The God-Man: Rapture, Wrath, and Reign

Jerusalem, Israel

Within hours of Romiti’s assassination, Francois Laroque had produced a written directive, signed months before by the secretary-general, giving him authority to oversee ceremonies in the event of Romiti’s death.

Laroque’s first order was to commission the creation of a statue in honor of the slain leader. It was to be made of bronze, an exact representation of Romiti. Work was to begin immediately. After issuing the order, Laroque was driven to the Temple Mount.

He marched up the steps of the temple where he was greeted by a mocking Rabbi Isaac Disraeli. “So you’re here on behalf of His Majesty? Didn’t live long for a god, did he?” Laroque ignored the rabbi’s biting sarcasm. “The ceremony to honor the secretary-general will take place on the Temple Mount,” he announced to the Chief Rabbinate of Israel. “It does not matter,” the Sephardic rabbi replied. “Your foolish, tyrannical leader committed blasphemy in the temple, receiving his just punishment at the hand of a priest. The priest also committed an unforgiveable sacrilege by shedding a man’s blood in the temple, in the Holy of Holies, no less! By these terrible acts, the temple has been left desolate. No God-fearing Jew will enter the temple again until it has been ceremoniously cleansed.”

Laroque had a long retort in mind, but he held his tongue somewhat in check, knowing that soon he would exact his revenge on this insolent religious figure and all those like him. “Rabbis are not to be seen on the Temple Mount the day of the memorial,” he warned. “Your religion is a relic of the past, Rabbi. Soon, you and Judaism will be erased from the pages of history!”

Rabbi Disraeli no longer cared whether he lived or died. He had no desire to conceal his hatred for the secretary’s underling behind a pleasant mask of civility. “It won’t be long before you’re rotting alongside the dead carcass of your leader. Judaism will be flourishing long after you’re in Sheol.”

“We’ll see, Rabbi,” Laroque spat the words as he swaggered to his next meeting.

The temple courtyard was cleared of every unnecessary object to make room for the several thousand guests who would be attending the remembrance, scheduled for the third day following the assassination. The massive plaza was configured to resemble the famous Babylonian gardens of Nebuchadnezzar’s day. A large stage was assembled, facing east so the historic Mount of Olives would serve as the backdrop for those who attended the state funeral.

Laroque would officiate the ceremony, with Amsterdam’s Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra providing the music for the solemn affair. Selected heads of state were invited to give their eloquent eulogies, but specific instructions were given to each one. There was to be no mention of God or gods. To speak of an afterlife was strictly forbidden. Speakers were to honor the secretary’s accomplishments, praise his benevolence and brilliance, and exalt and magnify the memory of the man who had done so much for humanity. Teams of exhausted recruits worked around the clock to complete the lavish preparations for the state funeral. The weather was cooperating, too, and Laroque was pleased by his decision to conduct the extravagant ceremony outdoors.

However, an hour before the ceremony began, angry black clouds barreled into Jerusalem. The freakish weather shrouded the Temple Mount in thick darkness, causing temperatures to drop into the low thirties. Soon after, an immense firestorm lit up the skies, tossing spears of lightning at the terrified mourners. Several jagged bolts struck the temple courtyard, splintering the large cobblestones and tossing bits of gravel into the air. Claps of thunder reverberated through the alleys and passageways of the ancient city as the frightened street vendors hurriedly gathered their belongings, scurrying for the safety of their homes.

Like a spring without water, the sudden storm produced no benefit for sun-parched Palestine. The awesome cosmic display vanished as suddenly as it came, allowing the blazing sun to scorch those who would mourn Romiti’s passing.

The superstitious among the mourners saw the waterless storm as an evil omen, a prelude to the darker events already looming on the horizon. “Surely he was the seed of Satan,” an elderly Romanian visitor whispered to her companion as they carefully made their way to the Temple Mount.

As the guests hesitantly entered the courtyard, many with strong misgivings about the unexpected lightshow, they were directed to specific sections according to their native tongue. While the ceremony would be conducted in English, the spoken words would be simultaneously translated into the respective languages represented in the audience.

An open casket containing the body of the slain leader had been placed on a small platform in front of the stage. The mortician had done a remarkable job of repairing the bullet wound that marred Romiti’s face. The bier was surrounded by hundreds of floral sprays, wreaths, and sympathy bouquets. In memory of the secretary’s Roman roots, an Italian beauty with a flawless soprano voice opened the ceremony by singing Giacomo Puccini’s “Vissi d’Arte,” accompanied by the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra.

The memorial was off to a splendid start.