Around about the same time as my visit from
Condon, some unfortunate events were unravelling
elsewhere in the world. My future wife's father,
Victor Ó Muireagáin, was making the mistake of his
life—a mistake that would not only cost him, but
others also. He had been posted at one of the many
outposts the British were setting up in the British
Isles and beyond. It seemed sensible to the rulers to
set up forts and garrisons across the lands,
particularly in Scotland to subdue "the unruly
Scots."
It had been a miserable, cold, and damp day,
and he had already made sure several deserters were
shot.
Sitting at a table in a dungeon facing a
young man was a small man with rounded features.
He was dressed in the red coat of a government
soldier. "My son, will you not reconsider?"
Young Matthew Campbell had already been
visited by a clergyman who had tried to make him
reconsider, and the attempt had only made him sure
of his choice to refuse the draft. He found it ironic
that he had been told to renounce nonviolence in the
name of Christ, which in his eyes effectively meant
he was being asked in the name of Christ to deny
Christ.
"My decision is final, Father."
With tears in his eyes, Draco Campbell said,
"My son, they will kill you."
The brave young man turned his head away
so he would not cry. "Blessed are the peacemakers,
blessed are the persecuted," he muttered.
His father was no longer able to hold back
his tears. Matthew's decision had been the result of
tragic events. Initially he had agreed to the draft,
even though he had been press-ganged into the
army. It seemed such an adventure at the start, and
he wasn't bothered at all about it, but the more he
read the Sermon on the Mount in his little Tyndale
New Testament, the more he found he could not
abide cruelty to other humans. Then something
awful occurred that he could not process in either
his heart or mind.
An army medic told him to write down what
had happened in the hope that writing would give
him some relief. So he wrote:
To the Ground
He falls to the ground.
Hands over his eyes, he weeps bitter tears
of great pain.
How had things come to this?
Wiping the blood and tears from his face,
he does something he hasn't done for a
long time—he prays.
With his rifle finally laid to rest, the young
soldier looks to the heavens and then
across a field of corpses.
Among the dead he sees a child he killed in
the heat of battle.
The soldier's words echo in the valley of
death, "God forgive us."
Forgive us all, sweet Jesus, forgive us.
To the ground the soldier falls.
The medic looked over this piece of writing
and thought the young soldier's feelings were fairly
normal. It was the second two pieces of writing that
got Matthew into big trouble:
Collateral Damage
You are someone's baby, someone's child;
But they call you collateral damage.
You are someone's son, someone's
daughter;
But they call you collateral damage.
You are someone's brother, someone's
sister;
But they call you collateral damage.
You are someone's father, someone's
mother;
But they call you collateral damage.
They call you collateral damage—
For they know not what spirit they are of.
They Lie
They send us off to die.
Blood and tears we cry.
In the heat of battle we live.
Our sweat and life we give.
Bang beats the drum.
A war never won.
Vanity and pride.
The leaders hide.
Why should this be?
In the name of the free?
No, not in my name.
This is not a game.
They send us off to die, we shall not go
For they lie!
When he was taken to the authorities for this
expression of conviction, in the heat of argument he
declared he would no longer fight. Now he was on
trial.
"Father, do not weep for me. If they decide
to kill me I will simply go to heaven and inspire
others to make a stand for love and peace."
Crying, Draco said, "Son, you are a hopeless
idealist! In all of this I can't see how you can
believe in God and still believe in nonviolence. My
son, how will your death serve the people? How
will it serve the coming empire, the new world
order? The kingdom of the future?"
"Father, I serve the Messiah, the Christ. Not
any Caesar. His kingdom is not of this world, and
no man need fight for it. All empires will pass away,
but Christ lives. He is love and peace, and his
kingdom will last forever."
Draco's expression changed from one of
compassion to one of rage. "What foolishness, what
treason is this?"
"Calm yourself, Father. I'll be gone soon."
His short time in the prison had given
Matthew time to think, and one thing was clear to
him: he must not compromise. Having seen various
criminals coming and going in this awful place, he
had also begun to see that these thieves and
murderers did not see what they did as wrong. He
had also seen soldiers coming and going and
wealthy people making a profit on other people's
suffering, all bragging about what they had
achieved. What was boasting in wealth but theft
from the poor, and what were nationalism and war
but murder and denial of the human family?
There was a knock on the heavy metal doors
that kept the dungeon shut, and Draco went to the
door. Two soldiers, muscular and tall, stood without.
He muttered with them, out of hearing distance
from Matthew. The soldiers suddenly pushed past
Draco and headed straight for Matthew. They
grabbed him and took him away.
The soldiers marched Matthew to another
room in the dungeons where a superior officer
waited. This man was to be Matthew's judge and
jury. Sitting at a table with two armed guards by his
sides, Jenny's father, Victor, sat with a disinterested
face and a dominating figure.
"Do you wish to die, young man?"
"No."
"As I suspected. Then you must cooperate
and agree to the draft. The army needs young men
like you."
"I cannot."
"And why is that?"
"I am a Christian, and I do not believe in
violence."
An amused expression crossed his face.
"Come now, young man, there are plenty of
Christians in this military."
"I must protest, sir. Any allegiance between
Christians and murder is a compromise too far."
"What foolishness is this?" Victor whispered
to one of his soldiers. Then he paused and said,
"Never mind, his father is here."
Draco entered and looked at Matthew before
stepping forward.
Lieutenant Commander Ó Muireagáin spoke
to him. "You must instruct your son; he is refusing
to do his duty."
"I refuse to kill," Matthew interrupted.
"Please instruct him."
Draco, unsure of what to say, looked at
Matthew and said in a cold tone, "He is of age."
Everyone in the room knew what such a
statement implied: Draco had washed his hands of
his own son. However, Matthew seemed to have
been empowered with a new boldness, and he rose
to his feet in defiance.
Victor looked at him sternly. "Very, well,
young man. You will die if you don't obey."
"So be it."
"Such a waste . . . but as you wish. As of this
hour you are a condemned man. God save the
king!" Victor roared.
In response, Matthew said, "Hail to the
Prince of Peace, Jesus the Messiah."
This enraged Victor all the more. "Get him
out of my sight!"
The soldiers grabbed Matthew's arms once
more, but Draco suddenly lurched forward, his face
showing a sudden surge of compassion. "Wait, son,
please."
Victor addressed Draco. "Make it quick, old
man. I've got more scum to deal with, executions to
arrange, wars to plan. I haven't got all day!"
"Son, please, recant and hope they forgive
you. They are going to kill you."
Matthew looked at his father, hugged him,
and said, "God be praised!"
Victor rose to his feet and thumped his fist
on the table. "What sin do your fellow Christians
commit by being in this army?"
Matthew looked him directly in the eyes.
"You know what they do."
"Take him away," Victor roared.
Matthew's punishment was arranged for
sunrise on the next day. He was returned to a
solitary cell. The prison window overlooked an
execution ground.
To Matthew's surprise, the guards seemed to
have forgotten all about him the next morning after
a night of heavy drinking. The time for his
execution came and went, and they left him alone.
This delay in affairs did not bring the relief that
Matthew would have hoped for—instead he saw a
friend who had helped many to run away from the
army face execution.
Matthew was slumped against the wall when
he heard the guards ask, "Are you ready to die?"
He jumped up and ran to the window to see
what was happening. A beautiful young girl was
bound against a wall, and the soldiers were making
ready to execute her by firing squad. She wore a
beautiful purple dress that only a young lady of
nobility could afford. Matthew knew her at once.
Looking up and seeing Matthew's face in the
prison bars, the young girl smiled and said, "Yes."
The guard was taken aback. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"So be it."
The firing squad made ready, aimed, and
then fired. In the brief minute before the word
"fire," she closed her eyes and spoke in Irish Gaelic
a prayer of praise while gazing up at a Celtic cross
that stood just behind where the firing squad had
lined up to take her life:
Tall, dark, towering, decorated with curves
and angles.
Sign of the people, the passion, and the
place.
The circle of life and resurrection.
Hands once held there, feet once nailed.
The inscription "King of the Jews"
The reality "King of all kings."
The King of the Celts died here.
Slain to reconcile man to God.
Art and heritage combine.
The story unfolds as it is retold.
God of our fathers bless us.
Bless us in the shadow of thy cross.
BANG!
She fell forward, but the shots hadn't killed
her instantly. She choked and spluttered in the dirt.
Matthew's only comfort was the word he heard her
cry out on her last breath—"Hallelujah!"
Then all was still.
The next morning as the sun began to rise,
Matthew lay curled in the foetal position. He felt
broken inside, and the doubts so many people of
faith have from time to time began to surface. The
young girl's death had been horrible. Was he doing
the right thing? Had he acted rashly?
"I'm so alone," he moaned.
He looked toward the prison window as a
beam of light broke through the bars. At first it
seemed normal, like a beam of sunlight. However,
the light burst through the bars with such an impact
that the entire room was filled with light. This was
not just sunlight, nor the light of a candle.
"Matthew," a voice said.
Matthew rose to his feet in surprise. "Who's
there?" he said, shielding his eyes.
He began to see the faint image of what at
first appeared to be a human. The light gradually
faded a little, and before him stood a beautiful
angel. She was radiant, dressed in white with the
wings of a dove. The angel held a shield with the
word PAX on it and cradled a dove in her other
hand. Matthew fell to his knees.
"Rise. I am only a messenger of truth."
Gently, she helped him to his feet and led
him to the window. "Child of God, you are not
alone. Look, and behold the light among the
people."
Pointing out, the angel directed Matthew's
eyes to the execution ground below. The blood
stained ground doubled as a marketplace during the
day. It was busy, as people were selling various
produce from local farms and craft shops. However,
now he didn't just see the troubled prisoners and the
soldiers walking and marching to and fro, nor did he
simply see people buying and selling on bloodied
ground—he also saw the spirit realm, and beside
every human was at least one angel.
"Behold God's compassion."
Matthew's attention was drawn to a young
lady carrying her baby. Beside her was an angel,
and around the baby were baby-sized angels playing
and singing together.
"Since you were small, God and his angels
have looked after you in both the good and bad
times. The choice before you now will be costly if
you continue to choose grace, but be of good
courage. God and his angels will give you strength
to love."
His lips began to tremble. "I'm afraid."
"Child of God, fear not. Your elder brother,
Jesus, has made a place for you in his house of
many mansions. His kingdom come!"
"What about those I leave behind? What
about all these people? My father . . . my friends?"
"If you choose this costly path of love, your
witness will be a light to fallen hearts."
"What about God's kingdom?" Matthew
asked. "Will it really make a difference?"
Then the angel said, "Even a drop of love
can change many hearts, and I sense that you have
much love. Be not afraid. You will have strength to
bless those who curse you, to love those who hate
you, and to pray for those who persecute you. Be
not afraid, fear not." The angel's voice and visible
presence slowly faded away.
When she was gone, Matthew was left in
awe. Calmly he pondered the events of his life and
especially of the last few days. A person would
hardly kill and torture a neighbour just because a
man in a suit told him to do so—so why should he
go far from home to do it? Were the faraway not
also neighbours? He began to write on the floor
with a piece of stone that had broken off the
window ledge:
Hope in Jesus
What happens when I die?
The voice of angels that do not cry.
Ladder to heaven.
Death has won?
Nay, Life has won.
Death: where is her sting, where is her
victory?
No shame in dying, no shame in living.
Crushed to earth, but rising again.
In Christ alone my hope is found.
What happens when you die?
The voice of angels that do not cry?
He put the stone down, and thinking of the
angel, felt a comforting presence he had never felt
so strongly before. Then he thought again of his
Saviour, Jesus Christ, and wrote one last piece.
It Is finished!
Finished
Bloody Palms
Bloody Crown
Bloody Ground
Bloody Nails
Radiant Light
Third Day Rising
Finished, but Just Begun
He lay down his primitive writing tool. He
had run out of space to write, and besides, he was
ready to die for his beliefs now.