Chapter One

A Dream in the Night in Tehran

Chapter Two

Night Stars and the Sound of Rushing Waters in Lar Valley

Chapter Three

Joy and Sadness at the Feast-Day of St. Thaddeus (Sourb Thade)

Chapter Four

Echoes of Esther in Ecbatana (Hamadan)

Chapter Five

The Suffering of Saints and the Judgment of Evil in Isfahan (Tabae)

Chapter Six

The God Who Fulfills and Appoints:  Cyrus at Pasargadae and the Achaemenids of Persepolis

Chapter Seven

In Search of Daniel: The Road to Susa (Shushan)

Part Two

The Bridge

 [or The Chapter Without a Number]

[or The Interlude Before the Unleashing of the Fifth Seal]

Part Three

Thoughts, Dreams and Visions in the Night

America 1984-2003

Chapter Eight

January 1984: An Orwellian Dream in Wisconsin

Chapter Nine

July 1998: The Man in London Fog: A Night in Section 60 at Arlington Cemetery

Chapter Ten

December 2002: The Mystery of Christmas Past and Present

Chapter Eleven

January 2003: A Prelude to Cataclysm--Ali’s Prayer and Plea

Chapter Twelve

January 2003: The Last Rose–Saying Goodbye to Helen Claire Carr

Chapter Thirteen

August 2003: A Message from the Angel of What Is and Not What Appears To Be

Chapter Fourteen

Sourb Thade Has Come

Epilogue

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Foreword

 

 

           The dimensions of the life of Mark Dankof are seemingly without end. Known today as an Internet news commentator for Uncensored News and Views; a past candidate for the United States Senate; a book reviewer of everything from spy novels and biographies to the history of world conflicts; a Lutheran pastor and Christian counselor; and finally as an academic theologian, his odyssey continues toward destinations yet unknown. He would tell you that three fourths of the joy of life is simply in the quest, and in the future exploration of the planet’s vineyards under the direction of God while time remains. I have every confidence that this will characterize his life until his entrance into the Kingdom that is yet to come, in a world without end.

            We have now known each other for almost thirty years, dating back to that time light years ago when we were underclassmen at Valparaiso University in Indiana, 45 minutes south of the Chicago Loop. In the nearly three decades that have passed since our first encounter in the fall of 1974, we have upheld each other through relationships lost, open-heart surgeries, parental deaths, career setbacks, and different road signs along the way which point to biological aging and the ongoing passages endured in the changing seasons of life. While the public largely thinks of Mark Dankof as a thinker and pundit, he largely looms in my life as a friend whose faithfulness and constancy have survived intact, amidst the twists and turns in the road for both of us in the transition from vibrant youth to a reflective middle age.

            Finally, I believe the key to unlocking the life and world view of my well traveled friend resides in love–his love of God and His Son; his love of all of God’s Creation and cosmos; and his ongoing love affair with two nations, America and Iran, both past and present. This key is unveiled for our individual discovery and analysis in the passages of his diary from the summer of 1976, collated and presented here as A Summer of a Thousand Nights: From Tehran to Susa.

Jon Hartwein

St. Louis, Missouri

 

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 Introduction

 

            Part One of A Summer of A Thousand Nights: From Tehran to Susa represents a re-reading and collation of my diary kept in Iran as a twenty-one year old American residing there in the summer of 1976, as a break from undergraduate studies at Valparaiso University. The text is a combination of devotional notations not originally intended to be published for public purview, brief autobiographical references, a smattering of geographical and Biblical references noted at the time in my journal as having relevance to my observations made during my solitary travels in that Central Asian country, and an inspired synthesis of fact and fable comprised of a layered mosaic of montage.  It is my hope that this diary will minister to those who find themselves bearing many of life’s burdens with a sense of isolation and increasing hopelessness. As I now re-read the pages of my tattered chronicle, I am reminded of the Biblical paradox that it is precisely in the midst of this sense of isolation and depression that God reveals His deepest mysteries and grace to those who seek Him and the Cross of His Son as an alternative to the futility of pop psychology, self-help manuals, and the self-absorbed hedonism of our New Age. To the extent that He utilized my private journal entries of the summer of 1976 as an instrument both then and now, of a divinely guided path to self-understanding in a Biblical context, I am eternally grateful. It is my prayer that this little book of journal entries might assist the reader in his or her own journey in, or toward, a Biblically oriented faith and life.

            I am also eternally grateful to my earthly parents for their ongoing sustenance and encouragement to me in this life. To the extent that I used the summer of 1976 to learn anything about modern Iran, ancient Persia, the Scriptures, and ultimately myself, I must credit them for inculcating in me the desire to travel, to see, to listen, and to learn, appreciating the opportunities God enabled them to give me, while seeing a wider world in the context of the wisdom of the ancients and the deepest historical roots of the past. For with God, a thousand years are as a day that is past, or as a watch in the night (Psalm 90).

            My devotional diary cannot possibly pass for either Biblical or Iranian scholarship. In the former area, I would recommend to the reader that he or she contact either Trinity Evangelical Divinity School in Deerfield, Illinois, or Westminster Theological Seminary in Philadelphia, for a trusted reading list of the best applicable works tailored to a scholarly and believing approach to the Word of God. In the latter field of endeavor, I would recommend Sandra Mackey’s marvelous volume, The Iranians; Edwin Yamauchi’s Persia and the Bible; and A. T. Olmstead’s History of the Persian Empire.

            Part Two is entitled The Bridge. The present is the bridge between the distant past and the future yet to come. It may serve as a hermeneutic, or principle of interpretation and understanding, of both the diary of Part One and the contents of Part Three.

            Part Three of this book represents the results of a diary of night thoughts and dreams which occurred in the United States between January of 1984 and January of 2003. I will leave the lion’s share of the interpretation of these nocturnal manifestations to the individual reader.

            I wish to express my love for the history and people of Iran, as well as for The Old American Republic and Constitution. May both contemporary peoples find their way, and re-discover the best of their roots and identities, in the difficult days and times ahead.

Mark Dankof

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

 

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Chapter One

A Dream in the Night in Tehran

 

“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,’ even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.” –Psalm 139: 12

 

            I am awakened in the late hours of this June night by a most comfortable breeze, blowing through the screen which separates my bedroom from the elevated balcony terrace. The breeze seems as perpetual as the darkness, permeated and illumined by moonlight. I have never felt a breeze this comfortable, even as a boy traveling and sleeping in the deserts of California by night. It enters my mind that this must be the reason for the Hebrew word ruah and the Greek word pneuma, both of which appear in the Scripture and are simultaneously employed for the dual concepts of physical wind in the cosmos, and the Spirit of God in the realm of the unseen.

            The slight wind continues to blow without ceasing. As it does, I am conscious of the fact that its awakening of me from sleep has terminated what was a very significant, and seemingly mysterious dream. This is an especially curious insight, as I must confess as I write that I cannot remember the contents of the dream, no matter what degree of effort is exerted to do so. My mild frustration over the inability to recall this transaction of the nocturnal subconscious is compensated for by the breeze, which continues apace at a speed and temperature seemingly controlled by a thermostat not made by human hands or of this present world. I simply remember that the dream, whatever it was, produced a sense of transcendent tranquility, subsequently enhanced by the movement of the night desert breeze blowing through Tehran from south to north. 

            Now being fully awake, the thought occurs to me that I should walk out to the elevated balcony terrace just beyond my bedroom, to get a good nighttime glimpse of Tehran while enshrouded by the cool night desert air. The movement of air has lifted the haze of dust and automobile exhaust which often hovers over this urban sprawl, increasingly one of the world’s most significant cities at this juncture in history. Each time I have appeared at this balcony at night over a period of successive summers, my mind receives a most impressive and permanent photographic imprint of an endless succession of flat topped roofs, terraces, alleyways, tree-lined streets, and the incessant twinkling of what seem to be an incalculable number of city lights to the south. Watching these lights for an undetermined period of time in the darkness, I am now reminded of my ongoing impression of the southern part of this city, largely formed by several visits to the Tehran bazaar--a labyrinthine maze of shops, narrow streets and hidden passages, and scores of people speaking languages I do not understand. On the one hand, I like the sights, smells, and mysterious ambience surrounding this apparently central place of economic transaction and political intrigue. On the other, there is the sense here of an impenetrable, Byzantine, subterranean world where the possibility of the replacement of festiveness with directed hostility seems to simmer just beneath the surface. There is only one other time when my sixth sense is similarly aroused by the perception of that which is both surreal and forbidding–the distant sounds of the call to prayer (the moezzin) which emanate from the mosque.

            The cool, soothing breeze continues to blow from the south. As it does, I feel the need for another visual scene in a completely different sector of the city on this night. As remarkable as it seems, this is achievable simply by leaving the terraced balcony outside my bedroom for an identical one just outside the kitchen in this same apartment–this time facing due north. 

            The Biblical God has bestowed His countless blessings upon me many times in many places on this earth. I am reminded of this truth again tonight in standing on the terraced balcony of the north, with the stark magnificence of the Elburz mountain range almost at my fingertips. The great mountain Damavand lies to my right, northeast of the city. In the winter, one is awe-struck by the indescribable beauty of the snow on these peaks, further visual evidence of the artistry and handiwork of God. Tonight, an evening of early summer, unveils a range of stark, encircling omnipresence, whose primary message to me continues to be my own dependence upon the Sovereign of the Universe and of History who created these seemingly immutable edifices of physical grandeur out of nothingness. I am reminded too, that this city of millions, which lies at the southern edge of the Elburz, also remains at the feet of its Creator as well. Invaders, empires, and dynasties come and go in the context of time. These mountains testify that it is God alone who is constant and unchanging.

            I still cannot remember anything about the dream from which I was awakened by the southern breeze. But as I gaze north toward the mountains in the darkness of the terrace balcony above the dimly lit street called Golestan Number 4 off of Saltanatabad, there is a dawning and intuitive sense that my time in this place far removed from America is running out. I do not know why or when. But it seems that this is so.

            I wonder tonight if this is simply the reflexive reaction of someone who grew up in the American Air Force, where the only permanence is impermanence and transition, or if my intuition is the Spirit’s whisper in the night desert air, in the form of a premonition. German Lutherans are taught to seek God’s revelation in the objective tools and format of the inscripturated Apostolic Word and the Sacrament of the Body and Blood of our Lord. Because of this background, I maintain a healthy suspicion of the subjective and the intuitive as related to the Divine, especially packaged in the subconscious machinations of the mind which eventually reach the conscious level primarily when the mind is engaged in reflection upon the meaning of the past, the present, or the future.

            But these feelings do not depart this evening as I pray to the God of Israel who revealed Himself via the Incarnate Logos in the linear procession of time and history, while continuing to gratefully graze at His handiwork expressed in the mountains north of the city of Tehran. As St. Paul admonishes the believer to “pray without ceasing” [I Thess. 5: 17], I continue to pray on the terraced balcony through the night and into the dawn. It seems that I have been blessed in these hours with an ability to focus my heart and mind on concentrated communication with God in a way not known or experienced before. The session begins to wane only with the beginning of the appearance of the light of dawn as the beginning of the dissipation of the night. It is broken most consciously with the familiar sounds of animal hooves, directly below me in the street.

            A aging villager is leading a donkey eastbound on Golestan 4. The donkey is carrying blankets, pots and utensils, several hefty bags of fruit and produce, and other items I cannot identify from the balcony. He walks with a slow, but steady and willing gait, and a demeanor that suggests his patience with the general demands of life and the specific tasks of this dawning day. The elderly man’s attire consists of a haggard, bill-less cap; worn sandals; white T-shirt; and a coat and pants made of aging light gray materials. His gait is as methodical as the donkey’s. Passing by my terraced balcony, the old man raises his right arm to engage in a congenial wave, matched by a wry smile and eyes that continue to sparkle even in the earliest hours of the morning. I visually follow him, and the burden-laden donkey until they are out of sight, probably headed for a small village east and south on the outskirts of town. There is a sudden, poignant sadness at the disappearance of these benevolent creatures of another age. I wonder if I will see them again. 

            The Spirit’s whisper in the urban desert tells me that I will not forever remain here, despite my love of this place and desire to remain. He tells me that this summer is a special gift from the Lord, to search the treasures of this country and its history in the blink of an eye that has been granted. The Spirit insists that “he who has an ear” [Rev. 2: 11] will maintain this laborious journal as a record of the days when I obeyed His mysterious voice, in the ongoing formulation of the kaleidoscopic mosaic that is my life.

            Light has indeed replaced darkness once again from the vantage point of my northern balcony, as another dawn hails from the east, to be replaced this evening by the setting of another sun in the west. The time is passing quickly. The content and the meaning of the night dream in the south desert breeze have come to conscious memory. God is at work in these unfathomable times and seasons, although I cannot understand or scrutinize the inscrutable. In this regard, on a summer desert morning in Iran, I affirm the observation of King Solomon in Ecclesiastes 11: 5 that, “As you do not know the path of the wind, or how the body is formed in a mother’s womb, so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things.” 

 

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Chapter Two

Night Stars and the Sound of Rushing Waters in Lar Valley

 

“When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars, which You have set in place, what is man that You are mindful of him, the son of man that You care for him?”–Psalm 8: 3

“. . .his voice was like the sound of rushing waters.”–The Apocalypse of St. John 1: 15

 

            The mind cannot process the awesome character of the night sky in Lar Valley on this Persian summer night. I have borrowed a now out-of-print book entitled Persia and the Persians, written by the first American clergyman to serve in this country. The part of it apropos for this celestial evening is his description of this place, north of Tehran and in the Central Elburz.

            It is not an exaggeration to record in this journal that one can employ the naked eye in this Valley at night to observe not simply constellations, but galaxies. My only other point of personal reference in the past goes back to my days as a kid at the planetarium of the Bishop Museum in Honolulu, where one would sit in air conditioned comfort in a circular theater format, waiting for the astronomer/technician to slowly dim the lights while beginning his lecture in a clear, but droning baritone voice. I remember that during one Christmas in Hawaii, the resident astronomer at the Bishop did a presentation on the Star which guided the Wise Men to Jesus. My mind suddenly recalls a mental file during silent thought, in which it occurs to me that he spoke of his theory that these Men were from Persia, and represented the Zoroastrian faith. This information lay dormant for years, until I arrived here and visited a place called Yazd. There were all of these little houses with domes, made out of mud brick. Outside the city, a guide took me to a so-called Tower of Silence, a hill reminiscent of the kind of topography one would see in Arizona or New Mexico. In lieu of burying their dead, the Zoroastrians would leave deceased loved ones on top of this Tower, while maintaining a three day vigil from a little mud hut at the base of the hill. An illuminated lantern would burn in the hut for three days, to insure the translation of the deceased from this life to the next.

            But this is no planetarium. These constellations are real. So is the silence that echoes in this Valley and which proceeds from the celestial bodies. I feel that this silence is of a type that can occur only in the presence of an awesome unveiling of a portion of God’s mystery for us. Exodus 33 says that even Moses could not encounter God directly in His divine essence unveiled, without experiencing death. I imagine that other than an eventual eschatological encounter with the Logos of God, described by the Apostle John as the One who has made the unseen God known (John 1: 18), the closest I will ever come to a physical, visual encounter with the God of Israel is in this Valley of Lar.

            The reverberations of the silence of this Valley are permeated only by the perpetual sound of the rushing water of the river that runs through it. This afternoon in the bright sunshine, I experienced this river after donning leggings and wading hip-high into the midst of its mild rapids with my fishing rod, in search of fish. John 21: 11 records that Peter and the others caught 153 fish in a Christ-guided venture of reaffirmation and restoration. However, my total today at days end was zero, or as my German Lutheran pastor of catechetical days used to say, null. My lower extremities, even with leggings, were frozen to the point of numbness. I later used a raging campfire to ward off what seemed like a mild case of hypothermia. A combination of dry clothes and the fire prove successful. The brilliance and the heat of the fire continue into the darkness–and brightness–of the night, and the reverberations of the Valley’s silence which contain the mediated communication of God. His speaking continues through the rushing of many waters in the traversing of these hills by the river whose currents are calmer in the cool of the evening. John has Daniel [the 6^th century prophet of Israel resident in Persia] in mind when he says in his Apocalypse that the voice of the Logos is “like the sound of rushing waters” (Revelation 1: 15; ref. Daniel 7: 13). His presence at Lar, expressed in rushing water, darkness, light, and silence is palpable.

            It occurs to me that this is the most significant contemplative thought in silence I have experienced since the windup of my father’s involvement as an Air Force colonel ensconced in the Vietnam war. From there, it was here. I hope the endgame is better this time than the last. As my parents escaped Saigon and the Pacific for Tehran, I escaped the pain of being an American high school student in the context of the quagmire of Southeast Asia, by matriculating in college south of the Chicago Loop. A change of geographic venue and assignment enable one to proceed with life apace and without excessive introspection.

            Until one is in the silence of the Valley. Now in the presence of God in Persia, it is time to reflect upon the past, while donning the present and anticipating an unknown future undergirded by faith. It occurs to me in this incredible place of the night that the past must be examined, in the ongoing discovery and re-evaluation of the self, to turn the uncharted waters of the present and future over to the Sovereign who sets up the Times and the Seasons. There is no successful circumlocution that can preempt this process for those who possess a Soul and a Spirit, the pseuche imparted by God. The alternative is a slow, but inexorable death.

            As this death enshrouds the individual outside of the Divine, it occurs to me on this night that it rains its slow, steady mist of destruction upon nations and empires who ignore or consciously thwart His purposes as well. I love the Old American Republic and Constitution, but must confess that presently residing alone in thoughtful seclusion in a Persian mountain valley at night is preferable to the kinds of celebrations currently in vogue here among American expatriates during this summer of Bicentennial. It occurs to me that the spirit of Lexington, Concord, and Valley Forge, constantly invoked in the public observances here, is light years removed from what consummated in Saigon in April of 1975, or for that matter what is happening in this part of the world. There is an officially sanctioned American mythology being communicated this summer, soaked in beer and tucked in hot dog buns wrapped in Old Glory, which obfuscates by design and through symbolic truths demonically re-cast as convenient, lethal falsehoods. Aided and abetted by the funded cacophony and decadence embodied in the present state of American culture and the body politic, the mythology deceives when the heart is dedicated to the aggrandizement of the self and the replacement of God with the deification of the State. St. John, I learned this summer, says in Revelation, chapter 2: 13 that the church of Pergamos resides “where Satan’s seat is.” A Christian missionary resident in Tehran told me that this comment references the fact that Pergamos was the first official center of Emperor worship in Asia during the time of the Roman Empire. I hope the Bicentennial celebrations this summer are not the beginning of a good case Rome Redux for the United States. In its legitimate search for its glorious, pre-Islamic Achaemenid past, the Persian nation must come to grips with these temptations and tensions as well.

            I am reminded in this silent, nocturnal paradise with its domed ceiling of celestial beings, that the Bible condemns the age-old temptation of attempting to divine the future by specific configurations of stars and planets in the night sky. The methodologies of the Egyptian and Babylonian occultists and court astrologers are no match for the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who revealed Himself and His consummate purposes in time in and through the Logos. The voice of the Logos speaks to me in the sounds of rushing waters proceeding through the darkened terrain of the Valley, with an eerie, visually penetrating moon-sheen skimming on the surface of the mild rapids and the rocks and pebbles of the twisting shoreline. As eyelids begin to close to the visual panorama of God’s awesome cosmos, the aquatic reverberations of the voice in the hills remind me of ideas conducive to restful sleep. First, that His presence in this place is indeed a protective covering from potential predators and harm. Second, that the Father’s blessing has been bestowed on those who recognize His sovereign domain over the future. It transcends the celestial beings and the absurd notions of those who seek to replace the sovereignty of God with deterministic proclamations of the future based on the stars and their fixed courses. And finally, that the voice of the Logos has confirmed the other places for my brief journey in Persia in the context of a summer which embodies the truth of the incessant speed of time and the brevity of temporal life. I shall proceed to Azerbaijan and the Church of Saint Thaddeus; followed by a search for Esther and Mordecai in Ecbatana; a commemoration of God’s termination of the evil life of Antiochus Epiphanes IV in Tabae; a visit to Cyrus and the Achaemenids at Pasargadae and Persepolis; and finally a search for Daniel and the deeper meaning of his proclamations at Susa.

 

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Chapter Three

Joy and Sadness at the Feast-Day of St. Thaddeus (Sourb Thade)

 

“I tell you the truth, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices. You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy.”–John 16: 20

 

            I am returning today to Western Azerbaijan in Iran, and the Church of St. Thaddeus, located approximately a dozen miles south of Maku. Two years ago [1974], it was my privilege to be here during the yearly Feast-Day for Thaddeus, known as Sourb Thade. The people of northern Iran also refer to this Armenian church as the Black Church or Kara-Kilise. In 1974 during the once-a-year Feast and Church service, I was told by an elderly Armenian man making his 57^th consecutive pilgrimage to this place, that St. Thaddeus [Jude] founded this physical edifice dedicated to Christ in A. D. 66. He added that the sacred sword or spear used to pierce Christ on the Cross at Calvary had been transported by Thaddeus to Armenia, subsequently to be stored in a sacred museum of supernatural treasures called Holy Echmiadzin. By his account, Thaddeus’s founding of Sourb Thade was not simply the genesis of the Armenian church, but of all of Christendom. I am not in a position to assess the historicity of any of this, but it makes for one of the most fascinating accounts of the early Church in the first century.

            The early Armenian church’s experience was one of mystery, love, and joy, coupled with persecution and martyrdom at the hands of Armenian Arsacid monarchs. In this regard, it mirrors the materially poor, but spiritually rich church of Smyrna in Asia Minor at the time of John’s Apocalypse in the first century, persecuted by Emperor Domitian (81-96) and other subsequent Roman despots. Perhaps it is also suggestive of the remnant Church of our Lord during the darkest of persecutions today yet unveiling prior to the blessed eschaton of the Logos. The memory of Thaddeus, martyred while spreading the Gospel in these Iranian mountains in the first century, permeates the sanctuary and the surrounding hills, mountainous peaks, rocky slopes, and endlessly panoramic horizons east and west.

            Once a year, the believing remnant pilgrims arrive here by all terrain vehicles, donkeys, or strenuous walking. The sounds of the Feast and the silence of the Azerbaijani mountains which encircle it, continue to communicate the presence and working of the Holy Spirit through time, despite earthquakes, military invasions, and all other manner of natural catastrophe and political tragedy past, present, or future.

            I was perpetually reminded of the Holy Spirit’s work and presence here two years ago, in numerous ways. The first of these was in the mystical gathering of the pilgrims around God’s Word in the sanctuary, where the reading of the Word, the lighting of many candles, the reverberations of the voice of the priest emanating from the illumined altar space with the domed ceiling, the sacred transcendent artistic images, and the palpable joy of the people all acknowledged the presence of the divine Logos and the Spirit who proceeds from the Father (in the Western church, the Father and the Son). It was clear to me as I watched and experienced this, that in Eastern Christianity there is a special, ethereal experience of the God of history who manifests Himself in Word and Sacrament. The Armenian priest assumed the role of the steward of the Mysteries of God. As he negotiated the altar-space, there was a most effective utilization of light behind and above him, conveying the entrance and the presence of the Light of the World in this sanctuary through the brilliant illumination which enveloped the priest as he reverently worked in the midst of the Holy of Holies. The Bread of the Presence of God was the inexplicable intersection of the eternal and the temporal. The majesty of the mysterious power and fullness of the Holy Trinity was made apparent during the entire ritual. The blasphemous trivialization of God and His mysteries through profane familiarization, so characteristic of the humanistic American church and its concessions to secular Western culture, was absent in the worship here. God was indeed present at Sourb Thade for His people as the Logos was encountered in written and spoken Word; Light; Bread; and the singing and chanting of ancient Liturgy which connected each annual gathering of the Body of Christ in this sacred place to its predecessors and successors in time. The paradox is that this manifested itself at Sourb Thade while the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob concurrently maintained an eternal, transcendent conveyance of His omnipresence and omnipotence in a way which underscored the unbridgeable gap between the Creator and His creatures. So shall it also be in the New Jerusalem, and in the New Heavens and the New Earth (Revelation 20).

            There is yet another vivid, poignant memory of the power of ritual and symbol from the past Feast here–the slaughtering and shedding of the blood of the lamb outside the sanctuary. I must confess watching this most significant event two years ago from a considerable distance away in the surrounding hills. The execution of this innocent, spotless animal, and its subsequent suspension from what appeared to be a meat-hook of sorts attached to a horizontal bar and suspended between two trees, was at one level repugnant to me. Yet this ghastly intrusion of displaced violence upon the lamb facilitated the spiritual grasp of the reality that while the Jewish High Priest could only enter the Holy of Holies once a year, and only accompanied by blood (Hebrews 9), the Logos entered the Most Holy Place not by the blood of a surrogate lamb, but once and for all by His own blood as the Lamb of God, and on behalf of the Saints. This yearly ritual in Western Azerbaijan at Sourb Thade reacquaints and rededicates the pilgrims to the truth that without the shedding of the blood of the Agnus Dei, there is no remission of sins (Hebrews 9: 22). The law of God requires that there be payment for sin and a cleansing with blood; the love of God mandates that this horrific payment be willingly undertaken by His Agnus Dei alone. The death and shedding of blood are simultaneously an act of horrific judgment, and an unmerited gift of divine love and life. In these now deserted hills, I remember the echoes of the voices of the young Armenian, European, and American children of two years ago, singing the relevant portion of the ancient Liturgy during the visual re-enactment of the once-and-for all gift of the Logos:

Lamb of God, You Take Away the Sin of the World,

Have Mercy On Us.

Lamb of God, You Take Away the Sin of the World,

Have Mercy On Us.

Lamb of God, You Take Away the Sin of the World,

Grant Us Thy Peace. Grant Us Thy Peace.

            The pain and poignancy of the death of the lamb is later replaced in my memory by the Festival Dancing and Singing. There was great joy in this for the young and young-at-heart who participated. I theorized two years ago that perhaps there is a multi-faceted component to the joy which welled up in those who joined hands in a circle to enact a variety of Armenian dances and songs. First, even my German Lutheran objectivism tied to a conscious veiling of the deepest emotions was moved by the Divine Liturgy of the Logos, the sacrifice of the lamb, and the beaming faces and clapping hands of those who expressed what I suspect was a layered tier of liberations. The foundational of these must have been the recognition of liberation from sin and the Prince of Darkness embodied in the life, death, and resurrection of the Logos. Secondly, one sensed that the love of family, friend, and national tradition which energizes the dancing and singing was also a temporary liberation in time from the individual tragedies and hardships transported here from a multitude of places on the earth, near and far. In those handful of days, these burdens were willingly borne by the collective faithful as yet another reason for the continued imperative on the part of some to make the pilgrimage here once more. And finally, it occurred to me in that day of the observance of dancing and singing from afar, that these expressions of body and voice were somehow connected to the expressed liberation of the Armenian from political, racial, and religious oppressions past and present–and perhaps future. Perhaps then, this community truly is a microcosm of the Church of the Ages, awaiting the liberation of the Logos from the agony and oppressiveness of the present Age and tribulations yet to come. It is thus to me, a theological, anthropological, and ontological mystery of cosmic proportions that our deepest union with the Father and the Logos through the Spirit, occurs in the context of the greatest joys experienced on the mountains’ heights, as it also does with the inevitable valley of the greatest pain and tragedies known in time. The Festival of Sourb Thade testified to this revealed and yet incomprehensible mystery in 1974. One believes that it will again, bringing transitory pilgrims in the years that follow with blinding and relentless speed, until the Logos enters history again for its termination, as a precursor to the Kingdom and Age to come.

            Only now there is no Festival here. It is a month away. I deliberately came here to West Azerbaijan one more time to experience the silent, but majestic presence of God away from the teeming multitudes of pilgrims and the colorful sights and sounds of two years ago. What is particularly striking is that the mountains, valley, and Monastery of Sourb Thade still testify to the grace and greatness of God as signs of His handiwork. But the panorama is of a different genre, for a totally different day in time. The sun is noticeably absent; the hills which contained a panoply of colors and supernatural shades two years ago have a monolithically depressing hue of deep gray. The elevated vantage point I possess in the mountains to the west of the Monastery enable me to glimpse but for a few brief visual moments, the exterior of the deserted sanctuary devoid of all lights, sound, color, pilgrims, or priest. There is a distant but steady sound of thunder coming from the west, preceded by billowing dark clouds which begin to envelop me on the top of the mountain with an obscuring mist and a steady, but penetrating and drenching rainfall. The sanctuary has disappeared completely and silently in the sudden onset of fog and rain.

            Is this earthly cessation of light, sound, color, gathered pilgrims, and the presence of the priest at Sourb Thade an omen for the future of this country and mine, and the confessing Church of Our Lord in the midst of an impending “. . .great distress, unequaled from the beginning of the world until now–and never to be equaled again. . . .?” I cannot say, for “We are given no miraculous signs; no prophets are left; and none of us knows how long this will be (Psalm 74: 9).”

            But the Logos who manifests His presence in the mountains of West Azerbaijan at Sourb Thade is reassuring in the fog and rain. The sanctuary is in a fortified position of rolling hills and encircling walls. The River of God continues to flow through the valley there. A Feast for the people of God will come again. And we shall soon see the Logos of the Word, the Bread, the Wine, and the Light, face to face in the glorious realm above and beyond our linear journey in time.

 

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Chapter Four

 

Echoes of Esther in Ecbatana (Hamadan)

 

 

“For if you [Queen Esther] remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to royal position for such a time as this? [Mordecai to Esther] . . .I [Queen Esther] will go to the king, even though it is against the law. And if I perish, I perish.”–The Book of Esther, chapter 4: 14, 15

 

            Driving in an old Peykan automobile toward Hamadan, known in the ancient world as Ecbatana, my mind’s thoughts drift off in quasi-highway hypnosis to a contemplation of a movie released earlier this year entitled Midway. It stars Charlton Heston and Henry Fonda among others, and depicts the circumstances surrounding the pivotal Pacific naval battle of June 1942 between the United States and the Imperial Japanese Navy commanded by Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto.

            In the actual conflict, the American Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet (CINCPAC) was an unassuming, but brilliant naval tactician from a small town in the German-American sector of the Texas Hill Country northwest of San Antonio. His name was Chester Nimitz. Named to the post in the aftermath of the Pearl Harbor disaster in December of 1941, it was his job to supervise the rebuilding of a devastated American Pacific Fleet and to devise a coherent strategy for reversing the tidal wave of Japanese naval successes since the outbreak of the war. It appeared to be an impossible task.

            The first furtive breakthrough occurred in the dark recesses of the underground cement fortress that housed the American Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) cryptography division at Pearl Harbor. The cryptographers, led by a young genius named Joseph Rochefort, managed to secretly crack the JN-25 code being used by Admiral Yamamoto for transmissions to and from his staff commanders in the Pacific. In the decoded transmissions being surveyed in the cryptography basement headquarters of ONI at Pearl, Rochefort’s team encountered a strange reference to “Objective AF.” It became imperative to determine what this “AF” referred to. Rochefort was convinced that it pointed to the location of Yamamoto’s next fleet attack in the Pacific.

            One of his junior cryptographers subsequently remembered an oblique reference to “AF” from a Japanese aircraft’s radio transmissions the previous March. At the time, the junior code-breaker recalled plotting courses to determine what land mass the Japanese plane was nearest as it broke radio silence with the “AF” transmission. The only appreciable land mass the plane was proximate to as it mentioned flying over “AF” was Midway Island.

            The Washington naval establishment discounted the information as a deliberately disseminated fake, designed by Yamamoto to mislead Chester Nimitz as to the former’s intentions. Washington was convinced that there would be another attack in Hawaii, or an attack on the American West Coast. Nimitz was urged to disregard Rochefort’s information and analysis, and to keep his three remaining aircraft carriers, Enterprise, Hornet, and the damaged Yorktown at port in Pearl Harbor in a completely defensive mode.

            But the visceral instincts of the German-American from the Texas Hill Country told him otherwise. He became convinced that Rochefort and the other American cryptographers in the secret underground basement fortress at Pearl Harbor were absolutely correct. Completely disregarding the pleadings for defensive caution emanating from Washington, Admiral Nimitz secretly deployed all three of his remaining Pacific carriers northeast of Midway to wait for the Japanese naval task force he was convinced would strike Midway from the northwest, coming in behind the cover of an oceanic storm front.

            Nimitz and Rochefort were proven to be absolutely correct. The Japanese arrived with a task force comprised of four of the six aircraft carriers used to inflict defeat upon the Americans at Pearl Harbor six months before. Their names were Hiryu, Soryu, Akagi, and Kaga. They arrived at “Objective AF” with their best pilots and planes on these legendary carriers, an invasion force, and the capable command of Admiral Nagumo who had led the Japanese to victory over the American Pacific Fleet in Hawaii the previous December 7^th.

            But the outcome this time was vastly different. Between Rochefort’s cryptological genius and Chester Nimitz’ daring naval strategy, the Imperial Japanese Navy met with cataclysmic disaster. All four of their aircraft carriers were blown out of the Pacific waters off of Midway Island and subsequently laid to rest at the bottom of the sea. Their escort vessels met an identical fate. The undulating waves and tides of history had turned dramatically. The sun began to set on the fortunes of the Japanese Empire in June of 1942, a process which concluded with the terrible, apocalyptic fireballs which vaporized Hiroshima and Nagasaki three years later.

            The Heston/Fonda production Midway contains a posted paragraph in bright red print at the movie’s onset. At one juncture, the inset refers to the “. . .pure chance by which great events are often decided.” This was apparently Hollywood’s verdict on the outcome of the events in June of 1942 under the command and orchestration of Admiral Chester Nimitz. But was it truly accurate in this assessment? Or were these events on and near Midway Island which turned the tide in the Pacific War under the direction of a Divine Providence whose identity and sovereign direction of historical events had been missed by the producers and directors of the film epic?

            Arriving at modern Hamadan, it crosses my mind that this is the same issue underlying the events in the lives of King Xerxes (486-465 B. C.), Queen Esther, and Mordecai which culminated in the unraveling of the evil plot of the Persian Prime Minister Haman, to eradicate every Jewish person in the 127 provinces of the Persian Empire from Ethiopia to India (Esther 1: 1). The name of God is not mentioned even once in the written narrative. Does this mean that the events recorded in 5^th century B. C. Persia, or any other historical occurrences for that matter, are a chance configuration of evolutionary forces and coincidences? Or is there a purposeful God who quietly designs and directs in time and space?

            King Xerxes strikes me as a tragic figure. Having read the account of his royal conclave in Esther, chapter 1, I am now reminded of the educated hypotheses of the commentators regarding the significance of the setting of this initial chapter in the year 483 B. C. in Susa. The year, and the presence of the military leaders of Persia and Media, are suggestive. Was he, as Herodotus (7.8) seems to suggest, planning the road map of the disastrous Persian military campaigns against Greece from 482-479 B. C.? In this regard, Xerxes seems to be a proleptic version of the tragic, but gallant Yamamoto of Japan in the 20^th century. His efforts, and that of his military staff planners, would come to a similar end. Perhaps this particular Achaemenid king of ancient Persia was unaware of the road map of history provided by the dreams and visions of Daniel in chapters 2, 7, and 8, which predicted the end of the zenith of Persia and its eclipse at the hands of Alexander the Great. The Ram would indeed be shattered by the projection of the power of the Goat (Daniel 8), which would subsequently enjoy the apex of its own power for but a brief season in time.

            And what of the other developments and configurations in this incredible saga? What were the percentage odds on the secretly Jewish Esther replacing Vashti as the Queen of Persia? On Mordecai’s discernment in advising and instructing Esther to conceal her nationality and family background from Xerxes (2: 10)? On Mordecai’s presence at the King’s Gate at the precise time he needed to be there to overhear and report the details of the plot of Bigthana and Teresh to assassinate the King? Or on the way in which Esther became used as the Queen of Persia to intercede with her husband to halt the genocidal anti-Jewish pogrom of the Prime Minister, Haman?

            The question of either “pure chance” or a Divinely predestined design in all things especially hinges on Esther 6: 1. It comes to my mind again here on a sunny afternoon in Hamadan, that this verse demonstrates the mysterious way in which God often employs the mundane, the ordinary, and the seemingly insignificant to accomplish His purposes in the lives of His people in the capsule of Creation and time.

            Xerxes could not sleep. On this night of insomnia just prior to the launching of the pogrom, he decided to read. Of all of the volumes in the royal Persian library, his selection of that fateful evening was the book of the Chronicles of his Reign as King of the Persian Empire. With all of the voluminous material within these Chronicles, the King finds his way to the very page and paragraph telling him of the pivotal role of Mordecai the Jew in thwarting the assassination plot against his life, conceived of five years before. It leads to the honoring of Mordecai; the King’s lending of a willing ear to Queen Esther’s plea to help the Jewish people throughout the Empire; and the issuance of a new decree which authorizes the Jews of the Empire to defend themselves from the ravages of Haman’s pogrom. The military victories of the Jews in Esther, chapter 9, laid the foundation for the observance thereafter of the Feast of Purim.

            And then there is the question of Haman and the existence of evil in the darkest spiritual realms of the blackest hearts of men and women. Esther 9: 1 mentions that “. . .now the tables were turned.” The seventy-five foot gallows that Haman schemed and labored to build as the instrument of Mordecai’s death, now served as the instrument of his own, and that of his ten sons. The forces commissioned by Haman to carry out mass murder throughout the Empire were themselves annihilated, with over 75,000 casualties. The long lineage of conflict between Israel and the Amelekites (Exodus 17; Deuteronomy 17; I Samuel 15), symbolized in the struggle between the Jews of Persia and Haman, had resulted in the victory of God’s people once more. And with this victory came the provision of the Lord’s rest (Esther 9: 17, 18).

            The place of rest for Queen Esther and her cousin Mordecai is in a mausoleum in this place now known as Hamadan, an elevated city southwest of Tehran and northwest of Isfahan. Hamadan Province, which includes this city, is a place of beautiful, fertile highlands, gargantuan mountains with snow-topped peaks, and a deep blue sky. The cold and snow which enshroud Hamadan for two-thirds of a year give way in the summer to mild, breezy sunny days and a deep green reminiscent of agrarian Ireland. I would select it as a place of rest over the centuries for a beautiful Achaemenid Queen of Persia and her cousin.

            One is deeply moved by the simplicity of the mausoleum, which is dwarfed by the historical and Biblical significance of its honored occupants. It consists of simple brick dome. Underneath the dome are two graves with Hebrew writing on the wall’s plaster work. Two antique wooden tomb-boxes may be seen here; there are also manuscripts of the Old Testament inside the building, which I am told doubles as an active synagogue for the small Jewish remnant still extant in this city. This is poignant evidence that the flame of the Spirit of the God of Moses continues to burn here in the hearts of his people, a flame that cannot be extinguished and whose energy and life-sustaining power is nurtured by the ancient historical narrative of Queen and cousin inscribed in the hearts and minds of those of Abraham and David’s seed. 

            Despite Hamadan’s move to a modernity of ancient historical erasure working in tandem with the passage of the centuries, there is yet one more physical reminder here of the work of the God of Israel, using the great Achaemenids of ancient Persia as His instruments in history. Just west of Hamadan is a beautiful green valley called Abbas-Abad. There is a cliff which reaches to the bottom of this lush, cool place. This cliff is a part of the face of Mount Alvand (height 3574 meters), the highest point in Hamadan Province. There are two cuneiform inscriptions carved on the side of the cliff, known as the Epigraphs of Ganj-e-Nameh. The inscriptions belong to Darius and to Xerxes, testifying in three languages to the greatness of the Zoroastrian god Ahura Mazda, and the greatness of the reigns of these Achaemenid Kings. The real force operative through these men is not mentioned–a silence repristinated in the book of Esther and in the Heston/Fonda rendition of Midway. Yet my central observation of this day is that the mere spoken or written omission of His name cannot erase His eternal presence, His ongoing action and activity in history, His love for His people, and the assurance of the Second Advent of the Logos at the termination point of the linear history in perpetual movement since Adam. Come, Lord Jesus, come.

 

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Chapter Five

The Suffering of Saints and the Judgment of Evil in Isfahan (Tabae)

 

“He [Antiochus Epiphanes IV of Selucid Syria] will cause deceit to prosper, and he will consider himself superior. When they feel secure, he will destroy many and take his stand against the Prince of Princes. Yet he will be destroyed, but not by human power.”–Daniel 8: 25

 

            The Biblical narrative is absolutely specific about two things, from Genesis to Revelation. One is that the Saints of God will suffer trial and tribulation in this life, often for their faith in the Divine Logos. The other is that evil exists in this present world and the system that guides it, run by demonic powers and principalities and spiritual wickedness in high places (Ephesians 6). With these given axioms, the Saints are sustained by the knowledge that their faith and hope reside in the next world and not the present one; simultaneously, God has placed his irrevocable imprimatur on the guarantee that evil will be comprehensively judged in His time, and with His mysterious methods.

            These are my thoughts as I depart Hamadan for Isfahan today. I have a contact to meet there, an old Armenian friend for years presently living in Tehran, who tells me that he and his family find it a privilege to meet me in Isfahan to show and explain the sites of the city, with special emphasis upon the Christian quarter of this most historic place. The name of this quarter is Jolfa, established by the Safavid Shah Abbas I at the beginning of the 17^th century. It is located on the south bank of a river called the Zayandeh. It is linked up to the Muslim part of town by the Sio-se-pol bridge. I pray that this physical link proves to be a mirror of a spiritual bond inherent in the dignity of all of humanity created in the Imago Dei, especially in terms of a peaceful coexistence between these differing faiths here, and around the world. Is the apparent calm here real, or the eye of an impending future storm of the whirlwind? I do not know. But the situation here seems different from the dynamics I sense in Tehran, especially in the south where the present state of peaceful coexistence between its denizens and the Pahlavi Peacock Throne’s coalition seems to be a deceptive veiling of a subterranean, combustible future of conflagration. I wish I could escape the sense that the Americans will be in the center of this potential maelstrom, but it crosses my mind that the ominous parallel previously observed between Saigon and Tehran is at least presently absent here. Isfahan seems to be an appealing oasis which separates me, at least for a time, from grim ruminations and speculations about a future of tribulation known only to the God of Times and Seasons.

            The Pauline understanding of the Theology of the Cross is omnipresent in Isfahan in a place called Vank Cathedral. Externally, I would have mistaken this sanctuary for an Islamic mosque, given its domed appearance. The Armenian family accompanying me indicates that this is due to the edict of Shah Abbas that all of the worship sites in Isfahan be visually marked by the appearance of the dome, both Islamic and Christian. Once inside, the interior of the domed ceiling is laden with gold and light, both the natural light which permeates the altar space through windows placed at intervals in a circular pattern in the domed ceiling’s base, and the light generated by a series of candelabras in the sanctuary suspended from the roof by a series of interspersed cables. As in Western Azerbaijan, the erection of a railing which separates the Holy of Holies and its altar space from interlopers emphasizes the mystery of the Holiness of God, whose desire for the love and worship of the Saints does not evolve into an illegitimate familiarization with His ways and His being that blurs the lines of demarcation which qualitatively separate Him and His majesty from even the most beloved within His Created Order.

            Pastor Luther Koepke of Valparaiso University’s theology department recommended a book to me in the last academic semester of the year, entitled The Theology of Martin Luther by Paul Althaus. There is a chapter on the Theology of the Cross in this volume where Althaus quotes Luther as believing that the suffering Saint, and the suffering Communion of Saints, are those drawn closest to a mystical communion with the Biblical God. This may be the most striking paradox articulated in the New Testament, where the notion is present that weakness, sadness, and the unspeakable character of unimaginable suffering, tragedy, and injustice reveal the strength of God’s power, justice, and eternal love.

            The fresco paintings here convey this with a degree of detail which underscores the extent to which the artists and the worshipers in the Armenian version of the Confessing Church understand this truth. Their individual and collective perception is an existential one garnered through their own story as it evolved in historical experience and narrative. The frescos which depict the suffering, torture, and death of Armenian martyrs at the hands of Byzantine Greeks derive meaning only in the artistic expression of an even greater experience of the aforementioned on the Cross at Calvary, in the agony of the Logos whose tortured exclamation of Psalm 22, “My God, My God, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?”, is followed by a complete restoration of the relationship of the Father and the Logos and the subsequent eternal outreach of Father, Logos, and Spirit to the Saints in their tragedies in time. The indwelling Spirit enables the Saints to exercise Luther’s definition of faith: belief in the love and sovereignty of the God of Israel as expressed through the entrance of His Logos on the stage of human history, even when the empirical evidence of the Cross and other derivative tragedies in history seem to contradict the inscripturated and embodied assurances of God in the Word and in the Bread of the Presence of God.

            In this place is one additional reminder of life in the midst of death, as well as in the aftermath of death. The Armenian family escorting me takes care that I see a monument visible at the entrance of the perimeter of the Cathedral, outside the sanctuary. The monument is comprised of what appears to be an erected tower in its center. The tower is encircled by figures reminiscent of tombstones. There is the ongoing sound of water generated by a fountain. At the base of the tower is a two-dimensional figure of the Cross. I cannot read the inscription on the monument in either Armenian or Farsi, but am informed by my friends that it is dedicated to the memory of two million Armenians massacred in 1915 in Western Armenia by the Turkish government. This is followed by what seems to be an interminable silence. There is a quantifiable sense of eternal sustenance in this silence, but only in the knowledge that the Suffering Saints of God in time are translated into the joyous, futuristic Communion of Saints in the Kingdom that terminates time as it simultaneously transcends it. It is guaranteed and sealed by the blood of the suffering, forsaken Logos at Calvary and the victory of His empty tomb on Easter Sunday.

Nightfall

            This is the second night of rest in marvelous private quarters in Jolfa quarter. Tomorrow I will depart Isfahan for Pasargadae and Persepolis, to see one more time the remaining evidence on the Persian desert plains of the glory of the Achaemenid Era past.

            There is a most notable past event which took place in this city before the First Advent of the Logos. I refer to the horrific, but totally deserved Divine judgment and retribution manifested upon the Selucid Syrian monarch, Antiochus Epiphanes IV, in 164 B. C. It is not an accident to suggest that of all of the evil individuals chronicled in the Old Testament, Antiochus may have been the ultimate prototype of evil, the possible historical context and precursor for the remarks of St. Paul about Antichrist future in 2 Thessalonians 2.

            Daniel’s predictive vision of Antiochus in chapter 8 of his prophecy is one of the most chilling pericopes found anywhere in the Word of God. The vision occurs in the Persian city of Susa, the winter residence of the Achaemenid monarchs. After witnessing the future fall of Babylon, the rise and fall of the Medes and Persians, the appearance of Alexander the Great, and the four-fold split of the Greek empire after the death of Alexander, Daniel concentrates upon an examination of Antiochus, who will rise to power as king of Selucid Syria [one of the four sectors of what was Alexander’s original empire]. The prophet of Judah, resident in Persia since his deportation from Jerusalem at the hands of Nebuchadnezzar in 605, describes Antiochus as “stern faced. . .a master of intrigue. . .causing astounding devastation. . .he will succeed in whatever he does. . .he will destroy the mighty men and the holy people. . .he will cause deceit to prosper. . .he will take his stand against the Prince of princes [God].” In a fashion suggestive of the Satanic leader of the German Third Reich in the 20^th century, the 6^th century mogul of predictive prophecy indicates that Antiochus’ illegitimate ascension to the Selucid throne and his acquisition of great strength was “. . .not by his own power.” The commentators I have read this summer see this as a strong suggestion of the demonic powers and principalities working through his conscious willing of blasphemy against God. It manifested itself in history in his 3 ½ year profanation of the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem [“the abomination that causes desolation”], followed by the fitting demise of his reign in the wake of the re-capture of Jerusalem by the Jewish army of Judas Maccabeus and the reconsecration of the altar of the God of Israel on Kislev 25, 165 B. C.

            On this cool summer night in what was ancient Tabae, my discomfort in the contemplation of this brand of wickedness past–and possibly future–is countered by the assurance of God’s guaranteed termination of evil and its perpetrators at a time and place of His own choosing. Daniel emphatically conveys the real story behind the end of the reign of Antiochus, underscoring in 8: 25 that “. . .he will be destroyed, but not by human power.”

            An Armenian priest here tells me that the verdict of the archeologists and historians is accurate regarding Antiochus’ selection of Tabae as a venue for exile. The Biblical narrative does not mention this detail, nor the specifics of the trip and the final unfolding of his Divinely ordained destruction. Why the Spirit guided Daniel past this portion of the fulfillment of his prophetic vision is known only to God. Oral tradition here I cannot authenticate says that Antiochus died a slow, tortuous death at the hands of a strange intestinal parasite that consumed his body internally with complete deliberation and efficiency. It is alleged that he was conscious of the Author of his demise in what was a brief utterance of death-bed regret at having desecrated the House of God in Jerusalem in an act of blasphemous insolence. His departure marked yet another incidence of the administration of Divine recompense and justice, an ancient echo of the end of a modern despot in history in an underground bunker in Berlin.

            Somehow I sense that I will live long enough in this temporal life to see other manifestations of Satanic powers and principalities in the evolving global political order driving toward the establishment of a world government not under the authority and governance of the Biblical God and His Son. I am internally troubled tonight in Persia in nocturnal mind and spirit by this probable, even certain prospect. My solace comes solely in the knowledge that the perpetrators of these unfolding events, empowered by the invisible but real realm of the demonic, will join despots from Nebuchadnezzar to Antiochus and the Fuehrer in an assured end, both in history and in their irrevocable consignment to the Lake of Fire (Revelation 20).

 

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Chapter Six

The God Who Fulfills and Appoints: Cyrus at Pasargadae and the Achaemenids of Persepolis

 

“[I am the Lord] who says of Cyrus, ‘He is my shepherd and will accomplish all that I please; he will say of Jerusalem, ‘Let it be rebuilt,’ and of the temple, ‘Let its foundations be laid.’. . .I will and set my exiles free, but not for a price or reward. . .”–Isaiah 44: 28; 45: 13

 

            The superintendence of God over time, history, and the affairs of nations presupposes His foreordained, predestined, mysterious will. I sense this today in a way I have never quite experienced before as I stand in the sun in a place called Dasht-e-Morghab, or the Plain of Pasargadae. It is here that the tomb of Cyrus the Great of Persia, the first of the ancient Achaemenid kings, resides.

            The tomb itself consists of a single narrow passageway on the northwest side. The steps which lead to it are about five feet wide. The tomb chamber rises from six distinctive tiers. The Dasht-e-Morghab is a starkly barren plain in the summertime, accentuated by incessant solar heat and the occasional drift of desert wind which moves dirt and sand today from northwest to southeast. For some reason, being here today reminds me of visiting the remains and legacy of John F. Kennedy on a hill in Arlington near the Lee-Custis mansion and west of the sprawl of downtown Washington lying beyond the Potomac below. For while the aura of the desert of the Plain of Pasargadae is a complete topographical contrast to Arlington, the quiet contemplation of the contribution to history on the part of both of the deceased is identical.

            There are no other visitors here today. This fact, accompanied by the desert wind and sand and a visual horizon which extends forever, serves to underscore King Cyrus’s solitary residence in silent regal grandeur and dignity on the plain. At one level, this physical locale in space reminds me of the speed of time and the fleeting character of physical life within the bookends of its genesis and termination points. These are truths and axioms about existence that affect kings and empires along with the mundane and forgotten of history. At another level, the ongoing presence of this starkly poignant edifice in the desert serves as a reminder of a past greatness whose impact and influence is supernaturally present and future as well. I cannot escape this feeling as the wind-driven sand continues to embrace the tomb before continuing its journey to the southeast and points unknown.

            The Biblical story of King Cyrus testifies to the deliverance of God’s people from catastrophe and oppression in every age. Isaiah 44 and 45 predicted his appearance in world history 150 years before his arrival on its stage. Daniel 2 records that Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon had a dream which clearly referenced the end of his own empire at the hands of the Medes and the Persians led by Cyrus. It would be an act designed to successfully achieve the absolute vindication of the God of Israel in Biblical history that Nebuchadnezzar and the Babylonians, the instruments of the destruction of His temple and the forced diaspora of His people in 605-586 B. C., would in turn be jettisoned by the Persians and their Achaemenid monarchs. And just as Isaiah had prophetically indicated in the 8^th century B. C., Cyrus used his moment at the crucial intersection of the crossroads of history to enact a decree initiating the repatriation of Jews to Palestine and the holy city of Jerusalem, for the purpose of the reconstruction of the Temple of God. Ezra, chapter 1 states specifically that God “moved the heart” of Cyrus to issue his royal proclamation of liberation. The King, in turn, states in his Empire-wide decree that he had been “appointed” by the God of Israel for this purpose.

            I have a theory about the truly great men and women of history. It is that when the most significant moment of their lives presents itself as a turning point in the fortunes of God’s people as well as their own, they seize the moment as the Spirit arranges and directs. The atoms and molecules that spin off into space are precisely aligned in history for a given moment only once. Those appointed by the Biblical God for His designs are known to Him, set apart, and appointed even before their conception in the womb (Jeremiah 1); all the days of God ordained for the Appointed “were written in Your book before one of them came to be. (Psalm 139: 16).”

            This raises a question for today as the sun looks down upon me as its rays beam upon Dasht-e-Morghab: What, if anything, am I appointed to? At twenty-one, it occurs to me that I’d like to be appointed of God for something significant in His timberline and design. The usual American mantra about fame and fortune does not drive me–but then again, neither does consignment to cosmic irrelevance either. What is it, then?

            I have not the foggiest notion today in this sun-drenched desert plain light years removed from my homeland in the heartland of America. But it occurs to me that in lieu of having this revealed to me today, I should settle for two things based on what the Bible reveals about Cyrus. The first is the idea that the concept of his appointment for God’s purpose can be legitimately extended to anyone concerned about the Lord’s kingdom and the well being of those who seek Him. I must affirm the idea that He has appointed me for some reason, and has superintended all of the events and angles in my life that have led to this moment on the plain in a place I’d never thought about or heard of when my primary concern in the universe was the place of the baseball Giants or the football Redskins in the current league standings. The Dasht-e-Morghab testifies to the cosmic irrelevance of these media-driven children’s concerns appropriated by adults with just enough creativity to turn on a television set before popping open the Six-Pack. The cosmic creative and redemptive design of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and His Logos, reduces the concerns of contemporary American life and culture to the realm of the quixotically and blasphemously trivial. If I had one prayer to utter on this day, it would be to receive God’s eternal promise of redemption, not simply from Luther’s “sin, death, and the power of the devil,” but from the curse and death of consignment to a temporal life lived in perpetual insignificance, without definitive design and direction from Him. The achievement of something significant [not in the world’s definition, but God’s] is of the essence of life and time–while you still have it. King Cyrus and the ancient Persian Empire would be at their apex only for a season in God’s conception of history, but the role played by this great man as an instrument of the Lord in ushering in the repatriation and restoration of the fortunes of Israel before the Advent of the Logos, remains secure in eternity. In this way, the tomb of the King at Pasargadae serves as a physical monument to the Biblical God and the achievement of His purposes in time, both in the 6^th century B. C. and the 1^st century A. D. It cannot be an accident that Isaiah speaks prophetically of Cyrus by name in chapters 44 and 45 of his treatise, followed by a lengthy discourse on the future Messiah, the Suffering Servant of chapter 53, whose agonizing death as the Logos of the Father precedes His own resurrection–and ours. The legacy of Cyrus which rests on the Dasht-e-Morghab is ultimately not as the great King of Achaemenid Persia, although he certainly was. It rests in his divine appointment as the precursor and prototype of the ultimate Savior of all of humanity, who would appear in human history over five centuries later.

            I think a lot not only of these events in the past but their possible spinoff applications in understanding the present and futures unknown. One example comes to mind immediately–the events that I understand took place here five years ago in 1971, when after 2,150 years the Shah would celebrate Cyrus’s founding of the Persian Empire and his capture of Babylon on October 12, 539 B. C., by holding a two-week royal celebration near the ruins of Persepolis near this plain. Something like 33 heads of state attended this event; it supposedly cost approximately $100 million in American dollars to stage. The now-deposed Vice President of the United States, Mr. Agnew, second in command to the now-deposed 37^th American President, Richard Nixon, was the representative of Washington here on the desert plains for the Shah’s ultimate coronation and the commemoration of Cyrus. What this suggests or portends, I do not know.

            I will at least venture one observation about Cyrus which is documented by Isaiah and which bears repeating again in my mind. The prophet quotes the Lord as saying of Cyrus that “He [Cyrus] will rebuild My city [Jerusalem] and set My exiles free, but not for a price or reward.”

            The sun has now descended significantly as it heads for its destination point below the visible horizon. The sudden appearance of cooler temperatures and the increase in the tempo of the wind are accompanied by a kaleidoscopic portrait in the heavens of hues of red, white, blue, and purple as a precursor to darkness. In the especially colorful onset of twilight, my emotions are mixed. The visual spectacle of this sky painted by an unseen hand on the panoramic half-dome of the roof of the Dasht-e-Morghab above me, is exhilarating evidence of the work of God in bringing me to this place in this brief, passing moment which links East to West and the previous 2500 years of motion, events, and actors to my own life in a way I do not understand. But my sense of grateful and exhilaration is tempered by the proximity of darkness. It seems to enshroud the entire planet. I do not know if it will always be followed by another sunrise, either for America and Persia, or for the cosmos itself. Perhaps this says that the Lord is at hand (Philippians 3), with the New Heaven and the New Earth in His wake (Revelation 21). This must be my hope as the zenith of the sunshine of the Empires of this present age must be inexorably followed by twilight and darkness and the denial of another sunrise when the God who determines the Times and the Seasons decrees it.

 

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Chapter Seven

In Search of Daniel: The Road to Susa (Shushan)

 

“In the third year of King Belshazzar’s reign [in Babylon, circa 551 B. C.], I, Daniel, had a vision after the one that had already appeared to me. In my vision, I saw myself in the citadel of Susa in the province of Elam; in the vision I was beside the Ulai Canal. I looked up, and there before me was a ram with two horns, standing beside the canal, and the horns were long. One of the horns [Persia] was longer than the other [Media] but grew up later. I watched the ram as he charged toward the west and the north and the south. No animal could stand against him, and none could rescue from his power.”–Daniel 8: 1-3

 

            My first encounter with the ancient prophet of Judah living in exile in Persia, was through the auspices of a book my parents purchased for me at the age of 7, entitled Egermeier’s Bible Stories. I remember particularly identifying with God’s preservation of Daniel after the latter’s consignment to the lion’s den by King Belshazzar of Babylon, especially during October of 1962 during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Living then as a boy at McClellan Air Force Base in California, and going through the daily drills and practices designed to supposedly protect us if the Russian nuclear warheads delivered by ICBM suddenly struck Sacramento, California, I needed daily reminders of God’s protective capabilities. These were found each day in re-reading the story about Daniel’s deliverance. It is now fourteen years later. And I am in Susa, site of one of Daniel’s most historically significant visions, and the site of the temporary consignment of his body to the earth.

            Susa is in Khuzestan province. It is explained to me today that the northern and eastern boundaries of this province, known for oil exploration and agriculture, face the Zagros mountain range. To the south is the strategic Persian Gulf. If I were to move to the southwest from here, I would quickly cross into Iraq and the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. The Iranian industrial and oil center known as Abadan is not far from this confluence, and rests perilously close to the Iraqi border. I note with some discomfort today that the area south of the Biblical confluence of rivers involves a waterway called the Shatt-al-Arab which feeds into the Persian Gulf. My discomfort resides in the fact that in recent years, the English language Kayhan newspaper of Tehran reports regularly on the Iraqi-Iranian disputes over rights and sovereignty where this waterway is concerned. Dad is convinced that a war may eventually come between the two nations over both oil and water rights, suggesting that Abadan may eventually be a city not to be a resident of, if his military and historical analysis hold course. I remember our last conversation about this eventuality. He said that Mother and I would be sent packing for the States immediately if this contingency ever materialized. Assuming that the alliance between the United States and Iran were to continue unabated, he would remain here to handle the aviation logistics for the Shah’s Imperial Iranian Air Force in the event of war. That will always be Dad–occupying Bavaria after VE Day; the Berlin Airlift; Turkey; the Cuban Missile Crisis; Vietnam; and now this brewing tea kettle. I keep waiting for the whistle to sound for the beginning of these ominous events. Maybe the Apostle John knew what he was talking about on Patmos in speaking of the angel and his 6^th bowl, drying up the Euphrates for the arrival of the Kings of the East and the final conflict of world history (Revelation 16: 12).

            There are so many Biblical and historical confluences in Susa that it is hard for the mind to comprehend them. The lives of both Daniel and Queen Esther intersect with this city, as do a number of the Achaemenid kings mentioned in the Old Testament, including Darius I, Xerxes, and Artaxerxes. This is because Susa was once the administrative capital for the Achaemenid kings, from Darius I onward (circa 521-331 B. C.). It was the eastern terminus of the Persian Empire’s Royal Road, which ran westward to Sardis in Asia Minor 1600 miles away. I recall this place called Sardis, although I have not been there. In John’s Apocalypse, chapter 3, he mentions the church in Sardis, the 4^th in a series of 7 churches John writes letters to in Asia Minor, now western Turkey. As a digression today, I suspect John’s conveyance of Christ’s description of the church in Sardis in the first century applies with equal force to the American church and culture in the twentieth century, during this allegedly great Bicentennial observance this summer: “I know your deeds; you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead. Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die.” Somehow I get the uncomfortable feeling that a collective heeding of the admonition of Almighty God isn’t in the cards, tea leaves, and lots–that the Bell Curve model for nations in history, applied to my own, suggests that the future course for The Stars and Stripes is one of declension. While those in post-Christian America, whose ultimate faith is in technology and man see the curve pointing only upward, those whose faith is in the Biblical God and His Logos and not in man, of necessity perceive the movement of linear history in the opposite direction. My historical pessimism over America’s course in the next few years and decades is overcome only by the reassurance that the eschaton of the Logos and the arrival of the New Heavens, the New Jerusalem, and the New Earth lie beyond whatever awaits my country’s temporal fate. Of this one can be readily reassured.

            Another thought suddenly permeates my mind. Is the ancient geographic connection between Susa and Sardis matched by a spiritual one? Is John’s testimony and insight on the church at Sardis linked to the vision of Daniel here in Susa (Daniel 8) regarding the eventual fate of the Persian Empire with all of the subsequent implications?

            One difference does come to mind. The church at Sardis is given a reprieve if it repents. In the case of Daniel’s vision in the third year of King Belshazzar of Babylon, he sees at Susa the irrevocable decision of the God of history to terminate the glory of ancient Achaemenid Persia. The vision reveals that it comes at the hands of Alexander the Great and the Greek Empire, symbolized by the annihilation of the previously invincible Ram at the hands of the Goat coming from the West. In turn, Daniel reports Alexander’s own eclipse, stating in chapter 8 verse 8 that at the “height of the Goat’s power [Greece], his large horn [Alexander] was broken off, and in its place four prominent horns grew up toward the four winds of heaven [a four way split of the Greek Empire, including Ptolemaic Egypt and Selucid Syria].”

            Strangely, my mind suddenly and temporarily departs Susa for another time and place: Montgomery, Alabama in February of 1964, over a dozen years ago. My father had promised me that if I completed my 3^rd grade homework for the next day, I’d be allowed to listen by transistor radio to the events transpiring that night in Miami Beach, Florida. It was there that Sonny Liston would defend his heavyweight championship title against Cassius Clay of Louisville, Kentucky, later to be known throughout the world as Muhammad Ali.

            What does this have to do with the Ram [Persia] and the Goat [Greece]? For one, Liston looked as invincible as Persia when Daniel stated that “. . .none could stand against him [Persia].” I still remember reading and listening to every sports pundit at the time involved in predicting the outcome. Liston was a prohibitive 8-1 favorite in the betting odds. A Sports Illustrated columnist publicly stated that Clay was “crazy” if he thought he stood a chance of even finishing the fight, much less winning.

            The world now knows the outcome from that February evening in Miami Beach long ago.  Sonny Liston would be outboxed from the opening bell of Round One to the end of the fight. He would be unable to answer the bell for the beginning of the 7^th round. His demise, and the elevation of Cassius Clay to the heavyweight championship of the world, stunned the planet as it marked one of the pivotal turning points in the history of all of human competition on the planet.

            And so it was when Greece replaced Persia, only for the mysterious death of Alexander the Great in Babylon on June 13, 323 B. C. to mark Greece’s own fragmentation and eventual replacement by the Roman Empire as well as other Empires throughout the evolution of events in the cosmos and in time. It reminds me of a poem a Persian girl showed me last summer when I asked her about what she thought might be the longer term future of the present King and dynasty reigning in her land. The poem was penned by Omar Khayyam of Nishapur light years ago and its most poignant line reads:

Lo, in this battered caravanserai, whose portals are alternate Night and Day. How sultan after sultan with his pomp, abode his destined hour and went his way.

            I am internally troubled again when the issues of Emperor and Empire-worship are applied not only to Persia and Greece, but to America. The deification of the State must inevitably be enshrouded in mythological falsehoods and symbolism, along with the accompanying diminution or elimination of God–or even worse, the employment of His name in a thinly veiled attempt to mask the cancerous character of an Empire devoted to power, wealth, sex, and spiritual death. The coming 4^th of July Bicentennial celebration of America’s birthday among its expatriates here will echo refrains from Washington, Jefferson, Franklin, and Adams while extolling the virtues of a Constitution whose original thrust and intent is repudiated by the current merger of American government with central banking and corporatism. It is a guarantee that no one will reference the violent deaths of the Kennedy brothers and King, the disasters of Vietnam and Watergate, the pivotal Constitutional and moral disaster embodied in 1973 by Roe versus Wade, or the ever-encroaching power of the central government and global institutions vis a vis the individual. The entire affair will be one of a collective expression of smug self-assurance. Thanks, but no thanks. The Ambassador and the military brass will be funding the bands, the fireworks, and the beer. But my mind cannot escape the visions of the night about helicopters departing the roof pad at the Embassy in Saigon fourteen months ago. In the night visions I still see the desperate Vietnamese civilians desperately reaching in vain for one last attempt at salvation in the form of the departing copters with the escalating sound of their whirring blades, hurriedly lifting from the roof pad in the wake of the impending American defeat in South Vietnam. Is this defeat an ominous portent of the future fortunes of yet another Ram? The beer should deaden the mental and emotional proclivity and capacity of the patriotic masses to contemplate these questions as the strains of God Bless America echo and reverberate within the walls of the city at the base of the Elburz on July 4, 1976. I must confess what I’d never say to Dad out of respect for him and the fine men I have known through his military career: that here in Susa one will not hear these songs or watch nocturnal fireworks igniting the night sky. There are only a few whispers emanating from the inanimate rocks and monuments about Empires past and present, abiding their destined hour and going their way.

            Feeling slightly sick at these thoughts, I am suddenly reacquainted with the notion that the physical heat in Susa and Khuzestan province in the middle of a summer day is close to being unbearable. It is a time to find sustenance and shelter from the burning rays of the sun. No tourist dares come here except between November and March, except for me. I wonder why I have pursued such contraindication all of my life. I do not know. Wherever the masses go, I depart for other confines. My mind does not reflect on this thought very long before its replacement by a vision of the Rock cut out of a mountain and the prophet of Susa’s reassuring discussion of its appearance in history and its ultimate meaning:

. . .the God of heaven will set up a kingdom that will never be destroyed, nor will it be left to another people. It will crush all those kingdoms [Babylon, Medo-Persia, Greece, Rome] and bring them to an end, but it will itself endure forever. This is the meaning of the vision of the Rock cut out of a mountain, but not by human hands–a Rock that broke the iron, the bronze, the clay, the silver and the gold to pieces. [Daniel 2: 44-45]

 

 

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Part Two

 

The Bridge

 

[or The Chapter Without a Number]

 

[or The Interlude Before the Unleashing of the Fifth Seal]

 

“When he opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of those who had been slain for the Word of God and for the testimony which they held. And they cried with a loud voice, saying, ‘How long, O Lord, holy and true, until You judge and avenge our blood on those who dwell on the earth?’ Then a white robe was given to each of them; and it was said to them that they should rest a little while longer, until both the number of their fellow servants and their brethren, who would be killed as they were, was completed.”–St. John’s Apocalypse, chapter 6: 9-11

“Follow your conscience [under God] and abjure the Realm”–Daniel New, chairman of the Texas League of the South, to Mark Dankof in 2003

“If all men are brethren, why are the winds and the waves so restless?”–The Emperor of Japan on the eve of war with the United States of America in 1941

 

            I was recently in the twilight zone between consciousness and sleep during the late night. I was having trouble achieving the latter after making the mistake of watching an evening television show devoted to the dyspeptic topic of the American atom-bombing of the Japanese city of Hiroshima. In the narrative of the presentation, one of the crew members of the Enola Gay indicated that the targeted reference point for the crew regarding the entire city was a bridge, located in the midst of a particularly strategic area of the urban sprawl destined for fiery destruction below.

            I recall another mental image of a bridge. This one is in the Garden of Peace at the Admiral Nimitz Museum in Fredericksburg, a charming German-American community in the Texas Hill Country. In this instance, the bridge was designed to be a symbol of peace and interconnection between the chief protagonists during the War of the Pacific, as well as a symbol of the hope for peace and forgiveness among all of humanity.

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