Your eyes saw me when I was formless; all my days were written in Your book and planned before a single one of them began.

Psalm 139:16

The Pit

The ramp of the landing craft hissed shut, as the weary recruits of the Deep Space Rangers double-timed into Ramsey Station. All eyes were wide as they took in the unforgiving surface of Carthis 7. A desolate world stretched before them, sculpted by volcanic fury and bathed in the unforgiving glare of a binary sun. Dust swirled, stinging their eyes and coating their sweat-slick bodies as the Argus bounded into space with a roar leaving an eerie silence.

Before Wade could absorb it all, a booming voice shattered the silence. “Move it, maggots! You think you’re on a sightseeing tour?” The speaker was a mountain of a man, clad in olive drab armor that glinted in the harsh sunlight. His face, etched with battle scars, was dominated by a single, bright red scar that ran along the right side of his chin. Staff Sergeant Hathras, Wade learned later, was the epitome of a Drill Instructor – a walking embodiment of discipline and fear.

Hathras wasn’t alone. A pack of Drill Instructors descended upon the recruits, barking orders and shoving them into a semblance of formation. Hushed whispers broke out as the recruits recognized them – veterans hardened by years of fighting the intergalactic war against the Skravaks.

Hathras barked a final order, gesturing towards a large, sunken area ahead, Get in “The Pit!” They stumbled forward, legs weak from the cramped quarters of the Argus and the unfamiliar pull of Carthis 7’s lower gravity.

Reaching the Pit, Wade saw its brutal reality. A patch of sand, with the consistency of fine broken glass. The harsh sunlight glinted off the tiny particles, creating a blinding haze and every step kicked up dust as fine as talcum powder.

“Drop your civilian gear!” another DI roared. “On your face!” Confusion turned to panic as the recruits dove to a prone position on the rough sand. Wade wincing as his hands dug into the scorching shards.

Hathras’ voice cut through the chaos. “Roll right, maggots! Roll left! You think the Skravaks are gonna care about a little sand in your eyes?!”

Minutes turned into an eternity as they rolled left, right, up, down, push ups, jumping jacks, and then down again. Their clothes were shredded and the fine dust seeping into every crevice. Wade’s vision blurred, sweat stinging his eyes. His hands, raw and blistered, felt like sandpaper against his sweat-slick skin.

A choked sob escaped from beside him. A young woman, barely out of her teens, clutched her ripped sleeve, her face contorted in pain and humiliation. A nearby DI loomed over her, his voice dripping with disdain. “What’s wrong, little lady? Missing your mommy?” He shoved her roughly, sending her sprawling into the sand.

Wade’s face burned with a mix of anger and helplessness. Here, compassion was a weakness, a luxury they couldn’t afford. This was boot camp, Ranger style, and survival was the only game in town.

Gear Up

A whistle pierced the air, signaling the end of their ordeal in The Pit. They were herded towards a cluster of prefabricated buildings, the white paint already peeling under the relentless sun. Inside, a new kind of torture awaited them.

Gruff-looking civilian contractors, mirroring the DIs’ hostility, barked instructions as they were issued uniforms and equipment. The olive drab fatigues felt stiff and restrictive, a stark contrast to the worn jeans and graphic tees Wade was used to. Each piece of gear – the heavy body armor, the clunky helmet, the unfamiliar pulse rifle – weighed him down, a constant reminder of the new reality he had signed up for. The weapons, though intimidating, held a strange allure. They were tools, instruments of survival in this hostile world.

As he slung the pulse rifle across his back, the contractor barked, “Careful, sunshine. Don’t point that at your buddy unless you mean it.” He leered at Wade, his words laced with a dark humor.

Wade swallowed, meeting the contractor’s gaze. Fear danced on the edge of his vision, but something flashed within him – a spark of defiance. He wouldn’t be cowed, wouldn’t be another scared kid in the sand.

Across from him, Mike Jansen, a wiry kid with a mop of unruly brown hair, chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady for someone who looked like he could have just stepped out of high school. “They wouldn’t let us shoot each other… yet, anyways.”

Wade managed a half-smile. Jansen, ever the optimist, was a welcome sight in this sea of harsh reality.

The final stop was a metal podium where a woman stood, her arms crossed and face etched with a permanent scowl. Gunnery Sergeant Phoebe Harris, as Wade soon learned, was the Senior Drill Instructor. Compared to Hathras’ brute force, she was a different kind of predator – she was as calculated as a rattlesnake, her voice dripping with a lethal calm.

As they received dog tags, heads shaved, and were assigned their barracks, a streak of anxiety coursed through Wade. He’d heard stories about the barracks – cramped Quonset huts notorious for their suffocating heat and questionable plumbing.

Reality lived up to the rumors. Thirty bunks stacked three high, crammed into a stifling metal box, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and nervous sweat. The latrines were a communal nightmare, devoid of privacy and reeking of something far worse than disinfectant.

Despite the discomfort, Wade found solace in his bunkmates. Mike Jansen, his easygoing nature a welcome contrast to the harsh environment, and Alejandro Torres, better known as Alex, a quiet, stoic boy with eyes that seemed to hold a lifetime of unspoken stories.

Nightfall, when it arrived, brought no respite. The thin metal walls did little to block out the constant sounds of shouting and the rhythmic thud of boots against the sand. Sleep, when it came, was filled with fragmented dreams of alien landscapes and insectoid horrors.

The Carthis Forge

The first sunrise on Carthis 7 was a brutal awakening. A piercing whistle ripped through the barracks, jolting Wade out of a restless sleep. Muscles screamed in protest as he scrambled to his feet, a chorus of groans echoing around him.

They were herded outside by the ever-present DIs, the unforgiving sun already baking the sand. Ahead lay a massive obstacle course, a twisted metal jungle gym designed to test their physical and mental limits.

Staff Sergeant Hathras’ voice boomed, laying down the rules. Fastest time wins, slowest gets “special treatment.” The intended threat hung heavy in the air.

Fear turned Wade’s legs to lead. His lungs burned like fire as he navigated the course, the unfamiliar gravity throwing him off balance. He stumbled, scraped his knee, but pushed himself forward, fueled by a raw determination not to be the slowest.

He finished somewhere in the middle, his body a mess of sweat and grime. Others weren’t as fortunate. One recruit lay crumpled at the base of a wall, clutching his ankle, his face contorted in pain. Another, a hulk of a man, stood defiantly before Sergeant Hathras, refusing to budge after failing an obstacle. Hathras’ response was swift and brutal – a single punch sent the man sprawling, his face a bloody mess on the sand.

The rest of the day was a blur of activity – a grueling five-mile run across the unforgiving landscape, followed by hours of weapons drills under the scorching sun. Wade’s arms ached from the unfamiliar weight of the pulse rifle, his vision blurring with exhaustion.

As the day bled into twilight, they were subjected to what the DIs called “motivation sessions.” Standing under the gaze of the twin suns, they were barraged with brutal truths about the Skravak threat, about the sacrifices that had been made, about the lives hanging in the balance.

Staff Sergeant Hathras’ words were a twisted mix of patriotism and fear-mongering, designed to break their spirit and rebuild them as Marines. Wade felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The threat seemed more real now, the stakes higher than he’d ever imagined.

Later that night, huddled on his bunk in the stifling heat, a wave of exhaustion and uncertainty washed over Wade. He didn’t miss home like a normal recruit but he did miss the freedom he had back on Mars. Here, on Carthis 7, everything felt scripted, stifling, and hostile. From time to time he even wondered if he had made the right decision. The crushing weight of responsibility, the constant threat of failure, pressed down on him like the unforgiving gravity of the alien world.

A metallic clang echoed through the barracks, followed by the rhythmic thump of boots. Mike, his face streaked with grime but a hint of a smile playing on his lips, slid onto the bunk under him.

“Rough day, huh?” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yeah,” Wade admitted, his throat parched. “I thought I was ready for this, Mike.”

“Yeah man, it’s been crazy to be honest, but we’ll get through it.” Mike said with a confidence that belied his own exhaustion. “It’s gonna shred us, heh, but like the DIs say, “Pain is just weakness leaving the body.” They laughed together. “We just gotta keep pushing, keep reminding ourselves why we’re here.”

Wade stared up at the bottom of the third bunk above him, the harsh light from the hallway casting long shadows across the room. Images of his room in the cramped apartment and the halo-deck streaming news feeds. This wasn’t just about proving himself, about escaping the dead-end life that awaited him back on Mars. This was about getting in the fight, doing something meaningful, and proving his dad wrong.

“Yeah,” Wade finally said, his voice finding a new resolve. “We’ll get through it.”

The next morning, the now-familiar blare of the whistle ripped through the pre-dawn silence. Wade stretched his aching muscles, a dull ache throbbing in his head. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going, but he knew one thing – he had to keep pressing.

As he stepped outside into the harsh sunlight, squinting against the glare of the twin suns, a new determination burned in his eyes. Carthis 7 was a crucible, a forge designed to break the weak and mold the strong.

The Price of Failure

One day drifted into another. The confidence course became a daily torment. A web of ropes, walls, and precarious beams twisted into a sadistic test of agility and strength. Today, fear had a name – Private Sinclair. A wiry young man with terrified eyes who froze halfway across the swinging rope bridge. His panicked screams echoed through the training grounds as he dangled precariously above the sand.

Hathras’ response was swift and unforgiving. A barked order, a yank on the safety harness, and Sinclair plummeted with a sickening thud. He lay crumpled at the base, a bone protruding at an unnatural angle from his arm. The DIs wasted no time, dragging him away like a fallen Marine, leaving a crimson stain on the sand as a stark reminder of the consequences of failure.

The incident cast a pall over the rest of the day. The ever-present threat of injury, the constant pressure to excel, gnawed at Wade’s morale. The camaraderie forged with Mike offered a lifeline, their shared silent understanding a flicker of hope. But the pressures were not all external. Soon a more menacing insider would take his toll.

The Camp Bully

The mess hall echoed with clattering trays and clanging utensils as the recruits ate without a word. Kovacs, Jansen, and Torres stared at their mystery meat stew warily, shoulder to shoulder at the crowded table. Across the aisle, Private Briggs nudged his buddies, chin jutting towards the trio.

With a mischievous grin, Briggs loaded a hefty spoonful of lumpy mashed potatoes. In one swift motion, he flung the gloopy mass, nailing Kovacs square in the face and whispering…”Hey Kovacs. Didn’t your mommy teach you any manners?”

The steaming potatoes plastered Kovacs, gravy dripping down his reddening cheeks. He frantically pawed at his face, torn between humiliation and rage, as the scene caught Sergeant Ramerez’s attention.

“Quiet, crutes!” he barked, voice cutting through the commotion. “This ain’t no social club. Shut up, eat up, and get up. You got two minutes!”

As Wade continued scrubbing away the embarrassing mess, he could feel his temper rising. Briggs was going to pay for this. Mike leaned in, murmuring “Just let it go man, he’s not worth it.” But Alex shook his head. “Nah, you can’t let a punk like Briggs get away with that.”

Kovacs glared at the smirking Briggs. He was already concocting a plan for revenge. That jerk was going to get his, one way or another.

Desolation Run

Chow was followed by another five-mile run. It was a brutal trek across the alien landscape. The air, thin and dry, scraped at their lungs like sandpaper. The unforgiving sun beat down, turning the already oppressive heat into a relentless furnace. Each step felt like wading through molasses, their boots kicking up plumes of red dust that hung in the air like a perpetual haze.

Wade stumbled, the world blurring at the edges of his vision. His legs felt like lead weights, his throat parched. He glanced sideways to see Mike, face grim but determined, keeping pace beside him. A silent nod of encouragement from Mike was all it took to push Wade forward.

They finally crossed the finish line, collapsing onto the scorching sand in a heap of sweat and exhaustion. Around them, others staggered in, their faces contorted in pain, vomiting the last vestiges of lunch. One recruit, overcome by heat stroke, lay unconscious, his body convulsing. A team of corpsmen rushed forward, their arrival a stark reminder of the dangers they faced, even during seemingly mundane training.

Twisted Motivation

The evening brought the next schedule session of torture – the nightly motivational session. Gathered in the crowded hall, monitors posted on every wall, they were subjected to a barrage of propaganda videos detailing the Skravak threat. Repulsive, insectoid creatures swarmed human settlements, their clicking mandibles and glistening carapaces filling the screen. Images of burning cities and mutilated corpses flashed by, each one a hammer blow designed to instill fear into their hearts.

Hathras’ voice, amplified through loudspeakers, cut through the graphic imagery. He spoke of sacrifice, of bravery, of the burden they now carried as the last line of defense against an unstoppable enemy.

Wade felt a cold dread pool in his stomach. The videos, carefully curated to maximize shock value, painted a bleak picture of the war effort. Were they truly prepared for what awaited them on the front lines?

Then came the stories – tales of fallen Rangers, their heroism immortalized in grainy video clips. Each story was a carefully crafted inspiration, turning fear into a sense of duty, sacrifice into a badge of honor.

The Ranger Chaplain

Finally, another Sunday arrived, offering a precious one-hour break from the relentless grind of training. After morning chow, the recruits were allowed to attend the religious service of their choice or remain behind to clean the barracks. Wade had barely slept the night before, his mind a whirlwind of doubts and anxieties. He figured an hour at the chapel might help clear his head. Mike, ever the devout believer, never missed a Sunday service, no matter the circumstances. Torres tagged along, going through the motions of his Catholic upbringing more out of habit than genuine faith these days.

As they made their way toward the chapel, Private Briggs lounged on the stoop of his platoon’s hut, a sneer etched on his face. “Off to get your praise on with the God Squad?” he mocked. Torres brushed it off with a shrug, but Wade felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. He’d grown up without religion, and these habits were still new and unfamiliar to him, leaving him feeling self-conscious and out of place.

The dusty light filtered through the stained glass windows as Chaplain Jesse Bronson took his place at the lectern. Though his hair was fully gray and his lined face spoke of many years, he carried himself with a quiet strength that commanded respect. His warm brown eyes held a perpetual kindness that instantly put Wade and his buddies at ease. The chaplain had served as an enlisted Deep Space Ranger years ago; he was no stranger to the costs of war. Now, he helped these new recruits and the battle tested Drill Instructors alike carry their spiritual burdens.

Bronson’s rich voice filled the humble space as he spoke of the bravery and sacrifice of Jesus Christ, willingly going to the cross. “Our Lord was very familiar with hardship. He walked through suffering and death itself to pay for humanity’s sins. He took the bullet for us. He died a death to pay the penalty for our rebellion and demonstrated the ultimate act of valor.” The chaplain paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men and women. “There’s only one time a Marine should ever surrender, and that is to God’s love and mercy. We will either surrender now or we will be forced to bow the knee in the final judgment. What will you Marines choose? His love today or His judgment tomorrow? It’s your choice.”

With challenging truth and firm empathy honed over decades of service, Bronson continued sharing the light despite having witnessed untold horrors. To Wade, he embodied a peace that could only come from the deepest faith in something greater than oneself. Perhaps that’s what he needed most now, as the doubts and fears threatened to overwhelm him. But he was not ready to fully commit to something he didn’t understand. His mind was already burdened with too much to process; it didn’t seem wise to add yet another weight to his rucksack. For now, he would enjoy the Sunday breaks and leave religion for later, when he had more time to relax and think about the “extraneous” things of life.

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“If you have run with footmen and they have tired you out, then how can you compete with horses? If you fall down in a land of peace, how will you do in the thicket of the Jordan?”

Jeremiah 12:5

Bitter Farewells

The thrumming hangover pulsed in Wade’s head, a discordant symphony accompanying the Martian sunrise bleeding through the dusty window. Last night’s farewell party, fueled by poor decisions and a desperate need to forget, echoed in fragmented memories – forced laughter morphing into panicked scrambles as security patrol showed up before things got too out of hand. Saying goodbye to his friends, their voices thick with a mixture of sadness and envy, felt like tearing out a chunk of his soul. Now, alone in the cramped apartment, the weight of his decision settled upon him like a Martian sandstorm.

It was O4 hundred and he had to get his bearings. He could not afford to be late. Wade stumbled out onto the balcony, the cold thin air of the terraformed city nipping at his lungs. Below, the newly formed Martian ocean shimmered under the rising sun, its vastness both captivating and terrifying. This alien world, once a desolate canvas of reds and oranges, now held the promise of a new life, a life he’d dreamt of since he was a child playing amongst the rusty equipment of the local church playground. That playground, a stark contrast to the harsh beauty of this Martian landscape, seemed a lifetime ago.

As Wade slung his small gym bag over his shoulder and opened the door to leave, he was lost in thought. Before he had a chance to shut the door, a groan from behind jolted him back to the present. His father, Samuel, stood in the doorway, the familiar scowl etched deeper on his weathered face. The veteran Marine Regular stood looking at Wade with a bitterness that clung to him like the dust on an old uniform, Samuel had never approved of Wade’s obsession with the Deep Space Rangers and he never held back his criticism.

Their goodbye was a familiar dance of unspoken resentment. “When the crack of your backside is full of lunar dust and you’re half baked on some radioactive planet, remember, I told you, you should have been a naval weapons systems specialist,” Samuel spat, his voice laced with a barely concealed anger. Wade clenched his jaw, the sting of the jab mixing with a surge of defiance. He extended his hand, a silent plea for a semblance of respect. But Samuel, with a shake of his head, turned and simply shut the door behind him, leaving Wade alone with the fading echo of his words. He thought to himself in consolation, “Well, at least he got out of bed at zero dark thirty to insult me.” A ghost of a smile flickered across his face.

First Roll Call

Walking towards the familiar church playground, a pang of nostalgia hit him. It was once his haven, but seemed small and insignificant now. The neighborhood kids, once playmates, were now strangers embarking on their own paths. Here, amidst the remnants of his childhood, the weight of his decision threatened to consume him. Was this his destiny? This one-way journey into a future as vast and uncharted as the galaxy?

The pre-dawn Martian air hung heavy with a mixture of nervous anticipation and rocket fuel fumes. A sea of weary faces, sleep etched into their features, shuffled and mumbled amongst themselves as they awaited the O5 hundred roll call. Already, a handful of would-be Rangers had faltered, succumbing to doubt or fear. Their empty spaces in the line spoke volumes, a stark reminder of the unforgiving nature of their chosen path. Those deserters now faced a harsh reality – a life as a Marine Regular, or worse, a decade rotting in a military prison.

The booming voice of Staff Sergeant Harris sliced through the chatter like a plasma blade. The roll call, a blur of hollered names and mumbled responses, moved with ruthless efficiency. With the final recruit confirmed, Harris barked another order, her voice laced with a drill instructor’s signature blend of venom and challenge. “Double time, maggots! Let’s see if you can move faster than a crippled sandcrawler!”

A collective groan rippled through the ranks, but legs began to pump, soles pounding a staccato rhythm against the landing pad’s cold metal surface. The massive maw of the waiting transport loomed ahead, a gaping metal cave promising an uncertain future. As the line surged forward, Wade couldn’t help but feel a tremor of fear mixed with a surge of adrenaline. This was the point of no return. They were about to embark on a journey that would forge them, break them, or leave them somewhere in between. But one thing was certain: life as a civilian was a distant memory now. They were Rangers in the making, and Carthis 7 awaited.

The Argus – Transport of Agony

The ISC Argus was an aging interstellar transport ship, its hull streaked with charred entry scars and radiation pits from countless atmospheric insertions. Having been rebuilt and refitted dozens of times over its 120 years of service, it was an ungainly patchwork of mismatched hull components and battered hatches. Cylindrical living quarters modules cobbled together from salvage ringed the central cargo-turned-barracks bay, while twin Zürich ion drives flared angry blue from the rear motivators. The ship’s interior was a dimly-lit, claustrophobic maze of low corridors, access tunnels, and compact crew stations – all bathed in the pervasive stench of burned plasma conduits and recycled air. Clearly designed from the outset with pure utility rather than comfort in mind, the Argus was a fittingly spartan introduction to the harsh realities of life in the Marine Corps.

The Argus cut through the inky blackness of space with its newest crop of Marine recruits. Among them was Wade Kovacs, who had barely slept since boarding five days earlier.

Every minute was a new challenge, a new demand to push himself to the limits of physical and mental exhaustion. It had started at 05 hundred hours on day one, when the booming voice of Marine Drill Instructor Bronski had torn through the barracks.

“Alright, maggots, rise and shine!” the towering figure had bellowed, his face a mask of sneering disdain. “You had your last good night’s sleep, because from now on you live on my schedule!” 

What followed was a barrage of intense physical training, regulation familiarization, and the unrelenting psychological stress of constant ridicule and hazing by the DIs. Wade and the others were forced to recite mantras while holding excruciating poses, or do pushups until their arms gave out whenever they made the slightest mistake. The merciless push-up drills seemed to go on forever, with Drill Instructor Bronski pacing back and forth, his boots thudding inches from the recruits’ straining faces. Wade’s arms shook violently as he struggled to keep his body rigid, sweat pouring off him in sheets. He could feel the saltwater stinging his eyes as it streamed down from his soaked hair and brow. Beneath him, a slowly spreading puddle began forming from the deluge of perspiration dripping off his body. Wade groaned through clenched teeth, willing himself not to falter or collapse face-first into the small pond that was accumulating on the Argus’ metal deck.

The humiliations only escalated from there. At one point, they were herded into the ship’s tiny med-bay for what Wade could only describe as the most demeaning and invasive series of physicals, inoculations, and tests he had ever endured. He had never felt so violated, so stripped of his dignity and sense of self.

“Get used to it, worms!” one of the corpsmen had snarled as Wade squirmed under the needle delivering another burning inoculation cocktail. “You have no privacy, no rights other than what we allow. You belong to the Corps now.”

The Alien Enemy

But as miserable as the hazing and conditioning was, Wade found the long hours spent in darkened briefing rooms even more psychologically taxing. There, on crisp holographic displays, they studied every horrific detail of the Skravak forces – their biology, weapons, starships, interrogation methods, and combat tactics.

The Skravak were an imposing race, with slender but powerfully muscled frames standing over 7 feet tall on two digitigrade legs. Their bodies were hairless and smooth, a sickly grayish-green in coloration. But most unsettling was their heads that tapered smoothly to narrow, articulated points. At the end of each point was a circular, funnel-like aperture lined with fine cilia that constantly wavered and flexed as if tasting the air. Above this quivering lenses and sensor nodes – the creature’s eyes, ears and olfactory receptors all amalgamated into one unblinking, all-observing sensory nexus. 

Wade found himself gripping his restraints tightly, his hands slick with nervous sweat. How could anyone hope to combat such an efficient, implacable killing machine?

In place of a mouth, each of their four arms ended in a circular, puckered orifice lined with rows of long, razor-sharp teeth. During combat, the Skravaks would unleash spine-chilling screeches as these hand-mouths opened and their teeth gnashed wildly. Worse still were the brief glimpses recruits got of their feeding habits, as the vicious aliens used those same toothed appendages to tear into live prey.

What made the Skravaks truly terrifying was not just their grotesque anatomy, but their utter single-mindedness when engaged in battle. They were unhesitating, remorseless killers, utterly devoid of restraint or fear. To confront the Skravaks warband in close quarters was to stare into the face of oblivion – only the most rigorously trained warriors stood a chance of surviving such an encounter.

Wade winced as the holographic combat footage played out, unable to tear his eyes away from the gruesome scene unfolding. A squad of Marines was pinned down by withering plasma fire from a Skravak armored personnel carrier, the flickering blue bolts cutting through their ranks as they desperately tried to find cover.

One private wasn’t fast enough. A blast caught him square in the chest, instantly searing away his armor’s outer layer. The Marine went down hard, writhing in agony as smoke poured from the smoldering crater in his torso.

Then the Skravaks were upon them.

Wade’s stomach churned as the hulking aliens surged into view, their sinewy, multi-limbed forms a horrifying ballet of lethal grace. The handheld cameras captured every brutal detail in agonizing high definition – the gnashing of teeth, the sickening spray of crimson as the Skravaks’ monstrous “mouths” clamped down on helpless Marines. Limbs were wrenched free, bodies torn apart in a whirlwind of violence.

A young Marine nearby, his face a mask of sheer terror, clutched his rifle with trembling hands. Before he could even raise his weapon in defense, a Skravak lashed out with two of its powerful arms. Bony digits, inhumanly strong, clamped down on either side of the man’s head with a sickening crunch. The audio feed transmitted the horrifying crack of the Marine’s neck snapping with chilling clarity.

Wade felt bile rising in his throat. The alien casually lifted the lifeless corpse in the air, dangling it for a moment before ripping into it with its gaping toothy mouth. He could no longer hold back the tide of nausea. Doubling over, he vomited onto the steel deck, the sounds of carnage and inhuman screams a horrifying symphony in his ears.

Friend or Foe

Drill Instructor Bronski loomed over his heaving mass, a cruel sneer twisting his features. “You just earned yourself another two hours on the base plate tonight, maggot! You better get used to scenes like that, because your pretty little blue eyes are going to see plenty of the same!”

As the hateful laughter of the DIs echoed through the cramped briefing room, Wade wiped his mouth, a newfound resolve burning in his eyes. He would not break. He would become strong enough, hardened enough, to survive anything the Skravaks could throw at him.

Night after night, they were bombarded with a relentless barrage of alien atrocities, a kaleidoscope of violence that seared itself into Wade’s mind. It was a brutal education, a constant reminder of the monstrous enemy they were preparing to face.

To further complicate matters, they were expected to master a labyrinthine web of ranks, roles, and regulations that spanned the complex command structures of the Rangers, Marines, and the Navy. Failure to properly address a superior officer, or even a misunderstanding of the most subtle distinctions between rating insignias, could result in harsh punishment.

By the tenth night, his body a tapestry of aches and his spirit pushed to the brink, Wade felt like a marionette on the verge of collapse. Every muscle screamed in protest, and the never-ending psychological evaluations felt like a relentless mental meat grinder. As he lay on his thin bunk, exhaustion a heavy shroud over him, the dread of another surprise “motivation session” courtesy of the DIs gnawed at him. And all this before boot camp even began.

A crackle of static from the ship’s comm-panel shattered the oppressive silence. The announcement they had all been waiting for, weeks of grueling preparation culminating in this single moment.

“Attention on deck! Attention on deck! We will be making planetfall on Carthis 7 in approximately six hours. All recruits report to staging bay 16 for disembarkation prep at 0430 hours. That is all!”

Wade closed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion a constant companion. Yet, beneath the fatigue, a spark of exhilaration flickered to life. After endless days and sleepless nights being broken down and rebuilt into a uniform nothingness, all previous identity was lost. They were now a blank slate ready for reprogramming as seen fit by the Marine Corps. They were finally approaching their crucible. The crucible of boot camp, specifically designed to forge them into first Marines and then raw material for further training. At the end of this grueling gauntlet awaited the infamous “Dropship Insertion School,” the ultimate test that would determine their eligibility. And then, and only then, they would be allowed the privilege of undergoing the most challenging military training known to man, Deep Space Ranger Training. Those who faltered might be reassigned as Marine Regulars, a respectable path in itself, but a far cry from the elite ranks of the Rangers. Many more would likely wash out, being assigned to the less perilous confines of the Navy or entirely returning to civilian life.

A small smile tugged at the corners of Wade’s chapped lips as sleep, mercifully dreamless, began to claim him. In less than six hours, he would be setting foot on Carthis 7, the unforgiving bootcamp world. Here, he would either etch his name as a bootcamp graduate, or be utterly crushed under the weight of his own ambitions.

Carthis 7

A dull gray orb in the dimly lit observation deck windows, loomed ever larger as the Argus made its final approach. This harsh, desolate world would be his home for the next six grueling months.

As the Argus’ atmospheric thrusters flared, a fiery halo against the pitch blackness, Wade squinted through the observation window. Below, a spattering of lights winked on – Ramsey Station, the Ranger Regiment’s boot camp primary training outpost. Named after a legendary Ranger from Earth’s golden age, the 1970s and 80s, it sprawled before them like a heavily armored village. Compact and squat, the station was ringed by a motley crew of prefabricated habitats and garage bunkers, clinging to the tortured caldera of an ancient meteorite strike. Row upon row of landing pads fanned outwards from the central hub, a constant ballet of shuttles a testament to the relentless activity within.

The veteran DIs’ words echoed in Wade’s ears. Carthis 7, a harsh mistress, would become their new reality, their world, their very reason for being. Brutal heat, radiation storms that clawed at sanity, and dust clouds that choked the lungs – all were to be conquered through sheer grit and determination. Life here meant embracing a relentless existence, a crucible designed to forge them into the galaxy’s most self-reliant, indefatigable warriors.

As the Argus shuddered upon landing, its ramps extending with a hiss onto the baked Carthis surface, Wade sucked in a deep breath. He forced himself to exhale slowly, trying to quell the knot of dread twisting in his gut. Surviving Carthis 7 would be the first of three challenges to become a Ranger.

The newly formed recruits, a ragtag bunch of hopefuls, were herded off the ship and marched at a brisk pace towards the camp, their boots kicking up puffs of reddish dust. This was “home” for the next six months.

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ENGLISH / ESPAÑOL

Welcome Back! Today, we’ll be looking at the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke to see how Jesus handled the capacity issues all aggressive disciple-makers will encounter.

So let’s dive in.

(Click here to get a copy of the Gospel Sync document) 

Matthew 8:28–34, Mark 5:1–20, Luke 8:26–39

When they sailed to the other side of the sea of Galilee, they arrived in the region of the Gerasenes (Gadarenes). As soon as Jesus got out of the boat and stepped ashore, He was met by two men with unclean spirits. These demon-possessed men came from the town. These men had been living in the tombs and had not worn clothing or lived in a house for a long time. Many times it had seized them, though they were often bound with chains and shackles. They had broken the chains and shattered the shackles and they could no longer be restrained and the demon drove them into solitary places. They were so violent, no one with the strength could subdue them or pass that way. Night and day in the tombs and in the mountains they kept crying out and cutting themselves with stones.

When they saw Jesus from a distance, they ran and fell on their knees before Him. And one shouted in a loud voice, “What do You want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? “Have You come here to torture us before the appointed time?” I beg You before God not to torture us!” For Jesus had already declared and commanded the unclean spirit, “Come out of these men, you unclean spirit!”

Jesus asked, “What is your name?” He replied, “My name is Legion, for we are many” (because many demons had gone into them). And the demons begged Jesus repeatedly not to send them out of that region or order them to go into the Abyss.

In the distance on a nearby hillside a large herd of pigs was feeding. So the demons begged Jesus, “If You drive us out, send us into the herd of pigs so that we may enter them.” He gave them permission and said “Go!” So the unclean spirits came out of the men and went into the pigs, and the whole herd (about two thousand) rushed down the steep bank into the sea and drowned in the waters.

When those tending the pigs saw what had happened, they ran off and reported this in the town and countryside, including the account of the demon-possessed men. So the whole town went out to meet Jesus and to see what had happened.

When they came to Jesus, they saw the man who had been possessed by the legion of demons sitting at Jesus’ feet, clothed and in his right mind; and they were afraid. Meanwhile, those who had seen it described what had happened to the demon-possessed men and how they had been healed and also to the pigs. Then all the people of the region of the Gerasenes begged Jesus to depart from them, because great fear had taken hold of them. So He got into the boat and started back.

But as He was getting into the boat, the man who had been possessed by the demons begged to go with Jesus. But Jesus would not allow him, but He sent him away, saying, “Go home to your own people,” He said, “and tell them how much the Lord God has done for you, and what mercy He has shown you.” So the man went away and began to proclaim throughout all Decapolis how much Jesus had done for him. And everyone was amazed.

My Thoughts 

There are several directions I’d love to head with this story. One is the difference we see in the Gospels between one or two demoniacs. Here’s a link to a good article on that. Or another is the overwhelming authority Jesus has over Satan and his minions. Here’s another article. But, what I would rather do is address a very common phenomena that all aggressive disciple-makers will eventually encounter but no one talks about; Jesus did not let the demoniac follow Him.

Wait!? What!? Jesus didn’t let a guy who was begging to be His disciple follow Him!? I thought we are supposed to disciple everyone we lead to Christ? In fact I’ve heard people say they quit sharing the gospel because they had so many people they were discipling, they couldn’t even take on one more. Discipling everyone you share the gospel with can become a capacity issue.

And that’s probably one of the reasons Jesus sent the man away to share his testimony with his family and friends; there was no room in the boat. After Jesus chose twelve, twelve it was. Not thirteen or fourteen. It was twelve for the duration of His ministry. Yes, we see the 70 (Luke 10:1) and the 500 (1 Corinthians 15:6) and even 5000 (John 6:1-14) but the twelve were His focus as the leadership cadre for the future. Jesus didn’t let sentiment or pastoral compassion get in the way of a strategic investment in a few. And remember, nobody loves people like Jesus. So we can’t say this selection of a few was mean or unloving. These men were given to Jesus by the Father (John 17:3) for the sake of concentrated leadership development in order to multiply His disciples and advance His kingdom.

And if we stay at it and persevere in sharing the gospel and follow up with those we lead to Christ, or recruit existing believers who are hungry for discipleship, we’ll eventually run into the same capacity problem. Do we stop sharing the gospel? No way! Jesus didn’t. He led a guy into the kingdom as He breathed His last on the cross. No, but we do need to know what our limits are for intentional relational follow-up in order to maintain our potency with the few God has given us to disciple and not sink the boat while we are at it. 

When our boat is full, we need to adopt a “catch and release” evangelism plan like Jesus did. “Catch and Release” refers to what fishermen do when they catch a fish and for various reasons they release it back in the water. For us as “Fishers of Men” we may catch a fish and for various reasons release them to the Holy Spirit. Keep sharing the gospel but if your boat is full don’t feel guilty about not discipling everyone you see.

My Story

I’ve told the story about how Deb and I recently led some young soldiers to Christ when we were sharing the gospel at Fort Sam Houston. We did some basic follow-up with the guys but very quickly realized we had bit off more than we could chew. We have a church in our home, a couple of online churches and are discipling a dozen people both locally and globally. We were maxed out! 

When the soldiers graduated from the combat medics course, they were reassigned to various Army posts around the country. We did our best to connect them with other disciple-makers at the location they were being stationed and then let them go. Had our “boat” not been full, we would probably have started a Zoom Church with them. But we recognized we were beyond our capacity and decided to practice “catch and release” evangelism. It took a lot of discipline because we had grown to love the four medics dearly, but for the sake of all the other leaders we were investing in, we had to let them go. 

Jesus has got them. We fully anticipate hearing the great things the Lord has done with them and through them, either in this life or the next. And as we speak, Deb and I are headed back to Fort Sam to share the gospel with some more soldiers. 🙂

Our Action Plan

Now we’ll look at some ideas on how to help us as disciple-makers keep sharing the gospel even though our boats are full.

• Do an in depth study of why and how Jesus selected the 12 with those you are discipling
• Do an in depth study of why and how the Apostle Paul selected his few future leaders
• Answer the question; “How do you help the many but train a few?”

Jesus modeled a strategic approach to evangelism and discipleship, focusing intensively on a select few while still sharing the gospel widely. As disciple-makers, we can follow His example by continuing to share the good news boldly, while recognizing our capacity limits and entrusting new believers to God’s care when our “boat” is full.

Index for all posts in the Gospel Sync Series

Evangelismo de Atrapar y Liberar – #83

¡Bienvenido! Hoy, veremos los Evangelios de Mateo, Marcos y Lucas para ver cómo Jesús manejó los problemas de capacidad que encontrarán todos los hacedores de discípulos agresivos.

Así que comencemos

Mateo 8:28–34, Marcos 5:1–20, Lucas 8:26–39

Vinieron al otro lado del mar, a la región de los gadarenos. Y cuando salió él de la barca, en seguida vino a su encuentro, de los sepulcros, un hombre con un espíritu inmundo,  que tenía su morada en los sepulcros, y nadie podía atarle, ni aun con cadenas.  Porque muchas veces había sido atado con grillos y cadenas, mas las cadenas habían sido hechas pedazos por él, y desmenuzados los grillos; y nadie le podía dominar.  Y siempre, de día y de noche, andaba dando voces en los montes y en los sepulcros, e hiriéndose con piedras.

Cuando vio, pues, a Jesús de lejos, corrió, y se arrodilló ante él.  Y clamando a gran voz, dijo: ¿Qué tienes conmigo, Jesús, Hijo del Dios Altísimo? Te conjuro por Dios que no me atormentes.  Porque le decía: Sal de este hombre, espíritu inmundo. 

Y le preguntó: ¿Cómo te llamas? Y respondió diciendo: Legión me llamo; porque somos muchos.  Y le rogaba mucho que no los enviase fuera de aquella región.  Estaba allí cerca del monte un gran hato de cerdos paciendo.  Y le rogaron todos los demonios, diciendo: Envíanos a los cerdos para que entremos en ellos.  Y luego Jesús les dio permiso. Y saliendo aquellos espíritus inmundos, entraron en los cerdos, los cuales eran como dos mil; y el hato se precipitó en el mar por un despeñadero, y en el mar se ahogaron.

Cuando los que cuidaban a los cerdos vieron lo que había sucedido, huyeron y lo informaron en la ciudad y el campo, incluido el relato de los hombres poseídos por demonios. Así que toda la ciudad salió al encuentro de Jesús y a ver lo que había sucedido.

Vienen a Jesús, y ven al que había sido atormentado del demonio, y que había tenido la legión, sentado, vestido y en su juicio cabal; y tuvieron miedo. Y les contaron los que lo habían visto, cómo le había acontecido al que había tenido el demonio, y lo de los cerdos.  Y comenzaron a rogarle que se fuera de sus contornos.

Al entrar él en la barca, el que había estado endemoniado le rogaba que le dejase estar con él.  Mas Jesús no se lo permitió, sino que le dijo: Vete a tu casa, a los tuyos, y cuéntales cuán grandes cosas el Señor ha hecho contigo, y cómo ha tenido misericordia de ti.  Y se fue, y comenzó a publicar en Decápolis cuán grandes cosas había hecho Jesús con él; y todos se maravillaban.

Mis Pensamientos 

Hay varias direcciones que me encantaría tomar con esta historia. Una es la diferencia que vemos en los Evangelios entre uno o dos endemoniados. Aquí hay un enlace a un buen artículo sobre eso. Otra es la abrumadora autoridad que Jesús tiene sobre Satanás y sus secuaces. Aquí hay otro artículo. Pero lo que preferiría hacer es abordar un fenómeno muy común que todos los hacedores de discípulos agresivos eventualmente encontrarán, pero del que nadie habla; Jesús no permitió que el endemoniado lo siguiera.

¿¡Espera!? ¿¡Qué!? ¿¡Jesús no permitió que un tipo que rogaba ser su discípulo lo siguiera!? ¿Pensé que se suponía que debíamos discipular a todos los que conducimos a Cristo? De hecho, he escuchado a personas decir que dejaron de compartir el evangelio porque tenían tantas personas a las que estaban discipulando, que ni siquiera podían aceptar una más. Discipular a todas las personas con las que compartes el Evangelio puede convertirse en un problema de capacidad.

Y esa es probablemente una de las razones por las que Jesús envió al hombre a compartir su testimonio con su familia y amigos; no había espacio en el bote. Después de que Jesús eligió doce, fueron doce. No trece o catorce. Fueron doce durante la duración de su ministerio. Sí, vemos los 70 (Lucas 10:1) y los 500 (1 Corintios 15:6) e incluso los 5000 (Juan 6:1-14), pero los doce eran Su enfoque como un cuadro de liderazgo para el futuro. Jesús no permitió que el sentimiento o la compasión pastoral se interpusieran en el camino de una inversión estratégica en unos pocos. Y recuerda, nadie ama a las personas como Jesús. Así que no podemos decir que esta selección de unos pocos fuera mala o poco amorosa. Estos hombres fueron entregados a Jesús por el Padre (Juan 17:3) con el fin de concentrar el desarrollo del liderazgo con el fin de multiplicar a sus discípulos y hacer avanzar su reino.

Y si nos mantenemos firmes y perseveramos en compartir el evangelio y hacemos un seguimiento de aquellos a quienes guiamos a Cristo, o reclutamos creyentes existentes que están hambrientos de discipulado, eventualmente nos encontraremos con el mismo problema de capacidad. ¿Dejamos de compartir el evangelio? ¡No es posible! Jesús no lo hizo. Él guió a un hombre al reino mientras exhalaba su último aliento en la cruz. No, pero sí necesitamos saber cuáles son nuestros límites para el seguimiento relacional intencional con el fin de mantener nuestra potencia con los pocos que Dios nos ha dado para discipular y no hundir el barco mientras estamos en ello.

Cuando nuestro barco está lleno, debemos adoptar un plan de evangelismo de “atrapar y liberar” como lo hizo Jesús. “Atrapar y Liberar” se refiere a lo que hacen los pescadores cuando capturan un pez y por diversas razones lo dejan ir de nuevo al agua. Para nosotros, como “pescadores de hombres”, podemos pescar un pez y, por diversas razones, liberarlo al Espíritu Santo. Sigue compartiendo el evangelio, pero si tu barco está lleno, no te sientas culpable por no discipular a todos los que veas.

Mi Historia

He contado la historia de cómo Deb y yo recientemente guiamos a algunos jóvenes soldados a Cristo cuando compartíamos el evangelio en Fort Sam Houston. Hicimos un seguimiento básico con los chicos, pero muy rápidamente nos dimos cuenta de que habíamos mordido más de lo que podíamos masticar. Tenemos una iglesia en nuestra casa, un par de iglesias en línea y estamos discipulando a una docena de personas tanto a nivel local como global. ¡Estábamos al máximo!

Cuando los soldados se graduaron del curso de médicos de combate, fueron reasignados a varios puestos del Ejército en todo el país. Hicimos todo lo posible para conectarlos con otros hacedores de discípulos en el lugar donde estaban estacionados y luego los dejamos ir. Si nuestro “bote” no hubiera estado lleno, probablemente habríamos comenzado una iglesia Zoom con ellos. Pero reconocimos que estábamos más allá de nuestra capacidad y decidimos practicar el evangelismo de “atrapar y liberar”. Se necesitó mucha disciplina porque habíamos llegado a amar mucho a los cuatro médicos, pero por el bien de todos los demás líderes en los que estábamos invirtiendo, tuvimos que dejarlos ir.

Jesús los tiene. Esperamos escuchar las grandes cosas que el Señor ha hecho con ellos y por medio de ellos, ya sea en esta vida o en la próxima. Y mientras hablamos, Deb y yo nos dirigimos de regreso a Fort Sam para compartir el evangelio con algunos soldados más. 🙂

Nuestro Plan de Acción

Ahora veremos algunas ideas sobre cómo ayudarnos como hacedores de discípulos a seguir compartiendo el evangelio a pesar de que nuestros barcos están llenos.

• Hacer un estudio profundo de por qué y cómo Jesús seleccionó a los 12 con aquellos a quienes está discipulando
•  Estudiar a fondo por qué y cómo el apóstol Pablo seleccionó a sus pocos futuros líderes
• Responde a la pregunta: “¿Cómo ayudas a muchos pero entrenas a unos pocos?” 

Jesús modeló un enfoque estratégico para el evangelismo y el discipulado, centrándose intensamente en unos pocos elegidos sin dejar de compartir el evangelio ampliamente. Como hacedores de discípulos, podemos seguir su ejemplo al continuar compartiendo las buenas nuevas con valentía, mientras reconocemos nuestros límites de capacidad y confiamos a los nuevos creyentes al cuidado de Dios cuando nuestro “bote” está lleno.

Traducción de Norma Klingler