the second coming

[cross bearer]

i was watching the day the earth stood still and i can't stop thinkin wat it would be like when Christ comes again, knowing people.

Possibility one: the son of man descends on a cloud, shining like lightening. All the Christians ascend. Since the earth is messed up enough. The army is mobilised because Christ is thought to be an alien or a mad magician or a terrorist. They send in tanks, planes, everything. Christ tries to speak but is shot by a sniper instead. He finally gets angry,calls down 50 squadrons of angels and wipe out everything.

Possibility two: son of man descends. World in chaos. Market crashes, everyone is out of jobs. Those who have money have billions. Wars are everywhere. Christ descends, looks around and think "i am outta here". All the Christians go with him

Possibility three: before Christ descends, he knows whats going to happen already. So he calls out to all the Christians. They go up, in comes 50 squadrons of angels, wipes out everything.

Lol anyone got any other possibilities, as you can c i am bored.

 

[SpitfireOverThames]

Hey Cross Bearer,
I don't know if you believe in the pre-Trib rapture or in a post-Trib rapture. The truth is, I'm not sure what my belief is regarding that. But when He comes to rule and reign, it will be a non-talking event, trust me. He will come upon a white steed, upon the clouds, thousands upon thousands of saints following Him, also on horses, and warring angels on the flanks. As He descends, He will unleash the judgement that was poured out on Him at the Cross... Those that rejected His offer of peace will be consumed and slain...put out of their misery, as it were. As He steps upon the Mount of Olives, as promised 2,000 years ago, the Mount will split in two. Here's my fictional account of that below, just for you, bro!

(From unpublished novel, SHILOH'S RISING, Copyright 2009 by Sean Russell Strickland)

As His sandled foot imprinted into the soft dirt of the Mount of Olives, an upheaval began. At first a sluggish, muffled rumble, until it began to gain momentum throughout the land—as if a giant deep within the earth was awakening. The fault line prepared over the centuries for this time began to arouse from its slumber. In a moment, the land began shaking relentlessly. All the violence seemed to move to a crescendo, growing in awful intensity until the Mount of Olives collapsed beneath the Lord and His mounted people—leaving them suspended in mid-air. An enormous rift developed as the middle of the Mount was suddenly jostled—half to the north and the other half to the south—as if by huge unseen hands. A deep, freshly cut floor formed where the elevated Mount of Olives had once stood.


Very gently, the people dropped like feathers onto the new ground as the forming of the chasm continued to spread like galloping horses into the Kidron Valley, the earthen dirt being plowed briskly to the sides all the way to the base of the Temple Mount. Hundreds of hillside graves, in ancient times planted there to thwart the Jewish Messiah’s coming, were unearthed and removed swiftly into the air by the unseen.


From hundreds of feet above came a joyful voice that bellowed forth from a single, winged warrior of shifting colors. “The Judah Lion has returned to His City, and His path must be made straight!” At his proclamation, the long-ago sealed Gate with its immense stone blocks began to be chiseled away at lightning speed by invisible, skilled hands into an immaculate double archway. Meanwhile, rectangular steps began to form from the valley floor upward to the Gate's brand new entrance.


Finally, the earth's temper tantrum began to subside.


Jesus scanned His people behind Him. The countless numbers of them awaited His orders. With a thunderous voice, He spoke: "My beloved, dismount!"

 

[SpitfireOverThames]

Cross Bearer,
This is the prologue of the chapter one. Its hits on some of the questions you make. I wonder if my fictional account is possibly the way it will be. What do you think?


Prologue from unpublished novel, SHILOH'S RISING, Copyright 2009 by Sean Russell Strickland; all rights reserved.


In the moment before a bomb's explosion, the surrounding oxygen is instantly, rapidly sucked inward creating an airless vacuum. Before the heated detonation, a strange, restful calm ensues. A muted lull of silence settles—if only for an instant. For those who find themselves in its deadly path, time slows to a crawl, and one’s life passes before the eyes. As panic overtakes the person, he or she sees in vague flashes their most intimate comforts—their mother's smile, their little boy's first words—those things that seem most important in life.
Such was the atmosphere just before this explosion. The moment of His grand return.
Escalating tensions had brought the warring nations to the geographical center of the earth like two worthy opponents to a chess match, upon a land that had soaked up much blood over the eons. The battle to end all battles seemed imminent, each nation staring down the other, each watching and waiting for any nuance of weakness in order to strike out and crush their opponent once for all.

The late spring morning had been unseasonably cold. But for most of the inhabitants of the earth, they had grown used to the changes in the environment. This had begun with the blotting out of the sun several years prior whereby only short bursts of sunshine could penetrate the canopy and bring warmth and light.

For the soldiers on the battlefield, the day had been typical. Most of them occupied their non-duty time making small-talk, writing loved ones, or playing cards—all of them hoping for the day when the war clouds would either dissipate and bring peace, or rage and bring war. It was commonly agreed upon that war, disfigurement, or death could never equal the suffering of waiting. Let this so-called “Armageddon” come, many concluded, if it meant they could go home instead of sitting around idly another agonizing twelve to eighteen months.
Unknowingly, the climax was encroaching, but from One mankind had long pushed out of their minds and plans.

Just before He appeared, it was the proverbial "calm before a storm." The birds quieting, the stillness like the fermata before the grand finale of an orchestra's closing moment. The abrupt change in atmosphere was immediately noticed by all. People’s senses sharpened and became focused as if they had suddenly become the prey of a deadly hunt. Blood drained from faces as the air changed around them, as it became noticeably heavier and charged with thick folds of electricity.

Then the skies broke open with a liquid fire, an explosion of light pouring inward like rays of beaming sunshine into a darkened room. It was an unnatural light, brighter than the sun, and people immediately recoiled from its blinding intensity. Nearly at once, missiles of light broke off from the luminescent, expanding sheen and descended onto the vast sea of people and soldiers below.

Everyone reacted differently. Some became confused and disoriented in the pandemonium, many soldiers firing madly at anything they could set their sites on—including each other. Others were able to realize the threat and trained their sites overhead, firing their volley of various weapons in the direction of the ferocious light. Still, many became quiescent as if their minds had just sizzled to overload.

Most had only several heartbeats to release their barrage of weapons before they were relentlessly struck down. Ancient writings had once declared a day when the blood of the dead would flow as high as a horse's bridle. Today, those words had become a bitter reality.

* * *​

The first to witness the unfolding terror of God’s arrival, however, lived not upon the earth but in the heavens. Dr. Androv Markov sat on the edge of his bed with his head resting in his hands staring out the oval-shaped window into the black void of empty space. A deep growl escaped from his belly. He placed his hands over the hunger pangs and rubbed gently side to side as if to appease them one more time. With no shuttle rendezvous in over six months to the International Space Station Eagle, crucial supplies of food and water as well as computer parts had fallen to alarming levels. The meager rations had been hardly adequate with the intensive nature of their twenty-hour workdays. He felt tedious, yet strangely wide-awake.
Just then, an alarm sounded from Markov’s small desk. He stretched over and pressed the “receive” button. “Go ahead,” he sighed expecting the whole station to be falling apart since being on duty twenty minutes before.

A woman’s urgent voice replied. “Dr. Markov, for reasons unknown, the primary computers have began acting screwy.”

“What do you mean ‘screwy’?” he asked in a twisted concoction of broken English together with an altogether unpleasant and condescending tone. He felt too tired for games.

“They’re going haywire, as if a solar storm were hitting us—but we’re not scheduled for another one of those for several weeks.”

“Do what you can till I get there,” he said wearily. He made his way to the sink splashing a few handfuls of recycled water onto his face before patting it dry. He couldn’t help but wonder what the crew would do without him. Often it seemed as if he were the only one competent enough to keep the station fully functioning—that those under him were hardly worthy of the rations they ate.

Markov stepped to the window and pressed his face firmly against the cool surface. He could just barely see a small section of the earth that lingered below. It appeared tranquil from up here, yet he knew the onslaught of plagues, natural disasters, and the Third World War that lurked down below—no part of the earth escaping the torrent of death that had gripped it.
Early on in the war, the one known in international circles as the Grand Premier had secured the space station for his own purposes and filled it with fifteen of the brightest minds in the world—all to expedite an ambitious agenda.

That agenda, however, had required the expertise of Markov. Under his supervision, routine maintenance and repair of the station computers were kept at peak proficiency, which in turn directed the huge network of satellites. The “eyes in the sky” peered down into the affairs of man, 7 days a week, 24 hours a day. Knowledge was power and such allowed invaluable strategic planning against the Grand Premier’s enemies, whether the nations gathered against him in the Middle East or the small factions that needed to be cut-off or re-educated throughout the earth.

In Markov’s mind at least, no other time of history had produced a leader with the genius and charisma of the Grand Premier. Who else had managed to do what he had accomplished—and in just a few short years? Like the Russian cosmonaut who had at one time exclaimed triumphantly that since he couldn’t see God, He must therefore not exist, Markov, too, felt certain there was no God. The idea of God was for weak people, with even weaker minds. Admittedly, however, Markov had become less of an atheist with the rise to power of the Grand Premier. If anyone deserved the status of God, it was he.

For eons man had worshipped unseen gods—if anyone or anything should be named a god, let it be he—someone who could bring true change for the earth, not some imaginative or mythological god whose benefits were pathetic at best. This God of a man would live on in the reforms he made for the earth—permanent changes for permanent peace. Despite the possibilities, however, multitudes had refused to give their allegiance to the Grand Premier due to outdated religious creeds or nationalism—even when their lives were threatened or taken from them. But acceptable were the losses if it meant the policies were solidified and put in place so the new society could emerge.

Sadly, such losses had reached even his own family. Markov’s mother and father had prejudged and sorely misunderstood the Grand Premier. Why they had refused to see the wisdom and greatness of this man, he could not answer. The question still nagged in his mind: why had they clung to an ancient, ridiculously narrow creed? Perhaps it wasn’t so complicated. Perhaps it could all be summed up in nonsense, a nonsense that blinded people to what was truly important in life. Markov’s parents had simply been bound up in their old ways, in irrelevant traditions and nationalistic pride—things that prevented the world from becoming what it could be. It was time for the world to put away “childish things” and grow up. And thankfully, there had come the Grand Premier who could help accomplish such an enormous task.

Being one of the most brilliant in his field, Markov had eventually been given the choice of the world's top assignments. It had been an easy decision—the result of which had brought him away from the chaos of the earth to the I.S.S. Eagle. It had seemed like a grand adventure to be captured and claimed as his own—but upon his first week here, he’d quickly realized what it really was, a floating, glorified office. Nevertheless, he’d do whatever it took to do his part, to help the world along on its march to maturity.

Markov glanced at his watch. He’d better get down to the others. The quicker he resolved the problem, the quicker he could be back in his bunk and fast asleep. As he stepped away from the window, it was as if a spotlight had suddenly been turned on and shown through his window—but from the outside!

Markov threw himself backward from the window as its blinding radiance poured into his room like a cascading tidal wave.

Only mere seconds remained of the Russian’s life. What he saw—only he and God knew. Did he see his mother's gentle smile, a smile that always greeted him from school as a boy? Would he ponder the hatred that had so filled his heart and actions as a young man entering the Grand Premier’s Youth-Dragon Brigade? Did he seek forgiveness for the act of revealing his parents hiding place when the Search Teams had come into Markov's town looking for all those who had refused the oath of allegiance? Did he consider the burning sensation around the mark on his right hand, or when something indefinable within him began to also burn? With all his genius, was he able to understand the magnitude of the moment when the light suddenly enveloped him revealing all of his sins, stripping away all of his pretenses—in that moment, what would have been his last thought? Before his final heartbeat, he cried out to the God of his parents—

"Jesus!"

Salvation escaped him that day as his body melted within the holy presence.

* * *​

He rested in the top bunk with a smile on his face holding a frayed picture of his wife in his hands. Petty Officer Third Class Aaron Bradley had been at sea for fourteen long months, the U.S.S Swordfish hidden deep beneath the Pacific Ocean. Bradley cursed to himself when he realized how “stuck” his life really was while being in the belly of a metal fish while the war worked itself out. When would the hell be over so he could lead a real life again?
He so missed his wife.

Bradley gave a brief kiss on the picture before taking one long last look at his wife. He was about to get up to replace the picture in his locker, to prep himself for breakfast with a quick shower when the ship was unexpectantly jarred, as if a heavy hand had come crashing down on the Los Angeles Class submarine. Tossed from his bunk to the cold, metal floor as if a mere paperweight, Bradley found himself in the midst of arms, legs, and the disoriented faces of his shipmates. Dull metallic clamors continued to hammer against the vessel's hull that didn’t seem nearly as thick as it had before the mysterious cacophony began. Within seconds, an unrelenting shudder gripped the submarine making Bradley believe it would surely be pulled apart at its seams within his next few breaths. Then to Bradley’s terror, he suddenly felt the vessel's bow turn downward steeply.

Grown men had a trapped look, their eyes opened wide, their mouths agape, some praying, all wanting to know what was happening—and all fearing the worst. The men stared at the only way in and out of their sleeping quarters—watching for what they expected would come: the rapid up-flow of frigid, merciless ocean water—and the last breaths of their lives.
At that same moment, everyone's hands began to cramp and burn at the location of the allegiance marks that had been embedded deep beneath their skin. Bradley's picture slipped out of his hand. An astonished look appeared on the men’s faces as they saw not water but a white brightness pouring through the entrance of their cramped quarters. Despite the beauty of the light, however, the men sensed something deadly—as if they were rabbits noticing the splendor of a bird with outstretched wings, only to discover the bird a hawk with its talons extended. Like a creature, the light weaved in and out of every corner and hidden area as if searching. Bradley reached for the picture—all he wanted was to see his wife one more time. But Bradley would not get that last comfort as he and his shipmates were engulfed almost instantly, their bodies dissolving within the brilliance.

 

[SpitfireOverThames]

Prologue Part 2, unpublished excerpt from SHILOH'S RISING. Copyright by Sean Russell Strickland; all rights reserved.

"Booker, hey!" the tank commander yelled through the intercom giving the soldier a light kick on his helmet with his foot. "Wake up! I need you to be watching the front," he said from his raised seat directly behind the gunner.

The black sergeant from Detroit acknowledged the tank commander now fully awake. This job of staring blankly through a nightvision device was arduous—not to mention a boring task—and made for long nights. Anything green to bright green indicated a heat source of life whether it was a human body or the rumble of an idling tank in the distance. Occasionally, a green rabbit or rat would scurry across the field, just enough to arouse him from his visionlike dreams of home, of good wholesome memories, of the life and people he so missed.

He rested his eyebrows against the black rubber pad and slowly turned the turret from left to right and back again with his manual crank slowly scanning the front. Without fail, however, he felt the onslaught of sleepiness creep over his eyes again. Lately, with the long hours and endless waiting, it had seemed difficult to resist exhaustion’s hold over him. The still greenery of the night device melted into scenes of his mother working quietly in the kitchen, or of hearing his father's raspy voice as he sat in his favorite chair with his rumpled newspaper in his work-worn hands. Many times those visions, fading in and out, seemed like what was real, that this war, and all the atrocities of it, was all an illusion. Without fail, however, he’d be awakened to his present surroundings of metal, rubber, and glaring lights—the reds, yellows, blues and whites of a false and cold beauty, stark reminders of his present surroundings.

But on this night he did not have a chance to fall back into a light slumber, for other things were fast coming awake.

Without warning, the brightness of the sun shone as if a thick blanket had just been ripped away from the sky. As he pondered this unexpected, strange occurrence, he quickly switched to his daytime viewer. Had he awakened from a deep sleep or had he fallen into a deep dream? Whatever was happening, it had turned the pitch black of nighttime into the brightest lucidity.

If it was the sun—it couldn't be! It was barely three o’ clock in the morning. Had an atomic blast taken place? He didn't see a fireball rising into the sky. He realized something clearly odd about this light—it didn’t diminish but seemed to be spreading across the sky.
Everyone within the tank had jolted awake, their eyes widened, each wondering if this was all a dream—or the worst of nightmares.

The white-hot glow had now blanketed all of the sky, and then shafts of light began dropping from above and striking the hillsides several miles ahead. The arrows struck the tanks and bewildered soldiers before most of them could react. It was then that Booker noticed something terrifying. The shafts of light were moving meticulously across the land mowing down anyone in its path—and headed in rapid fashion toward Booker's tank.

"D-Driver, full reverse," the Tank Commander ordered, his voice shaking, the instinctual need to survive overriding the finality that was fast approaching them. The driver started the tank, throwing it into reverse.

With a jerk, the tracked vehicle rumbled backwards.

Booker found himself praying for the first time in years, thinking of his loved ones, wondering if they were all right. From the flanks, Booker could hear the muffled explosions of tanks sending their rounds down range against the oncoming menace—a wall of light covering the landscape and advancing toward Booker’s tank.

Then it was upon them. Booker heard an ear splitting, ripping apart of metal as the light poured into the tank, consuming the lives within.

* * *​

A sensation of falling. Then of a frigid coldness as if they’d been submerged in alpine springs. The Grand Premier and the False Prophet both realized the terror of their predicament, and it was then that they noticed an emotion they had rarely known since their childhood: fear. During their stint upon the earth, the two men had been loved and loathed, embraced and feared, cursed and worshipped. Today, however, they were just flesh and blood—without power to command and conquer, unable for the first time to go where they wished to go.

Visions of earth’s pleasantries paraded their minds as they fell for a measurement of time that stretched for a long time—all the good things they would never see again—the golden sunshine and its warmth upon their faces; the loving touch of a mother to her newborn baby; brightly colored flowers, their petals spread wide open to soak in the sun’s rays; the lazy wonder of a neighborly bumblebee touching down from one flower to the next—all would be forever alien to them as they descended steeply.

Finally, in the far off distance, they saw a dot of light, like a star, with the hue of bluish-white in the center of a black backdrop. The sight of it pleased the eyes. Yet for all its beauty, it seemed out of place, like a shiny pearl in the depths of a deep unlit ocean. Then the blue began to grow until it seemed to rush toward them, so that it was no longer a beautiful comfort but a terror of blue flames reaching up to receive them.

As they dropped into the inferno, the cold, lonely silence of that place was shattered by their high-pitched screams, a terror and seething pain they had never before known. They frantically searched all around for a place—any place—to escape the fiery, icy touch—but there was no place to go for relief; their screams went unanswered..

Though altogether a place they had never imagined, there remained a familiarity about it. Perhaps it was because this place reflected their own hearts, a place devoid of God's presence and life. Nevertheless, the blistering blaze gnawed at their bodies hungrily, as if wanting to consume them but never quite being able to, like an unending hunger that could never be satisfied. It seemed like an unfair pairing, the flames never fulfilled yet never ceasing in their hungry pursuit for something within humanity, and humanity never escaping yet always searching exhaustingly for a way out of the painful embrace. Every direction they could see, the tall, stinging flames reached high into the darkness—as if anticipating those that would eventually come.