The last bubbles of anger inside Micah popped as Rick’s footsteps faded. Micah was done fighting. But who was right? The answers were nowhere and everywhere.
What had Rick said? The answer was in his own heart because God’s Spirit was there. If only it were that simple. He sighed. Where else could he turn?
“Jesus, all of it. You can have all of it. I surrender everything I am or ever hope to be. My hopes, dreams, Seattle, Cannon Beach, Sarah . . . everything. Talk to me.”
Waves of peace filled him instantly. All doubt vanished, and he knew without hesitation, without reservation, that above all else God loved him with a passion he couldn’t comprehend. How long Micah sat in this tornado of love he didn’t know.
It stopped when a verse sprang into his mind like a lighthouse out of the blackest night. “The word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit.”
Exactly what was happening to him right now. His soul, mind, will, and emotions knew what was happening while his spirit experienced a depth of union with God he had never encountered. Too deep for words.
“Show me the truth,” Micah said.
His body shuddered as the answer flashed through his spirit and his mind at the same time with such clarity it made him gasp. The voice is not you.
“Then who is it?”
The thief comes to kill, steal, and destroy, but I have come to bring life abundant.
A waterfall of joy pounded up out of Micah with such force he didn’t know if he would survive. Infinite power, yet only an infinitesimal amount of God’s strength.
I give streams of living water.
And still the waterfall grew in strength, overflowing into his soul, his mind, his body. He fell onto his back, his arms spread wide, immersed in love beyond words and too much to hold in.
“Abba!” Micah screamed. Then more words poured out of his spirit beyond his understanding, and the waterfall became an ocean, and he drowned in the love of the One who loved him. All sense of time vanished as he was buried in sweet freedom.
When he opened his eyes, the shadows told him his deep communion had lasted hours. He stood and wiped the last of the tears from his eyes.
Rick sat, elbows on his knees, on a slab of granite twenty yards away with a smile so wide it drowned out the rest of his face. His eyes burst with delight, and Micah broke into hearty laughter as he ran to meet him. Rick grabbed him in a massive bear hug that Micah returned with all his strength.
“Thank you, Rick. Thank you,” was all he could say.
They walked together in silence to the end of the cape and watched the white-flecked surf and the seagulls ride the currents hundreds of feet below. Micah wished he could freeze the moment. He was known by God, and this God—who had created the universe and all it contained, lived inside him.
On the hike back to their cars, Micah said, “I’ve gotta confront the voice.”
“Yeah.” Rick nodded. “You do. Now.”
CHAPTER 42
Micah touched the door to the dark room with his forefinger; it swung open silently. The same familiarity was there—and something else. A dense, palpable tension. Micah wondered why he’d never felt it before. There had always been a lingering doubt if the voice was truly himself. But never the fluttering sense of dread that poured out of the room now. Fear. Pungent. Dark.
“‘Greater is He who is in you than he who is in the world,’” Micah quoted. He stepped through the doorway. The blackness didn’t grow darker. It just seemed like it did.
“Hello, Micah.”
“Hello, voice.”
“You’ve been listening to lies.”
“Yes, you’re right. I have.”
“Ah, so you’ve come back to the truth. That is good. So very good.”
“I’ve realized something,” Micah said.
“What is that?”
“Many claim to have the truth. But there is only one Truth.”
“Go on.”
“I have a question.”
“Fine. That is why we’re here for each other. To ask the questions, find the answers, and press forward together, stronger and freer.”
“Do you acknowledge that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh and is from God? And is God?”
The voice didn’t answer for a long time. “We are the same, Micah. I am you, and you are me. You know this. Why are you testing yourself? Once and for all put the doubt to rest and let us embrace each other as the brothers we are. Are you not freer now? Have I not guided you and helped you in your journey?”
A small part of Micah believed it. Accepted it. Wanted it to be true. It seemed right, comforting. The voice spoke again, this time only in his mind as it had on the cape.
Rest, Micah. Put doubt and battle behind you. It has only served to weary you. Where is the peace of God in all that? Come away with me. Let us rest together. Rest. Sweet peaceful rest.
He knew this voice. He’d heard it as far back as he could remember.
It continued chattering in his mind, enticing him as it had his entire life. Micah lifted his hands to his head and massaged his temples. “Lord,” he whispered, “come into this. I need truth. I can’t do this. I need Your strength.”
The voice stopped, and a soft coolness washed over Micah.
Then another Voice came, gentle, powerful. Not from the room or inside his mind. From his heart. He gasped at the contrast. The distinction between his own familiar voice and this Voice was like white hot fire next to the coldest ice.
Go. Battle. I am with you.
Micah didn’t hesitate. He took two steps directly into the inky darkness and spoke with power. “Say it. Jesus Christ is the Son of God Most High and has come in the flesh. Say it.” Another step forward, now shouting into the ocean of darkness. “Jesus Christ is Lord!”
Immediately an intense heat filled the room, the smell of sulfur filled his nose, and a low buzz started directly in front of him. It changed to a guttural snarl almost too faint to hear before it abruptly stopped.
The fear in the room became physical, pounding him, intent on grinding him into the carpet. But it wasn’t carpet anymore. He stood on a floor of massive flat stones, ice cold, that reached out with tentacles of pain, piercing, winding their way into the soles of his feet.
Micah’s tongue was thick as he spoke again. “Jesus is Lord. His cross is between us. I bind you by His power. His authority. Given to me by Him and His Father, the host of angel armies.”
The snarl returned, louder, longer this time before it again snapped off.
A razor-thin beam of light passed in front of Micah like a windshield wiper across a dirty window. In that flash a silhouette materialized like a black panther emerging from the dead of night.
Utter evil.
The light grew.
He saw the outline of a chair, black wrought-iron with ornate carvings on it.
In it sat the demon, a pinprick circle of black in the center of its pure white, unblinking, dead eyes—its ashen gray lips turned up ever so slightly in a sneer of confidence.
Its face was stunning.
Beautiful.
And horrific.
Chiseled cheekbones and thick, pitch-black hair swept straight back from a perfect forehead, above a perfect nose.
Its skin was a pallid gray, lips a shade darker, eyebrows matching the midnight tone of his hair. Its grotesque beauty stirred something inside Micah—drew him.
Revolting.
Captivating.
“Jesus,” Micah whispered. As the word came out of his mouth, an intricate series of thin, black scars started at the demon’s hairline and spiraled down its cheeks, down over his perfect chin, twisting and circling along his throat till they disappeared into a black, skin-tight
long-sleeved gauze shirt.
A second later the scars vanished.
Its rancid eyes flitted around the room as if its gaze could stop the darkness from lifting, then settled back on Micah.
Micah couldn’t move. The reality of a demon sitting only ten feet away paralyzed him. His mind froze, and blood pulsed in his head as the demon’s thoughts echoed in his head.
Death.
Excruciating pain.
“Lord, help,” Micah whispered.
A flicker of peace. Only a flicker.
“I will destroy you for presuming to challenge me, Micah Taylor.” The demon drew the words out, then licked his perfect lips with a black tongue. “To throw that name at me like a weapon? No mercy now. No mercy.” The demon sat back in its chair, and although its mouth didn’t move, a shriek rang in Micah’s mind, and his stomach felt like it was being torn by a jagged blade.
Micah cried out in pain.
“That is nothing compared to what is coming.” The demon crossed its legs.
“Jesus. I need You here. I need help.”
The peace increased, as did the demon’s attack.
“I will crush you. Destroy you and everything and everyone you hold dear.” The demon spoke each word slowly, quietly with a guttural voice, supremely confident. “Annihilation is your destiny now.”
Each word pressed into Micah’s chest and tunneled into his heart.
“Your supposed king will not, cannot, help you. You have built a fortress for me stone by stone that I will not leave. Ever. You have made agreements giving me the right to your very life. But I will give you one chance for survival. Surrender to me now and live. Give up your pretend religion, and I will show you true might, true power, true dreams.”
The demon breathed through its teeth, then silence. When it spoke again, its voice was honey. “Who do you think brought you your fame? Your fortune? The favor of the world? And what do you have now by following this pretend king? You said it yourself, not less than a day ago. Nothing. But surrender now, and I can bring it all back. All of it. You have my word.”
Micah’s mind flooded with images of the power and money he’d had and of the people who clamored for him. A life part of him longed for again.
“I can feel it. You want those things to return. Why wouldn’t you? You’ve not forgotten your dreams. You’ve tried to bury them, but they remain. Return to them. The tangible ones. Not some fairy tale, romantic religious fantasy hollow down to the core. And that’s not all. Far, far from it.” Its voice, so smooth, like water in a summer pond easing down into a stream, drew him in. “I can even bring back Sarah.”
Micah gasped.
“Yes. Yes. You’ll be with her again. All your times together back in her memory. It can be done in an instant. Just surrender. Sweet surrender.”
Could it be true? Could the demon make it happen?
“Yes, Micah. I can make it happen. Instantly. Surrender to me.”
He pictured her running up to him, burying herself in his arms. Yes. He needed her. With her back—
“No! You lie. Not even Sarah is worth turning my back on my King. Get out of my head.”
“So be it.”
Instantly Micah’s lungs felt like they were being squeezed in a vise. Tighter. Tighter. He couldn’t breathe. Stars swam in his eyes and his throat constricted. Laughter played at the corners of the demon’s mouth. In seconds Micah would black out.
“Yes, my dear friend. You are about to die.”
“Jesus, help me,” he rasped with the last of his air.
Immediately the pressure on his lungs and throat vanished, and the demon’s gaze shifted to something behind Micah. Recognition flickered in its eyes, and the quiet, penetrating cadence it had been using changed to a snarl.
“What right do you have to come here now?” the demon spat out.
Micah turned. Rick stood in the doorway, his face unmoving, as if carved from marble. He said nothing in response but stepped forward till he stood beside Micah. Rick stared at the demon and fear flashed across its face.
“Turn now, Micah Taylor, or the destruction promised will fall on you.”
“I’m scared, Rick.”
“Look at its wrists,” Rick answered softly.
Micah looked at the demon’s wrists lying on the armrests. Two white cords, thick and rough, cut into its skin. The demon strained against them, but there wasn’t the slightest flexibility.
“You know you did that, don’t you?” Rick said.
Micah stared at the demon’s wrists and then back at Rick. The realization staggered him. He had done it, through his words, through Christ’s power in him.
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood. . . . The weapons of our warfare are powerful, for the pulling down of strongholds, of principalities, and demonic forces in high places,” Micah said.
“Yes,” Rick said.
Even in the midst of the revelation of what he had done, fear swirled, searching for a crack. For a way into his heart.
“One last chance before you die,” seethed the demon.
“How do we get rid of it?”
“Send it to Jesus,” Rick said without emotion.
“No. You will not. Not there.” The demon tried to steady its quavering voice. “Listen to me, Micah. We can go to heights you’ve only imagined. Will you throw it away for nothing?” It screamed; its back arched, straining to be free of the chair.
“Don’t answer him, just send it.”
The demon writhed in the chair, an inky blackness oozing from its eyes and its wrists where it wrenched against the cords.
“Finish it, Micah.”
Micah clenched his jaw and stepped forward. “It’s over. I will never listen to your lies from the pit again. By His blood and His glory, go. Now!”
Micah shouted the last word with everything in him, and before its echo had died, the demon vanished. A moment later the chair was gone as well. A stench lingered a few seconds more, and then light filled the room along with the scent of wheat fields.
He walked forward to where the demon had sat, puzzled to see the white cords lying on the carpet. He bent down and reached out his forefinger to touch them. They were warm, and a faint white light circled them. He looked back at Rick who nodded slightly.
Micah picked them up and held one in each hand. Heavy. The warmth grew till the heat penetrated his entire body. They felt more solid and more real than anything he’d ever touched. Then they faded. Their color changed from white to the color of his skin before they sank into his palms, slowly at first, then more rapidly till they disappeared completely.
He turned to Rick, and they grabbed each other in a crushing embrace.
||||||||
Micah stood on the beach in front of his home and watched the last shards of the sun sink into the ocean. An older couple to his left lit their fire; to his right a young family packed up their plastic buckets and shovels and headed for the path up to the parking lot a quarter mile north of Micah’s home.
A hint of smoke from the campfire squiggled up to him; he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Yes.
“Thank You.” He opened his eyes to gaze at the sky above.
This day would be burned into his memory forever.
As he ambled back to his home, he pondered what the next few days would bring. Great things. He knew it. There was no doubt in his heart. Tomorrow he would rest. Monday he would open the second to last letter from Archie. It would take him to a place unimaginable.
CHAPTER 43
Monday morning Micah rose before the sun, a cup of coffee laden with hazelnut creamer in his right hand, Archie’s eighteenth letter in his left. He sat on his couch in front of his massive river-rock fireplace. After switching on the lamp next to the chair, he slipped a
table knife under the lip of the light brown envelope and sliced it open.
November 25, 1992
Dear Micah,
The room has always been ready for you, and now you are ready for the room.
You know, of course, the room to which I refer.
1 Corinthians 3:16–17.
For eternity and His glory,
Archie
Micah stood in front of the door of the brilliant room only a moment before it opened on its own. Light streamed out in a flash flood of power, surrounding him like a tidal wave.
It was too much ecstasy to contain. He stepped into the room and froze. It was glorious and overwhelming. Bliss flooded his heart, spilled over, and didn’t stop. His mind said this place was too holy, too right, too pure for him. But his heart didn’t agree. Micah fell to the floor, stunned. He knew where he was.
He stood in the presence of God. Surrounded by Him.
And this room was his own heart.
His heart.
His.
The holy of holies. The place where the Spirit of God dwells within the hearts of men.
Rick said it yesterday on the cape. The verse in Archie’s letter confirmed it. Yet till that moment it had been words. Just words.
Tears came, a hidden well broken open. Deep, cleansing tears. Freedom. Forgiveness. Peace. Nothing could separate him from this unquenchable love. Nothing he could do would make this Spirit of God love him any less.
Utterly and relentlessly loved beyond all imagination.
He had entered into the holiest place in the universe. It was inside him. Because God was in him and he was in God. And He had been there all along.
After ages passed, Micah rose to his knees. Images flashed across the walls all around him: mountains, oceans, deserts, lakes, all in the most brilliant colors he’d ever seen. The images shifted; now they were of him running, flying, lying in an emerald field hundreds of miles across, his face bathed in elation.
He was a drop of water in the ocean of the universe. Microscopic in the vastness of time, space, and history. Caught up as if the ocean of that universe were pure delight pouring up out of him only to swirl back and bury him again in its intoxicating waves.
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