The Hand of God Read online

  The Hand

  Of God

  Tim Miller

  Copyright© of Tim Miller 2012

  All rights reserved

  The right of Tim Miller to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Published by Vamptasy Publishing

  Cover design from stock

  Design by Nicola Ormerod

  Thank you to my soulmate Lori for working so hard on this journey with me. And to my little girl, Ashley, who will always be my princess

  The Hand of God Tim Miller

  Part 1: The Prophet

  Isaiah 37:36

  Then the angel of the LORD went forth, and smote in the camp of the Assyrians an hundred fourscore and five thousand: and when they arose early in the morning, behold, they were all dead corpses.

  Prologue

  Who would dare challenge the hand of God? This was the question I asked myself every night. The world was full of sinners, so my work was never done. Tonight’s sinner was an adulteress. During the day, she was a school teacher, mother of two beautiful children with a loving husband. Her husband practically worshipped the ground she walked on. Yet this wasn’t good enough for her. Despite his years of love, devotion and adoration; as well as him giving her everything she could ever want, she was sleeping with another man.

  The “other” man was a bad boy. He’d been in jail a few times, couldn’t hold a job, and hung out in bars daily. Yet he was much manlier than her gentle husband who loved her so. Adultery was sin in the eyes of God. He had declared her sin an abomination. Those who commit this act shall be put to death. Tonight, I was going to do just that.

  I sat outside the adulteress’s school as darkness began to fall. It was almost eight o’clock. I’d been watching her for days. She taught fifth grade, but also worked with the choir. This often resulted in late nights. Finally, she came walking out toward her car, the same way she did every night. I parked right next to her car to make things quick and easy.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” I said as I stepped out of my Tahoe. She didn’t seem startled at my presence.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, do you have a cell phone? My truck won’t start, and my phone seems to be dead. I’m really sorry to bother you.”

  “Umm, yes I do,” she said, as she began to look through her purse. The distraction was just what I needed. I lunged toward her, and in one smooth motion placed her into a reverse choke hold, cutting off her air and her circulation. Within seconds she was limp in my arms. I popped the tailgate on my Tahoe and slid her inside, threw the canvas tarp over her and closed it up. It all took less than a minute. I climbed back in and began the drive to the Chapel.

  I stood watching her as she began to awaken. I looked up at her, admiring my own work. One of the fun things about my work was seeing the look on sinners’ faces when they realized their predicament. Her response wasn’t any different. I had stripped her naked, tied her to a large wooden cross, and had my tools lain out before me on a table. As she came to, the alarm finally registered on her face, and she began screaming. She went on like that for a few minutes before she actually spoke.

  “What’s going on? Who are you?” She screamed. “Where am I?”

  “You know why you’re here, sinner. God sent me to rid the earth of you.”

  “For what? I’m not a sinner! I didn’t do anything wrong! Why are you doing this? What do you want?” She struggled against the ropes as she screamed.

  “Nothing wrong, huh?” I walked over to my table. I picked up the Bible off the table and turned to the book of Leviticus. “And the man that committeth adultery with another man’s wife, even he that committeth adultery with his neighbor’s wife, the adulterer and adulteress shall surely be put to death.” I closed the Bible and held it up. “This is the word of God! Not up for negotiation!”

  “What? Why? You don’t even know me! Are you insane?” She kept struggling on the cross, trying to free herself, but not budging at all. I could recognize the look in her eyes; it had gone from fear to anger. It was as if she’s realized her fate and now chose to fight instead of beg. “What about Brett? Huh? Where is he? It says both of us should be put to death! Not only are you a murdering freak, but you’re a sexist murdering freak!”

  I had a feeling she would mention her lover, Brett. I reached under the table and pulled out the large trash bag and reached inside.

  “Oh, you mean this guy?” I said as I pulled Brett’s severed head from the bag. His eyes were wide and mouth was gaping open. She screamed louder and more shrilly than she had earlier, the defiance out of her for the moment.

  “Please don’t,” she pleaded. “Please! I can change! I can! I’ll go to church, I’ll beg forgiveness! I have a family!”

  “A family you cheated on, for this piece of garbage. And for what? A cheap thrill? A turn on? I hope it was worth it.”

  “God no, please! God help me!” she cried.

  “Oh, I’m afraid God won’t help you. He’s who sent me.”

  I put the head back into the bag, and sat it on the floor. Unfolding the sack on the table, I revealed my tools. They included meat cleavers, knives, drills and other useful instruments. She saw them and began screaming again. I continued through the noise. I was used to it. It was the sound of God’s justice. I found my large knife and walked over to her as she continued screaming. She looked down at me from the cross as I held the knife up to her.

  “No! No! What’re you doing? No!” she screamed, but I ignored her.

  As I began to cut down her chest, blood pouring from the incision, I said a prayer:

  “God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth; the Lord revengeth and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.” I prayed as I cut, blood pouring from her body and covering her in crimson as she continued screaming. It would be over in a few minutes, and then she would never be found. There would be no body, no evidence, no trace she-or her sin- ever existed. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

  Chapter 1

  The next morning it all seemed like a dream, or at least a haze. Yet I knew it was real. Whenever I do God’s work, it’s like I get into a zone. It’s as if His spirit fills me and carries out His will while I’m a helpless bystander in my own body. Whatever it is, I was glad to be a vessel of the Lord’s mighty power. It was Sunday morning, and it was time for church.

  My name is Charlie. Most know me as Pastor Charlie Sims, the senior pastor at the Living Word Bible Fellowship just south of San Antonio, Texas. We are a peaceful and loving group of God-fearing people. No one in my congregation knows about my special calling. That is something that stays between God, me, and His condemned. In the Old Testament, the Lord sent prophets among men to go into the world and spread word of His will and pronounce his judgment. This is where He has called me today. I am the Hand of God.

  My ministry was not about movements, multimedia presentations, protests or “rocking the vote,” or even Tea Parties. Those things are meant to do nothing more than make the people doing them feel good about themselves. I guess that is good for them, but doesn’t seem all that productive. It’s just lots of talking. I, on the other hand, believe in action, in ridding the world of filth and sin. God doesn’t play favorites, so neither do I. All sins are fair game. I’ve had homeless people on my cross as well as doctors, and even a few entertainers. Sin is sin, and I already know who my next sinner will be. However, at the moment, I have a church to run.

  This Sunday morning started out like most. Our worship band played some of our favorite contemporary worship songs, and even some older hymns. “How Great Thou Art” and “Onward Christian Soldiers” we
re a couple of my favorites. All the songs they played were passionate and uplifting songs for worship. Despite our being a more traditional church, our congregation enjoyed upbeat and modern worship songs with guitars and drums. Years ago, that didn’t go over so well in many churches, but times have changed. I liked it. The music made things more lively and interesting.

  After worship music, I would preach my weekly sermon. This week’s sermon was about the evils of lust. I recently had to fire one of our assistant pastors over his addiction to pornography. I had counseled him several times over the last few months, but he did not want to let go of his true love. It was this love for images on his computer of naked women committing vile acts for his pleasure that ruined him.

  Cutting him loose was hard. He was quite upset about it. He even cried in my office and begged for another chance. I let him address the congregation his last Sunday there so he could say goodbye. Of course, he cried in front of them too. He said he didn’t know what he would do, but hoped the Lord would provide for him and his family. As upset as he was, he had no idea how much better this was than the alternative I may have chosen for him. I didn’t kill him because God didn’t tell me to. God apparently had other plans for him.

  During my sermon, I read some passages about lust. One of my favorites was from Proverbs 7, regarding the adulteress and warnings against her. I felt it was appropriate after the last night’s events.

  “With her much fair speech she caused him to yield, with the flattering of her lips, she forced him. He goeth after her straightway, as an ox goeth to the slaughter, or as a fool to the correction of the stocks; Till a dart strike though his liver; as a bird hasteth to the snare and knoweth not that it is for his life.”

  I was going to make a point as I finished the last verse, but a baby began to cry from the back of the church. A lump rose in my throat as I tried to refrain from calling out the parents from the pulpit. Here I was, delivering a beautiful sermon, about to conclude with a strong point, and someone’s baby was making all that racket. I could hardly hear myself think. This is why we have a nursery! Parents who brought their infants into the sanctuary during a service were one of my pet peeves. Part of me wished God would add that to his list, so I could take care of it my own special way, but I knew what wouldn’t happen. God gave me strict guidelines for carrying out his work, and slaughtering babies for crying in church, or their clueless parents for not tending to them properly, definitely did not fit those guidelines, no matter how annoying they were.

  Once the service was concluded, everyone filed out the front door as I stood by greeting them. The whole scene was so routine in churches across the country, it was almost cliché. The people liked shaking their pastor’s hand after church, no matter how fake or contrived the whole exercise may be. As I stood by the door, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were the first to step outside. I’d provided them with marriage counseling on several occasions.

  Mr. Johnson seemed to have a thing for wearing his wife’s underwear. She hated it, thought it was creepy, and so she wanted a divorce. However, she had her own compulsion: shopping. I convinced them they were better off working on their own problems and staying together, but suggested perhaps they needed to give each other some space. This seemed to work, since they seemed much happier these days. There was more to being the Hand of God than meting out judgment, although serving the Lord by carrying out His justice was the part of the job I liked best.

  “Hey Pastor Charlie!” A voice called from behind me. I knew the voice instantly; before I even turned to see, I knew it was Lee Snider. I resisted the urge to run and hide, but it would have been no use. Lee always had a way of finding me. Lee was a good Christian man, probably too good. God only knew what he was hiding. He made an effort to track me down after every sermon to give me his thoughts on every single point. It would often turn into a one-sided theological discussion.. Not that I was against such things, but I could tell he just wanted to impress me with his biblical knowledge. I think he was hoping I’d offer him a job or something. I don’t even know what his regular job was. Not very pastorly of me, I suppose.

  “Hi Brother Lee, how are you today?”

  “I’m good, Pastor. That was quite a message today!” He had huge smile and kept looking around. I was several inches taller than he was, so I felt like I was talking to kid. “I saw a few folks shifting in their seats. I bet you got people’s attention with that one. Amen is all I can say! I felt the spirit moving today!” he threw his arms in the air, almost hitting a woman who was walking up behind him. I thought maybe I should offer him a job teaching a class. Then he’d at least have the audience he so sorely craved.

  “Thank you Lee,” I said. “I’m glad the Lord could speak to you today.” I attempted a smile but it felt forced and uncomfortable. I never felt “moved” the way regular people always claimed to be. I suppose that was unusual for a pastor. Many times during prayer and healing services people would fall onto the floor, crying, jumping up and down, or even writhing on the ground, as if they were having a seizure. All claimed it was the Holy Spirit moving within or through them. Yet, I never experienced any of those things. To be honest, I’ve never felt anything at all when it came to spiritual experiences. I always knew when God was talking to me by the way he communicated with me, but that was Him directly talking to me about my work. I wrote it off as God using me in other ways than the standard Christian experiences. Our work together was very private in nature, after all. Occasionally, it occurred to me that it could be something else working through me, but I preferred not to think like that.

  I happened to notice Lee was still talking, but I hadn’t been paying attention. I just nodded and smiled as he talked about whatever it was. Thankfully, a police car pulled up, getting everyone’s attention and finally silencing Lee. Everyone stopped and stared at the squad car parked in front of our church, and at the officer who climbed out. The officer walked toward me. I walked down the sidewalk to meet him, not sure what this was about. Part of me wanted to thank him for interrupting Lee.

  “Pastor Charlie Sims?” the officer asked.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Can you come with me, please?”

  I looked around and saw that everyone’s eyes were on me. I wasn’t sure if I was in some kind of trouble or what. There was no way this could be about the teacher or her lover, because I was sure I’d left no trace.. Unless someone saw me take one of them? I thought I had been much too careful for that, but there was no telling for sure. I tried not to think about it.

  “Please, Pastor Sims, we need to go now. We haven’t got much time,” the officer said as he opened the squad car door.

  Chapter 2

  The officer never did tell me his name as he drove me to the south side of San Antonio. We came to an industrial center with several factories and warehouses. One warehouse was about seven stories tall; on its roofwas a man standing on the ledge, looking down. This must be why they came and got me. My first thought was that he had to be one of my congregation members. I couldn’t think of any other reason the police would have driven out of town just to get me.

  As I stepped out of the car, I looked around the scene. There were fire trucks, police cars and an ambulance standing by, along with a handful of bystanders. I looked back up at the man to see he was just standing there, staring down at the ground. I wondered if he was contemplating what it would feel like, or if he was wondering whether it would hurt. He was too far away for me to see his face from where I was standing.

  “Any idea who he is?” I asked one of the officers.

  “Says his name is David Davidson. We had one of our negotiators up there, but he said he wanted to talk to you personally.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of this one. David Davidson was an odd name; maybe his parents had a sense of humor. One of the officers whose nametag said Garcia gestured to me, and I followed him into the building and onto a freight elevator. We rode it to the top floor. The place smelled like dust a
nd copper. I wasn’t feeling too sure about the elevator, either. It creaked and groaned as we rode it up. It was hard to not question the wisdom of riding an elevator in an abandoned building.

  Once we got to the top floor, we took the stairs to the roof where we saw Davidson on the edge, waiting for us. Garcia stopped me before we went any further.

  “He said he wanted to talk to you. Does he look familiar? From your church or anything?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’ve never seen him before. I have no idea what this is about.”

  “Well,” Garcia said, “You’re the man for now. Try to use some of your God skills to save his ass.”

  I nodded as we both made our way toward Davidson. As I got closer, I could see he was a short man, probably in his forties, with early stages of baldness. He was wearing a black t-shirt and gray sweat pants. I’ve counseled many people who were suicidal before, but never while they were about to jump off of a building.

  “Hi, David. I’m Pastor Charlie,” I said.

  He turned and looked at me.

  “Yes, I know. I’m glad you finally made it. You’re the only one who can help me.”

  “Well, what can I do for you? I’m just a servant of God. He’s the one who can help you.”

  David looked down at the ground, then back over at me.

  “God told me to find you. He said I needed to find the Hand of God.”

  Chapter 3

  The police drove David and me back to the church. Apparently the scene at the warehouse was just David’s way to get me to come out. He’d come right down from the roof with us once I’d spoken to him. I had a million questions of my own for him, the first of which being, how did he know I’m the Hand of God? Unless God talked to him directly. I supposed that was possible. It would have been arrogant to think I was the only person on earth He spoke to.