Four Nights With The Devil

by Peter Hockley

  “I couldn’t find them!” he yelled across the road as he came over to join me. He described how he ran right back to the place where we had left the five men, seconds earlier, but they were nowhere to be seen. After a fruitless search David had given up and caught a taxi ride home. My friend assured me the five had had a lucky escape.

  As we walked, David continued talking. Though I was pleased to see him, I was only half listening. My insides tingled at the thought that God had heard and answered my prayer. I felt I had reached out and for the first time, perhaps only briefly, made a connection with the One my heart yearned to know and understand. I thanked God under my breath and promised to keep my word about the drinking.

  That night in early August of 2002 was the last that I drank alcohol. I went clubbing with David once or twice afterwards, drinking only cola and other soft drinks, but the lure of the lifestyle had evaporated entirely. By the end of the month, with total ease and without any regrets, I said goodbye to the world of nightclubs, binge-drinking and hedonism forever. My friends were puzzled and couldn’t understand my decision. They invited me out frequently but I would not turn back. How could they possibly comprehend the profound change that was occurring inside of me?

  A new fire burned within my soul. The base craving for pleasure was gone, replaced by a fierce drive to discover God and the truth about Him. I would read every book and explore every religion if I had to, but I would not stop until I had uncovered the truth that my heart longed to know.

  And all the while I searched for God with greater intensity and focus than ever before, invisible and unseen, satan followed right behind me.

  Chapter Seven : Mirage

  At home I continued reading about Islam and considered the possibility of becoming a Muslim myself. Conversion would mean a drastic change to the way that I lived, nevertheless the more I studied Islam it seemed to offer the best way to connect with God.

  Even though I had not told anyone about my fascination with religion, I brought the subject up frequently with Debbie at work. For a few minutes every day we shared simple thoughts about God, until our talks gradually became in depth conversations about life after death, heaven, angels and other such things. Everything I offered in our discussions came from what I had learned in the Islam textbooks at home. I was impressed by the way that Debbie always explained her beliefs clearly. Although, being a Christian, every one of her viewpoints somehow connected to Jesus and my mind refused to accept much of what my friend said. I saw Jesus as Muslims preached Him: A prophet and nothing more; not the Son of God, never crucified and returning to earth to dismantle every trace of the cross, promoting only Islam instead.

  I enjoyed every opportunity to shoot down Debbie’s Christian arguments with Islam. I was a novice in the area of spiritual matters but I was carried along by arrogance, pride and the cocky assurance that the crescent moon was superior to the cross. With everything Debbie put forward I countered it with an argument that began: “Well, you know, Muslims believe....” I never let on that I was moving towards conversion to Islam, although Deb was no fool and clearly saw the direction I was heading.

  Our conversations about faith grew longer and longer in duration. Whenever a discussion ended I would eagerly anticipate the next one, relishing the challenge of using Islam to trip Debbie up in her thinking. I never got the better of her though. The Christian held her ground, never giving in to my goading and always remaining calm and soft-spoken. With obvious conviction, Debbie explained her belief in the Bible and described Jesus as her personal Saviour and Lord. It struck me that she spoke about Jesus with familiarity; to her He was a real, living person; helping, guiding and protecting her each day. It all sounded like fairy stories to me and I voiced this to Deb although, inwardly, I was intrigued, if not by her beliefs then the result of them at least. Debbie’s faith was certain and the assurance and serenity it gave radiated from her. I wondered if I could find the same tranquillity by following the religion of Islam.

  In Christianity, I still pictured a dysfunctional, half-hearted, hypocritical bunch who sang about Jesus on Sundays and that was it. Debbie had shared her personal faith and it was sincere, but she appeared to be the exception to what I had seen. To my curious eyes Islam looked more spiritual, more pious and Muslims much more devout. If anything was a sign of piety then it was surely the five pillars of Muhammad’s religion: confession of one God; strict, ritual prayers five times a day; fasting for a whole month every year; the giving of alms to the poor and making a holy pilgrimage across the globe for the faith – how could this be other than true devotion and worship?

  For many months the issue seemed clear: Islam looked to be the best choice and the answer I was searching for, while Debbie’s Christianity was a weaker alternative. I acknowledged the constant news stories about Muslim violence and acts of terrorism and dismissed the perpetrators of evil as men who had obviously strayed from the Islamic message of purity, peace and submission to Allah that I read about in my books.

  I wondered whether I should go to the local mosque and speak to someone about what was involved in officially converting to the religion. I imagined sitting down with my mum and explaining my life changing decision to her. I pictured telling her how I had descended into dark pits of despair and struggled with the painful aching of my own soul. I would share how I then wrestled with the question of God’s existence, searched for His truth and found Islam as a result. I would make it clear to Mum that the religion of surrender to Allah was the only way for me and that I had no other choice but to convert.

  I daydreamed about life after becoming Muslim. I envisioned myself growing out my beard and dressing in traditional clothing. My stream of thought even went as far as the idea of legally changing my name, once my conversion was complete. I explored the internet, looking for Arabic names and their meanings in English. If I made the religion of Islam my own then I intended to dedicate my whole life to it. In the end I settled on a name that best expressed that intention: Khalid Abdul-Hakeem. Translated, it meant Eternal Slave of the Wise and that’s what I would be – the servant of Allah for the rest of my life. I loved how it rolled off my tongue: Khalid Abdul-Hakeem.

  Finally, the door leading to my future seemed to stand in front of me. It was marked ISLAM and my hand hovered over the door handle, ready to turn it open and enter. However, something held me back, made me hesitate and procrastinate. Every proof that had convinced me about Islam lay entirely in the pages of Islamic books. The arguments they made in favour of the Muslim religion were compelling, though it wasn’t enough. If Allah was the true God I wanted to connect with him, to know him in my heart, not just from words written about him in a book.

  I prayed to him every day. I called out to Allah to come and touch my life with his power. “I want to know you,” I said. “I want to be yours completely.” My prayers went unanswered.

  The books described Allah’s majesty and magnificence: I couldn’t perceive it around me. They mentioned his mercy and compassion: I reached out with all my being but felt nothing. They told me that Allah was the source of peace and safety: I surrendered, praying on my knees, though peace was nowhere to be found. The glorious Allah didn’t seem real at all and if he was, he seemed unmoved by my pleading and praying.

  Days became weeks and I struggled to read the Quran. I couldn’t get through more than a page or two a day. At times the language seemed aggressive and difficult to understand and some days I didn’t even pick it up at all. I was suddenly in the grip of a spiritual tug-of-war. My fervour for Islam had been severely challenged. Some of the things I read in those books seemed beautiful, only there was no trace of that beauty beyond the pages. I was still as empty in my soul as I had ever been.

  Autumn gave way to winter, marking a whole year since my interest in Islam began and things did not improve. I was crestfallen. All of the confidence and hope I had pinned on the religion to meet my heart’s desire crumbled into pieces. I had all but given up on the Quran now. Wh
en I did lift the book from my shelf I barely made it through a page before my attention clouded over and the words blurred into meaningless lines of print.

  I wanted it all to be true; I could still see Khalid Abdul-Hakeem in a vision in my head, but a vision was all he was and my heart grew increasingly distant from the religion. It was yet another disappointment piled on top of the many others that had gone before. It was another mirage in the desert. I had run to it, spiritually dehydrated and desperate with thirst, only to discover, not a spring, but more dry sand. I felt more lost and despondent than ever. I had been so certain about Islam. For one year I had embraced and studied it fervently. Now it all seemed like a waste, coming to nothing. I was right back where I started.

  I prayed: “If not Islam, then what? What is the truth, God? Where can I find You?”

  One thought struck me: If there was a God, Almighty and the Creator of everything, then His following would have to be one that covered the whole earth. It seemed impossible that the knowledge of Him would be limited to a minor faith or religion in only a tiny pocket of the world. I reasoned that God would have to be known by multitudes that stretched around the globe. With the flame of Islam dying out in my heart, only one other religion seemed to stand out—the very Christianity I had recoiled from.

  But how could those Bible-bashing hypocrites be the ones who knew the truth? Islam may not have done anything for me but it still looked a hundred times more appealing than Christianity. The starfish NIV Bible was still sat on my bookshelf where I had left it, so I tried reading a few passages. In particular I examined stories from the life of Jesus, but the Gospels were a puzzle I just couldn’t grasp or understand. The Bible was like an ancient chest filled with secrets that promised help, only I was without the right keys to unlock and open it.

  I thought about Debbie’s faith, which was clearly genuine and without pretence or duplicity. I went to her with endless questions about her religion and her understanding of God. She was kind enough not to mention it, but I am sure she noticed I wasn’t constantly bringing up Islam anymore. I wasn’t interested in debating doctrine or disputing points of theology and I wasn’t there to criticise; I simply wanted Deb to share with me the source of her own apparent peace and happiness. My heart ached to know the truth. All I wanted was to lay hold on God.

  Debbie said exactly the same as before – that it was a personal relationship with God, through faith in His Son, Jesus, which filled her spirit with the warm contentment that I saw in her.

  “All of my sins are forgiven,” she told me. “Jesus paid the price for them with His death on the cross. I have the peace of God in my heart, through Christ.”

  That’s what I wanted: Peace with God; a relationship with Him. I wanted to know the One Who had given me life and understand what His purpose for that life was. But I struggled with the “Jesus” part of it all. How did someone being crucified 2000 years ago help me? What did Deb mean, He died for my sins? I didn’t think I had any sins to forgive; I had never murdered anyone, raped anybody or committed a robbery – those were sins weren’t they? The worst types of human evil and depravity. I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I certainly wasn’t guilty of anything so heinous either.

  I also asked Debbie about the Trinity – how could one God exist and express Himself as three persons – Father, Son and Holy Spirit? Didn’t that make it three Gods? Debbie explained that, in many ways, the Trinity was a mystery that no human mind could fully comprehend. God Himself was infinite and infinitely higher than man’s ability to conceive. The nature of God was, ultimately, understood from Scripture and believed by faith. Deb pointed to me and said that I, too, was a trinity of a lesser kind: a body, mind and spirit; all three separate and unique, yet making one whole man.

  Debbie offered to lend me a book that dealt with the subject further. I read a page here and a page there but it was hard going. Whenever some small detail of Christian theology was absorbed, making things look clearer, my mind would yell, that’s just stupid! You can’t believe that rubbish!

  In maddening frustration I gave up altogether and handed the book right back to Debbie. I decided that when I next had some spare time I would go to the bookshop and look for a Christian book of my own. That one decision – and the events that took place as a result – transformed my whole life forever, opening my eyes to the very real world of the spiritual and supernatural.

  I was about to have my first meeting, not with God, but the devil.

  Chapter Eight : The Book

  It was early Friday evening and BORDERS was full of people. One glance at the Religion section and I knew finding the right book to help me understand Christianity wouldn’t be easy. There were so many books on Christian faith, theology and Church history that I didn’t know where to begin. I scanned a few dry back covers and quickly put them down again. Not one book seemed useful and I got the feeling that my trip was probably wasted. Turning to leave, my gaze fixed onto a display table and a collection of attractive, blue front covers that almost seemed to beckon me over. I picked up a copy, turned the small paperback over and sparks flew in my head.

  What I read blew my mind.

  The American author claimed that he could write down any kind of question or statement and that, by possessing him and flowing through his body, God responded and wrote back. The book was filled with the written dialogue - questions and answers – between the author and a spirit the man channelled through him. A spirit that indentified itself as God.

  Only then did I notice on the shelf beside me there were at least four more titles by the same author, continuing the same theme: a real, personal conversation with God. I read the first two pages from the book I held in my hands, skipped ahead and read a few paragraphs from the middle and I was hooked. I was magnetised to the book and couldn’t let it go. I had found what I was looking for. Forgetting all about Christianity, the Bible and Jesus, I went straight to the counter and purchased that book instead. I hurried home as fast as possible and began reading immediately.

  It was the most incredible book I had ever come across. In the first pages the author explained how he had stumbled across the phenomena of writing his dialogue with God by sheer accident. At the lowest point in his life, without any answers to the many problems that swamped him, he had scribbled an angry letter to God on a notepad, not as any sort of religious act, merely intending to vent frustration before throwing the letter in the bin. He claimed that when he finished writing he heard a voice over his shoulder, soft and kind, asking him if he really wanted his questions answered. The man turned and saw no one, as streams of “inspired” responses suddenly poured out of the pen automatically onto the page. He said that none of this was conjured in his own mind, the words simply materialised. Stunned, the man kept going with this unnatural inspiration and a back-and-forth conversation began. He heard the same loving voice in his head, responding to every question and wrote every word down as fast as it came. All of the solutions that eluded him, the pieces of life’s puzzle he had sought, without success, appeared almost at once and everything made complete sense.

  Now I was no idiot and wasn’t taken in by just anything or anybody. Ordinarily I would have labelled any person who made a claim like this man’s as crazy. When someone tells you that God writes letters to him, words ranging from “trickster” to “lunatic” spring to mind—especially when the man adds that the letters are all written by a pen in his own hand and not just words supernaturally manifesting from thin air.

  “But it really is God writing through me, honest!”

  I would never have taken a second glance at the book, except there was something about precisely what “God” told the author. It was the answers to the man’s questions that enthralled and captivated me.

  “God” explained to him in eloquent detail the nature of creation, the purpose of mankind’s existence and the reason for his being; also death and what lay beyond the grave for us all. For every question the author posed there was a response fille
d with complex philosophy and logic, complicated theology and apparently mind-numbing paradoxes to do with space and time, and all of it somehow made perfect sense to me as I read it. Every difficult explanation was illustrated in such a beautifully simple way that anyone could understand it.

  “God” revealed to the author that “He” was the Creator of the universe and everything in it. In the beginning, “He” had the conceptual knowledge of everything, but the experiential knowledge of nothing. In other words: “God” knew everything that is possible to know, but had never actually experienced or done any of it. To change this state of affairs for the better, “He” purposefully divided “Himself” many times over. These smaller parts of “Him” had one objective – to experience everything possible, living on “God’s” created earth as human beings. Forgetting everything that was known in the beginning conceptually, each individual part of “God” (the human spirit) could rediscover it all again through experience. By doing all that is possible to do, “God” could carefully reconstruct everything (or as he cleverly called it, “Re-Member”). In this way, “God” went from knowing it all, to having experienced it all as well.

  It was stunning stuff and it took my breath away. Human beings were not created by God – rather we were ourselves, God, or at least elements of Him, experiencing life in order to become what “He” called: “Who We Really Are.”

  I delighted in every word, full of wonder and growing excitement. Could this ordinary American really be speaking, through supernatural writing, with God? I was sure that there was something to it. No man, I thought, could fill a book with such incredible spiritual ideas and so perfectly lay them out for all to comprehend. Either the author of this book was a brilliant philosopher and theologian—not to mention a brilliant con-artist—or he was truly communicating with a being of superior wisdom, intelligence and spiritual insight. The detail and yet simplicity of the book’s themes made my heart leap with every turn of the page.