Not too long ago, I picked up the book What If It’s True? A Storyteller’s Journey with Jesus by Charles Martin. Weaving words as only a true storyteller can, Martin attempts to answer the question: What if it’s true? What if the death and resurrection of Jesus is the singular most crucial point in all of history? What if one drop of His shed blood is enough to overthrow sin and defeat death for good? What if those who believe in this astounding truth are empowered by His Spirit to live triumphantly in the face of evil?
What if it’s all true?
The following excerpt is from Chapter 1 of Martin’s book. The words are his, along with the artistic license to them. Since first reading them, I have found myself returning to these words time and again, pondering the magnificence of a God who we all-too-often minimize in our attempts to understand Him.
While Jesus is absolutely a Savior and Friend of sinners, make no mistake about His royal position. He is otherworldly. Unconquerable. Glorious and Sovereign Ruler over the entire universe. Legions of angels bow at His feet. His power is limitless. Not one earthly breath escapes without His command. Not one person goes unnoticed or unloved or is unknown to Him.Â
Despite His grandeur, He chose to leave His royal home, descend from His magnificent throne, and suffer at the hands of the enemy, so we no longer have to. I have yet to wrap my mind around so great a love as He bestows upon us, but Martin’s words aid me in coming a bit closer to it. I pray they do the same for you as we join our voices with the heavenly host and proclaim the greatness of our God.
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They are arranged in laser-perfect rows. Ten thousand in a row and tens of thousands of rows. Trailing out farther than any eye can see. They are radiant and barefooted. Every shade of skin color dressed in a sea of brilliant white robes. Decked in glistening gold. Chiseled, elegant features. Blonde, auburn, ebony hair. The floor upon which they are dancing is reflective. Shiny. Not a speck. Not a smudge. They stand somewhere above ten feet tall. Many have hair to their waists. Some pulled back in a ponytail. Their wings stretch another ten feet into the air, the tips are almost touching. They are frozen in time, holding the same choreographed pose each was holding when the music stopped. Along with everyone else, they are waiting for the music to begin again and send them into the next movement. Right now, they are catching their breath and waiting for orders. Heads bowed, beads of sweat drip onto the mirrored floor.
The air carries with it the fading echo of a drumbeat and the receding sound of the concert of a million feet dancing and tapping to perfection. It’s a powerful, penetrating rhythm felt in the depths. Several miles in the distance, there is a bright light. Brighter than the sun. It is the most piercing and penetrating light in the history of light. The breeze created by the angels’ wings brings with it the smell of mint, rosemary, lavender, lemon, and eucalyptus. This place is an architectural wonder. Planes could fly here. A thousand planes. A river flows through the middle. A roof above. In the distance, fiery stones.
This is the banquet hall of all banquet halls.
Rising on the air is a chorus of voices. They come from higher up. Thundering. Declaring. Proclaiming. Pitch perfect. While each is distinct, they layer over each other. The melody forms and rises. They are reading from an ancient text. The acoustics are perfect and unamplified . . .
As the last word echoes off, eyes turn toward the light several miles in the distance where a King is seated on His throne. He is resplendent. Like ten thousand nuclear bombs exploding over and over and over. He is magnificent. Splendor indescribable. Majesty on High. El Elyon. The brightness of the sun times ten trillion. To His right sits His Son. The very Word of God. Broad shoulders, the spitting image. A river — crystal clear — flows from beneath His throne. In His hand, He holds a scepter. He is radiant. Nothing has been, is, or ever will be more perfect. He is like a jasper stone and a sardius in appearance, and there is a rainbow wrapped around His throne like an emerald. From the throne come flashes of lightning and peals of thunder.Â
Layered in the air, the several-million-voice chorus rises: “Glory to God in the Highest!” The shimmering, angelic bodies below snap into unison. Twirling. Tapping. Synchronized. Each dancer has six wings. Two cover their faces. Two cover their feet. And with two more they fly. Cirque de Soleil doesn’t hold a candle. Voices sing out:
“Only begotten Son.”
“Heir of all things . . .”
“For by Him all things were created, both in the heavens and on earth . . .”
“He who is the blessed and only Sovereign, the King of kings and Lord of lords . . .”
“He was in the beginning with God . . . “
“The Alpha and the Omega . . .”
“The Amen, the Faithful and True Witness . . .”
“The Lion that is from the tribe of Judah, the Root of David.”
Then the voices hush. Every angel kneels. Bowing. Face to the floor. Twenty-four elders, each holding a harp and a bowl of incense — which are the prayers of the saints — lie on the ground in a circle around Him having cast their crowns at His feet.
The Son is quiet. Unassuming. No desire to draw attention. Not feeling the equality with the King is something to be grasped. His mannerisms are that of a dove. His presence that of a lion. His demeanor like a lamb’s. His attraction like the bright morning star. Expressing both longing and joy. Both tears and a smile . . .
Slowly, the Son rises. It is pin-drop quiet. He places His scepter gently in the corner of His throne. Unbuckling His sword, He leans it upright next to the scepter. Next, He takes off His robe, folds it, and places it in the seat He just occupied. He pulls off His linen, tasseled undershirt and places it neatly next to His robe . . . Finally, He removes the ring from His finger and lifts His crown off his brow, placing both atop His folded robe. Save a loincloth, the Son stands naked. His voice is the sound of many waters. Like Niagara . . .
God the Father rises as His Son crosses the fiery stones. The Father hugs the Son, buries His face on His son’s cheek and kisses Him. The time has come. On earth, the sons of Adam have lost their way. Each gone their own way. Astray. The entire human race has been taken captive, and the enemy is torturing them. Not one of them will survive the night. The Son has volunteered for a rescue mission, but it’s a prisoner exchange. The whispers are true; their freedom will cost the Son everything.
His life for theirs.
The Father holds His Son’s hands in His and tenderly touches the center of His palm. He knows what’s coming. A tear rolls down the face of the Ancient of Days. The Son thumbs it away. “I’ll miss you.” He glances at the earth below and hell in between. Billions of faces shine across the timeline of history. He knows each by name. They are the ‘joy set before Him.” He turns to His Father, “I will give them Your word. And declare to them Your Great Name.” The Son looks with longing at His home.
Voices rise from every corner singing at the tops of their lungs. It is the loudest singing in the history of song, “Blessing and honor and glory and power be to Him who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb, forever and ever.” Angels bow. Brush the floor. He pats many on the shoulder. Kisses some. Hugs others. Long-held embraces . . .
As He turns to leave, leaning against the two giant doors that lead out into the Milky Way, He turns to His Father. His eyes are piercing, penetrating, inviting. He smiles, “We’re going to need more rooms in this house when I come back.” He waves His hand across the timeline, “Because I’m bringing them with Me.” The Son — whose “countenance was like the sun shining in its strength” — exits heaven blanketed in the singing of more than a hundred million angels and bathed in the tears of the Father.
The Word becomes flesh, and He is gone.
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Be sure to visit Charles Martin’s website for all of his books. https://www.charlesmartinbooks.com/books/what-if-its-true