I am leading you to the water, but I cannot make you drink.

[clears throat] He emerged into the blinding sunlight.

The glare was intense, instantly stinging his eyes.

For a moment, he was blinded.

Then, as his pupils adjusted to the brilliance, the scene resolved itself.

It was breathtaking.

It was terrifying.

the sea of white.

Rows and rows of men sitting in perfect concentric circles around the black cube of the cabba.

They stretched out as far as the eye could see, filling the courtyard, spilling onto the roof, filling the balconies of the surrounding hotels.

50,000 bodies, 50,000 souls, and they were all silent.

A hush fell over the crowd as he ascended the final steps to the podium.

50,000 heads turned in unison.

50,000 pairs of eyes locked onto him.

He could feel the weight of their reverence.

It was heavy, like a physical burden pressing down on his shoulders.

To them, he was the bridge to the divine.

To them, he was the keeper of the keys.

They looked at him with a mixture of awe and expectation, waiting for him to validate their journey to bless their sacrifice.

He stepped up to the array of microphones.

He gripped the sides of the wooden lecter.

His knuckles were no longer white.

His hands were steady.

The supernatural peace, the shalom that passes all understanding, had descended upon him like a heavy bell jar.

Cutting off the noise of his own fear.

He felt light.

He felt detached as if he were watching himself from a distance.

He looked to his left.

He saw the Mutawa, the religious police.

K.

They stood with their arms crossed, batons at their belts, radios on their shoulders, dark sunglasses hiding their eyes.

They were relaxed.

They were bored.

They expected a standard sermon.

They expected a lecture on piety or the rules of Hajj or the history of the prophet.

They had no idea that the man standing 10 ft away from them was an enemy of the state.

They had no idea that the man they were guarding was about to detonate a theological nuclear bomb.

Rasheed leaned forward.

The feedback of the microphone whined for a fraction of a second.

a high-pitched squeal that made a few people wse, then cleared into a hum of anticipation.

In the name of Allah dot dot, he began.

His voice boomed across the courtyard, amplified by the massive speaker system, echoing off the Abraj Albay clock tower, bouncing off the marble floors.

It was a voice of power practiced and melodic.

The crowd relaxed.

This was the familiar script.

This was safe.

They settled in.

We are here today, Rashid continued.

His Arabic, flawless, poetic, hypnotic, seeking the straight path, Sarat al- Mustakim.

We are here seeking assurance.

We performed the tawa, circling the house of God until our feet bleed.

We run between Sappa and Marwa seven times.

K, imitating the desperation of Hagar.

We drink from the well of Zam until our bellies are full.

We strive, we sweat, we weep into the night.

He paused.

He looked directly into the camera lens that was broadcasting this live to screens all over the complex and potentially two satellite channels across the Middle East.

He wanted to look them in the eye.

But I ask you, my brothers, why is the heart still empty? A ripple of confusion moved through the front rows, heads tilted, brows furrowed.

This was not the standard rhetoric.

Usually the sermon affirmed their fullness, their piety, their success.

Why was he speaking of emptiness? Tawa guards shifted their weight.

Tawa, one of them, uncrossed his arms and placed a hand on his belt.

Not drawing a weapon, just resting it there.

A sign of alertness.

Rasheed pressed on, his voice gaining intensity, losing the poetic rhythm and gaining the raw texture of truth.

I have spent 40 years studying the law.

I have memorized every word of the book.

I have issued fatwise that have governed your lives.

I have led you in prayer until my knees have calluses.

And yet I have found that the law is a mirror, not a bath.

It shows me my dirt, but it cannot wash it away.

It shows me my disease, but it offers no cure.

The silence in the courtyard was now brittle.

Was the silence of a held breath before a scream.

Get the air crackled with tension.

The dignitaries in the VIP section were glancing at each other, frowning, whispering.

What is he saying? Is this a critique of the government? Is this a call for stricter laws? Is he losing his mind? I searched for the guarantee of paradise, Rasheed cried out, his voice cracking with genuine emotion, tears welling in his eyes, but I found only the scales of judgment.

I searched for peace, but I found only fear.

I searched for God, but I found only silence.

Dot dot dot until dot dot dot double quotes.

He stopped.

He closed his eyes for a second.

key.

In the darkness of his eyelids, he saw the face of Jesus again.

He saw the smile.

He felt the hand on his shoulder.

He opened his eyes.

They were blazing with a fire that terrified the men in the front row till I met the one who holds the keys to life and death.

I did not meet a prophet who was buried in the ground in Medina.

I met the savior who is alive.

The word savior almalis hung in the air like a toxic chemical.

It was a word reserved for Christian theology.

It was a foreign concept.

The shock was absolute.

It was as if he had pulled out a gun and fired it into the air.

The birds on the walls took flight.

The head of the Mutawa unit took a step forward, his face twisting into a scowl.

He reached for his radio.

Cut the mic, Kate shouted, though the crowd couldn’t hear him yet over the speakers.

Cut the feed.

Now Rasheed knew he had seconds.

Maybe three, maybe four.

His time seemed to slow down.

He could see the dust moes dancing in the sunlight.

He could see the guard’s finger pressing the button on the radio.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t scream like a madman.

He spoke with the authority of a king making a decree.

He spoke with the authority of a son of God.

I saw him.

Rasheed bellowed, his voice overriding the rising murmur of the crowd echoing like thunder.

I saw the man in white.

He showed me his hands.

He showed me the scars.

He said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

” The courtyard erupted.

It wasn’t just noise.

It was a physical wave of outrage.

Men leaped to their feet, their faces contorted with religious fury.

Screams of kafir.

Infidel and merrate began to tear through the air, drowning out the ambient noise of the city.

Shu’s the ultimate insult began to fly through the air towards the podium.

Rasheed leaned so close to the microphone that his lips brushed the metal mesh.

Key grabbed the stand with both hands to keep from being pulled away.

He had one last sentence.

The sentence that would sever his tie to this world forever.

The sentence that was worth dying for.

Jesus Christ is Lord.

Isa Almasi is the son of God.

He is not a slave.

He is the king.

Follow him.

The sound system cut out with a sharp electronic pop.

followed by a high-pitched wine of feedback.

But the words had been spoken.

They had been launched into the atmosphere.

They had been recorded on thousands of cell phones.

They had been etched into the spiritual history of Mecca.

Rasheed let go of the podium.

He stood tall.

He looked at the guards charging up the stairs.

Their batons raised, their faces twisted into masks of demonic fury.

Key looked at the crowd surging forward like a tsunami of white water, breaking the security barriers.

He expected pain.

He expected the crunch of bone.

He expected the darkness of death.

Instead, he took a deep breath.

He felt a profound, overwhelming sense of accomplishment.

It is finished.

He whispered, and he waited for the end.

The laws of physics dictate that when a single object stands against a kinetic force of 50,000, the object is crushed.

The laws of sociology dictate that a mob once incited to religious rage acts as a single mindless organism of destruction.

By all the laws of this earth, Dr.

Rasheed should have been torn limb from limb within 30 seconds.

His body should have been trampled into the marble floor, leaving nothing but a red stain on the white stone.

The noise was deafening.

It sounded like a jet engine taking off inside a tunnel.

The screams of hatred were primal, guttural, anim animalistic.

Shoes, water bottles, and prayer beads rained down on the podium like hail.

The front line of the mob breached the security barrier and began to claw their way up the marble steps, their eyes wide with blood lust.

The three Mutawa officers reached the top of the platform first.

They were the elite guard, trained for riot control, trained to neutralize threats instantly.

The lead officer was a man Rasheed knew.

His name was Hammed.

They had drunk tea together in Rasheed’s office just last week.

Hamid had asked Rasheed for advice on his daughter’s marriage, but now Hamid was gone.

In his place was a vessel of pure wrath.

Kami’s eyes were bulging, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

Okay.

His baton was raised high, aimed directly at Rasheed’s temple.

This was not an arrest.

This was an execution.

Rasheed did not flinch.

He did not raise his hands to defend himself, did not cower.

He stood rooted in the peace of God, watching the baton descend in what felt like extreme slow motion.

He saw the sweat flying off Hamid’s wrist.

He saw the stitching on the leather grip of the weapon.

He saw the focused intent in Hamid’s pupil.

Whiff the baton sliced through the air, passing inches from Rasheed’s face and struck the wooden rim of the podium with a sickening crack.

Splinches of wood flew into the air.

Hamit stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him past Rasheed.

He spun around, eyes wild, scanning the platform.

He looked left, he looked right.

He looked directly at the spot where Rasheed was standing.

“Where is he?” Amid screamed, his voice cracking with confusion.

“He was right here.

Find him.

” Rasheed stood less than an arms length away.

He could smell the stale tobacco and strong coffee on Hamid’s breath.

He could see the pulse beating in Hamid’s temple.

Rasheed looked directly into Hamid’s eyes, but Hamid was looking through him.

It was the most terrifying and disorienting sensation Rasheed had ever felt.

It was not that he had become invisible in a sci-fi sense.

His body was still there.

He was still reflecting light.

But something had happened in the connection between Hamid’s eyes and Hamid’s brain.

It was a divine disconnect, a supernatural firewall.

Hamid’s optic nerves were sending the image of Rasheed to his brain, but his brain was refusing to label it as Rasheed.

To Hamid, Rasheed was just dot dot dot background.

He was part of the visual noise.

He was empty space.

The second guard rushed up, panting, his hand on his holster.

He jumped, must have jumped into the crowd.

He yelled, leaning over the railing and looking down into the chaotic sea of pilgrims below.

Blocked the exits.

Hammed roared into his radio.

Saliva flying from his mouth.

Seal the gates.

Tell one leaves.

Kill him on sight.

Rasheed realized with a jolt that nearly knocked the wind out of him what was happening.

A verse he had read in the New Testament during his secret studies flashed into his mind.

4:30 The people of Nazareth had tried to throw Jesus off a cliff, but he passing through the midst of them went his way.

God had not teleported him.

God had not beamed him up.

God was doing something far more biblical.

He was blinding the eyes of the enemy.

Move, the spirit whispered.

It was a command, not a suggestion.

Walk.

Do not run.

Walk.

Rasheed stepped away from the podium.

He walked down the stairs, brushing shoulders with a third guard who was sprinting up.

The guard didn’t even blink.

The guard’s shoulder bumped into Rashid’s arm, and the guard simply adjusted his path as if he had bumped into a wall or a pillar, completely ignoring the person he had touched.

Rasheed stepped onto the courtyard floor.

This was the most dangerous part.

He was now entering the mob itself.

He was a single drop of water entering a boiling cauldron.

Men were shoving, pushing, screaming.

Death to the apostate.

Find the traitor.

tear him apart.

He walked.

He forced his legs to move in a steady, rhythmic pace.

He resisted the urge to sprint.

He kept his eyes lowered, staring at the white marble, muttering the psalms under his breath.

The Lord is my light and my salvation.

Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life.

Of whom shall I be afraid? A hand grabbed his arm.

Rasheed’s heart stopped.

He froze.

He looked up.

The young man, perhaps 20 years old, face red with anger, was gripping his bicep.

The boy was wearing the simple E- Rom clothing.

Did you see him? The young man screamed, shaking Rasheed’s arm violently.

Did you see which way the traitor went? Did he go to the basement? Rasheed looked at a boy.

He saw the genuine hatred, but he also saw the misguided zeal.

He felt a surge of pity.

This boy was exactly who Rasheed used to be.

He is in God’s hands,” Rasheed said softly.

The boy let go, looking confused for a split second.

The voice sounded familiar, but his brain couldn’t place it.

The cognitive block was holding.

The boy turned away to shout at someone else.

He hadn’t recognized the very voice he had been listening to just moments ago,” Rasheed continued.

He navigated the concentric circles of the courtyard.

He moved through the chaos like a diver moving through a school of fish.

The air was thick with heat and aggression, screaming and weeping.

But around Rasheed, there was a pocket of cool air, a pressure shield.

He could feel it physically, a tingling sensation on his skin, distinct from the adrenaline.

It was the presence of the Holy Spirit, heavier and more tangible than the massive marble pillars around him.

He reached the perimeter of the mosque.

The massive brass gates of the King Abdulaziz gate were beginning to swing shut.

Security team was sealing the complex.

Guards in military uniforms were lined up, checking faces, grabbing anyone who looked suspicious, shoving people back.

Rasheed approached the gap in the gates, was now only a few feet wide and closing fast.

A massive guard, wearing the red beret of the National Guard, stood in the opening, his hand on his sidearm.

He was stopping everyone.

He was shouting, “Get back.

No one leaves.

” Rasheed didn’t stop.

He didn’t slow down.

He walked straight toward the guard.

This is it.

If this fails, I die here.

Then guard looked directly at Rasheed.

Their eyes locked.

Rasheed saw the guard’s pupils dilate.

He saw the guard blink.

The guard stepped aside.

It wasn’t a conscious decision.

It appeared to be an instinctive movement like stepping aside for a superior officer or a rushing gurnie.

The guard moved out of the way, creating just enough space for Rasheed to pass.

Rasheed walked through the gap, clang.

The massive gates slammed shut behind him.

The hydraulic lock engaged with a sound like a gunshot.

Rasheed was out.

He was on the street.

The noise of the city, taxes honking, construction drills, street vendors, the hum of the modern world mixed with the muffled roar of the riot inside the mosque behind him.

The contrast was jarring.

Inside was a medieval frenzy.

Outside was a buzzling modern city.

He didn’t stop.

He walked two blocks, his legs burning.

He turned right, then left, entering the labyrinth of narrow alleyways of the agot district away from the main boulevards where the police cars were already screaming toward the mosque.

He found a secluded corner behind a large metal dumpster filled with cardboard boxes.

The smell of rotting fruit, gasoline, and stray cats was overwhelming.

But to Rasheed, it smelled like freedom.

Smelled like life.

He slumped against the rough concrete wall.

The adrenaline crash hit him like a physical blow.

His legs gave out, slid to the ground.

His pristine white robes, now stained with the dust and filth of the alley.

He began to shake.

Not a little tremble, but violent, uncontrollable shutters.

His teeth chattered as if he were freezing despite the 40° heat.

He wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forth.

He gasped for air, sobbing dry, heaving sobs that wrecked his entire body.

“You did it,” he whispered, clutching the dirt.

“He actually did it.

You kept your word.

” He reached up and tore the gutra off his head.

He threw the into the trash.

He stripped off the gold trimmed bished Kai.

He was no longer the scholar of Mecca.

He was no longer the dignitary.

He was a fugitive.

He had no money in his pockets.

Kai, he had no ID.

He had no home to go back to.

His face would be on every TV screen, every newspaper, every police scanner in the Middle East by nightfall.

The hunt would be relentless.

They would never stop looking for him.

But as he looked up from the filth of the alleyway, he saw a slice of blue sky between the towering hotels.

And in that blue sky, he felt the smile of a father.

He was homeless, but for the first time in 60 years, he was finally home.

He was hunted, but for the first time in his life, he was finally free.

Dr.

Rasheed is still out there.

He is moving in the shadows now.

He sleeps in different beds, moves between safe houses, crosses borders in the dead of night.

He speaks in hushed tones in basement and back rooms.

He traded the golden microphone of the grand mosque for the whispered prayers of the underground church.

He traded the admiration of millions for the love of the one.

He traded a palace for a prison cell in the hearts of his enemies.

And if you could ask him today, you could sit with him in a dimly lit room, share a cup of tea, and look at his weathered face.

If you asked him, Rasheed, was it worth it? Was it worth losing your family? Was it worth losing your status? Was it worth looking over your shoulder every day for the rest of your life? He would look you in the eye with those same burning fire-filled eyes and he would smile.

He would say, “I did not lose my life, my friend.

I found it.

I traded dust for diamonds.

I traded a lie for the truth.

” But friends, we need to pause here.

Need to stop looking at this story as just a miraculous event that happened over there in the desert.

It is easy to watch this like a movie to eat our popcorn and say, “Wow, God is great.

” And then turn off the screen and go back to our lives.

But I am not telling you this story just to entertain you.

I am telling you this story to arm you.

Because the reality is many of you watching this right now are standing in front of your own Mecca.

I’m talking to the mothers watching this video.

I’m talking to the fathers, the wives, the husbands.

You have a Mecca in your life.

It isn’t a city in Saudi Arabia.

It’s a person.

It’s a situation.

It’s a fortress that seems impenetrable.

Maybe it’s your son.

You remember when he used to sit in Sunday school innocent and open singing Jesus loves me.

But now, now his bedroom door is locked.

His heart is cold.

Eight.

He mocks your faith.

Continue reading….
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