The team of evening cooks dribbled into the kitchen and the usual loud banter about nothing in particular began. I tried to join in like usual but found I hardly said anything at all. My thoughts wandered elsewhere. If my colleagues noticed this, no one mentioned it. They certainly couldn’t have guessed what was going on inside of me. The battle in my mind flared up again.
Use the Name of Jesus, just like Debbie said
Why bother? You already know that you are speaking to God
There’s no harm in trying it
She’s poisoned you with her Christianity!
You don’t believe all that Bible stuff, do you?
God says you can do anything you want.
Which sounds better to you?
I drifted through the kitchen, grappling with shadows and phantoms, dazed and somewhat groggy. It was true: I much preferred “God’s” liberal doctrine and had no desire to exchange those wonderful teachings for Debbie’s Bible. Who was she to force her Christianity on me anyway? She had no business interfering in my relationship with “God”.
A red mist of rage swirled about my mind.
Debbie is a Christian; you know how they are—so “holier than thou”
The thoughts in my head were jagged claws that took firm hold of me and dragged me deeper into pits of dark fury and uncontrollable temper. My blood seemed to be burning, hot and coursing through my veins like rivers of fire.
She thinks that she’s better than you
I cursed my friend and vented evil thoughts towards her. She wasn’t better than me – she didn’t even know God. Her pathetic religion was a sham. Fake, just like her. My skin prickled, every nerve crackled with outrage.
Just who does she think she is, telling you what to do?
I was soaking with sweat and my body trembled and shook, incensed by Debbie’s arrogant presumption.
Always preaching at you from her moral high ground
Debbie had, in fact, never done anything of the sort.
It was always me who went to her with questions about God and religion. Every time. Not once did Debbie attempt to open such a discussion; she only answered my questions as I brought them to her. I remembered none of these things now, overcome with rage as I was. I wanted to utterly destroy the Kenyan and smash her Christianity to pieces.
I could no longer concentrate on my work. Irritable and angry, I was surprised by the sound of another voice, one of reason and sense, coming loud and clear.
Use the Name of Jesus anyway
Why? Why should I, when I knew that my “God” was the real one? Why should I do anything that Debbie wanted when all she did was nag at me from her completely irrelevant Bible? The readiness I had a while earlier to carry out Debbie’s challenge was now met by fierce resistance, an anger that ordered me to disregard everything my supposed friend had suggested. If Debbie didn’t want to believe in “God” and “His” promises that was her loss.
Still more than thirty minutes before she was due back at St Anne’s, images of a furious argument between Debbie and I were rolling through my head until I began to feel bitter hatred towards her.
Remember – if you use the Name of Jesus it will settle things once and for all
It was these words which saved me. My mind was made up. I would ask “God” who “He” was, in Jesus’ Name, and when “He” confirmed that “He” was Almighty God, as I knew all along, I would take great pleasure in watching the smile fall from Debbie’s face when I showed her. I had a way to disprove her childish Christianity and her Jesus. I saw it as the perfect way to bring my lofty, Bible bashing friend down to earth.
Lying that I needed to go to the toilet, I marched out of the kitchen and back upstairs to the staff room. There was a notepad and pencil in there, provided by the management to stop bored staff members from doodling on the tables during their breaks. I took both and, checking that nobody was around, went straight to the men’s room and locked myself in the cubicle.
I heard a strong voice of warning that told me what I was about to do was unnecessary, but – fired by my own pride – I ignored it and pressed right ahead. The pencil was blunt and barely usable but it was enough for my purposes. I flipped the pad open to the next clean page and scribbled a short note to “God”.
Under my breath, I muttered the words as I wrote; a monosyllabic drawl in time with the movement of the pencil.
In the Name of Jesus Christ, tell me who you are.
There was a long, empty silence and nothing happened.
I felt no tingling in my stomach or buzzing in my head, indicating the presence of “God”. No burning compulsion to write consumed me. I had full control of my arm and the pencil in my hand remained still. Impatient, I wrote again:
Tell me who you are
Silence.
I couldn’t understand why “God” was hesitant to confirm “His” identity. All it needed was for the spirit I had channelled every night since Friday to write three more words: I am God. With these I knew I could convince Debbie I had been right all along. Not only that, the more I considered it, I was sure that with such proof I could persuade the Christian to begin her own written correspondence with “God” as well. Sat in the silent cubicle, without any manifestation of my companion, the urgency to have evidence on paper tore at me like an animal.
One last time:
WHO ARE YOU?
Then, the men’s room shrank away into oblivion. The blunt pencil pressed down heavily on the notepad and began to move by itself, turning slowly, round and round on the page. Dark, charcoal grey words appeared in thick spirals, until the spell was broken and I returned to myself, staring down at a trio of sentences before my eyes.
Why didn’t you trust Me?
This is our fourth evening together
You should have trusted Me
I recalled what the Christian told me earlier: that the Name of Jesus was all-powerful and if I used it to ask “God” who “He” was then “He” would have no choice but to confess the truth. Well, I had asked the question, in the way Debbie instructed, and all “God” said in response was that I should trust “Him” more. There was no denial of divinity, no disclosure of another name or identity – only a reminder to trust “Him”.
I was satisfied with “God’s” answer. True, I had hoped for the “I am God” statement; however, to me, “Trust Me” meant the same thing. “God” not denying “His” deity was equivalent to admitting it. It proved that I had been right all along.
Underneath “His” words on the paper, I jotted some more.
Sorry. I never doubted who you really were.
Pulled at once into the trance-state again, I watched from far away as the pencil wrote the reply. In my mind, “God’s” voice matched the words as they materialised in graphite, louder than usual and tinged with emotion that I detected but couldn’t quite distinguish; Disappointment? Disapproval, perhaps?
You should have trusted Me
I tore the page out from the pad, screwed it into a ball and left the cubicle. Returning the pencil and notepad to the staff room, I threw the paper ball in the waste bin. I decided not to show Debbie a letter already written. She might well conclude it was a fake. I would write another one in front of her when she arrived and she could witness the revealing of truth in person. Let’s see what that would do for her precious faith.
Pleased with myself, I hurried back downstairs to work.
You should have trusted Me. At the time nothing seemed at all strange about that answer. Only later would I understand the significance of what had just transpired in the toilet cubicle. With that short letter I had unwittingly signalled the end of my seventy-two-hour relationship with “God”. The climax to our correspondence was still a few hours away, although the dreadful break up was now inevitable and unstoppable. All the way back to the kitchen I heard “Him” repeating the same statement of displeasure.
You should have trusted Me, Peter
Why didn’t you listen to Me?
“Mum, you have to start praying for Pete,” she said without any preamble. “Get everyone together and pray right now – he’s speaking to the devil!”
Debbie hurriedly outlined the situation to her startled mother and, within minutes, the family at home and Debbie in the city centre were all praying for me.
Spiritual warfare had begun.
At St Anne’s College I eagerly anticipated Debbie’s return. I couldn’t wait to write another letter to “God”, in Jesus Name, this time with my friend present, and watch her patronizing Christianity disappear in smoke. I was going to smash that lofty pedestal on which she stood, all high and mighty, right out from under her – and enjoy every moment of it too.
With twisted pleasure I already saw the picture of Debbie’s face creasing and contorting in pain, as I swiftly and simply dismantled her lifelong faith and rendered her confidence in the Bible worthless. Darkness filled my mind. The atmosphere was thick and oppressive, pressing upon me and making every muscle in my body feel twice as heavy.
Debbie entered the kitchen right on time. The sight of her made me flush with excitement, knowing that I was about to prove the supremacy of my “God” over hers. My tired frame was invigorated with new strength, though I fought to reign in my enthusiasm. No way would I make the first move; Debbie must come to me, I thought, and again relished the mental image of me destroying her Christianity.
Debbie walked past me without as much as a look, saying nothing.
I watched her fetch something from across the kitchen and come back my way. I said hello but she simply muttered something quietly and carried right on by me.
I was seething.
More than once I attempted to speak to her, no longer caring who started the conversation - only that it started at all. Debbie offered no more than a half-smile and nodded her head, with barely the faintest acknowledgement of my presence.
Do you see? She thinks that she’s so much better than you
I tried telling Deb that I had done what she asked of me, and what “God’s” response had been, but she wasn’t interested to listen and just carried on with her work in silence. I gave up trying and took myself away to one side. Her quietness only helped to stoke the flames of my temper.
It’s Christianity that makes her like this
Debbie’s distant, disengaged attitude meant that I was quiet all evening myself. Occasionally I looked over to her. She was oblivious to my stare and I fumed all the more. I noticed that she wasn’t talking to any of her fellow waiting staff either, but I took her silence as a personal insult.
“God” had another explanation for the Christian’s muteness and shared it with me.
She is afraid
You scared her earlier
I told you, her faith is being challenged and the doubt frightens her
On hearing this I glowed with pride. I was right about “God” and Debbie was wrong and now she was finally realizing it. The fact was unknown to me that my friend wasn’t worried about herself at all, but me. She wasn’t conversing with anyone in the building because she was praying—not for God to help her with a crisis of faith, but praying for Jesus Christ to deliver me from evil.
The evening wore on and an army of students filed noisily into the dining hall, enjoyed their fill of food and gradually trickled out again to whatever activities had been organised for that night. Not long afterwards the clean up was finished and the chefs, kitchen assistants and waiters left for home, glad to have reached the end of another long day. Eventually, only two remained in the building – Debbie and I.
Over the course of the evening, my emotions had swung violently in all directions. I was so offended by Debbie’s uncharacteristic behaviour, I was ready to snap. My offense sprung mainly from not being able to demonstrate the power and superiority of my “God” over hers.
By now, Debbie was upstairs getting her things together. She had already telephoned her mother to come and collect us, which was the usual routine, while I stayed behind to mop the kitchen floor, my last job of the day. Once we finished, as the last out, we were supposed to stop by the Porter’s Lodge and let the man on duty know we were done. He would then go and secure and lock the catering block until morning.
As I dragged the sodden mop across the floor my fingers gripped the handle in rage and my teeth clenched tightly in an animalistic snarl. My head burned with a thousand evil images that exploded and crashed like a thunderstorm of fury. I couldn’t contain myself any longer and, leaving the mop bucket in the centre of the room, I went charging upstairs to confront Debbie.
“Why didn’t you speak to me tonight?” I demanded before she knew what was happening. We were standing in the corridor outside the staff room. Debbie never managed a single word of reply. I screamed and yelled at her, jabbing my finger in her face in an accusatory manner. Vile, disgusting curses streamed from my mouth and I heaped insults and abuse on her as the monster inside of me was fully unleashed.
The scene was appalling, though I would not relent. I cursed her Jesus, blaspheming and calling Him every wicked name under the sun. I rubbished Deb’s belief in the Bible and scorned her for refusing to accept my “God”, who, I told her, had indeed identified “Himself” to be God, even after I used the Name of Jesus on “Him” as she suggested. I swore that I hated her, her entire Bible-bashing family and their accursed religion. I had no control over myself, being completely consumed by the hot fires of rage. And it felt good; the power of it flashing through my body to every last nerve ending; a blast furnace of anger that despised this quiet Christian and wanted to see her crushed and irreparably broken. I shouted at her with the unmerciful evil of one possessed by the devil.
Because that’s exactly what I was.
“I’ll never become a Christian!” I yelled in Debbie’s face, towering over her. “Then you can live in your heaven knowing that your precious friend, Peter, is burning in hell!” I was aware of the fact – though it didn’t seem at all strange – that I was speaking about myself in the third person. “How will you ever be happy in paradise?” I screamed. “How? Peter will be burning; BURNING IN FIRE!”
I turned and stormed out of the door and back down to the kitchen. My whole body was shaking. I quickly finished mopping the floor and put the bucket away. Leaning against one of the work tops, the anger cooled somewhat and some sense of reason broke through the dark clouds like sunlight. My skin tingled with heat and I breathed heavily. Awareness of my surroundings grew dim and all background noise slowly faded. I felt as though I was drifting away gently from the earth; time was suspended; anger vanished completely, swallowed up by stillness and calm.
Without thought, I found myself walking across to the opposite end of the kitchen and to a small shelf on which sat various papers and pens. Every footstep felt so light it was more like gliding than walking. I watched from afar – no more than an onlooker – as someone else used my hand to reach for a pencil and began to write with it on the shiny silver work surface in front of me.
It was the deepest trance yet. I knew where I was and what was happening, however all motion was decided and executed by a force no eye could see and I was a willing captive to its influence, swept up by an invisible gale that carried me wherever it wished. It was an out-of-body experience while still in the body. I had not floated to the ceiling and I
wasn’t looking down upon myself from the sky; instead I observed everything through my own eyes, only from a vast, seemingly infinite distance; a kind of third-person view, seeing the actions of another accomplished in me.
As my hand wrote of its own accord, my eyes didn’t even look down at the words that appeared – they were fixed in a non-blinking stare at the white-tiled wall ahead of me. Peter’s arms and hands worked and moved while Peter himself was paralyzed and unable to do anything at all. Though I had no control of my physical self, at the same time, I wasn’t the least bit afraid. All was peaceful. My body belonged to “God”; I was “His” prisoner and as I gazed at the wall I harboured no thoughts of resistance, nor had any intention of fighting “Him”. The graphite scratched and squeaked loudly upon the stainless steel and I was glad to be “His”.
After an unknown period the pencil ceased moving and my body became my own once more. Perception of the room around me flooded back, as if someone had turned a dial raising both the lights and the volume of the world. On the work top, written in dark grey, I read:
You should not have spoken to Debbie like that; she is your friend.
She is confused about Who I Really Am.
You should go back upstairs and apologise
“God” was right. How would I ever get Debbie to forget about her Jesus and believe in my companion if all I did was shout and yell obscenities at her? If I just kept trying, sooner or later Debbie would have to believe me. Maybe she would write her own letter to “God” after all and enjoy the same relationship with “Him” as I did. In my mind, “God” spoke gently:
Four Nights With The Devil Page 12
