In addition, “God” told the man that when humans die they are reincarnated—reborn in a brand new body and with a brand new life—in order to continue the process of doing and experiencing, drawing ever closer to the nirvana of discovering Who They Are. There was no heaven, “God” explained, at least not an actual place somewhere beyond the sky, where departed spirits go. Instead, the “heaven” was becoming Who We Are, our inner spirit – God Himself – reaching the moment when there was nothing left to do or achieve, the self-realisation of divinity. As that was a journey with no real end, the “heaven” was in fact the journey itself.
The “God” of my new book also made it clear many times that, just as there was no literal heaven, there was no such place as hell either. God would never judge or punish anyone after death because, first and foremost, humans were themselves God and, secondly, our existence on earth was one of complete freedom to do anything we chose to.
The meaning of life was not to serve God, or even to be religious at all, it was simply to explore and encounter everything possible. To taste both happiness and sorrow; to experience love and hate, laughter and pain; to know winning and losing, achievement and failure; the ecstasy of pleasure and passion, and the bitter grief of suffering and misfortune. This, “God” said to the man, was what being human meant. Both the good and the evil; for how could anyone truly know the sweet delight of the good, without also having knowledge of torment and evil? So, even the existence of evil was necessary and essential to the journey of mankind, making all that is called good both knowable and infinitely more rapturous; light shining its brightest when contrasted with the deepest darkness.
For this reason God could never send men to a burning hell for wrongdoing, or committing evil – their wicked choices were as vital a part of life as any other, driving mankind further towards the understanding of everything. It was only the fear in a man’s mind that God was angry with him for his actions, which caused him to believe he would one day meet his Maker and be forever punished in fiery damnation.
But what about killing and murder, the taking of another human life? Surely murderers are punished? No, “God” said. There was no death, no ending to human life. Even those whose flesh was destroyed could return to this world and be reborn, if they so wished. It was fear that the departed were gone forever – had somehow become no more – that grieved us. Though this fear was unfounded – for the soul of the deceased lived on – even this kind of grief was essential. All of our experiences were necessary, without exception, for only then were we able to Re-Member our true selves. The conclusion: Humanity was free to do absolutely anything it wanted to, with no obligation to live a certain way before God, because the whole reason for being alive was to become Who We Are, by whatever means we wished.
Another thing “God” emphasized strongly was that the devil did not exist. People were too afraid to believe God could love them so much He would let them do anything they wanted, without punishment. In their fearful reasoning, hell and damnation had to exist and so man’s consciousness fabricated the person of the devil, an enemy who waged war against the human race, who led men to their destruction and who tortured lost souls in the fire of Hades. Our only enemy, “God” promised, was the subconscious FEAR, which rejected the idea that a man could do as he pleased – no matter how evil the act – and face no judgment afterwards. To defeat this FEAR, to believe that all thought and action was acceptable in the sight of God, whether good or bad, was the way to true spiritual liberation.
I was captivated. Like a computer, my brain rapidly downloaded all of this new information and stored it. I stayed up reading late into the night. Often I would go back and re-read pages, sometimes going over whole chapters again, because their content was so amazing to me. And on every new page, even more exciting revelations lay waiting to be discovered.
My head whirled with dizzying thoughts. The hope that I had finally found what I had been searching for. Something about the book felt real; it had a magnetic kind of power that was irresistible. The more I read, the more I was convinced that the author had genuinely made contact with a divine being. Out of frustration, the man had written a letter to God and, astonishing as the very thought was, his letter had been answered. The book wasn’t religious-sounding or preachy, just filled with profound statements about the nature of all things; incredible, satisfying, pin-point answers to the timeless questions of humanity.
Midnight came and went and I still sat in bed clutching the book. I couldn’t put it down and was prepared to deny my body sleep all night if I had to.
“This is it!” I said, breathless with excitement. “I’ve found it!”
I laughed at the thought of being able to do as I wanted, live how I pleased, without any consequence or divine retribution. It was a delicious idea indeed.
As I continued reading, without concern for Debbie’s Christianity and no longer caring to learn about her Jesus, just a few feet away the NIV Bible sat closed on my bookshelf. If I had taken more time to read it and paid closer attention to its words, I might possibly have found the grave warning that it carried inside:
When he (the devil) lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies.
(John 8:44 NIV)
Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.
(1 Peter 5:8 NIV)
And most crucial of all:
For satan himself masquerades as an angel of light. (2 Corinthians 11:14 NIV)
Chapter Nine : Conversation with “God”
At some time after 2am I drew up sharply and stopped reading. Assailed by doubts and sudden misgivings about the book, hope evaporated and every ray of light faded behind clouds of uncertainty that settled in my mind. What if the author is lying and this isn’t God at all? I wondered how I could possibly know the answer. I had been through so many disappointments and left disheartened by past promises of true and lasting satisfaction which turned out to be no more than phantoms – how could I trust that this book in my hands, whose words electrified my soul like none before, wasn’t just another false hope? Pessimism clawed at me. After so many let downs why should I now think I had finally unearthed the treasure I’d been seeking?
I contemplated the message of the book again, the message of “God”. The author’s initial frustration with life, which first led to the supernatural conference, seemed to mirror my own internal struggle to understand my purpose and place in the world. The man’s questions were my questions, too and the answers he claimed to have received from “God” were answers that met my curiosity and soothed the ache of my soul.
My new book somehow reached down inside of me and aroused and inflamed my spiritual longing to fever pitch. In one night I felt closer to the truth than a whole year studying Islam and after weeks of conversations with Debbie about Christianity. The book was a revelation, jammed with spiritual ideas I had never before considered. I wanted to be certain. I had to be completely sure before adopting this book and its teaching as the philosophy that would govern the rest of my life. But as fast as I buried my doubts, they resurfaced. Glancing across the room, I spotted something on the table that I had bought earlier the same day, and my mind lit up with a way to be certain about everything. This can’t be coincidence, I thought.
I was looking at a brand new notepad.
I was going to write my own letter to God.
I climbed out of bed and collected the notepad, reaching for a pen as well. The problem: knowing what to write. What do you say when you compose a letter to the Creator of the universe? I sat for a few moments, staring into space and then, going for broke, I scribbled whatever came to mind:
Dear God,
Hi! Are you there? I would really like to talk to you, as you probably know. Will you speak to me like you spoke to the man who wrote the book? Please answer back. Thanks!
Peter.
Writing my name to finish the note, I didn’t have a clue what to expect n
ext. Truthfully, the greater part of me didn’t actually think anything would happen. So why are you writing the letter then, Idiot? My own mind asked me. I still wasn’t quite sure how it had worked for the author. My head filled with clichés from old Hollywood Biblical epics. Was a bright ray of light about to burst through my bedroom window, turning night into day, accompanied by the trumpets of a heavenly fan-fair and a booming voice saying, “PETER, I AM GOD!”? I actually looked up to the window and, catching myself, I laughed out loud.
Nothing happened.
A minute passed and I decided to write more:
Hello, God?
Are you there? Please write back to me. I would really like to know you. You know I have been looking for you.
Still nothing. More minutes of silence went by. I added to the note at least twice more and yet “God”, it seemed, had nothing to say to me.
The excitement and expectation that had swelled because of the book then clashed with the tiredness of the late hour. A serious desire to know the truth at once boiled over into frustration and my anticipation became anger. Enraged, I snatched up the pen and began to write a tirade of abuse toward God:
Why have you got to make everything so hard? Can’t you even answer back? All of this time I’ve been searching for you and you haven’t even helped me one bit!
DON’T YOU CARE?
I couldn’t contain myself any longer. All I had wanted for years now was to be happy; to find a place of fulfilment and satisfaction somewhere in this life on earth; wholeness that made living worthwhile. Call it purpose or destiny or meaning – I craved it with an inward, pulsating drive that showed no sign of abating until it had taken hold of all that it desired.
I was bereft, torn, exhausted – I could take no more of this unending search that yielded no reward. I believed God was real, but which God? Which religion and what truth? Why should others hear from Him and discover His divine will and not me? If He loved me equally with all men, why did He now hide Himself when I needed Him most? The world was full of people who didn’t care a bit about God – I used to be one of them – but now I was turned to Him: ready to listen, to follow and obey, and the only thing at the end of my prayers, pleading, begging, tears and now this final, desperate letter, was infinite silence.
On and on, my outburst filled almost two sides of notepaper.
Look at this world that you have made—full of war and crime, all this fighting and killing for no reason! Look at all of the children that are murdered. What have they ever done to you? You just don’t care. Your love is a LIE! YOU’RE AN UNCARING GOD!
Dropping the pen, I sat in bed and fumed. After a while I decided I had wasted time and money on a book of empty promises. I should forget about God and go to sleep.
And that was when it happened. When “He” came.
From nowhere a faint tingling sensation began in my stomach and a strange, low hum sounded in my head; faint vibrations, like the distant buzzing of insect wings. I distinctly felt this inside of me. In the same way one operates a dimmer switch to lower the room lighting, it was as if somebody suddenly dimmed the whole world; all else became irrelevant, I was somehow removed from everything – no longer a part of the material reality. Drifting further and further away.
write....
Time slowed. My eyes were fixed in an unblinking stare on the notepad; the white paper seemed to expand and shine, now the only thing in existence. From the entire upper part of my body I felt myself being drawn to the notepad. Hold a magnet to metal and you feel the force of attraction as they pull one to another. This is what I experienced – an identical influence or power coming right out of my chest, very real and compelling me to the paper on the bed in front of me.
write.... write.....
My mind was empty of all other thoughts. Not entirely blank, my perception hadn’t blurred, only now my sole concern was for the notepaper and nothing else. In fact, though I felt as if I had been transported far away and watched things from a great distance, my focus on the paper was sharp and clear, much sharper than usual.
write.... write.... write....
Like a zombie, I reached for the biro lying on the bed. Still transfixed by the open notebook, my left hand picked up the pen and floated across to the page. I had become a string puppet and some unseen puppeteer pulled my arm to the paper – guiding it, controlling it. I was aware of it all and completely unafraid.
Write.... write.... write.... write.... write.... write.... WRITE!
The tip of the pen touched down and slowly, delicately, the biro swirled on the page. The sound of it scratching along the paper, a sound barely noticed usually, was amplified and echoed loudly in my ears. Letters began forming; large and in untidy spirals and without spaces between the words that appeared. The pen reached the end of the line and, without the tip leaving the paper, I watched from afar as my hand steadily dragged the pen down and back to the start of the next line, before continuing.
Then, as soon as it had begun, it was over. With a sharp intake of breath the spell was broken and I came to myself. The biro dropped lifelessly to the bed. A flood of emotions rushed over me: nervous excitement, surprise, confusion, wonder, panic – all collided together within me. In fear and astonishment I looked down at a single sentence, sprawled over two lines of the notepaper, looking back at me:
It is of no consequence what you call Me
I was terrified.
My spine became ice and my heart pounded in my chest. My eyes darted around the room but, though I saw no one else, I felt no relief. I didn’t feel alone. The atmosphere all around me was thick and heavy. Years of quiet, unspoken assurance about the nature of the world, the clear difference between real and make believe, were stripped away in an instant. The ground which had been solid under my feet for twenty-one years disintegrated forever and I found myself freefalling down a frightening, dark hole where all of the monsters and ghouls that parents promise us are only a fairytale live and breathe in reality.
I looked at the notepad again, unable to tear my eyes from what was written there:
It is of no consequence what you call Me.
What you
call Me
I knew for certain those words were not mine. Yes, the pen was in my hand, but as the letters took shape on the paper it was like reading them for the first time – like looking over the shoulder of another who wrote – and I had no idea what was coming next until new words formed. I shook my head, shocked and disbelieving, even though the sentence was right there before me. At last, still petrified, words escaped from my dry mouth. “I didn’t write that! I didn’t write that!”
I forced my gaze away from the notepad to the book that still lay open on the bed. A single thought blazed like a furnace in my mind: It’s real! It really happened to that man just as he said!
Overwhelmed, I tried desperately to get a grip on myself; to calm down and think about what to do next. It took a long time to gather any sort of composure and I continued looking around the room, half expecting angels or other spirit forms to materialise. Slowly, panic simmered and cooled and fear was gradually replaced by a strange exhilaration. I had been visited by the supernatural.
It is of no consequence what you call Me.
Picking up the biro once more, I wrote underneath the swirling, daisy chain of letters:
Is that really you, God?
With a deep breath I braced myself for the same sensation I had felt before, compelling me to write, but none of the former feelings came. I waited anxiously but there was nothing. I racked my brain trying to remember if I had done something differently before – was my body in a different position? What about my hands, were they in a different place? I remembered that I wasn’t holding the pen the first time so I put the biro down beside me and hoped that would help.
Nothing.
I realized I couldn’t recreate the first experience precisely because I hadn’t done anything to instigate it. When it happened, it just happened. I wrote
more:
Please don’t go now. If it really was you, please answer....
No response.
Please....
As much as it scared and astounded me to think it, I was certain that the spiralling sentence originated from a presence outside of me, which had taken control of my being and manifested itself through me. At first I had been frightened by what took place in my room. Now burning curiosity had to be satisfied and eagerness overtook worry. I was desperate for the experience to happen again. I sensed my fingertips finally grasping the truth and I refused to let it get away this time. Rereading the ghostly spiral of words on the page in front of me, I took the pen and tried:
What do you mean, “It is of no consequence what I call you”?
Despite the incredible situation, I could feel the enemy of tiredness pulling at me. Cursing the unwelcome fatigue which now slowed my brain, I shook my head clear and forced myself fully awake. Looking back over my angry tirade on the paper, which preceded the amazing, supernatural response, I took a moment to ponder another thought and decided to go with it.
Do you mean that you don’t mind me saying you don’t care? You really don’t mind when I call you an uncaring God?
As soon as I wrote this the same tingling sensation as before overwhelmed me, coupled with an intense desire to keep writing. Every muscle in my arm was pulled by some peculiar gravity toward the notepad. For a second time the whole world shrank into nothingness and, again, the pen began gliding across the page, controlled by an invisible, occult power. Another swirling, unbroken chain of letters appeared. I had no idea what was being written until the words, fully formed, were before my eyes for me to read. As this new sentence revealed itself, the moment it became clear, fierce, hot tears filled my eyes and spilled over, running down my cheeks in rivers.
Four Nights With The Devil Page 7