“John? Hey, John!” shouted a young man behind the glass of the control room, his voice slightly tinny from the microphone. His fingers flew across the panel in front of him. “Big guy, what’s the hold up? We’re recording.”
John’s consciousness slammed into his trembling body. Weak-kneed, the singer blinked rapidly, trying to adapt to the sudden change. He hadn’t just witnessed the divine vision; he had been in it, inside the thirteenth-century serf’s astonishment and terror. Hands covering his headphones, John stared vacantly through the soundproof glass into the control room, gradually reclaiming his body and his time.
“Thank God,” he whispered, trying to relax, to remember and surrender. That the Lord would once again grace him with the sacred affliction reaffirmed the sanctity of his life-long vocation.
“What?” the microphone blared again. “Didn’t catch that.”
Slowly, John Jacobs, nicknamed the Apostle, began to absorb his surroundings; the studio cluttered with instruments and microphones, the presence of his five-piece band, and the four, often flighty backup singers. He knew now where he was and that it was coming, the agonizing ecstasy of transformation, and he became weak at the knees once again.
A strong hand gripped his bare arm, momentarily bracing him. Then John heard a tiny squeal of pain as skin struck skin and sensed with relief the fingers fleeing, taking with them their jarring human touch.
“He friggin’ burned me!” the bass player blurted, blowing across his finger tips. “Howzat possible?” He thrust his fingers toward the drummer. “See that? Shoot, I was just tryin’ to keep the man on his feet…”
“Hey, people! Somebody tell me what’s going on!” the metallic voice shouted.
Though the burning terrified and thrilled him, John spread his arms and mentally welcomed the spirit of Christ’s Passion, fully aware of the bizarre intrusion about to overwhelm him. Eyes clenched, the singer paused in trepidation, drained his consciousness and prayed.
The piercing pain struck immediately in his head, swirling, twisting, finally thrusting out into his wrists and right side. The Apostle’s muscular body convulsed in spasm. For an instant, an image of his young son, bedridden and pale, seared across his mind. Jimmy.
The two men watching from the other side of the glass exchanged raised eyebrows and stared back. On the brink of exhaustion, the small group of musicians and technicians that made up Passion Sound, a subsidiary of John’s philanthropic Passion Ministry, had been cooped up in the Ministry’s main recording studio for twenty days straight, hoping to finish John’s latest album, Unnatural State.
Nine of the ten tracks had been mixed and were in the can, thanks to the producer in the control booth, Brendan Shewchuck. Though still in his twenties, Brendan had a brilliant reputation as an innovative music producer. Despite his protestations, no one was listening to him, and Brendan let his hand slip from the microphone switch.
The other man, Philip Ede, leaned against the sound-mixing equipment and scratched his balding scalp.
“What’s he doing?” Brendan asked. “Meditating? Too many people in the way.”
“Not sure,” Philip replied, eyes fixed on the Christian music superstar. He squeezed the reading glasses in his fist. “Sshh.”
“Jeez, John, not now. We’re almost finished.” The young man whispered, starting to stand up.
Phil’s fingers grabbed Brendan’s shoulder. “Wait a sec.”
Brendan whirled, shoving the hand off. “Whaddaya mean, wait?! You’re the bitch banker who’s hanging the Easter deadline over my head, goin’ on and on about costs.”
“Oh...my,” a backup singer whimpered from within the studio. She moved towards John.
The bass drummer coughed, nostrils widening. “What’s that smell...?” he asked. “Like roses, man.”
Brilliant frayed lights exploded behind John’s eyeballs and he gagged, tongue thick with the sickly-sweet taste of spoiled fruit. An intense, white heat saturated him to the core. Then his skin ruptured. Exhilarated from the emptying, John focused on his ten-year-old while his sweating flesh succumbed to the torment without a struggle. The boy was safe. And one day, praise God, Jimmy would embrace his destiny. For a moment, he experienced a jagged thrust of dread. For on that day and forever after, there would be skepticism, a global scandal, death threats. “Jimmy,” he whispered. Then his skin ruptured again.
“JESUSmaryandjoseph!” cried a vocalist. She crossed herself quickly and, despite her short skirt, dropped to her knees. “Hallelujah, Lord. It...it’s starting.”
Brendan flipped the mike switch again. “John…John?” his voice penetrated the anxiety filling the recording studio. “Hey, big guy! You all right in there?”
The hot-shot producer’s words went unnoticed as all eyes were fixed tightly on the Apostle’s clenched hands. The short-skirted vocalist began to softly sing and sway.
“What’s he—oh, that does it!” cried Brendan. “Stuff this waiting crap! We’re layin’ the final voice tracks here. Each session’s costing us seven grand. I’m going in.”
He ripped off his headphones and charged inside the soundproofed studio, Phil at his heels.
There was an eerie quiet as a strong, sweet scent drenched the room.
Both men froze when they saw the blood trickling from the Apostle’s wrists and side.
John moaned as he endured the familiar molar-shredding migraine and rending, dizzying lift. His perspective somersaulted, hurtling skyward, vacating his tormented body until he was weightless, towering above his beloved West Coast spiritual refuge.
As the Apostle collapsed into the arms of the surrounding musicians, Philip released a huge sigh of relief. “Never actually witnessed the beginning before, but right on time, baby. Showing the marks right on time.”
“So,” Brendan whispered. “This’s how it happens. Wicked.” He rubbed his hands together, then exchanged an enthusiastic high five with Phil.
A backup singer tentatively touched the dime-sized hole on John’s left wrist, screamed, fainted and flopped across the drum stool.
“Jesus wept,” muttered the bass player, licking his finger. “Jesus friggin’ wept.”
