to their charge”, “The King’s good servant, but God’s first”, “Had I a thousand lives, all those to Him shall I offer”, “Viva Christo Rey!”, “I kneel only to God”, “Be not offended of my sufferings”, “I can only save one of us…he will be saved”—voices singing songs and chants that pulled at his heart: “Te Deum laudamus”, “Laudate Dominum”-- “May I never betray Him who is the Father of us all.”
And then…
“WHO ARE YOU?” a voice cried, echoing from every direction.
Startled, he jerked up his head. “I’m Chris,” he answered hesitantly, looking over his shoulder and then turning in a slow circle, trying to locate the source of the voice. But he saw nothing.
“WHO ARE YOU?” the voice asked again.
“My name is Chris!” he answered more clearly, as he continued to look everywhere.
Then, “WHO ARE YOU?... WHO ARE YOU?... WHO ARE YOU?” repeated over and over again, like the tolling of an immense bell.
Deep inside himself, a half-forgotten name filtered to the surface: “Chris…Chris…Chris…topher. Christopher…Joel. I am Christopher Joel!” he spoke the full name loudly, with conviction.
“THAT IS WHO YOU ARE.” Silence. “THAT IS WHAT YOU ARE.” A longer silence. And then the voice said, “COME AND SEE.”
He turned back to the altar. As he watched the images continuing to change and blend and move past, he became aware of something else, too. From the bottom of the altar, from the front and the sides, darkness seeped out and started to spread across the floor. The darkness was red—and in an instant he knew what it was, absolutely. “The blood of the martyrs…” Remembered words from years ago echoed deep within him.
He bowed down and then knelt in the moving flow, his hands placed in front of him. He leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched the floor. The darkness was warm: he felt it on his head, with his hands, with his knees—the warmth moved throughout his body. His mind finished the quotation, and then he knew what his mother had willingly chosen so that he, Christopher Joel, would be saved. And the reason why he was to be saved.
Rising from his kneeling position, he bowed in solemn acknowledgment of all those in and entering the altar and then turned to face the people in the pews. His feet were completely encircled by the blood. For several minutes he looked closely at all the people. Faces were blank or bored or disinterested. Distracted and restless. Eyes looked anywhere but at the preacher or at the altar or even at him. Many eyes were closed.
He lifted his arms over his head—briefly in the orans position of prayer, but then thrust his arms outward, palms toward the people. Showing his hands, showing the blood. Warmth rekindled within him, rising from the blood around his feet and moving through his body until it reached his hands. And then they began to shine.
Beams of light came forth from his hands. Now here, now there, the light shone upon certain faces in the congregation. Wherever the light touched a face, a transformation occurred. The light moving through him kindled and called forth an inner light in the person it struck, and realization broke upon that particular face. Out of the dim, colorless gathering, certain people came into sharp focus, in full color, waking from the inside out. The light from his hands and their faces filled the church, shining onto the windows, the walls, and the door. He knew that it could be seen from the outside, despite the stones and wood of the building, filling the night with a burning glow. The sounds of the storm outside increased in response… During all this time, more shadowy figures continued entering through the walls and sinking into the altar.
Some of those chosen were now bowed in prayer; some knelt, and some prostrated themselves in the aisles. The others still looked blank, though, untouched by what was happening. But each person marked by the light finally rose in determination, then turned and made their way, one by one, to the church door. Each of them opened it and stepped outside into the tumult, undeterred by the malignant forces that immediately struck at them. Each walked boldly into the raging storm, still illuminated by the light and power from the blood.
After the door closed for the last time, he looked with compassion at those who had not been touched by the light, those who remained in their seats; a few seemed confused, as if they were thinking and looking inward. A still, small voice said, “This light is not for them—not now. But it will come for them later. For some of them. Through someone else.”
At those words, Christopher Joel lowered his hands. He saw that they were still covered with blood, but the floor beneath him was clean and untouched. He knew instantly what that meant. For a brief moment he crossed his hands on his chest. The blood on his hands soaked into his clothing; he felt its warmth sink into and strengthen his heart. He left the chancel and began to walk down the center aisle, with his eyes on the door. As before, the people still sitting in the pews did not look at him, but this time he understood.
When he reached the door, he pulled it open and strode through it into the roaring tempest—prepared to take his place in the great cloud of witnesses.
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Mary M Isaacs
copyright 2026 (from a forthcoming book)
