Four Nights With The Devil

by Peter Hockley

  The head chef left me a list of duties – cleaning some of the equipment – and then departed. Lunchtime was over and calm quiet spread throughout, leaving no memory of the din it replaced. Debbie was among the waiting staff still on shift and as I caught sight of her entering the kitchen, I thought back to my conversation with “God” about her; how she was wasting her precious existence on a religion that robbed her of true happiness, blockaded all roads leading to pleasure and replaced enjoyment of the rich delights of life with a straitjacket of mundane rites and empty rituals. How sad it was that for all her years of devotion – genuine and heartfelt – my friend had never grasped the full and magnificent benevolence of God. All of Debbie’s religious rules were unnecessary. The licence that “God” had given me, to do anything my soul desired, was for her too.

  My heart went out to her and at that moment, watching the young Christian collect a tray of freshly cleaned cutlery and carry it back to the dining hall, oblivious to my eyes on her, I determined not to let this day pass without sharing my amazing discovery with her.

  She is ruining her life

  It is a shame because she truly loves Me

  The next time Debbie returned to the kitchen, I called her over. We were alone at the wash-up bay with not a soul in sight.

  “There’s something I really need to tell you,” I said.

  Deb frowned and asked me what it was and it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t have a clue how to tell her. My entire spiritual journey, stretching back more than a year, had been conducted in private. I didn’t know the first place to start. Plunging headfirst, I decided to cut right to it and declared enthusiastically: “I’ve been speaking to God!”

  The look that swept over Debbie’s face was priceless. With eyes flashing wide and her mouth open, Debbie asked me to repeat myself. At that point there was no stopping me. For ten straight minutes I recounted every single moment of my waking life – from Friday evening and the purchase of the book, through to Monday afternoon. I babbled and rambled about the American author, his story and message. I told of the first letter I had written and the thrill of getting “God’s” response, the automatic writing and the many revelations that followed. I explained that now I could hear the voice of “God”, too, and felt sure that all of this was leading to a career spreading “His” doctrine of liberating spirituality.

  I barely gave myself time to breathe. “You’ve got to understand, Debbie, God doesn’t have any rules. You don’t need the Bible anymore, just live how you want.”

  I was trying to keep myself at a level no louder than a whisper, though the more I talked the more animated I became, waving my arms around in great excitement. “We can do whatever we want and not get punished! There’s no such place as hell!”

  Despite the great news I was sharing with her, I noticed that Debbie, although listening, wasn’t showing any sign of the joy I was expecting to see. Nor was she responding with an immediate rejection of Jesus and commitment to embrace “God” and “His” teachings. Instead her eyes narrowed and her whole face tightened into an uneasy expression. It was enough to stop me in mid-flow.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” I said, suddenly deflated. I was known as something of a joker at St. Anne’s and imagined my friend thought I was having fun with her. “I promise, I’m not making this up.”

  “I never said you were, Pete,” Debbie replied.

  I lowered my voice and recounted the story of Saturday’s conversation with “God” about death. I was desperate to convince the Christian that what I was sharing was the truth.

  “I wrote on my wall, Debbie. My bedroom wall! I’m not lying! God told me all about my grandma and my uncle. He said they’re alive; it’s written on my wall....”

  With no warning and without any control, hot tears rolled down my cheeks as the overwhelming emotion of that night came streaming back. The tears kept coming, beyond any power of mine to prevent them. Ashamed to cry in front of another, before my friend could say anything, I hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs, going first to the men’s toilet to get a tissue and then, falling into a chair in the empty staff room next door, I wept. A few minutes later, a silent Debbie came through the open door and sat down opposite me.

  While I wiped my eyes, Debbie said, “Because you cried in front of me over this, Pete, I know that you’re telling the truth. I know that you really are writing those letters....” She paused and waited for me to look her right in the eyes, no doubt seeing a flash of hope on my face, before she finished, “...But I don’t think you’re speaking to God.”

  I couldn’t believe it. What would it take to make her understand? Debbie continued talking, explaining how the God she had always known, the One she had worshipped and served since childhood, never operated in the way my “God” had. By now I was only half listening.

  The sound of another voice came to me, soft and kind, chiming in my ears.

  She is confused, Peter. Debbie has been a Christian for so long that this is all very difficult for her. Her faith is being challenged

  I took “God’s” words as an indication to press on with my case. I cut Debbie short and again stressed how real my experiences were. Deb repeated that she didn’t doubt the reality of the experiences, only the identity of the “God” I spoke to. With a frustrated sigh I restated the fact that “He” told me “He” was God, but to no avail. Debbie appeared set in some kind of Christian stone. No matter how I put it – that she was free to live how she pleased and had no more need of the Bible and its commandments – she would not budge, maintaining that I was the one being misled.

  Foolish girl, she should be thanking me, I thought.

  She is nervous. Keep trying

  Nothing I said made Debbie change her mind. I wondered how anyone on earth could hear a description of the weekend I had experienced and not immediately hunger for an encounter with “God”. Finally, through sheer exasperation, I was almost begging Debbie to believe that I really was conversing with the Creator of the universe. I was beginning to mock her as well.

  “I don’t just sit and read a book about God,” I said, the words laced with scorn. Debbie didn’t take the bait but remained calm, saying nothing. “I can get a pen and paper and write to God—and God writes back!”

  Debbie looked me dead in the eye and asked, “How do you know that the one writing back is God?”

  “Because He told me so!” I spat.

  Debbie smiled. Staying cool, her voice was level. “But how do you know, Pete?”

  Hot flames of anger were suddenly lit deep inside my chest. I could feel the rage bubbling up, ready to boil over. I was rapidly losing my temper but rather than fighting the red mist, I welcomed it. I hated Debbie’s stubbornness and despised her Christianity, which I knew was the cause of her resistance. She said something else about Jesus and with that my fury spilled over like lava – it burst through every pore of my skin and every fibre of my being. A flood of vicious words gushed from my mouth and my temper erupted completely. A cruel and venomous creature emerged from within me, looking to crush my friend and her faith out of existence. Time and location became obscure as I heaped fire onto the young woman sat across the table.

  Eventually the force of anger was spent and the room fell silent. Debbie was clearly shocked by the outburst but remained composed. I felt neither guilt nor shame, though I imagined that any realistic chance of convincing her to follow “God” was lost. I blamed her Christian religion for not opening her eyes to “God’s” wonderful promises of freedom without judgment. “God” had been right about her: it was a shame.

  With one last-ditch effort and an altered tone of voice, I offered to show Debbie the notepad full of the written conversations.

  “You can read them all for yourself,” I said.

  Debbie simply shrugged. She wasn’t backing down, not even slightly. “Why don’t you believe that it’s God?” I was whining now. I had run out of arguments and complaining was all I had left. Despit
e my shouting and vitriolic abuse, Debbie still spoke with polite respect. My friend repeated that, to her, the companion who met me each night and spent hours talking with me didn’t sound at all like the God she knew from Christianity. None of “His” teachings – not one part of the do-as-you-like doctrine – lined up with what Debbie knew to be true about God.

  “I’ve been a Christian all my life, Pete. I don’t know everything and I can’t explain what’s happening to you – but I’m just not convinced that it’s God. I’m sorry.”

  My anger cooked inside of me on a slow burn, waiting for a chance to explode out again. With it was that same subtle voice, never ending in my ears:

  Debbie is nervous, Peter. You have made her doubt. Her faith is being tested.

  Keep going.

  She needs to know Me as I Really Am.

  Trust me

  “Well, who do you think I’m speaking to then?” My voice was loaded with spite. At first Debbie didn’t speak, as if she didn’t want to say to my face the thought in her head, but I had already guessed what her answer would be. After a pause she looked right at me and I can recall most clearly, above all else from the entire conversation, the seriousness in her wide eyes. There was a grave concern in her look – genuine fear – though not for herself, but for me, as she said quietly.

  “The devil.”

  There is no devil!

  “God’s” voice was immediate, stronger and more distinct than I had ever heard it until then. It was as clear as someone beside me talking into my ear. I burst out laughing and slapped my hand hard on the table.

  There is no such thing as the devil

  “There is no such thing as the devil!” I bellowed, my laughter filling the room. An unsettled look was etched on Debbie’s face. I reminded her that the spirit who communed with me each day had identified itself as God. The Christian only shook her head. “The devil is a liar, Pete.”

  There is no devil. You know who I am, Peter

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “C’mon, Deb, He told me He loves me!”

  “He’s lying to you. satan tells lies.”

  Trust Me

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re wrong, Debbie. I know that it’s God.”

  Yes, you know who I am

  Deb’s eyes lit up and she announced that she knew of a way to be certain about who I had been writing to since Friday, and who it was taking control of my body and answering back. Sarcastically, I asked her just what that might be. What Debbie said next turned out to be the tool that stripped away all falsehood; the key that unlocked the truth and exposed the deception.

  My friend explained that the Name of Jesus Christ is the most powerful name there is—above all other names, according to scripture. She suggested that the next time I wrote a letter to the spirit, I should ask it, “in the Name of Jesus” to tell me its true identity. It didn’t slip my attention that Debbie referred to my companion as “it” and not “He”.

  You don’t need to do that

  “Why do I need to do that?” The anger was stirring again. “I’ve already told you that I’m speaking to God!”

  It is unnecessary, Peter. You know Who I Am

  Trust Me

  Debbie was insistent. “Just do it. Ask it in Jesus’ Name.”

  You don’t need to. She doesn’t understand.

  Trust Me!

  Almost at once I found it hard to concentrate. “God’s” warning rattled around my mind like a pea in a whistle. I did trust “Him”; I never doubted who “He” really was, but now Debbie was urging me to use the Name of Jesus against “Him” and she wouldn’t shut up. I wanted to get away from her but my feet wouldn’t move.

  If I asked it who it was in the Name of Jesus, Deb went on, it would be compelled to tell me the truth. If it really was God, it would say so. If it was an angel or something else, it would confess.

  DON’T LISTEN TO HER!

  My head pounded and the room went out of focus. What trick was the Christian up to? I felt like my friend was trying to bash me with her Bible. I didn’t want to hear any more about Jesus Christ. I had discovered a “God” who promised me that everything was permissible – and I would never have to answer for anything. That’s what I wanted. My God was best, not hers. “God” loved me. It was “He” who answered when I called out in desperation three nights earlier and had said such beautiful things, such sweet words of assurance and encouragement; I had cried a river of joyous tears because of “Him”. Twice. Why did I need to do what Debbie said? Why should I trust her? What had she ever done for me?

  Rage swelled. But before it had chance to explode, the fire was doused by an unexpected thought that pressed into my mind from nowhere. It was an utterance as clear and precise as “God’s” voice, though it definitely wasn’t “Him” who said:

  Listen to her. Use the Name of Jesus

  War broke out in my head, as opposing and contrary voices clashed and fought inside my brain. If Debbie was even still talking I couldn’t hear her. For a moment, I forgot all about the young woman in the room with me. Again I heard:

  Listen to what Debbie is saying. Use the Name of Jesus Christ. Do it and see what happens

  But then, right behind that suggestion, “God” came with:

  NO! YOU DON’T NEED TO. YOU KNOW WHO I AM

  My head was heavy like lead. I felt as though I was being torn apart by intense and powerful forces within me that pulled in opposite directions. Somewhere in the midst of it all, I struggled to regain even the slightest degree of balance and find any measure of control and coherence I could.

  Pressing through the haze and fog, a new thought struck me, influenced by my conceited, prideful nature. If I complied with Debbie’s advice, then – considering I was right and my companion really was God – where was the harm? Asking “God” to reveal “His” true identity in the Name of Jesus would lead to nothing but an answer that validated my argument. A voice in my head told me:

  Do it

  Use the Name of Jesus and the truth will be known

  I imagined coming back to Debbie with the notepad that proved me right and her wrong; swirling letters on a page that spelled out: “I am God”. I would shove that paper down her stupid Christian throat and silence her once and for all. In a moment, all my thinking had completely reversed. My own arrogance made the decision for me.

  I confronted Debbie and found myself saying, “I’ll do it! I’ll ask God in Jesus Name.”

  I’m going to enjoy watching you eat that paper, girl, I thought.

  “God” spoke next:

  You don’t need to do this – but if you do it, tell Debbie to write a letter to Me. That’s fair

  “Listen, if I do what you say, Debbie, you’ve got to write down your own letter to God. That’s fair isn’t it?”

  Without missing a beat, Debbie responded with something that I will never forget as long as I live. “Pete, I don’t need to write a letter to your ‘God’. I can pray to the real thing—my Father in Heaven!”

  I tried again to convince Deb to write her own questions on paper but she was adamant that she didn’t need to. When all else failed, I resorted to calling her a “chicken”, but she was steadfast in her defiance. No.

  Debbie’s face sparkled with a wide grin. She told me that if I discovered, upon writing the letter, that it wasn’t God who I was speaking with it would prove the supremacy of the Name of Jesus and I would have to become a Christian.

  “Ha!” I roared, meeting her smile with one of my own – only mine came from the cocky self-assurance of being right. “You will never make me a Christian!” Despite the comical tone, the very thought of becoming Christian disgusted me.

  To both our surprise, the clock showed almost 5pm.

  We had been alone in the staff room for more than two-and-a-half hours.

  By some miracle, no one had interrupted us, not a soul had come near to the staff room, or the toilets just next door and not one supervisor had come searching for two AWOL employees w
ho should have been working and not debating the nature and identity of God all afternoon.

  The chefs would be back soon, however, and I knew they would be none too pleased to find me away from my station in the kitchen. Debbie mentioned that her shift was over, too, though she would be returning in an hour to work the evening meal period.

  As it was, our conversation had run its course anyway. A peculiar, awkward silence followed – especially after such an intense discussion. Debbie and I left the room and went our separate ways.

  There was no possible way I could have imagined the extraordinary chain of events that had been set in motion. Within a matter of hours I would come face-to-face with the most fearsome enemy imaginable. Not only, but I was about to have a dramatic meeting with the only One powerful enough to save me from evil’s clutches, whose Name I was already figuring to use in my next written message to “God”: Jesus Christ.

  Chapter Fifteen : The Name of Jesus

  Wherefore God also hath highly exalted Him (Jesus), and given Him a Name which is above every name: That at the Name of Jesus every knee should bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth; And that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (Philippians 2:9-11 KJV)

  Debbie left St. Anne’s College and I returned to work. Arriving in the kitchen a few minutes ahead of the chefs, I was amazed that nobody who had been there – no waiting staff or their supervisors, not my own colleague in the kitchen – enquired over my whereabouts for the past two hours. No one seemed to have noticed that Debbie and I were missing all afternoon.