A Prophecy Fulfilled

Jose invites Ken to a strange church.

I’m not religious, but I went to church growing up. I said my prayers before dinner—at least until I was ten. “Thank you God for my food, I hope it’s really good.” That doesn’t exactly rhyme but it was something like that.

My friend Jose recently invited me to church; I looked for any reason not to go. I insisted that I didn’t speak Spanish so I wouldn’t get much out of the experience.

“You’re an asshole,” he said. “You know I don’t speak Spanish.”

That’s true. His mom mentioned it to me any time I was at their house. She was always saying to him “you don’t speak Spanish because you’re lazy” and “tu amigo es un burro.” I’m not sure what the second one meant, but she said it a lot.

So, that excuse didn’t work. I said I don’t believe in the whole “God” thing anymore. I’m sure it’s great, but I can’t get past the details of any god. Or the Jesus stuff.

“It’s not really a Christian thing,” Jose tried to reassure me.

This is when I start thinking it’s a cult. Oh right, before I get going: it’s a cult.

I ask him if it’s a cult.

“It’s not a cult,” Jose said. Fair enough.

“Okay, fine,” I told him. I like Jose. He’s a decent friend, and I could at least go see his cult. He picked me up on Saturday and we went to church.

We got there and I immediately saw red flags. That’s not a metaphor; they had a flag. It was a bright, solid red flag. No details, no symbols, no lines. Just a red flag. They seemed proud of it too; they were everywhere. You could see them on the building, in the parking lot, on everyone’s shirts. I told Jose I thought that was suspicious, but I would give the experience the benefit of the doubt and I looked past the figurative red flags.

The church itself looked like an old community center. Something that once could have made for a nice budget wedding. The lawn was well-kept with a line of natural wildflowers leading to the front entrance. It was clean, open, and inviting.

The service was a cookie-cutter music and self-help lecture. You know the type: the enemy is the thing that keeps you from getting up in the morning and living your best life. The enemy is what tells you that you can’t make a difference, that you won’t get that raise, and that you can’t open your marriage. That part surprised me, but these people were intrigued. It finished with some more easy-listening music, which was nice.

The whole event was fairly enjoyable. They had decent coffee and donuts. It was air-conditioned, which isn’t always expected in New Jersey. Outside of the pleasant experience, I couldn’t figure out what drew people here. You can get most of this at the library and you don’t see any of these people going there every week. I asked Jose what it was about this place. He said to trust him and to stay for the potluck.

We went through a buffet line and picked up an assortment of homemade mashed potatoes, green beans, and what looked like a store-bought rotisserie chicken. No complaints from me on that. We sat down at a circular table with six other people and began to eat.

“Hey everyone,” Jose said as he sat down as they all welcomed us. They all knew his name. “This is Ken, it’s his first time,” Jose told the others, smiling and pointing at me with the back half of his fork.

“That’s amazing,” said a young woman, “I trust you’re having a great time. My name is Beth, and this is my husband, Alex.” Alex, with a mouthful of food, made a noise with a closed mouth and waved.

Nice to meet you, Beth,” I responded politely. “Nice to meet you, Alex.”

“Did you love the service? I thought it was amazing,” Beth said, talking faster now.

“Leave him alone, Beth,” said a man in a button-down shirt. “It’s his first time, I’m sure he’s still taking it all in. I’m Ben, by the way. This is my husband, Simon”

“Nice to meet you both,” I said, “the service seemed pretty good.”

“Terrific,” Ben said. “It’s been a few years since any of us first came here, it’s hard to remember your first time. Oh and that chicken you’re eating? We brought that. Delicious, right?”

“Delicious,” I agreed. I was hung up on the openly gay couple at the table. But Jose did say that “it’s not a Christian thing.” I’m just used to a less tolerant sensibility at places like this.

“Oh, silly me,” said a woman in a blue dress. “I’m Marka, and this is my husband, Will.” Will gave a similar grunt as Alex. Will was a darker-skinned guy, which isn’t unusual, but most churches I’ve been to were on the mono-cultural side. I looked at other tables at the potluck and saw the same thing: tables of people of all races, ethnicities, and several same-sex couples. I thought that maybe my low expectations were my fault.

“I have to be honest,” I said, “I’m surprised that this place is so multi-cultural and it seems like it’s very pro-LGBTQ too, right?”

“Yes, and yes,” Ben answered. “That was one of the pleasant things we found about this place too,” he said and grabbed Simon’s hand. “We had been to progressive churches in the past, but we truly feel at home here.”

“What really drew most of us,” Beth said, “was Hank. He was the one that gave the talk today. He’s sort of the pastor here,” she said with air quotes, “but he’s incredible.”

Hank seemed fine to me, but I wouldn’t have guessed he was a major selling point. He was a younger guy, maybe in his thirties. He was pretty charismatic, but nothing too surprising.

“Really?” I asked, “what is it about him?”

“You’re going to think we sound crazy,” Marka said, “it does sound crazy. He’s a prophet.”

“A prophet?” I asked attempting not to react. Cult bells rang freely. I glanced at the other tables again and now noticed that all the tablecloths were red. The doors were red. I looked down; the forks were red.

“It sounds crazy. We know” Jose said. Let me confirm that Jose has been my friend for over ten years, and I’ve never heard him mention any Hanks.

Marka continued, “He’s not a prophet of any god. But he speaks prophecies. He’ll come to you with a word from the universe. It could be good news. It could be a warning. But the universe always has a word.”

This conversation escalated. I was enjoying Ben’s rotisserie chicken and now the universe has a message for me. I focused on eating. What did they mean by “the universe?” I thought that maybe I was too judgmental.

“He knew that Simon would recover his eyesight,” Ben said.

“Did he make it happen?” I asked.

“No, no, no,” Ben said, shaking his head and his hands, “he’s not some guy with mystical healing powers.”

“Been there, done that,” Marka said. Everyone at the table laughed.

Yikes.

After he stopped laughing, Ben said, “two years ago, we were sitting at this table and Hank came over and told Ben: ‘You will be able to see again. Soon.’ It was insane,” Ben put down his utensils in excitement, “we hadn’t even told him that Ben was scheduled for a LASIK appointment that week.”

“Wait,” I said, “so Simon could see already, he just needed glasses? I thought you were saying that he was blind.”

“Crazy, right?” Simon said for the first time. “Within a month of meeting Hank, I had perfect vision.”

I was processing this non-miracle, but the stories continued before I could respond.

“He told me that he knew that I was going to marry Will,” Marka said. “He didn’t even know we were together.” Everyone at the table breathed a wow after hearing that.

I was pretty lost at this point. Nothing sounded all that impressive, but everyone seemed to believe that this Hank guy was special.

“Not to mention everything he’s done during games of charades,” Jose said.

At that mention, the table collectively laughed again and relayed several versions of a story of how Hank guessed the correct answer from vague clues. I struggled to follow this conversation. Did Jose—again, my friend of over ten years—use charades as proof of prophecy?

“Wow,” I said, “he must be good at charades.” The table fell silent; the laughing became stares.

“You don’t understand,” Jose said. He was right about that. “He’s not good at charades,” he said with air quotes. Lots of air quotes at this table. “He hears from the universe. He can answer those charades clues because he’s listening on a higher plane than any of us.”

Bat-shit. That’s what I could have said. They spent the next ten minutes telling me the inexplicable predictions that Hank had made just in the past year.

He told his wife that she would be pregnant within the next three years. They had already had four kids in the previous five years.

He said that a red sky would fall above them at the next service. Before the next service, the church ceiling was painted red.

He told a few congregants that the magician was going to show everyone the correct card.

Beth spoke again, “I think he just needs to meet him. We said it, ourselves. What we say about him sounds crazy. It’s unbelievable. It just needs to be something that you witness yourself.” She turned to me, “this isn’t a place of faith, Ken. We don’t expect you to believe it just because we tell you it happened.”

I agreed that waiting for Hank to come over was a better option than listening to these stories. I checked my watch several times during this gap in the conversation.

A few minutes later, Hank finally came to our table and chatted with everyone about the food. Once he made eye contact with me, his eyes widened, and glared at me like I was from another planet. He had thick, dark eyebrows which sharpened the glare. It had been only a few seconds, but the weight of the eye contact became unbearable.

When he seemed to notice my discomfort, he spoke to me. “Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met.” His speech slowed and his tone deepened. “Is this your first time here?”

“Uh, yes,” I said blinking quickly to recover from whatever the hell that was. “First time.”

“Marvelous,” he said. He stared silently for a few excruciating seconds. “You will come again.” He closed his eyes and placed his hand on my shoulder. “The enemy doesn’t want you here. But you will come again. I will see you soon.”

That seemed threatening but before I could react, the table erupted in applause and cheers.

“That was fantastic, Hank,” Marka cheered.

“Amazing,” Jose said while clapping.

He came closer to me and said, “I will see you again.” He turned around slowly and left the table.

“What does that mean?” I asked the group.

“You don’t know?” Jose asked. “That was a prophecy. He said that you’ll be here again someday. That you’ll return.”

“Okay,” I said. There was no way I was ever coming back. We finished the meal and I said my goodbyes to the group at the table. I called an Uber; no need to wait for Jose.

When I arrived home, I received a text from Jose. He thanked me for coming and encouraged me to come back. I told him I’d have to think about it, but that I had a good time. It was mostly true, aside from the weird prophecies.

The following week, Jose texted me again. He asked if I wanted to come with him that week. I told him I was busy (I wasn’t) and would have to reschedule. He said that was fine and that he knew I would at some point.

A week later, I learned that Jose gave my number to everyone at the table. I started receiving several texts a day from the group. Even Alex texted me, and he didn’t say one word during the whole potluck affair.

I still hung out with Jose, though. He assured me that the prophecy that Hank gave about me returning would come true. I told him that I thought a prophecy should be something more significant than someone like me going to a place a second time. Also, would it be cheating if everyone was trying to force it on me? He said that it didn’t feel like he had to push me much anymore since a prophecy is a prophecy.

“The universe has already spoken,” he said. “It’ll happen.”

This went on for a while but started to die off. After seven or eight months, the texts and calls were rare and Jose and I more easily resumed being friends as if this had never happened. I was relieved.

I woke up one morning with my hands tied, a cloth shoved in my mouth, and a bag placed over my head. My shock was overcome by a certainty of where I was.

I heard a cheer erupt from a large crowd. I couldn’t see anything, but I felt somebody tightening the ropes.

“Isn’t this incredible?” I could hear Jose’s voice screaming on a microphone; the crowd cheered but quieted quickly. I could tell that Jose was motioning for them to listen. “Eight months ago,” he said, “I sat at a table with my best friend, Ken, and witnessed Hank prophesy that he would return.” Best friend was a little much—especially after the kidnapping. This wasn’t an opportune moment to have that discussion though.

“I admit, my friends,” Jose continued, “that I had my doubts.” My friends? “Hank prophesied that Ken would return. Yet Ken refused to come back to our community. Marka, Beth, Ben, and I pleaded with him to return. He told me that he didn’t believe in Hank’s prophecies. That they weren’t special enough. He said there was no way that he could be part of a prophecy.”

That wasn’t exactly the conversation I remembered, but I didn’t disagree.

“I spoke with Hank a few weeks ago. I admitted that my belief in the universe had faltered. He rested his hands on my shoulders and told me ‘worry not, Jose, for you are an instrument of prophecy.’ This was an awakening in my faith that I have yearned for my entire life.

“I tell you now, friends,” Jose continued, “that we are all instruments of prophecy.” More crowd cheers. “He imparted to me that the universe speaks through all of us, even if we can’t hear it. But the universe moves us whether we recognize it or not. That our actions are as much proof of prophecy as his words. I received this revelation and took things into my own hands. And now, my friends: prophecy fulfilled.” I heard footsteps approach me from behind.

“Here he is. Here is Ken, returned at last,” he shouted. I felt Jose rip the bag from my head. The crowd, all dressed in red robes, jumped and applauded my appearance. I saw my potluck friends in the first row celebrating. Jose’s mom sat next to them; she looked as pleased as the rest of the group. This wasn’t the same, humble building where Jose took me several months ago. No, this was much bigger. The ceiling and the floor were red, but this was a different world from what I had experienced.

Then, I saw Hank emerge from the hall entrance. He sauntered up the aisle with his arms raised high above his head. The crowd went crazy at the sight of him. He stopped in the middle and placed his hand next to his right ear signaling for the crowd on that side to get louder. He then repeated the same gesture with his left hand and the other half roared. Hank walked to the stage and beckoned for one more cheer from the crowd. He let the cheer last for a few more seconds. The number of people in the building was easily five times bigger than the service I had attended.

Hank reached for a microphone and motioned the crowd to silence. He raised the microphone slowly to his face and spoke, “welcome.”

Madness ensued.

Honestly, I wasn’t surprised by the crowd this time. I’m sure for this group, that was the equivalent of a buzzer shot at a basketball game. The crowd died down after what felt like a full minute.

Hank spoke again, “Ken resisted his prophecy for eight months.” I could hear scattered groans of disapproval. “But friends, Ken is not the enemy,” he preached. “The enemy is the force that kept him from us for this whole time.

“Ken,” he now spoke directly to me with a familiar, intense glare. He slowed his speech, “you have been an instrument of prophecy. An instrument of a higher purpose. You are part of a movement bigger than yourself for the universe deemed you worthy, Ken. That is why you are here.”

None of this made any sense to me. I was still bound and gagged.

“I tell you, friends,” he said and turned back to the crowd, “that you are all worthy. The universe has chosen you to be part of its mission,” general crowd cheeriness followed. “The universe will give you the power to defeat the enemy. The enemy is trying to keep you from purpose. It doesn’t want you to change the world. It is keeping you from opening your marriage.”

There’s that open marriage thing again. I thought it was out of place (given everything) but the crowd approved.

“Ken,” he spoke to me again, “you have fulfilled your purpose. You are its prophecy. You may continue serving its mission, but know that you have reached your greatest achievement. You have ascended to a place that the rest of us can only dream of reaching. Go now, Ken, live your life with meaning.”

Jose, with a giant smile, untied my bondages and removed the gag from my mouth.

“Are you serious?” I asked through coughing.

“Go, Ken,” Hank said, “you are free.”

And they let me go; that was it. I walked out the main entrance to thunderous applause. My car was parked in a valet spot with a bottle of water and a full tank of gas. There was a thank you note on the driver’s seat with only the name Hank signed in large letters.

I drove home and removed a few people from my contacts. I don’t know what the fuck happened.

I spent the next few weeks afraid I would get kidnapped again. I saw Jose a month later and he didn’t even bring up the kidnapping on his own. I asked him if he was still at the church; he mentioned Hank and how proud they all are of me. The Church of the Universe keeps growing and miracles are announced every few weeks.

That’s it. That’s how I met Hank. It’s a cult.