The Cord. Stephen W. Robbins

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      This morning was no different. Pastor Donovan got up late and read the paper as he ate breakfast. The stranger’s words kept repeating themselves in his head. The man claimed to have discovered something that would “revive and embolden” his ministry. Pastor Donovan put down the paper and gazed out the window. What was SarkiSystems and how could a research lab do something for his ministry? He opened his laptop computer and stared at the screen for a few minutes before putting his fingers to the keyboard and typing in “SarkiSystems.” In seconds, a screen full of selections popped up. One stood out: “SarkiSystems Takes the Lead in Genetic Research.” The article relayed how SarkiSystems had recently announced advancements in the use of human umbilical cord-derived stem cells. Apparently, they successfully treated Alzheimer’s patients using this therapy. Pastor Donovan sat back in his chair. How could a lab that specialized in developing disease therapies possibly help his ministry?

      Thoughts of SarkiSystems and the stranger’s confident assertion that he could renew Pastor Donovan’s ministry nagged at him throughout the day. As his wife put a family-favorite casserole of chicken and rice in the oven for the evening meal, he looked at her and said, “That man yesterday, he said he could help with ministry.”

      “What’s he trying to sell?”

      “He’s from a genetics laboratory and he didn’t say anything about selling a new program or anything. I don’t know. He was so confident. He said to come see him at his office tonight if I’m interested.”

      “Well, you know you’re not going to rest until you check it out, so go. I’ll record the game for you.”

      Two and a half hours later, he sat in the car outside SarkiSystems wondering why, on a night he typically sat inert with only enough energy to hold the TV remote, he was going to a meeting with a man he hardly knew. With a sigh, he exited the car and stared at a white-stuccoed building in an industrial area on the outskirts of town. As semi trucks passed by, only large black address numbers set the non-descript, box-shaped structure apart from the others. Dark clouds in the dusky sky reflected off the building’s windows as Pastor Donovan walked toward the only opened door and lighted room.

      “Good evening,” said George as Pastor Donovan peeked his head through the door. “Please come in. I’m so glad you came. With you here, we can now begin the meeting.”

      Pastor Donovan counted three men already in the room with George Carlson, as well as four chairs set up in front of a podium. To the left of the podium stood a projector and screen; to the right stood a small table with something resting on top and wrapped in cloths.

      “Men, please have a seat.” With this instruction, George began the meeting. “I want to welcome you here tonight. This gathering marks the beginning of the consummation of God’s unfolding plan for humanity. He is about to write history—His story—on the pages of our lives. But before I unveil the key, or shall I say the cord (I’ll explain what I mean in a minute), let’s introduce ourselves to one another. Arbe, let’s begin with you. Tell us your name, what you do for a living, and why you are here.”

      “Good evening. My name, as you just heard, is Arbe. I retired a year ago from the Marines. I’m here because I want peace on earth.”

      “Hello. I’m Maxwell, one of George’s co-workers. My reason for being here is to offer support and a second opinion when needed.”

      Next in line to share, Pastor Donovan cleared his throat, but not his nerves. “I’m Payne. I am a pastor in town. And, to be honest, I’m not exactly sure why I am here except that George invited me.”

      “It will become clearer to you in a moment,” noted George as he motioned to the final gentleman to be introduced.

      “I’m Dr. Greybellum. I am a professor at a seminary in Israel. My reason for being here is simple. I want to see Jesus prosopon pros prosopon.”

      What on earth did I get myself into? Pastor Donovan instantly second-guessed his decision to come as he considered the company. “Peace on earth?” What kind of beauty contest answer is that? And “prosopon pros prosopon?” Really? Are we to decipher this ivory tower code, or simply be impressed? What kind of genetics lab is this? Before he could politely excuse himself, the lights in the room dimmed. With hands over his heart, and with great eagerness in his voice, George invited the men to fix their eyes on the screen.

      * * * * *

      Footage of Arbe introducing his team and their mission projected onto the screen. Mr. “Peace on Earth” was dressed in fatigues, armed with weaponry fit for any covert operation. Though not studio quality, the video and audio were understandable. The operation itself, however, needed much clarification.

      “We’re going in now,” narrated Arbe as the team entered a dark passageway. Vigilant, yet swiftly, they made their way down a corridor adorned with images and symbols carved into the walls. “Straight-ahead are stairs, leading down to the sisters.” Arbe’s voice beamed with anticipation. Unevenly carved out of dirt and stone and spiraling downward, the stairs slowed the team’s campaign. At the bottom, roughly two stories underground, stood a wooden door, seemingly petrified over centuries, with no visible handle.

      “Break it down,” whispered a team member into their communication headsets.

      “No,” insisted Arbe. “Knock.”

      A collective “Knock?” transmitted from the team.

      “No force, remember? Only if necessary will we use force.”

      Fully armed, the six men stood still, at attention, in front of the door. Arbe instructed the closest team member to knock.

      He knocked three times, each one echoing in the chamber.

      Nothing.

      Impatient, he banged on the door.

      “Stop it,” said Arbe sternly. “We wait.”

      Pastor Donovan found himself mesmerized by images captured by body-mounted cameras. Though he remained clueless as to the what, where, and why, he leaned forward in his chair, not wanting to miss a single word or detail.

      The chamber door began to open. The team members, including Arbe, readied their trigger fingers. No force. But they were prepared, if necessary.

      An elderly lady greeted them with an exhaling, submissive smile. Like the door she opened, her face looked aged with purpose. She motioned for them to enter. Fingers still on triggers, the team entered, surveying the room. Candles along the walls provided sufficient lighting for the video. Seven ladies, all but one dressed in simple white robes, stood like sentries around a table in the center of the room, guarding who knows what.

      Arbe approached the ladies. “Sisters, the Lord bless you and keep you. On behalf of God’s people around the world and throughout the ages, we thank you for your faithfulness and diligence. You have fulfilled your duty well. The time has come, however, to relinquish the cord. The time has come for our blessed hope to materialize. The key to conquer all evil is at hand. The means of grace abides in the cord’s blood!” Arbe stepped forward, stretched out his left hand (his right hand still battle-ready), and stated firmly, “Sisters, the time has come to release the power in the blood.”

      With their bare feet firmly planted on the floor, the sisters did not budge. Arbe took another step forward. Still, no sister moved. With two more steps, Arbe placed his hand on the shoulder of the lady who answered the door. All seven СКАЧАТЬ