9 posts tagged “novel”

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

Part 2 - In the Upper Room

Part 3 - The Lord of Hosts

Part 4 - The Uninvited Guest

Part 5 - The Gift

Part 6 - The Truth About Soldiers

Part 7 - The Loss

Part 8 – The Messenger Revealed

Part 9 – A Game of Eight Ball

Dillon walked quickly back to his apartment.  He was never quite certain about the passage of time when he encountered Caleb.  Their conversations seemed to take place outside of the normal flow of history.  What seemed like hours of discourse could be accomplished in a few minutes; sometimes it felt as if the opposite was also true.

Once he was inside, he checked his answering machine and cell phone for messages: nothing.  He checked the time and was surprised that he had only spent a half-hour with Caleb.  He still had enough time to shower before meeting Mark at the tea room. 

Stepping into the shower, Dillon tried to cultivate a peace about his defeat against the Legatus.  He felt certain that Caleb had been toying with him a little as they fought, being capable of ending the exchange at any time.  Caleb was a prince among angels, a general; something not unlike the Joint Chiefs.  Fencing against Dillon had required very little of him and yet, Dillon recalled, there was some Enemy out there that had very recently held Caleb at bay for almost a month.

Dillon reached for a towel and began to dry himself.  He considered the question of his intellectual faith.  Caleb had implied that it was virtually synonymous with having little faith at all.

“Jesus,” he said aloud, “help my little faith.”

Almost immediately, the phone rang.  Dillon wrapped the towel around his waist and headed for the living room.  By the time he arrived, the answering machine had already picked up the call.  He heard Mark’s voice, “Hey, I drove by the tea room and it’s packed.  Can we just play pool at your apartment club tonight?”

Dillon picked up the phone and interrupted, “Hey, man.”

“Screening your calls?”

“No, you caught me getting out of the shower and the machine picked up before I could get to the phone.  Are you on your way here now?” he asked.

“I could be,” Mark answered.  “Do you need time to get decent?”

“No,” Dillon replied, “If we’re not going out, I’m just going to throw on some sweats and meet you downstairs.”

“Sounds good.  I’ll see you in a few.”

Dillon hung up the phone and got dressed.  He put his running shoes back on and tousled his still-damp hair into something that resembled a short brown mop.  Leaving his apartment, he was careful to look for unseen guests or signs of another crossover before he turned to lock the door.  He slipped quietly down the stairs and out into a small courtyard with a walkway that connected his building with the community club center which housed a fitness center, billiard room and swimming pool. 

The billiard room was unoccupied, as was often the case on Friday night.  The chic co-inhabitants of his suburban oasis had better things to do than play pool at home.  Dillon was happy to avoid the weekend crowd at Mark’s favorite tea room.  A quiet game of eight ball, followed by meaningful conversation seemed a great way to start his weekend.

He grabbed a cue and tried some practice shots.  Unlike his dismal training exercise with Caleb, shooting pool with Mark was an even match.  If he was on top of his game tonight, he might actually win.  That, he decided, would feel really good.

He made a fairly difficult bank-shot and was reveling in it when he heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

“Playing alone again?”

He stood up and looked his Flesh in the eye.  “Company’s coming,” he said.  “And didn’t I tell you to get lost?”

“You did,” his double conceded, “but I couldn’t help but notice that you need me again.”

“Need you?” Dillon laughed.  “Why on earth would I need you tonight?”

Flesh propped his hip on the corner of the table and made a show of chalking the cue stick he was holding.  “To help you beat Mark, of course.  You need a little victory in your life.  You’ve been feeling like a loser and I’ve got what you need to turn that around.”

“I’m not going to make some Faustian deal with you and trade my soul to beat Mark at pool,” Dillon said contemptuously.

“Your soul, my soul, we’re the same person, Dillon,” Flesh approached him casually, still carrying the cue.  “We’ve only got one soul between us and you’re monopolizing it.”  He sat on the table beside Dillon and dusted Dillon’s shoulder with his free hand.  “You’re still smarting from that display in the park.  I’ve got the confidence to win tonight.  You don’t and you know it.”

“I can win,” Dillon protested.

“Prove it.”  Flesh grabbed the rack and began gathering the balls into it.  “I’ll play you right now.  Winner takes on Mark, if he ever gets here.”

Dillon’s reason was screaming that playing pool against his own Flesh for control was absolute madness.  However, an unbidden thought floated to the top of his churning conscious: You have what it takes to beat him.

Reaching into his pocket, Dillon produced a single quarter.  “You’re on.”  He flipped the coin into the air, caught it and slapped it against the back of his hand.”

“Heads.”  Flesh said without looking up from the rack.

Dillon uncovered the coin.  “Heads it is.  You break.”

“With pleasure.”  Flesh lined up and shot with such power that the balls seemed to explode in all directions.  When the dust cleared, he had sunk three balls.  His next shot pocketed the six, a bright green blur into the corner pocket.  He beamed, “I’ll shoot solids then.”

Dillon nodded and watched his Flesh pocket three more balls with the same power, but on the third shot, the cue ball rolled casually into the side pocket right in front of Dillon.

He picked the cue ball from the pocket.  “I guess it’s my turn then.”  He took his time lining up his shots and began closing the gap.  He continued until he only had one object standing between him and a shot at the eight ball.  He paced around the table trying to line up a good shot but there just wasn’t one.  He lined up the most likely bank and heard his own voice whisper in his ear, “Don’t choke.”  Holding his breath, he took the shot.  For a moment, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion until the ball dropped neatly into the corner pocket.

After that, it was elementary.  “Side pocket,” he called, pointing.  Easy shot and game over.  His Flesh looked stricken.

Dillon took the cue stick from his double.  “Maybe pool isn’t your game.  Now, get out of here.”

Flesh, his face reddening, looked Dillon in the eye and spoke in a derisive and menacing tone.  “This isn’t over, Dillon.  The time is coming when we’ll play on my terms in my realm.  You don’t stand a chance.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

Flesh vanished.

From behind him, Dillon heard the door open.  “Did you start without me?”

“Just some practice shots,” Dillon said, turning to face Mark.  “I’ve got plenty of game left to beat you.”

“So, you think you’ve got what it takes tonight?” Mark scoffed.

“I know I do.”

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

Part 2 - In the Upper Room

Part 3 - The Lord of Hosts

Part 4 - The Uninvited Guest

Part 5 - The Gift

Part 6 - The Truth About Soldiers

Part 7 - The Loss

Part 8 – The Messenger Revealed

To his own astonishment, Dillon was not dead.  Though still in darkness, he was keenly aware of his own painful, yet quite normal breathing.  A warm breeze swept over him but did nothing to lighten the cold, stricken feeling in his soul.  He tried desperately to make sense of what had just happened.  All of his best guesses ended in the same thought, “I’m weak.”

After a few minutes, the thought occurred to him that his eyes were closed; that this darkness was self-imposed.  He wondered what he would see when he opened them, but the sound of children playing and the smell of wet grass hinted at the truth.  He was sitting on the hillside in the park, looking for the entire world like a fellow sitting alone, meditating.  That realization brought him no comfort so he kept his eyes closed.

More time passed and he became aware of a familiar presence sitting next to him on the grass.

“Go away, Caleb,” he whispered into the blackness.

“Sorry, chap, but I can’t do that yet.”  Caleb’s voice had the sandpapery sound of someone trying to deliver the eulogy of a dear friend.

Opening his eyes, Dillon turned his head and looked at Caleb.  The angel’s grey eyes were ringed with tears. 

“I thought we were only sparring,” Dillon tried, unsuccessfully to limit the accusation in his voice.

“We were,” Caleb replied, “The stakes are very high in this fight, Dillon.  You must understand the weapons of your Enemy.  He will destroy you if He can.  When we train, I cannot allow you any slack.”

“And when training is over?”

“Please don’t think me unmerciful,” Caleb reached out to Dillon and placed his hand on Dillon’s invisible chest wound.  The gesture was so gentle and loving that Dillon could not bring himself to recoil from it.

Warmth radiated from Caleb’s hand that seemed to engulf Dillon; not only healing the cold wound in his chest but relieving the guilt and hopelessness that had been threatening to consume him.

“The Enemy’s poison is quick to take hold and quick to spread,” Caleb’s voice sounded wounded.  “It will effectively kill your heart in that realm and leave you a broken shell in this one.”

“How do I defend against it?”

“Two things:” Caleb’s melancholy seemed to pass as he shifted into his teaching mode.  “First, you need to trade your rapier for a shield.  Then you need a better breastplate.”

“But I thought I was doing so well,” Dillon felt suddenly deflated; his weeklong attempt at goodness did not seem to have accomplished much in the way of strengthening his armor.

“You cannot build your armor with good deeds,” Caleb replied.  “Your best efforts to be a good guy fall flat.  You must learn to own the Master’s righteousness.”

The blank look on Dillon’s face was enough to encourage Caleb to continue.  “What He did for you was more than enough to redeem you, but you behave as if He stopped there.  His sacrifice extends into your life with Him for all time.  Stop trying to live righteously and let Him live righteously through you.”

“Oh, is that all,” Dillon said, sarcastically.

“The sooner you give up all hope of ever being able to stand on your feet before Him, the sooner He can empower you to stand on your feet before Him.”
“So, the trying is the problem?”

“Precisely,” Caleb seemed energized that Dillon was beginning to understand.  “As long as you are trying to be righteous, believing that you can attain it, your pride keeps you from succeeding.  The minute you give up and rely on Him – “

“He makes me the righteousness of Christ?”

“No weapon of the Enemy has ever been able to pierce that, Dillon.” 

Dillon picked at the grass in front of him for a moment, digesting this new revelation.  “Ok,” he said finally, “what about a shield?”

“The rapier that you carry is analogous to an intellectual faith,” Caleb began.  “I think your friend, Mark, has lectured on the shortcomings of a reasonable approach to spirituality.”

“Several times,” Dillon chuckled dryly.

“An intellectual faith is very useful in this age,” Caleb continued, “or in a confrontation with a civilized opponent.”

“Apologetics?”

“Such an odd term,” Caleb mused, “but, yes, that’s the sort of confrontation that I’m talking about.  Your Enemy is neither civilized nor intellectual.  He will be ruthless and evil.  You need your faith strengthened by experience.”

“I guess I’ve always had some existential doubt mixed in with my faith,” Dillon confessed.  “How does experience strengthen my faith?”

“It becomes personal,” Caleb explained.  “Stories about people being healed or touched in some miraculous way in another country are not enough.  You need your own story.”

Dillon gingerly poked at the center of his chest.  “Touched by an angel?”  He grinned, but then asked seriously, “How much more miraculous do things have to be for me to have enough personal experience points to get a shield?”

“My familiarity with Temporals suggests that there are usually areas of doubt that need to be specifically addressed.”

“How?”

“I would suggest that you do what the Twelve did when the Master addressed their little faith.” 

“What was that?” Dillon asked, after a minute.

“Ask Him to grow it for you,” Caleb answered without pause.  “He knows what your doubts are.  He can address the specific deficiencies quite aptly.”  He stood up as if he intended to leave but Dillon rose quickly and grabbed him by the arm.

“You said our timeline had been accelerated,” Dillon said urgently.  “What does that mean?”

Caleb cocked his head, playfully.   “Expect the first spirit when the bell tolls one.”  Dillon felt his countenance slide, but Caleb laughed.  “Joking.”

“Don’t joke.”

Caleb cleared his throat.  “Sorry, chap.  You know, they don’t appreciate my humor much back home either.  Normally, a Temporal takes years to become proficient.  Deficiencies are dealt with on this side first by an apostle or an exhorter.  We almost never use a poisoned durog in practice sessions.  Your case is special,” he trailed off.  Dillon sensed that he was leaving something unsaid.

“What are you holding back?” Dillon asked pointedly.

“Nothing that I know for certain,” Caleb answered, “and I hate to speak out of turn.”  He took a deep breath and continued, “Your training is of particular importance.  Otherwise, any Guardian could train you.”

“You’re not a Guardian?” Dillon had assumed from the start that Caleb was his guardian angel.

“I am Legatus of the Guard, Dillon,” Caleb answered.

“You’re a leader among the Guardians,” it made sense to Dillon that Caleb was a leader and a teacher among his people.

“Not a leader, Dillon, the leader.  I am High Seraph, answering to the Archangel, himself.  I have the duty to approach The Throne and report directly to The Most High.”  Caleb did not exude any pride at the disclosure.  He said the lofty titles in the same manner as an accountant delivering a financial report.  “I haven’t been called upon to train anyone since the host was reorganized after The Schism.”

Dillon was stunned.  He realized numbly that he was still holding Caleb by the arm.  He stood for a moment, frozen by the revelation that Caleb was one of the most potent created beings in existence.  The idea that he had been chatting idly with a creature that literally appeared before the throne of God on a regular basis was overwhelming to Dillon.  “What?” he asked dryly.  “What does this suggest about me?”

”There are those among my people who believe that the Master will select and call out a Temporal to be Legatus of His cohorts in the Last War.”

“Your equal?” Dillon could not stop the disbelief from dripping off his tongue.

“Serving the Son as I serve the Father.”

“You think I’m the one?”

“The Master has selected men who seemed far more unsuited to His purpose,” Caleb shrugged.  “He rather makes a show of picking the ugly puppy.”

“Can’t say I love the metaphor,” Dillon quipped.

“Nonetheless,” Caleb turned and walked toward the bicycle path, continuing as he went, “and it’s only conjecture.  I don’t have the gift of seeing the diamond in the rough and information from the Throne is distributed on a need-to-know basis.”

“For now, I’ll focus on the chinks in my armor and leave destiny to those better able to shape it,” Dillon said.

“That’s a good man,” Caleb turned and clapped Dillon on both shoulders.  “And incidentally, the way you led into that attack before was audacious.  No one has made so bold an assault on me in millennia.  I rather enjoyed it.”

“I’m just full of surprises,” Dillon said blandly.

Caleb laughed aloud and the joy of it filled Dillon with hope.  He toyed with the idea of bear hugging the angel but thought better of it.  Audacity was one thing, presumption was another.

“I’ll see you again soon,” Caleb said.  “If I’m not mistaken, you have an appointment.”  With that, Caleb vanished.

~ Continue to Part 9 ~

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

Part 2 - In the Upper Room

Part 3 - The Lord of Hosts

Part 4 - The Uninvited Guest

Part 5 - The Gift

Part 6 - The Truth About Soldiers

Part 7 - The Loss

An uneventful week passed.

Dillon and Mark had, after some difficult theoretical discourse, concluded that ‘righteousness’ basically boiled-down to being nice.  Dillon was back to the discouraging business of trying to be a good guy.  He felt no tingling on the nape of his neck to confirm this was right, but decided that maybe some things really did revolve around keeping the faith and behaving oneself.

“So far, so good,” he thought after arriving home from work on Friday.  He had successfully managed the week without any known scriptural breaches.  There had been a close call on Wednesday afternoon with an off-color joke told by a co-worker, but Dillon had managed to be gracious without showing any amusement.  That, he reasoned, was the appropriate response.

Dodging infringements or outright violations was work, but it was the kind of manageable goal that Dillon liked.  The broader range of “good works” was slightly more daunting.  He was worried that he had not done enough for the needy around him or missed an opportunity to share his faith.  He spent most of the ride home pondering the question of what degree of involvement in community and religious service would be enough.

Checking his messages, Dillon realized that he was supposed to meet Mark for coffee later tonight.  He weighed the option of spending the meantime in the gym and decided that he would.  He enjoyed the mental vacation that a half-hour on the treadmill afforded.

He took off his shirt and tie and slipped on a pair of running shorts.  As he tied his shoes, he was considering the implications of the crossover that he and Mark had discussed earlier in the week.  Caleb had told him that he would eventually be able to control his perceptions of the supernatural and had likened it to walking through a door.  Dillon found the metaphor appealing.  He glanced up at the door leading from his apartment into the hallway and smiled.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” he thought out loud.

He slid from the couch to the floor and began to stretch.  Reaching for his toes, he pulled and felt a slight burn in his hamstrings.  He grunted audibly.  As the tightness in his muscles began to lessen, he continued his musings.  If there was indeed a crossover, he could conceivably check his armor there for deficiencies.  He could make contact with Caleb purposefully, rather than just waiting for him to show up.  There were a number of arguments in favor of attempting to crossover, in spite of the fact that Dillon had no idea what sort of peril might also be out there.

Dillon headed for the door, stopping briefly in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator.  He went through his mental checklist: water, keys, and stopwatch.  Everything was in order and he had plenty of time. 

Opening the door, he felt a rush of cold air and something in his vision shifted.  He was aware of a continued chill and the faint sound of voices.  The sound was vaguely familiar, like listening to a dinner party from the next room, but a dinner party where all of the guests were unrelievedly bored.  Closing the door, he noticed that the generally vivid paint was severely desaturated, as if it had been subjected to harsh sunlight for several decades.  The light, he decided, was a bit too bright, resembling the harshness of the afternoon sun but lacking warmth.  Shadows appeared proportionately darker.  Everything resembled a television picture with the contrast turned way too high.

Dillon was suddenly aware of a presence behind him, at once potent and ambiguous.  He couldn’t sense a clear purpose but his gut reaction was one of self-defense.  He pivoted on his left foot and dropped into a crouch, simultaneously raising his left hand to shield against an assault.

The attack came quickly and the dull din of far-off voices was replaced by the ringing of steel on steel.  Then came the laughter; a good-natured and affable sound in this strange environment.  Dillon looked up and saw Caleb standing before him, sword in one hand and something resembling a small mace in the other, head to toe in white armor.  In his own hand, Dillon held a short, two-edged sword.  It was with this weapon that he had deflected the onslaught.  His right hand rested on the hilt of the silver sword Caleb had given him, still in its scabbard on Dillon’s left hip.

“I see that you’re ready for a little workout,” Caleb said, jovially.  “Care to test your mettle against me on my playing field?”

“Somehow, I doubt that you need a home field advantage to give me a sound thrashing,” Dillon retorted, humorlessly.

“Don’t be so somber, my friend.  Come along.” Caleb spun on his heel and began walking briskly down the hall, continuing as he went.  “I am very impressed with your reflexes.”

“You could’ve killed me with that thing!” Dillon accused, jogging along to keep up.

“Let that be your first lesson, then,” Caleb turned on him with a stern face.  “You could have encountered anyone, anything, coming through that door.  You got lucky this time.” 

Sufficiently rebuked, Dillon took a more civil tone.  “So, you’re here to train me then?”

Caleb continued down the hall with long, martial strides.  “That is my assignment, yes.”

Dillon didn’t speak for a few minutes.  He followed in silence as Caleb led him out of the building and across the street to a small park.  A jogging trail circled a small lake with a fountain in it.  On the far side of the lake, there was a grassy slope that was popular for picnicking on the weekend.  Today, however, it was deserted and Caleb made for it purposefully.  Dillon noticed a change in Caleb’s manner and finally commented on it.

“You certainly are bossy tonight.”

“Just feeling a bit pressed,” Caleb said without turning.  “You should not have been able to walk in this reality for some time.  They said you’d be a quick study, but your presence here advances the timeline and we still have much to do.”

“What do you mean: ‘Advances the timeline’ in what way?”  Dillon had a sinking feeling.

They had reached the hillside and Caleb turned to face Dillon.  Drawing his sword, Caleb challenged him, “No time for chit-chat.  Show me what you’ve got.”

Dillon was suddenly aware of the other people in the park.  “What about all of these people?  Can they see us?”

“Their perception of you is a fellow sitting in the grass reading.”

“Reading?” Dillon asked, a little too incredulously.

“This is a spiritual discipline, Dillon,” Caleb said with a hint of impertinence, “regardless of your perceptions on this plain, to them you’re just meditating.”

“Oh.”  And with that Dillon launched a two-handed attack that he instinctively knew would catch Caleb by surprise.  Dillon was surprised by the speed of his opponent’s parry and found himself on the defensive after a furious exchange of blows.  At every opportunity to gain some advantage, Dillon found himself dodging or ducking or jumping back to avoid the mace-like weapon that Caleb swung with his left hand.

“What is that thing?” Dillon asked, leaping back and to the left to avoid another swing.  Caleb could hold him at bay indefinitely, and with very little effort, by swinging the small, spiked weapon.

“We don’t have a word for it in our language,” Caleb answered, swinging it again.  “It is fashioned after a weapon that the Enemy calls durog.  In Temporal terms, it is Condemnation.  Very effective, especially against you modernists with your dual blade kit and fighting style.”  He swung again, this time only barely missing Dillon’s body armor.

Dillon was tiring quickly and the fact that Caleb continued to lecture and fight energetically was discouraging.  “How do I defend against it?” he croaked between labored breaths.

“Poorly.”   Another near miss, this time aimed at Dillon’s head.  One of the longer spikes on the durog grazed Dillon’s cheek, leaving a burning, bleeding wound that seemed to swell instantly, obstructing his vision.  “I draw first blood.”  Caleb’s voice was cold.

Dillon flailed blindly with his long sword; Caleb ducked under the swing, stepped boldly forward and planted the durog squarely in the center of Dillon’s chest.

Dillon hurt a sickening wet crunch as the spikes pierced his body armor and breastbone.  He felt his chest stricken with the same instantaneous swelling that had occurred on his face.  In a sudden panic, he realized that he could not draw a breath.  His legs gave way and he faltered to his knees.

The last thing Dillon saw before blacking out was Caleb’s saddened face.

~~ Continue to Part 8 ~~

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

Part 2 - In the Upper Room

Part 3 - The Lord of Hosts

Part 4 - The Uninvited Guest

Part 5 - The Gift

Part 6 - The Truth About Soldiers

The diagram on the table in front of him seemed more than a little corny to Dillon, in light of his recent experiences.  He kept this observation to himself, for the moment, since Mark seemed utterly transfixed on it and was feverishly taking notes.

“OK,” Mark was referring to his Bible and then the drawing systematically.  He had already labeled most of the items on the diagram.  “The sword of the Spirit is the Word of God.”  He began writing, “So, the Bible is an offensive weapon, like a sword.”  He went back to his Bible and commented, “That’s it, but I still have blanks on my diagram.”

Dillon looked again at the coloring-book drawing of a Roman soldier armed for battle.  Mark had downloaded it from the internet and brought a copy for both of them to study.  The longer Dillon looked at it, the more childish it seemed.  He noticed the extra blanks, all pointing to the little soldier’s head, when they had begun this exercise.  Obviously, the writer of this particular curriculum had something in mind, but it eluded Dillon too.

“I don’t think the blanks are all that important,” Dillon commented.  “And I don’t think that a slavish approach to the uses of the weapons is going to work either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the ideas that the belt holds up your skirt to keep you from tripping and the helmet protects your mind are nice metaphors, but I don’t see that being the only purpose of Truth and Salvation in actual warfare.”  Dillon was beginning to hate theology.

Mark, on the other hand, seemed much energized by the armor metaphors and symbols.  “Are you suddenly getting all loosey-goosey with you bible study techniques?”

“We’re looking at this little man and trying to imagine what the actual uses of each piece of the armor represent.  I’m more interested in why Truth is essential, how I acquire some Righteousness and what to do when my Enemy attacks my Faith.”  Dillon paused for a moment and considered the rather bland expression on the face of the soldier-drawing.  “Colorful writing is nice, but I’m looking for some instruction on how to be certain that I have all of the pieces.”

“I guess the use of the armor will come as naturally to you as picking up Caleb’s sword did,” Mark began.

Dillon rebutted, “Not necessarily.  The sword is the Bible and my grasp of the black and white basics is a lot more solid than some of the other elements, Faith and Righteousness, for instance.  Those two might be areas of weakness, so there’s no way to know how I might falter there.”

“We’re only guessing that this stuff will turn into literal armor when you make the crossover,” Mark got a rather wistful look on his face for a minute.

“Assuming that there’s a crossover at all,” Dillon corrected.  “So far, the supernatural encounters I’ve had were well-grounded in this existence.  And I got the distinct impression that Caleb is shielding me from most of the really intense battles anyway.”

“Have you tried to crossover?”

“I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea of how to do that,” Dillon replied instantly.  After a brief silence, he continued, “But I suppose it would just be an exercise of being willing to go.  Most of the events so far have just happened.  But I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.  Caleb said to focus on arming myself against the ‘present enemy,’ meaning my own Flesh.”

“Who seems to be a great liar.”

“Right.  And that’s where he really nailed me: by twisting the truth around and trying to make me believe a lot of rot about God and myself and my friends.”  Dillon felt a stirring in his heart that gave him the distinct impression that they were on the right track.

“What you need is to drown your mind in the truth,” Mark began.  “Start with that stuff Caleb said about your heart being good and noble and strong.”

“That was a real revelation to me at the time.  You don’t hear stuff like that in church,” Dillon replied.  “I looked up some passages in the Bible that really support those ideas.  I wonder why we’ve abandoned that truth.”

 “Hard to explain why we act like such jerks if our hearts are good,” Marks said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I suppose,” Dillon felt deeply that this was an oversimplification.  He began to think out loud, “What if there’s more to it than that?”

“What do you mean?”

Dillon continued, “What if the Enemy is as real as God?”  Mark nodded his assent and Dillon went on.  “Think about it: the Bible says that Jesus’ goal was to free the captive hearts.  What would delight the Enemy more than making us think that our freed hearts were still bad?”

“Unregenerate?” Mark asked, with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Nice.”  Dillon seemed unperturbed by Mark’s dig.  “If our regeneration really is a process, then the Enemy could trick us into misinterpreting our slow growth as a sign that our hearts are unchanged.”

“Still captive.”  Mark offered.

“Still bad,” Dillon said.

“So the Truth about Dillon,” Mark began, “is that God started a process of changing you.  He started in your heart…”

“The center of my identity,” Dillon interjected.

“Right.  He put Himself in there, and where He is, you’re good and noble and strong.”

“And He moves outward in the continual process of changing me, changing my behavior, my attitudes,” Dillon paused.  The conclusion seemed to be right on the tip of his tongue.

“Until you’re the kind of person who can help set other people’s hearts free,” Mark saw it first, “Someone just like Jesus.”

The two friends sat in silence for a moment, letting the ramifications of what they had said percolate.  In that time, Dillon realized that King Jesus had given him a sort of knighthood.  He felt, rather than heard, the King saying, Carry my banner and fight to rescue captive hearts.  Build my Kingdom.

Mark broke the silence.  “Can I say something a lot less profound?”

“Always.”

“I just want to go on-record saying that I haven’t lost patience with you and I’m with you wherever this goes,” he seemed a little defensive, but Dillon understood in light of the seeds of doubt his Flesh had tried to sow with regards to Mark.  “I don’t want you to think I’d dump you.”

“I was wrong to believe that you might,” Dillon confessed.  “Forgive me?”

The confession seemed to catch Mark off guard, as if he assumed that he owned the deficit.  Dillon realized that Mark’s statement was intended to precede, rather than invite, an apology.  “You are the truest friend I’ve ever had, Mark.”  Dillon said, truthfully.

A crooked smile crept across Mark’s face and Dillon knew that the serious buddy-moment had passed.  “You’re shaping up nicely too.  All is forgiven.”

Dillon smiled warmly back at his friend and nodded, then returning to the cartoon on the table began to doodle a beard and sunglasses on its face.  “I think I found enough Truth today to hold up my pants,” he said idly.

“Well, then,” Mark countered, sipping his tea, “Tomorrow we’ll see if we can find you enough Righteousness to protect you vital organs.”  Both smiled and, making eye contact across the table, said together, “That’ll take a bit longer.”

Dillon rolled his soldier into a little ball and bounced him off of Mark’s head.

~~Continue to Part 7~~

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

Part 2 - In the Upper Room

Part 3 - The Lord of Hosts

Part 4 - Uninvited Guest

Part 5 - The Gift

Picking up an empty bottle from the bar, Caleb sighed, “I come all this way and all you have for me is light beer.”

Dillon smiled, in spite of himself.  Caleb was very disarming, even dressed for some sort of battle that Dillon was hesitant to ask about.  “Sorry.  You’re the second person to complain about the beer tonight.  I didn’t really expect to be entertaining.  Guess I should look into something more palatable.”

“Sorry, chap,” Caleb pushed the bottle aside and turned to face Dillon.  “I shouldn’t be so glib tonight.  You had a brush with disaster.  Your friend Mark really did save you a world of trouble.”

“I felt that, too.”  Dillon began tidying up; it was his way of dealing with the stress and frustration of his encounter with his other self.  He avoided making eye contact with Caleb, but he asked the question that was burning in his mind.  “Was he telling the truth?  Do I really think that God…I mean…all that stuff that he said?”

“In a manner of speaking, you do.”  Caleb paused, as if trying to frame his statement carefully, and continued.  “You Mortals have something called a ‘subconscious.’  We don’t completely understand it; but apparently you sometimes ask yourselves rhetorical questions about Him that are faithless.  He says that it’s in your nature to doubt.  It’s one of the reasons that the Comforter comes into you.”

Dillon wrestled with the syntax of Caleb’s explanation.  It was the first time that he had tried to explain a complex reality to Dillon and it made Dillon realize the broad chasm that separated their worlds.

“Was it your voice that I heard?”  Dillon asked, “Telling me that he was my Flesh?”

“Yes.”  Caleb seemed pained.  “I am a messenger, after all, and I had to get that message delivered before he started making sense to you.  He’s very good at twisting your experiences to fit his desires.  I couldn’t let you go into that battle completely unprepared, no matter how busy I was attending to other matters.”

“Other matters?”

“I don’t want to trouble you with that right now,” Caleb said, honestly, “But I will tell you that I was dispatched to you two days after our last encounter.”

“In the church?  That was a month ago.”

“Yes.  But as I said, I was detained.”  Caleb paused again.  It seemed to Dillon that he would stop there but he continued, “There is an Enemy, Dillon, and he is aware of you now.”

Dillon did not know how to respond to that, so he let the statement hang in the air for a moment before asking, “Why is this happening?”

Caleb was incredulous, “You don’t know?  You Mortals always are forgetting what you’ve asked for.”  He shook his head and then chuckled to himself.  “Do you remember the day we met?”

“Yeah, in the woods.”

“You’d been sitting on a rock all day praying.  Do you recall what you asked Him to do for you?”  Caleb stood and paced across the room.

“I was asking Him to show me some sign or give me some insight,” Dillon was embarrassed that he could not recall more than that.

“Do you remember any of your exact words; anything specific?”  Caleb stopped beside the phone and was toying with the answering machine.

“No.”

“Let’s see if I can jog your memory a bit,” Caleb pressed a button on the machine and Dillon heard his own voice playing clearly.

“I wish I could be more aware of the things going on around me.  Please give me the ability to see beyond the mundane.  Help me to see the supernatural realities.”  As if purely for dramatic emphasis, the answering machine beeped and clicked and fell silent again.

“That was cool,” Dillon said dryly after a moment.

“A parlor trick, really,” Caleb affected an air of mock humility.  “Not as difficult, really, as turning your trekking pole into a snake.”

“You can do that?”

“Do let’s try to stay on-topic for just a few moments more, Dillon.”  Though Caleb chided him, Dillon sensed no real rebuke.

“So, you’re saying that I’ve been given the ability to see supernatural realities?”  Dillon stared at the floor for a few minutes before going on.  “How long will I be like this?”

“Indefinitely,” Caleb said in a matter-of-fact tone.  “Eventually, you will develop skill to control this gift and use it to encourage others.”

“Control it how?”  Dillon felt a sinking feeling that his “gift” was going to be a real hassle for him.

“In many ways, really,” Caleb continued.  “You might be able to enter into our realm at will, much like stepping through a door.  You might learn to coach others to join you there.  Someday soon, Dillon, you might face the Enemy as my people do: in literal single-combat.  As with most of His gifts, the limits are generally only in your mind.  However, I would focus on the basics right now if I were you.”

“And what are the basics?”

“You must learn to arm yourself against this present enemy.”

“Who was he?”

“As he said,” Caleb explained, “He is a part of you; he is you as you could be.  He was lying, of course, about being better.  He is your Flesh, the parts of you that continue in a non-regenerated state.”

“Unregenerate.”

“Your theological term falls short of conveying the deeper truth.”  Caleb almost rolled his eyes.  “I understand the need to convey Truth verbally, but it is almost always lacking, particularly as it grows more technical.  It’s why the Master always spoke in parables and metaphors.”

“I thought that He used parables because the people back then were so simple-minded.”

Caleb chuckled.  “People are still simple-minded, Dillon.  He used stories and metaphors to speak to your Hearts, not your minds.  The reality of regeneration is a good example.  You have intellectualized the Master’s words, ‘born again,’ and in the process lost the imagery and drama.  You’ve traded the language of the heart for the language of the mind.”

“You miss how beloved you are as newborn children to the Father, how perfectly helpless you are without His care and how He nurtures your maturity.”  Caleb paused and the silence in the room weighed heavily on Dillon.  “For the sake of your intellect, let it suffice that there is a moment of regeneration and a process of regenerating.  That’s the best I can do without giving you a lesson in the grammar of ancient tongues.”

Dillon nodded.  It seemed that Caleb had already given him the keystone:  the Language of the Heart.

As if he knew Dillon’s thought, Caleb concluded, “But if He thought you needed a lesson in theology, He’d have sent the Apostle himself.  Instead, He sent me, so we must assume He had some purpose in that.”

Caleb reached into a sheath over his shoulder and drew a long, silver sword.  The ring of its unsheathing and the gleam of its blade made Dillon flinch.  There was a flourish and almost martial air about the Messenger in that moment that took Dillon by surprise.  He had a sudden realization that Caleb was not just the benign person that he had been chatting with; Caleb was a potent and dangerous being with the strength and skill to wield powerful armaments of defense or destruction.  But then Caleb did something even more dramatic and unexpected.  He flipped the hilt in his hand and tossed the weapon to Dillon.

Dillon reached out and caught the sword by the hilt.  He felt the heft of the weapon in his hand.  He had expected to feel awkward since fencing was not something he had studied.  To his surprise, he found that it felt like an extension of his arm.  He took several test swings with it and then looked up to see that Caleb had vanished again.

The answering machine beeped to life and Dillon heard Caleb’s voice, “Careful that you don’t sever anything important practicing.  You’ll do well to take note of the inscription.  I’ll call again later.”  Dillon lifted the sword to read the inscription and was startled to find that the sword was no longer in his hand.

In its place, he held a familiar, leather book: his own Bible.  Dillon could not help but laugh.

~ Continue to Part 6 ~

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

Part 2 - In the Upper Room

Part 3 - The Lord of Hosts

Part 4 - Uninvited Guest

Dillon was discouraged.

In the weeks following his encounter with Caleb at the church, he became very vigilant.  He dutifully prayed daily, attended church, journaled and read the Bible.  When nothing happened for two weeks he took a day off to fast and pray on his rock in the hills.  He half expected Caleb to appear again and tell him what was going on or instruct him in some spiritual discipline that he was neglecting.

That day was very disappointing.  After being drenched in an afternoon thunderstorm, he got truly lost trying to find his way back to the trail and ended up dragging himself back to his car after dark again; and this time, he had to make the walk alone.

He had returned to the church downtown, this time during the day, and secured permission from the parish priest before spending several hours in the baptistery praying for clarity or some sign.

Three weeks passed with nothing of any significance to report.

He concluded finally that somehow he had blown it.  Whether by some omission or lustful thought or moment of personal weakness, he had lost his grip on the work that God was doing and it was over.  He tried desperately to identify his sin and managed to confess to a myriad of imagined transgressions, hoping to appeal to God’s mercy to forgive and continue his journey.

Four weeks.

Encouraging words from Mark had begun to sound hollow, as if even Mark had stopped believing them.  Ever the supportive friend, he continued to call every evening to offer his ear or shoulder or both.

When the phone rang, Dillon ignored it.  He was slouched on the sofa watching TV for the first time since the night he met Caleb downtown a month ago.  In his pursuit of another sign from God, he had cut himself off from every type of unnecessary media.  “Tonight,” he thought, “I’m going to make up for that month.”  He had thick crust pizza lying on the coffee table and a six-pack of imported beer chilling in the refrigerator.  The phone rang again.

Dillon looked at his watch: 9 o’clock.  That would be Mark calling.  “I don’t feel like talking about it anymore, Mark,” he shouted in the general direction of the phone.  He heard a click and a beep and then the sound of his own voice, “Hi! This is Dillon.  Sorry I missed you.  Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

“Or not,” he said, casually throwing back the last of his beer.  “One down, five remaining.”  He got up and walked around the counter-height bar into the kitchen.

Another beep.  “Hey, buddy.”  Mark always called him “buddy” when things were going badly.  “Hope you had a better day.  Call me if you want.  I’ll be up late.  I love you, man.”

Another click and then another beep and Mark was gone.

Dillon poked his head up from behind the refrigerator door and yelled casually at the phone, “Love you too, man.”  He opened the second bottle.  He could not remember the last time he had consumed more than one beer.  “You’re a lightweight, Dill.  Don’t spoil your evening of debauchery by passing out after two beers.”

“Hey, throw me one of those while you’re in the kitchen.”  Dillon was startled.  He looked at the beer in his hand as if it had spoken the words and then peeked around the corner to see himself seated on the couch, jockeying the remote control.  “Seriously,” his doppelganger continued, “I need a drink.”

“No more than I do,” Dillon muttered, returning to the refrigerator and extracting beer number three.  He lobbed it over the bar and joined his new companion on the couch.  By the time he got there, the newcomer had opened the beer in a foaming mess and drained the bottle.  Dillon sat down beside himself and gave his attention to the television, occasionally stealing a glance at the mirror image seated alongside him.

To say that the new arrival was identical to him was inaccurate, as Dillon realized upon further inspection.  His double was in better shape, had sloppier hair and seemed a lot more comfortable with a beer in his hand.  “Hello, Pamela,” he said wolfishly, cocking his head and affecting a smitten grin.  “She’s a hottie.  I don’t understand why you don’t watch this more often.”

“It’s all reruns and I’m normally in bed by now,” Dillon answered. 

“But not tonight?”

“No, I guess you could say that I feel like blowing off some steam tonight,” Dillon figured that there was no reason to lie to himself and no reason to be inhospitable.  “Pizza?” he offered.

“Sure,” his double said, reaching for the flat box on the table.  He helped himself and continued talking to Dillon with his mouth full.  “So, beer and Baywatch and porn.  Must be bad.”

“What must be bad?  And who said anything about porn?” 

“No one ‘said’ anything about porn.  But you and I both know it was on your mind.”  This time, his wolfish grin was directed at Dillon.  The lookalike tossed the remnants of his pizza crust on the table and, in a blur of motion, threw one leg over Dillon’s feet and sat in his lap, facing him.  “I know everything that’s on your mind.  It’s on my mind too.”

“Then you are probably aware of how uncomfortable I am with you sitting on me like this,” Dillon said, pressing back against the sofa in an attempt to put as much distance between himself and this alter ego as possible.

“Relax, Dill,” he said, patting Dillon on the head and flashing a cheeky smile.  “It’s not like that at all.”

“Ok,” Dillon was getting more confused by the minute, “So, what is it like?”

“I’m you,” Dillon looked at him dubiously, “Well, not ‘you’ exactly.  I’m a better you.”

“Better me?”

“Yeah, don’t play dumb, buddy.”  He stood up and looked down at Dillon.  “You’re the boy; I’m the man.  You’re the awkward side of us and I’m here to help you break loose, grow up.  I’m you after one drink ‘too many.’  I’m the part of you that tells jokes, laughs out loud and has the nerve to talk to the ladies.”

Dillon was stunned.  He realized that “awkward” was exactly how he felt, almost all the time but certainly in social situations.  He could use a little loosening up, maybe that was the answer he had been looking for.  But, as soon as that thought occurred to him, he felt something inside saying that it was a lie.

“I’m awkward, huh?”  He said nonchalantly.  “I guess that’s true enough.  But exactly how do you propose to help me get over that.  It’s probably not a good idea for me to go to the office after one too many drinks.”

“You’d be surprised how much more interesting the inside of that cubical would be after a few beers.  I’d love to tutor you in the finer points of mojo,” the twin quipped, flopping down on the sofa and sidling up to Dillon.  Placing his arm across Dillon’s shoulder he spoke softly into his ear, “It’s all very simple.  Just let me run the show.”

“Show?”

“Yeah, the show…your show…our show,” he twisted himself around so that he and Dillon were squared-off again.  “You let me guide you through these…um… awkward situations.  We’ll both be better off for it.”

There was a smooth urgency in his alter ego as he spoke.  Dillon looked at him; there was a familiarity between them that went beyond their appearance.  The personal chemistry was undeniable.  This was no stand-in or imposter; this was a part of him.  This person was Dillon too.  A whisper sounded in his other ear, a familiar accented voice spoke a single word.  Flesh.

Dillon practically jumped off the couch.  “I’m not convinced that your guidance is the key that I’m looking for.”

“I suppose you think you’ll get better advice from your imaginary god, or that chappie of his that appears on his whim.  Forget about them and go with your feelings for once,” the eyes of his double seemed to flare with a dim fire.  “It will be a lot more fun than fasting and praying and waiting.”

Something in Dillon remembered that Jesus quoted scripture when he was tempted, so Dillon began, “They that wait on the Lord –“

His Flesh cut him off with an accusation, “Get depressed and drown their sorrows in cheap beer and Baywatch reruns, Dillon.”  It was obvious that he was prepared for the conversation to take this turn.  He became more menacing, “You don’t have what it takes to follow Jesus.”  Dillon recoiled, the Flesh continued, “The standard is too high and you can see where all of your best efforts got you: pouting on your couch with no one but me for company.”  He grabbed the front of Dillon’s shirt, “It’s you and me and no one else, Dillon.  Think about the last time you saw your comrade, Mark.”  With that, he pressed his index finger against Dillon’s temple and spoke almost sub audibly, “Remember.”

Dillon wanted to object, but he found his memory suddenly and forcibly fixed on an image of Mark’s face during their last conversation.  He wore and expression of mild concern and something else that Dillon could not quite put his finger on.

“Impatience, Dillon.”  Again he was forced to look at the mirror image of his face.  Again the dim fire glowed in its eyes.  “Mark is already sick of your incontinence, your weakness.  He will forsake you.  Just like your angel-friend and your absent god.  Your best attempt at holiness isn’t enough to buy their approval.  You let them down so they lose interest.  But I won’t.  I’ll always be with you.”

Dillon’s memory of Mark seemed to come under duress and he wondered just how much control he had lost to this thing with his face.  He tried to frame an argument, recall some encouraging words from the Bible, from Mark, from anyone.  He was left with nothing, again. 

“Stop trying to deny me,” his Flesh said, his voice tinged with anger.

“I don’t believe what you’re saying,” Dillon replied, trying to wrench himself from the grip of his visitor.

The grip tightened and his Flesh spoke more menacingly than before.  “These are your own thoughts, Dillon.  I’m not making any of this up.  That’s why you can’t frame an argument, because deep inside you’ve already thought about everything I’m saying to you.  Deep-down, that’s what you really think.”

Dillon was desperate to find and escape, but his resolve was slipping.  He felt like all that he believed was true was being swept from under him.  Half-heartedly, he objected, “That’s a lie.”

“I never lie.”  The double pulled him closer so that their noses almost touched, “In this case, the truth is a lot more fun.”

Discouragement turned to despair in that moment and Dillon slumped to the floor.  He sat exhausted and began to weep. 

The voice of the Flesh came softly again as he patted Dillon’s hair, “I didn’t want to be so hard on you, but you have to see that you need me.  All you have to do is say ‘you’re right’ and I’ll take it from there.”

Dillon could not find any reason to deny the truth of what his twin was telling him but he could not stop crying long enough to say so.  For some reason that he did not understand, it seemed very important that he withhold the affirmation. 

The telephone rang.  There was a click and a beep and then the mockingly pleasant sound of his own voice, “Hi! This is Dillon.  Sorry I missed you.  Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

Another beep and then he heard Mark, “Dude, the weirdest thing:  Jill and I were praying for you just now and we both felt like we needed to call you and say, ‘Blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted’…Does that make any sense to you?”

A sudden warmth started to glow in Dillon’s chest, radiating a healing to his heart.  The words that the double had spoken to him seemed far away and irrelevant.  He felt nothing but comfort and peace in that moment.  He stood up, looked his tormentor in the eye and said, “You’re wrong.  You should go now.”

Dillon was aware of Mark’s voice, still rambling from the answering machine as the image of his flesh vanished.  “…and I told her that you were frustrated and kinda bummed but ‘mourning’ was sort of over the top…”  Dillon picked up the phone and spoke softly, “Hi, Mark.”

“Hey, you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Can I call you tomorrow?  I’m a little beat.”

“Sure, buddy.  Whenever.”

“Thanks for calling, Mark.  You saved my butt again.”

Mark sounded confused.  “Ok.  I mean…you’re welcome?”

“I love you, man.  Goodnight.”  Dillon hung up the phone and turned off the TV.  He turned to go to bed and stopped short.

Caleb, dressed head-to-toe in white armor, leaned casually in the bedroom doorway.  “Sorry I’m late.”   He had the distinct look of someone who had been working hard.  For lack of a better term, he looked “winded.”  It crossed Dillon’s mind to ask about this but he thought better of it.  “I was detained.” 

~ Continue to Part 5 ~

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

Part 2 - In the Upper Room

Part 3 - The Lord of Hosts

It was a seedy part of town, but Dillon had to go there. 

He had been watching television in his apartment when the undeniable calling came to him.  It was more of a compulsion than anything.  He got off the couch, grabbed a jacket and was out the door before he had given any thought to where he was going.  The train station was less than a quarter of a mile away, so he headed that way, hoping that some clarity of purpose would strike before he got there.

Climbing the stairs to the elevated tramway, he passed through a turnstile and boarded the train heading downtown.  With the exception of Dillon and a middle-aged Hispanic woman wearing hospital scrubs, the train was empty.  No one took the train downtown in the middle of the night and Dillon had a few ideas about the rationale behind that trend.

The rhythmic rattle of the train on its track, combined with a gentle, lateral rocking motion, made him feel drowsy.  Starbursts appeared around the streetlights as they flew past and Dillon realized that, at this hour, he might have boarded the last train of the evening.  He was going to arrive downtown with nothing but a light jacket and no way to get home.  He entertained the notion that he might have made a grave tactical error and went over a short list of people he could call to come pick him up.  It would be Mark, of course, “And serves him right for laughing at me yesterday,” Dillon muttered.

The train came to a stop and the woman at the back of the train stepped off.  Dillon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.  Mark’s number was on his speed-dial.  In a moment he heard Mark’s bleary voice, “Dude, this had better be good.”

“Sorry to wake you up, man, but I’m on a train heading downtown and there’s no way for me to get back home.”  There was a moment of silence.

“No, it’s Dillon, I gotta go bail him outta jail,” Mark was speaking aside, that would be to Jill, his wife.  Dillon wondered how long it would take him to convince Jill that Mark had made that up but then decided it made a better story than the truth.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Just passed Washington.”

“Get off the train at the next stop.  That’ll be Jefferson.  Walk east two blocks to First Street.  Wait for me at the park on the corner.  It’ll take me a half hour to get there.”  Mark was as solid a friend as Dillon could ask for.

“Thanks, Mark.”

“And Dillon, try to not look lost and helpless.  They’ll kill and eat you.”

Dillon tried to come up with a clever retort, but all he could manage was, “I’ll do my best.”  Then he ended the call.

The station at Jefferson was radically different from the one near his apartment.  Here the stations were on the level of the street and looked for all the world like the set of a very scary movie.  The mosaic tile was cracked and missing in some places and there was graffiti scrawled on about eighty percent of the available surfaces.  He paused for a minute and tried unsuccessfully to decipher the meaning of the words he was looking at.  To someone who recognized the symbolism, he realized, this would serve as a welcome or a warning, depending on the individual’s loyalties.  To Dillon, it was just a vague, but strong indicator that he did not belong there.

He exited the station and did as Mark had instructed.  Arriving at the park, he did his best to look comfortable examining a piece of trash on the sidewalk, while suppressing the urge to look at his watch.  He spotted a bench near a bus stop and sat down, for the moment, alone.  There was a bit of breeze blowing and he wrapped his jacket a little tighter.  He slouched on the bench and fancied that in the darkness he might appear, to a casual observer, as a non-descript homeless man.

“You’re playing the part well,” a familiar voice spoke from the bench next to him, “Except for the hundred dollar shoes.”

“Caleb.”  Dillon replied, turning his head to inspect his new companion, “You look awful.”

“Got to blend into the crowd, you know.”  He adjusted the brim of his weathered hat so that Dillon could see his eyes and winked.  If he had been a middle-class joe out for a hike on Saturday, tonight he was a homeless, alcoholic getting ready to bed-down on this bench.  He offered Dillon a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.  “This will warm you right to your toes.”

“Thanks,” Dillon smiled, “but I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” and he capped the bottle and tucked it into the pocket on his threadbare coat.  “Let’s go somewhere that we can talk.”  He stood and walked toward a large church next to the park.  Dillon got up and followed.  He thought it was strange that the church would not be locked at this hour but Caleb walked right in as if it were Sunday morning and led him into a small chamber just to the left of the entrance.  A baptismal font stood in the center of the room and light from outside filtered through the antique glass made a watery pattern on the stone floor.

“This building must be a hundred years old,” Dillon commented absently.

“The cornerstone was laid in 1857,” Caleb said, “So one hundred fifty years is more accurate.  And it was brought here, stone-by-stone, from Scotland where it had been in use for two hundred years before that.”

Dillon, who had been looking around while listening to the history lesson, finally noticed that Caleb’s attention was focused on a large mural on the north wall.  The image depicted a strong king, scepter in one hand, sword in the other, leading a vast army.  They were engaged in close combat with their enemy and from the look of things, were on the verge of a decisive victory.  They had strong, noble faces and gleaming swords.  The overall impact of the mural was heroic, epic.  Dillon felt a chill run from his heels to the top of his head.  It was only after staring at the image for several minutes that he noticed a striking detail.

“They have wings,” he thought aloud.  “The army, they’re all angels?”

“It’s called ‘Lord of Hosts,’ you wouldn’t know the artist.”  Caleb paused, but his eyes were fixed on the King.  “You’ve no idea how we long for that Day.”

“In the meantime?”

“In the meantime,” he turned to Dillon, smiling, “We help get you humans ready for it.”

“Is that why you called me here?”

Caleb laughed.  “I can see why you might think that,” he nodded toward the King, “but He’s the One doing the calling.  Once you begin listening, sometimes it takes you places that you didn’t expect to go.”

Dillon stepped closer to the mural, looking intently into the King’s face.  “But why would He call me, I’m no one special.  I’m not even especially spiritual.  I wasn’t praying when I felt the urge to come here.  I was just watching TV and eating Chinese take-out like a bachelor-slob.”

“You don’t really understand what He’s done for you, yet,” Caleb replied.  It was Dillon’s turn to stare into the eyes of the King.  “What if I told you that your heart is good?”

Dillon could not frame a response.  He felt a lump growing in his throat.  How he longed to know that was true!  The question sounded hypothetical, so he remained silent. 

“What if I told you that your heart is noble?”

The face of the King was fierce and kind all at once.  Dillon marveled at it.  Could that nobility be in him as well?  His felt Hope trying to rise up inside of him.  His vision blurred as tears began to form in his eyes.  The face of the great Lord of Hosts lost its focus.

“What if I told you that you are strong?”

A single tear rolled down Dillon’s cheek, splashing on the stone by his feet.  “If I could believe that, Caleb, it would change my entire life.”

Caleb stepped up beside him and gripped his shoulder.  Dillon felt the warmth of his touch.  Caleb was real.  Together they looked upon the Lord of Hosts.  It was Caleb who finally broke the silence.  “He will help your unbelief.  I’ll see you again, I think.”  He took a step backward and then Caleb was gone again.

“Can I help you, my son?”

Dillon whirled around to face the source of the question and saw the parish priest standing there in his pajamas.

“No, I’m sorry, Father,” Dillon felt like a caught schoolboy.  He began to babble.  “I just ended up stranded downtown and my friend told me to meet him in the park and I saw the church was unlocked and I wanted to see the mural.”

“Mural?” the priest seemed truly puzzled.

“Yes,” Dillon glanced over his shoulder at the blank stone wall where He had just been looking at the King.  He contained his surprise.  This sort of thing was becoming normative for him.  “It’s called the Lord of Hosts.  I heard that it was in your baptistery.”

“Oh, that!” the priest exclaimed.  “Better check your history.  The mural hung in the baptistery before the building was moved here from Scotland.  It was destroyed in the fire that gutted the church.  That’s the reason they moved it.  My goodness, that must have been 200 years ago.”

Dillon felt suddenly cold.  “I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you, Father,” and he began to walk toward the door.  When he reached for the handle, the door was locked.

As the priest came over with the key, Dillon caught sight of a donation box attached to the wall.  The sign on it read, “Remember the Poor.”  He pulled a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and poked it into the slot at the top of the box.

Seeing him, the priest laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Bless you, my son.”  Dillon nodded to him and replied, “Good night, Father.”

The priest let Dillon back out into the night, where it had begun to rain.  In a few minutes, he saw Mark pull up in his truck.  He climbed in dripping and stared out at the rain.

“Sorry, man,” Mark began.  “I got here as fast as I could.”

“No worries, dude,” Dillon said, smiling.  “You’ll never believe what just happened to me.”

** Continue to Part 4 **

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

Part 2 - In the Upper Room

“Dude, that’s awesome!” 

“Then you don’t think the whole thing sounds a little bit cheesy?”  Dillon looked across the table at his friend.  Mark was Dillon’s opposite in almost every way:  Dillon was somber, Mark was enthusiastic.  Dillon was tidy; Mark was a slob.  Dillon liked the consistency of the corporate coffee house franchise; Mark preferred the chancy hot tea from the locally owned Indian tearoom.  Dillon often wondered when Mark would grow up; Mark thought Dillon needed to relax.  They were the best of friends.

“Cheesy?  No way!  I’ve got chills just listening to you!”  Mark extended his hand to illustrate and he was not exaggerating.  The hairs on his arms were standing straight up.  “Visions and voices AND a meeting with an angel; you must be so stoked.”

Today, they met after work for coffee.  It was Monday afternoon and Dillon, telling his story for the first time in the clear light of day, felt awkward and uncertain.  He stared down into his coffee mug as if the dwindling foam on top might morph into the face of the Blessed Virgin at any moment.  He was clearly uncomfortable with Mark’s synopsis.  Those words could just as easily have been in a psychiatrist’s notes.  “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“Sorry, pal,” Mark grinned, “That’s not my area of expertise.”  He sipped his tea and grimaced.  “I’m just here to encourage you and maybe help you interpret the signs.”

“Interpret?”  Sometimes, Mark really pushed Dillon’s buttons.  He started to deny the need for any outside interpretation, but his insecurities had been gnawing at him all weekend.  Church on Sunday had been a surreal melodrama of religious rituals that left him utterly cold after his experience on the mountain the night before.  His friend’s patronizing smile made him want to scream.

“Hey, don’t get all worked up,” Mark replied, sensing his friend’s defensiveness.  “I just mean that sometimes it helps to have someone on the outside of your skull offer possible scenarios to validate the experience.  You might as well have ‘DOUBT’ tattooed on your forehead.  I just don’t want you to disregard this as a figment of your imagination.  It’s too important.”

“Sorry,” and Dillon meant it.  “It’s just weird to say all of that out loud.  It felt so real but it sounds so insane.”

“It’s ok, you’re just a product of the Age of Reason: all logic and no mystery.  That’s why you struggle with God and His supernatural attributes.  You can say He’s ‘omnipresent’ but you don’t really expect to see him sitting at that table over there.  You can say He’s ‘omniscient’ but you’re surprised if He knows your name.  You can say He’s ‘omnipotent’ but if He does something powerful, you try to explain it rationally.  That’s why you need help interpreting His words to you:  You’ll just try to make it Reasonable.”

"It's ok, you're just all caught up in your Age-of-Reason thinking: all logic and no mystery.  A supernatural God really throws you a curve.  You can say He’s ‘omnipresent’ but you don’t really expect to see him sitting at that table over there.  You can say He’s ‘omnipotent’ but if He does something powerful, you try to explain it rationally."  At that, he paused for a moment, brow wrinkled in thought.

"Omniscient?" Dillon offered.

"That's the one," Mark said, snapping his fingers in recognition.  "You can say He’s ‘omniscient’ but you’re surprised if He knows your name.  So, when He shows up, knows you and says something in a powerful way, you get all 'reasonable' and act embarrassed about it." 

“That’s probably a fair assessment,” Dillon conceded.  “So, what do you make of Caleb’s parable?”

“That’s the easiest part of the whole story.  We’re walking in a ‘dark’ world and our spiritual ‘eyes’ have adjusted to the darkness.  So, we are generally unaware of the darkness itself,” Mark paused and looked out the window behind Dillon, thinking.  Furrowing his brow, continued, “We’re not even looking for a light.”

“Ok, I buy that,” Dillon nodded, “But why does God withhold the light?”

“He doesn’t.”  Mark was looking just over Dillon’s left shoulder.  Dillon was sure that there was more to Mark’s answer and waited for a minute before snapping his fingers in his friend’s line of sight.  “Sorry,” Mark continued, “He said that the Sun will rise.  You just have to wait for the right time.  I was trying to piece together a verse from Isaiah:  Thick darkness is on all of the people but the Lord rises on you…”

“Kings will come to your light and nations to the brightness of your dawn.”  Dillon quoted the verse from rote.  His mind swam for a moment in a pool of memories from his youth.  He closed his eyes and it was as if he had been transported back in time.

The room was dark and the dark forms of his buddies surrounded him.  Off to the left, someone struck a match and used it to light a single candle.  The leader passed the candle to his left and began the verses.  As each member of the group took the candle and passed it on, they joined the recitation until they were almost chanting together. 

Arise, shine, for your light has come and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.  Look!  Darkness is covering the earth and thick darkness is upon all people.
But the Lord rises on you.
Kings will come to your light and nations to the brightness of your dawn.

“You are the light of the world,” the leader said.

“No one lights a lamp and puts it under a basket,” the group intoned.

“Instead, he puts it on a lamp stand,” the leader continued.

“And it gives light to the whole house,” the group concluded.

This unusual “liturgy” had been the framework for their weekly meetings for over a year.  It had added a sense of mystery and power to scripture that somehow been lost to him lately.

Dillon took in the vision from his memory.  He remembered every detail of the room where his youth minister had presided over these meetings.  The room had been in an unused part of the church, behind an air conditioner intake in the rafters over the main sanctuary.  One wall was completely dominated by the top of a large stained glass window.  The approach required that the group traverse a catwalk, thirty feet above the choir loft.  It had been simultaneously beautiful and dark, sacred and dangerous.  The conversations that the group of young men had in the candlelight had been similarly colored.  He had learned what it was to be a Christian in that room and he had learned some of what it meant to be a man.

“Who has something to share?” the leader asked, though his face was shrouded in shadow, his eyes seemed fixed on Dillon.  The custom had been to pass the candle around a second time; each participant would share a passage from the Bible that had spoken to him as he read during the week.  Some would even offer commentary.  Dillon watched the faces of the young men as they passed the candle around and read from the scriptures.  He knew them all very well and their faces had been frozen in his memories.  All young and untouched by the stress and strife that adulthood had no doubt heaped on them to make them as cynical and unbelieving as he felt.

Finally, the candle came to him.  Dillon scrambled for something to share.  He had not often come to the meetings without a verse marked in his Bible, but the embarrassment that he felt on those occasions came rushing back to him.  He dropped his Bible in his lap and flipped it open randomly.  He let his eyes fall on a verse and began reading.

When you hear the sound of marching in the treetops, be ready to fight, for it is the Lord of hosts who goes before you.

When he looked up, the leader was sitting directly in front of him.  Almost out of reflex, Dillon handed him the candle.  When the light from the small flame lit the leader’s face, Dillon recognized it instantly.

It was his face, as he had looked in the years when he sat in these meetings.

“Let us not be hearers of the word only,” the image of young Dillon began.  It was the customary closing of the meetings.  Dillon felt the memory slipping away from him but he joined the other boys in the response.

“We are doers of the word.”

“What?” Mark was snapping his fingers in Dillon’s face now.  “Where were you just now?  Your mind wandered.”

“How long?”

“A few seconds,” Mark looked puzzled.  “You just finished the verse I was fishing for and got this thoughtful look.  What happened?”

“I was just remembering something,” Dillon paused, trying to put words to the memory.  “I was 17, I guess.”

“Go on.”

“We used to have these meetings at church where we read the Bible and talked about it and…”

“Up in the attic,” Mark commented, “Yeah, you’ve told me about that.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Dillon looked at Mark.  He felt his ears burning and his cheeks begin to flush.  “It’s going to sound crazy.”

“Crazier than the angel story?”

Dillon chuckled, in spite of himself, and replied, “I guess not.  It was so real; like being there again.  But then I opened my Bible and read this verse that I don’t recall ever reading in the meetings.”  He went on to describe seeing himself as a boy when he looked at the leader.  “I remember how devoted I was back then, how passionate.”

“So, there’s two of you: one young and passionate, the other,” he paused as if he were trying to generate adjectives that would not be inflammatory.

“Jaded, unbelieving,” Dillon picked up his coffee and sipped it.  A comfortable silence fell between them for a few minutes.

“I have a battle to fight,” Dillon said finally, smiling at the elegant simplicity of God’s revelations, at the ways that the jagged pieces of his life could come together to form an epiphany.

“A battle against who?”

“Whom.”

“Whatever,” Mark seemed more stunned than annoyed.  “A battle against whom?”

“Myself…I think.”

Mark paused for a moment and looked seriously at Dillon.  Then laughing out loud, he raised his mug in salute.

“I hope you win!”

** Continue to Part 3 **

I've been working on a short novel.

You see, I have this idea about art and ministry and worship that I'm experimenting with.  I am a musician and have a degree in theatre but my artistic interests have been varied through the years.  I have been told that this represented a serious deficiency and that I would probably not get far in ministry because of my inability to focus in developing my skills in one area.  Lately, I have been more comvinced that this broad interest is a gift from God, intended to help me develop a unique kind of worship ministry...I say unique, because I can't find a church that has anything like this:

Whatever your artistic gift, I believe that it is intended to glorify God and draw people into His presence.  This is the core idea of what I've been calling Worship On Purpose.  So, I'm experimenting with different artistic media, photography, poetry, creative writing, etc.  Hence, my short novel.  I'm about a third of the way through it and since it's a work in progress, there are some details in the earlier chapters that I intend to flesh-out as I proceed, but I'd like to get some feedback as I go along.

Bet you didn't know you'd be my guinea pig when you joined my neighborhood.

Anyway, here it is:

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

The sound of the wind in the treetops stirred something in his heart, a place inside of him untouched for many years awoke for just a moment and heard another, more distant sound.

A faint marching.

It was as startling as it was distinct and the surprise of it disturbed the peace that he had been working so desperately to cultivate.  As suddenly as it began, the sound faded and disappeared.  He opened his eyes to the sunset before him and sighed in resignation.  The vista he was caught up in was more beautiful than he had anticipated.  The Continental Divide stretched out before him in an expanse so broad he had to turn his head to see it all.

No, a picture would not have captured it.  Even the most accomplished photographers would not have dared to attempt the scope of what he was looking at.  The sight of it brought an unbidden thought:

And the LORD looked on what he had made and it was very good.

“Very good, indeed,” he spoke aloud into the abyss before him.  “Even with me out in it.” 

“Especially with you out in it.”  The voice was as real as his own and the shock of it, out in the middle of nowhere, brought him to his feet.  He turned to face the person who had invaded his private thoughts and was shocked to find no one.  He took a few minutes to check around the thick trees directly behind him and realized that it would have been impossible for any person to approach his position, a solitary granite boulder protruding from a thick stand of spruce trees, without making enough noise to rouse him from his reverie.  It suddenly dawned on him that he might have found what he climbed up here looking for.

God had spoken to him.

There had been a time that hearing God’s voice was a commonplace occurrence in his experience but that was several years in the past.  His intimate encounters with his Maker had become more and more infrequent until he felt dry and thirsty and on the verge of total burnout.  He had retreated to the hills at the suggestion of a friend to seek God.  He left the trailhead at dawn and hiked two miles before spotting the outcropping that he stood on now.  After another two hours of improvising a trail, he sat down on this rock and began praying.  That had been before noon.

A sudden panic gripped him as the sun sank below the mountains: he had thirty or forty minutes of twilight to make the hike back to his car.  After that, he was on his own in the wilderness without a flashlight.

Moving quickly, he shoved his small Bible into the pocket of his Camelback and started his descent.  He cursed his foolishness for neglecting to bring a light and hurried through the trees, trying to keep his course as straight as possible.  The first quarter mile was a steep hill with a thick growth of spruce.  There was little underbrush as this was a public land that was subject to forest conservation and controlled burning.  He sent up a quick word of gratitude for his tax dollars at work and hurled himself down the hill.  If he remembered his approach correctly, he would come to a wide but shallow creek at the bottom and then follow it north to a fallen tree.  He could cross the creek there and climb almost straight up to the trail on the opposite rise.  Once he was on the trail, he could follow it in the dark easily enough.  Getting there before the light was gone became the top priority.

He reached the creek quickly and turned north to follow it upstream.  This turned out to be more difficult than he expected.  Keeping the stream within earshot on his left, he progressed as quickly as he could through the trees.  The sounds of crickets and night birds began to fill his ears and he knew that he was running out of time.  He found the fallen tree by tripping over it in the fading light.

After crossing the creek, he began to climb the opposite embankment in earnest.  It was steeper than he remembered, a common mistake he made when hiking.  He had done the same thing before, underestimated the difficulty of the return trip, but never had he lingered this long so far from the trail.  He climbed with both hands and moved as quickly as gravity and the terrain would allow.  As it got darker, he became more desperate.  It seemed that he must have veered south as he climbed.  Would that lead him to miss the trail?  He tried to recall the trail layout, the local topography, anything that might help him dead-reckon his way.  Normally, this was a strength for him.  He remembered most information that he was exposed to once, especially maps.  He had hiked the trail here a number of times.  But tonight, when he needed this faculty most of all, it had failed him.  Whether because on fatigue or fear or the fact that he had fasted all day, he was completely unable to draw upon his reason.

“Stop.”   It sounded like his voice, though he could not remember forming the word on his lips, nor in his mind for that matter.  But stop he did.  The word had such urgency and command that he dared not go on without pausing.  He listened to the sound of the dark forest, the birds, the insects and the breeze. His own labored breathing was like a clanging cymbal interrupting the song of the mountains.  He inhaled deeply, taking in the fragrance of the spruce trees, the sweet decay of the mulch underfoot and the subtle headiness of wildflowers in a nearby meadow.  He began to calm.

“I suppose the worst thing that could happen,” he thought out loud, “is that I’d have to spend the night out here.”  It was not going to get unbearably cold at this altitude in late spring.  The only real concern was the wildlife, bears and mountain lions were not uncommon in the area.  No, the “worst case” was still pretty undesirable, he decided and began looking around intently.  Concentrating on the shadowy images around him, he spotted a break in the darkness.  It was level with him and not more than fifty feet to his right, a clearing in the trees wide enough for the twilight to fall on the ground.

He made for the break and found his path blocked with thorny brambles, already the light in the clearing was fading from view.  To skirt the undergrowth would cause enough delay that he might miss the trail in the dark, so he set his jaw and plunged into the thorns, prepared to endure the trial all the way to the clearing.  But the undergrowth cleared after about ten feet and the rest of the way was clear and level.  He walked out of the trees and onto the trail as the waning moon overhead slipped behind a thick cloud, plunging him into relative blackness.

He slumped to the graded surface of the trail and sipped water from his pack, feeling the adrenaline rush pass and give way to the exhaustion and pain from numerous cuts and scratches.  Most notably, his left knee was scraped from a fall and his right hand had a deep cut from a broken limb that he had grabbed as he tried to find purchase during his climb.  These two wounds he cleaned as best as he could with the tepid water.

His eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and he was just about ready to get up and press on when he heard footsteps approaching from ahead of him on the trail.  A tall, lanky man rounded the corner from the right about 20 feet away and it occurred to him that he would have missed the trail if he had continued in his mad rush without stopping.

The stranger caught sight of him almost instantly and stopped.  “Are you Dillon?” he said in a pleasant, accented baritone.

Stunned by the question, Dillon only nodded and then realizing that his gesture was probably missed in the dark, answered, “Yes, how did you know-“

“You hadn’t signed out at the trailhead and so I thought I might run into you.”  The newcomer answered.  “Forgot your headlamp?”

“Forgot a lot of stuff.”  Dillon said.  “I don’t suppose you’ve got a light.”

“I do,” he answered.  “But it will be easier for you to see in the dark without one.  I’m heading back to the trailhead now.  Care to go along?”

“I’d appreciate the company.” Dillon admitted.  He stood and fell into step beside his new companion.  The trail was wide enough for them to walk side by side without trouble.  For a while, both hiked in silence.  Dillon realized after a few minutes that he could see rather well in the dark.  It surprised him the detail that he could make out on the trail ahead, roots in his path that he could sidestep, rocks that he could step over and the leavings of someone’s Great Dane.

“You know,” he began, “I really can see better in the dark.”

“It’s a simple matter of physiology really,” the stranger said.  “Your eyes will adjust to the light available.  If I had a flashlight on, your eyes would adjust to that light level and you would only see the obstacles in the light.  Without the flashlight, your eyes adjust to the ambient light: starlight, moonlight, et cetera, and you can see everything in your path.”

“You hike a lot in the dark?”

“Sometimes, it’s unavoidable,” he answered.  “Everyone must walk in darkness from time to time, but eventually the Sun will rise with healing in His wings…always does.  It’s a parable: that is, Dillon.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, friend, since you know my name and I don’t have a clue who you are.”

“Caleb,” he offered.  “I…um…volunteer on this trail.”  He stopped and faced west.  Dillon looked through a gap in the trees and realized that abyss before him was the valley he had crossed to rejoin the trail.  “There,” Caleb pointed to a place in the darkness just off to the right, “that’s the rock you were sitting on a little while ago.”

“How did you--” but the question died on Dillon’s tongue as he turned to look at the enigmatic stranger.

Caleb was gone. 

** Continue to Part 2 **