“The man may be possessed by Lucifer himself,” Birjandi said.
“Maybe so,” said Ibrahim. “But didn’t Jesus cast demons out of lost souls and thereby win them to himself?”
“Of course.”
“And haven’t you been saying that Jesus chose us to share the gospel and to have authority in the spiritual battle to set people free from demonic oppression all over Iran? Shouldn’t you be doing the same?”
Ibrahim was younger than Ali, but he was also brilliant, the son of a highly esteemed Shia cleric in Qom. He had memorized most of the Qur’an by the age of nine. He was sharp and inquisitive and fearless about his newfound faith, but he was also impulsive and had a tendency to speak too much and to act without having fully thought everything through. If Birjandi gave him permission, Ibrahim would rush into the most esteemed seminaries in all of Qom and make the case for Christ powerfully and effectively with the best of the religious leaders of his day, even if that meant going to prison, which it would, and even if that meant being tortured and executed, which it might. With enough time and the proper training, Ibrahim was going to make a gifted leader of men, a powerful ambassador for the Lord Jesus Christ. But this was not yet the time, and Ibrahim was not yet ready.
The teacher and the student had clashed over this many times in recent weeks. Ibrahim argued that the hour was late and the need was enormous. Why, then, was Birjandi holding him back? Birjandi counseled patience, that Ibrahim’s time would come, that the Lord would open a significant door for him — and for the others as well — and that the Lord would do great and mighty things through each of them.
But the conversion of Najjar Malik, Birjandi now realized, had upset the apple cart. Najjar had been a believer for only a matter of days, and now he was reaching millions with the dramatic story of his conversion. The young men sitting before him, meanwhile, had been saved for half a year already. They certainly knew the Word far better than Najjar, but how many people had they shared Christ with so far? A few dozen, at most.
Maybe Ibrahim was right. Maybe it was time to set these men free to preach and teach and make disciples without reservation. Both of them knew the cost, and both of them were ready to give their lives for the One who had given his life for them. Maybe it was also time to set a powerful example for them… but not with the Mahdi. That was a bridge too far, Birjandi told himself. Being bold for Jesus was one thing. Being disobedient was quite another, and he would not cross the line.
Birjandi suddenly realized he had been quiet for several minutes, contemplating his answer longer than he had planned. “Your heart for the lost is admirable, Ibrahim,” he began. “I commend you for it, and heaven forbid that I should stifle or smother it. That is certainly not my intention. Perhaps it is time for you to stand up publicly for Jesus, the way our brother Najjar has done with such power and with such effect. Perhaps it is my time too. I have been your teacher for these six months, but you are teaching me something today, and for this I am grateful. But listen to me, both of you. Please hear my heart. As ready as I am to die for my Jesus, I cannot disobey his clear teaching. You heard me repeat on the phone the passage from Matthew 24. The Lord told his followers not to pursue false messiahs, not to seek them out, not to visit them or spend time with them.”
To Birjandi’s surprise, this answer seemed to satisfy Ibrahim, but it also stirred up new questions in Ali, who until now had sat back and listened.
“Dr. Birjandi, would you say you are really still part of the Mahdi’s inner circle?”
“No, not the Mahdi’s.”
“But perhaps Hosseini’s and Darazi’s?”
“Perhaps.”
“You wouldn’t describe them as false messiahs, would you?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“So isn’t it possible that they are still reachable, still redeemable — theoretically, at least?”
The old man took a moment to contemplate that. “Yes, theoretically.”
Apparently satisfied by that answer, Ali took the next step. “Then may I ask you a sensitive question?”
“What, you haven’t already?” Birjandi smiled.
“Dr. Birjandi, in your time with the Ayatollah and the president, have you ever actually told them you believe in Jesus?”
There was a long, pregnant pause. “No, Ali,” the scholar admitted. “I have not.”
“May I ask you why not?”
“Have you told your father, Ali?” Birjandi countered, knowing full well Ali’s father was an F-4 fighter pilot and the commander of a tactical air wing in the Iranian Air Force, stationed in Bushehr.
“No,” Ali said, shaking his head.
“May I ask you why not?”
“Well, at the moment, I’m not even sure he’s alive.”
“I know, and I’m praying for his life and his soul,” Birjandi said. “But until now, knowing war was coming, why did you not share the gospel with him? Please know, my son, that I’m not blaming you or criticizing you. I’m simply asking, as you have asked me.”
Ali was silent for a moment. “My father is a Twelver, as I was,” he said at last. “He is fully devoted to the Mahdi and this regime, and he hates Christians and Jews with a vengeance. If I told him I had renounced Islam and become a follower of Jesus, my father would kill me — literally kill me.”
Birjandi reached out and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “And yet, doesn’t Jesus tell us that unless we’re willing to pick up our crosses daily and follow him no matter what the cost, we’re not worthy of him?”
“Yes,” Ali said quietly.
“And didn’t the apostle Paul say, ‘For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain’?”
“Yes.”
“Paul wasn’t afraid to die. Indeed, he was looking forward to being in the presence of Jesus, to worshiping his King and Savior. So Paul preached without fear. And so should we. The fear of death should have no part in our thinking.”
“You’re saying we should share the gospel even if it means certain death for us?”
“Each of us must move as the Holy Spirit guides us,” Birjandi replied. “Our job is to say what he wants us to say, when he wants us to say it. The words and the timing must be the Lord’s, but yes, we must be faithful to share the gospel with anyone and everyone the Lord opens the door for us to reach.”
There was another long pause.
“You’re right,” Ali said. “I’ve been counting the cost, and I have to confess before both of you, my dearest friends, that I’ve been struggling. But the past few days I’ve been praying and fasting in agony, begging the Lord to save my father and the rest of my family, to give me another chance to share the Good News with each of them. And if you will pray for me for strength, then I will be faithful to the task, come what may.”
Birjandi and Ibrahim promised to pray for Ali and his family. But Ali was not finished.
“With all due respect, Dr. Birjandi, the question really comes back to you,” he said gently. “Maybe the Mahdi is unreachable or unwinnable for Christ. I don’t know. I’m not the scholar. You are. But isn’t it time for you to share the gospel with Ayatollah Hosseini and with President Darazi? Isn’t it time to tell them that you’ve renounced Islam and become a fully devoted follower of Jesus Christ? You’re in the inner circle. You can reach them. We can’t. Najjar can’t. No one else can. Perhaps the Lord has given you this open door not to spend time with the Mahdi but to spend time with Hosseini and Darazi. Isn’t it possible that he has raised you up for such a time as this?”
“Is everyone here — all your family and friends?” the priest asked.
Hanna’s father turned and scanned the faces, recognizing most and beaming at them all. “Yes, I think this is all of us.”
“Wonderful! Let us begin.”
But no sooner had the words fallen from his lips than Hanna heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire, followed by bloodcurdling screams. Hanna instinctively turned to see where the noise was coming from but suddenly felt his father pulling him and his mother and his sisters to the floor. Bodies were falling everywhere. The gunfire didn’t stop. It came in short, quick bursts. Again and again and again.
Hanna tried to scream as he saw more people cut down, row upon row, but he couldn’t make a sound. He could hear bullets whizzing over his head and heard them drilling into the stone wall behind him. Terrified, he turned to his mother, desperate to hold her, to cling to her for comfort and protection, but as he did, his heart stopped. His mother’s eyes were open, but they were glassy and lifeless. Hanna looked down and saw a pool of crimson growing beneath her.
“No, no!” he screamed, and the gunfire ceased, almost on cue.
Hanna turned and saw three men in long, black leather coats and thick black boots — but no hats, no masks — stepping over bodies to enter the little church. Two of them carried automatic rifles, like the kind he had seen on television, their barrels hot and smoking. But the third carried a small black pistol. He walked slowly and paused to kick each person with his boot. If they flinched, if they were alive, he aimed the pistol and pumped a bullet into their skull.
He went one by one, killing them all, until he stopped at Hanna’s father. Hanna knew he should look away, but he was paralyzed with fear. He knew he should close his eyes, but he couldn’t believe this was happening. And then it did happen. The man put not one bullet but two into the back of his father’s head and then turned the pistol on little Hanna.