The Coming, is a contemporary mainstream romance with an unconventional twist that will keep your heart racing, your eyes moist, and your curiosity longing for more.
Sam Sara, a societal reject, might be better suited flipping pizzas in the Bronx, rather than struggling in his dubious role as the world's new deliverer.
God's consecration of Sam hardly prepared him for the continual stream of blunders, rejections, and mishaps in his new life. His attempts to pass on God's new message lands his pride in the trash, his foot in his mouth, or his body in the slammer at every turn.
Anne, desperate and afraid, becomes Sam's disciple after he saves her from an abusive husband. During their travels, she becomes convinced that Sam is no ordinary man, and when they find the Broken spoke Ranch, their lives change dramatically.
The Coming, is a contemporary mainstream romance with an unconventional twist that will keep your heart racing, your eyes moist, and your curiosity longing for more.
Sam Sara, a societal reject, might be better suited flipping pizzas in the Bronx, rather than struggling in his dubious role as the world's new deliverer.
God's consecration of Sam hardly prepared him for the continual stream of blunders, rejections, and mishaps in his new life. His attempts to pass on God's new message lands his pride in the trash, his foot in his mouth, or his body in the slammer at every turn.
Anne, desperate and afraid, becomes Sam's disciple after he saves her from an abusive husband. During their travels, she becomes convinced that Sam is no ordinary man, and when they find the Broken spoke Ranch, their lives change dramatically.
He best keeps from anger, who remembers God is always looking upon him.
âPlato
Joshua Samuel Sara lived with rage. From the day he was born, he screamed and kicked and hollered. For now, though, he seemed inclined to be cordial.
âJoshua S. Sara,â the voice behind the glass screen called out.
âHey, datâs me!â A small, thick man seated in the discharge room answered the call. He stood and walked to the counter.
âThe âSâ is for Sam. I like Sam better than Joshua.â
âWhatever,â said the desk sergeant, glancing at the charge sheet before him. No one had been hurt in the disruption, although they termed the damage to the church âmoderate.â The accused had no priors in Arizona, not even a traffic ticket, and the man seemed remorseful after fourteen hours in the slammer. They were at the Maricopa lock-up center in West Phoenix. The date on the paperwork read: 07/12/1995.
At the sergeantâs nod, the prisoner scooped up some loose change, a black plastic comb, nail clippers, and a thick, worn wallet from the counter. Before sliding the billfold into his back pocket, he opened it and pulled out a white business card.
âHey, pal, I wanna leave ya with something that might change your life. Here, take dis card, and when ya get a chance, check out my site.â For such a little guy, Sam had a big voice, a voice cultivated in the suburbs of central Jersey, rough and broken. His stubby finger reached over and tapped the address on the card.
âHey, ya wonât regret itâtrust me.â Giving the sergeant a wink, he pursed his lips and nodded. The cop looked up from the card and into the tough guyâs face. Sam froze in his pose, just waiting, his squinty eyes almost shut. His thick eyebrows rose high, as if trying to touch the ceiling. By the look of his nose, one might have thought heâd spent too much time in the ring. Obviously, one round too many. Sam held a fixed, broad smile across his stubbled face. His brown eyes gleamed like bright spotlights at a soccer game.
âMister Sara,â the sergeant finally said, in a voice full of disdain, âif youâre waiting for me to say thanks or standing there with that silly-ass grin plastered across your face thinking I just canât wait to check out the information on this here cardâwell then, you might just need a nice long rest in another type of cell.â
âHey, Iâm just doinâ my job,â Sam said, still holding a wide grin.
âYou keep your wise-ass out of trouble. And try to control that temper of yours,â the sergeant advised as he glanced down at the business card before tossing it into the trash. âAnd might I suggest you get an actual job?â
___
The prisoner had spent half the previous night proselytizing his message to his captive audience at the center. He had walked through the stale air of the crowded cell, pacing back and forth, swinging his arms and pointing his fingers as he spoke, seemingly comfortable in the company of misfits, petty criminals, drunks, and druggies.
During the night, a guard thought he saw a bright flash leap through the bars and splash down on the concrete floor in front of cell sixteen. But when the guard investigated, he found only one man still awake, mumbling among a group of sleeping prisoners. Sam had even made his pitch to the night guard, who was slightly interested. Normally, the guard heard only the chorus of snores, farts, and grunts on the graveyard shift.
âHey, Iâm not here to ask you to change your own ideas about things. Ya know, when a man thinks he knows everything, he donât know beans from canaries.â
The lockup guards all deemed the fellow harmless: an eccentric religious fanatic off in a frenzy. Maybe thatâs why the church officials had gone easy on him, or maybe it was the influence of the girl who had appealed to them in his defense. Perhaps it was divine intervention. Whatever the reasons, all charges were dropped.
At first glance, it looked like the wrath of God had come down on the church. Some chairs, tables, collection boxes, flower stands, and even a few statues were tumbled over. The solemn, life-size figure of Christ that stood next to the lectern probably suffered the most serious damage, aside from the humiliation of the pastor and the ruination of his Sunday service. The nose of the life-size statue had broken off when it hit the marble floor. In the twenty-two-year history of that Roman Catholic congregation, nothing so unusual had ever occurred. Oh, once an engaged couple broke into a heated argument during their wedding rehearsal, but they eventually left on their own volition and were married without a hitch the next day. Aside from that, the most exciting event of the year was the churchâs annual picnic in Papago Park.
All that had changed, however, when two strangers entered the church just minutes before the Sunday service began. A mismatched couple; one might imagine the woman, named Anne, to be the guardian or caretaker of her unlikely companion. She stood several inches taller than him and carried an innocence about her. Sam Sara, on the other hand, looked as if he had just come in from a sweaty basketball game. He wore a gray T-shirt with the word âRutgersâ across the front and a large number thirteen on the backâhardly a manâs Sunday best. The two came in quietly and quickly found a seat together in a pew near the rear of the church.
At first, no one paid much attention to the newcomers. If they had, they would have detected a look of irritability on the manâs face. Every now and again, he shook his head as if disgusted, or his lips would tighten as he exhaled quickly from his round, ruddy nose, a nose that occupied too much of his face. Inside, the man was a human time bomb, his fuse growing shorter by the minute. The woman with him didnât seem to notice his growing agitation. Her gaze remained fixed on a statue of St. Peter, who stood against the wall holding two large skeleton keys in one hand and a book in the other.
The service went along smoothly until after the priest began his homily of the day about giving and generosity. It was then that Sam imagined a digital display scrolling along at the base of the podium, flashing the churchâs toll-free number. He looked around as if searching for the banks of phone operators who accepted the pledges. Up on the altar, he spied a golden-domed tabernacle and visualized it as a bank vault stuffed with cash.
At about 11:30 in the morning, after the sermon ended, the trouble began. Joshua Samuel Sara had stood, made his way out of the pew, and strolled up the center aisle. Despite his small stature, he possessed a powerful presence. While overflowing collection baskets passed up and down the pews for the third time, the priest thought he detected movement in the back of the church, but paid little attention to it. However, when the angry disrupterâs big voice boomed through the air and echoed through the tall stone pillars, the disturbance couldn't be ignored.
âHey, howâs about them gold fillings and gold teeth? Toss âem in there. Câmon, Câmon!â He motioned to the baskets. âWe could use them wedding rings too, you know... âSpecially the ones with the big rocks.â
The priest looked up from the altar, befuddled and confused. His face reddened. âSir, sir, please!â he shouted, his voice at least as passionate as it had been during his last plea for donations. âPlease! Respect the sanctity of the church and the holiness of the service!â
âHey, we take plastic here too!â Sam directed his only reply at the congregation, flatly ignoring the priest.
As he continued his approach to the altar, his round face and ruddy nose turned rosier, almost matching the priestâs scarlet robe. Sam waved his arms around and shook his thick fingers like a barker at an auction, feeling the fire of Mohammed flowing through his veins.
âLet the Jihad begin!â he bellowed, his deep voice filling the big void and echoing throughout the church.
The pastor quickly realized that unless he took action soon, resumption of the mass would be impossible, so he motioned to a man passing a collection basket to do something. Two more male volunteers hurried to help. Grabbing the grandstander firmly, the three burly men urged Sam toward the door. Only then did the priest hold up his hands and shout, âThis is the house of God! Have some respect!â
Sam twisted his head toward the priest and screamed, âInfidel! Jesus wouldnât be caught dead in this den of thieves!â
Before anyone could restrain him further, Sam yanked himself free. Anne, still in her seat, watched in quiet astonishment, her hands covering her mouth, eyes wide.
Like an out-of-control wild man, he ran through the church, systematically kicking over everything in his path while avoiding his pursuers. He pushed, and tipped, two tall candle holders, a jeweled crucifix, three flower stands, all four carved-wooden donation boxes sitting near the entrance, and, finally, the full-sized statue of Jesus.
âHypocrites and moneychangers!â he hollered, heading toward the back of the church again to continue his reign of destruction. A woman screamed as a toppled vase of flowers hit the stone floor. Close by, it jarred an infant from his sleep, and he began to wail. Father Currano gave a twirl of his forefinger, signaling the organist to play in the hope of uniting the congregation and simulating some control. But the music failed to settle the commotion, only adding to the confusion.
As small as Sam was, it still took five good Catholic men to carry him outside and hold him down until a Tempe squad car arrived. No one was hurt except for the scrape that broke the skin on the intruderâs nose.
The interruption, however, put an end to the rest of the service. Once the priest was sure that all the collection baskets had been secured, he sent his flock home.
The Phoenix Telegraph and the Mesa Reporter ran the story in Mondayâs early edition. In the Telegraph, it ranked the front page, just under the fold. Above the fold, the headline read: âWorst Statewide Drought in Forty Years.â
Father Currano was at first eager to file charges against Sam, but then reconsidered. Some said it was all the publicity the incident generated that made him reconsider. Both the press and local news stations ran stories denouncing âthe crazed madmanâ and the damage he had inflicted on the church. Perhaps part of the good Fatherâs reconsideration was because all the media attention had, almost instantly, brought a remarkable rash of new donations into the coffers of the congregation. Sam would have said it was Christians bribing God to buy off their sins.
The incoming charity eventually covered more than the cost of repair or replacement of the damaged items. Instead of the high-dollar purchase of a new life-sized statue of Jesus, Reba Williamson, a faithful parishioner, found that by applying a bit of Gorilla glue to the statueâs broken nose and holding it in place with a piece of tape until it dried, the damaged Savior was about as good as new. The church leaders may also have advised the priest that being compassionate would go a long way in bolstering the impact of âChristâs eternal love.â After all, someone reminded him, the church was named Queen of Mercy.
Then again, maybe it was the intervention of God himself that finally did it.
Father Curranoâs last request was for someone to escort the disruptive, disturbed stranger out of the city limits and tell him never to return. He had seen the sheriff of Laramie do the same thing in an old western movie just two nights before.
Local law enforcement agreed, and after a night in city lockup, officers reunited Sam Sara with his female companion, who came asking about him as he was released. An off-duty Maricopa County deputy sheriff, a member of the church, volunteered to give the couple a personal ride out of town.
So on that hot, dry morning, the deputy and his two passengers drove down the long Superstition Freeway, the same road that carried travelers and commuters into and out of the sprawling desert metropolis like frantic ants at a picnic.
The tall buildings of the western city receded and grew smaller in the rearview mirror of the squad car while hundreds of orange clay-tiled roofs flashed by. Six lanes fell to four, then two as they passed Tomahawk Road, Goldfield Road, and Mountain View Drive. Downtown Phoenix shrank from view, gradually replaced by the ragged edges of the Superstition Mountains looming in the east. Finally, Anne and Sam were dropped off a mile over the Pinal County line.
Before the couple stepped out, Sam offered a white business card to the deputy, who halted him with an uplifted hand that signaled like a blinking neon light, Iâm not interested. The officer didnât utter a word as his passengers exited the air-conditioned vehicle and stepped into the burgeoning heat of a new day.
Okay, Iâm just going to start by saying that "THE COMING" is one of those books that grabs you from the first page and doesnât let go. Seriously, I had to put it down a couple of times because I couldnât process how deep it was getting. But letâs dive in!
First off, the whole idea of "a message whose time has come" had me hooked right away. The book is basically this thrilling mix of spirituality, philosophy, and a little bit of mystery. We follow a central characterâletâs just call him the Messengerâfor lack of a better wordâwhoâs been chosen to deliver this enormous cosmic message to humanity. The message? That we are all connected in ways we donât even understand yet, and that thereâs a major shift coming that will change the way we view everything.
Thereâs a huge plot twist when the Messenger realizes that he isnât the only one carrying the messageâthereâs a collective group of people all over the world who are awakening to this higher consciousness. Itâs not just about one person getting enlightened, but a whole 'movement'. Itâs mind-blowing, right? This idea that weâre all on the cusp of this shared awakening was so powerful, I almost felt like I was part of it. I mean, Cragg really knows how to tap into that "what if?" part of your brain.
But hereâs where it gets even wilderâwithout giving too much away, letâs just say the book explores how the global systems (political, economic, environmental) are all tied into this awakening. It suggests that these systems are crumbling because theyâre out of sync with the natural order of things. Thatâs when the message comes in to help guide us, but whatâs terrifying is that humanity may not be ready to hear it. And let me tell you, the climax? Itâs intense. I wonât spoil the big âreveal,â but it had me sitting there, jaw dropped, trying to piece everything together.
By the time we get to the final pages, Cragg brings in this hauntingly beautiful sense of hope, but not without acknowledging how much weâve screwed things up. It's a little heartbreaking, but in the best way possible. The âCOMING" isn't about some big alien invasion or apocalyptic disaster; itâs about the truth within usâthat we are capable of so much more if weâre willing to listen. That last chapter left me questioning everything in my life, and honestly, I feel like Iâm going to be carrying its message with me for a while.
I really appreciated how Cragg didnât just serve us a bunch of abstract ideas, but instead wrapped them in a story that made me feel like I was witnessing something revolutionary. The characters were all on their own journeys, but in the end, itâs about realizing that weâre all on the same path. And thatâs where the heart of the book liesâhumanityâs need for connection, not just with each other, but with the world around us and the universe itself.
While talking about the end the last quote really motivated me I felt like God was directly speaking to me through the quotes(Statement or promise word of God), well to speak about quotes each chapter started off with a good quote which I'd really appreciate Cragg for putting into much more of his efforts to write down the quotes apart from just the stories.
If youâre into books that make you think, that challenge the way you see the world and inspire a little bit of fear and awe about whatâs to come, then The Coming is a must-read. Itâs got that perfect balance of mystery, spirituality, and human connection. I just canât wait for everyone else to read it when itâs officially out. Itâs one of those books that I think will stick with me for a long time.