by Randy Alcorn
“Zyor, I understand you are a warrior. But I thought your years of battle were done. Where exactly are you going?”
Zyor’s voice was now resolute and intense, with a strength of will that almost overwhelmed Finney.
“I go where the battle rages. I go to the one place in the universe that dares to challenge the lordship of Elyon.”
“Earth! You’re going back to earth?”
The angel did not need to nod assent. Finney knew it was true.
“But why? I thought I was your assignment. I thought your tour of duty was over.” Finney vividly recalled the emotions he felt returning from his one year in Vietnam. Not the least was relief—to have done your job and to now be able to enjoy the privileges of home. Surely after all those years on earth, Zyor had earned such relief.
“I was assigned to others centuries before you were born,” Zyor replied. “And I was assigned to you as long as needed. You are no longer in danger, but others are. I too thought you were my final charge before the dark world breathes its last. But while Elyon is faithful, he is not predictable. He sends me back for another assignment. He has told me I am the best one to do it. I am … honored.”
Finney could see Zyor was flooded with vivid memories of his recent commission from the Commander.
“But I thought it was time for you to rest.” Even as he said it, Finney realized he could not and would not try to interfere with Elyon’s plans. But he was troubled not only at the thought his new friend was going to leave him, but of his return to that most dark and dangerous place.
“I have rested. I have been renewed. To walk with you and Zeke and others, to have you see me and speak with me after all these years has been great refreshment. So it has been to worship Elyon in the great assembly. But I belong in the battle. Like all good warriors I long for peace. But when I know war rages, that my brothers—and those they serve—struggle and suffer at the hands of the twisted ones, I cannot hold back the longing to join them in battle. I have restrained that longing, for I had to, thinking Elyon would not send me back. Now that I know he beckons me, my heart pounds for the battle, my arms ache to raise Galeed again.”
Finney understood Galeed must be Zyor’s sword. He realized for the first time that Zyor wasn’t carrying a sword, that he had never seen him with one. This world needed no sword, but the hazards of the dark world demanded one.
“What will your job be, Zyor?”
“I must take the place of one of my brothers who has been injured, who is in far greater need of rest than I.”
“Injured? What do you mean? Isn’t your race immortal?”
“We are immortal but not invulnerable. We can be hurt, injured, worn out, overpowered for a season. Like you, we are finite.”
“Were you ever hurt when protecting me, Zyor?”
Zyor’s face contorted, and for just a moment Finney saw in his eyes the desperate pain of an injured animal. “Yes … more than once. But once more than any other.”
“Can you tell me when?”
“It was at a time in your life you well remember.” Zyor paused and thought. “Yes, I believe I am permitted to tell you. But not now. When my assignment is over. When I come back to Elyon’s presence and yours. But I am on the dark world’s time now. I must go quickly.”
Zyor thrust his arm outward and upward, and from nowhere a great glimmering sword flew into his right hand, a sword as long as Finney was tall. It looked white hot, as if newly forged in heaven’s foundry. Yet Finney knew it was more ancient than the earth itself.
So this is Galeed.
He was in awe at the sight of the gentle scholar turned fierce warrior who now stood before him. The lights of heaven bounced off the perfect surface of the blade. Finney saw Zyor’s powerful physique mirrored on Galeed, the sword seeming more an extension of the warrior’s right arm than a weapon held by it.
Finney realized with astonishment that this very instrument, in the hands of this soldier, had been raised in his defense many times on earth. Yet he could remember not so much as a gleam of light reflecting from it as Zyor, his advocate and champion, had cut through the ranks of Elyon’s enemies, guarding Finney through his darkest moments and most desperate battles in the fallen world.
Finney felt his last moments with Zyor slipping away as the last grains of sand in an hour glass.
“Where will you go? Will I be able to watch you?”
“You will be allowed to see me, at least at times—for the attention of heaven is focused upon earth until it becomes Elyon’s footstool. It will please our Sovereign to hear your prayers on behalf of me and my charge, prayers now unhindered by the shadows. I go to serve a new master, while serving only the one Master, whom to serve is life itself. Better than ever before, you understand the battle I go to fight.”
Finney just then noticed crowds of Zyor’s brothers, close to a hundred of them, now surrounding them, pressing closer to bid their comrade good-bye and wish him well. Zyor smiled with satisfaction at the tribute paid by the presence of his allies. He grasped mighty hand to mighty hand in an ancient camaraderie with warriors who knew firsthand the dangers and stakes of the dark worlds mortal combat.
Zyor’s stern and determined face showed vulnerability and need. In a soft and almost pensive voice he asked Finney, “My master, would you do me the honor of pronouncing a blessing for me as I embark to the Shadowlands?”
Finney wondered if there was a formula for such an occasion, recorded in some heavenly book of blessings. But he said the first words that came to mind, projecting his voice with boldness and clarity.
“Zyor, servant of the Most High, may you go to the dark world in the light and strength of Elyon. May you serve your new charge as faithfully as you served me—for you could do no greater. As surely as I will testify forever of the grace of Elyon, I will always tell others of his faithful warrior who guarded my life by day and night, though I did not know it. Besides Elyon’s own name—and the names of Susan, Jennifer, Angela, and Little Finn—yours, mighty Zyor, shall ever be most prominent in my heart and on my lips. Go in the grace and power of Elyon’s only Son.”
“You honor me, my master and friend.”
“No more than you deserve. I can never repay you, but my prayers will be with you, even if there are times when I am not allowed to see you at work. I don’t know who you go to serve, but he is fortunate, as was I.”
“Thank you, Master Finney. Your words are food and drink to me, for in your approval I feel the approval of Elyon. But in one thing you are wrong—you do know the one I go to serve.”
Finney looked surprised. “Someone famous?”
Zyor gazed one last time into Finney’s eyes. “His name is Jake Woods.”
A flash of light blinded Finney, and a roar of thunder, created by the clash of earth’s atmosphere with heaven’s, momentarily left him deaf. As quickly as that, Zyor had gone through the portal and charged forward to the forbidden planet that had once seemed home to Finney. It was as if the giant had been violently swallowed by another realm hostile to all Zyor was and represented.
For a moment, Finney thought he could hear the shout of a great warrior, the clash of blade against blade, and the horrible screeching of powerful but wicked beings. Just as suddenly, there was silence.
The hundred angels around him fell to their knees, interceding for their comrade. Finney fell to his knees also, praying both for the servant and the one he had been sent to. He could only marvel that two beings for whom he felt such deep affection and loyalty, Zyor and Jake, were about to walk side by side.
In all his years with Finney, Zyor had been near Jake often and had surely learned much about him. No wonder Elyon considers him ideal for the task.
As he prayed for two dear friends, it struck Finney as terribly ironic that Jake, unspeakably privileged as he was, would not have the slightest idea that he was now under the vigilant and unsleeping watch of a valiant warrior from another universe.
After continuing to read th
e C. S. Lewis book and contemplating Finney’s letter some more, Jake fell asleep with a great deal on his mind this fifty-first Christmas of his life. He wasn’t one to have vivid dreams. Those had always been reserved for Janet. The only dreams he ever remembered were those that took him back to Nam, that featured grenades and Harvey from Zionsville, and Jimmy from Pensacola, and Hyuk and his dead wife and mother and son, and Victor Charlie and his AK-47 and his deep brown eyes, sliding from this life to the next as Jake felt death itself whiz by his left ear.
But tonight Jake dreamed vividly and much differently than ever before. He was fighting in a great boxing ring, in front of a huge audience. He was the challenger, vastly overmatched by the Champ. He punched, but kept hitting air—the Champ was too quick. He was also powerful, muscles hard as tempered steel. His reach easily ten inches longer than Jake’s, the Champ kept landing punch after punch, until Jake’s face was a bloody pulp.
To his horror Jake realized there was no space between rounds. Worse, there was no referee, no one to stop the fight. Some buffoonish men in self-made referee’s outfits would periodically creep into the ring to stop the bout, trying to talk big but dispensing gibberish. One declared Jake the winner, blabbering on and on, quoting German theologians and the New York Times, saying “God is dead. Man is the Champion.”
The Champ looked at this ridiculous figure as one looks at an insane person spouting bizarre things, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
Another referee jumped up and cried to Jake, “God is cheating, the fight is fixed, you’re being used.” He too tried to declare Jake the winner. Still another, as in an ongoing parade of circus clowns, jumped in and said, “It isn’t a fair fight—who does God think he is lording it over man?”
With a roar like a Lion and a quick brush of his hand, the Champion knocked each of these busybodies over the ropes, not bothering to see where they landed. He kept his eye on Jake, not out of fear—it was obvious he feared no man and had no reason to—but out of great personal interest.
Another jab to the chin. Another blow to the midsection. Here came a heart stopping haymaker right to the chest, splashing sweat two rows into the crowd. But Jake would not give up. He would not surrender. Ten count after ten count, he kept getting back up. Football and boot camp and Nam and thousands of deadlines had taught him how to keep going when by all rights he shouldn’t.
The stifling heat of the center ring and the sweaty smell of worn canvas threatened to overwhelm the queasy challenger, but he would fight until he could no longer lift an arm. Jake looked to see the steely determination and thirst for blood in the eyes of the Champ. It wasn’t there. He realized he hadn’t looked in those eyes before. He’d only imagined the Champ’s ill-will toward him, seeing what he expected to see, not what was there. Now for the first time he looked, really looked. He saw strength, incredible strength, but he also saw goodness, kindness, compassion. He saw strength under control—the essence of manhood. Omnipotence governed by goodness and purpose—the essence of godhood. He saw an opponent who did not want to be an opponent. An adversary who had declared himself a friend, who was fighting only at Jake’s insistence. One who wanted to be in Jake’s corner, if only Jake would surrender, would recognize and acknowledge him to whom the belt and the title already belonged.
But Jake had learned to fight, no matter what. To admit defeat was the ultimate insult, an unthinkable blow to his self-esteem. Jake heard voices in the crowd, many of them unfamiliar. It was like standing in the international terminals at Kennedy airport, hearing languages he’d never heard before. He caught a glance of people in robes, wearing sandals, some with no shoes, wearing tree bark on their feet. They had all colors of skin, all kinds of clothing.
Now another man stepped into the ring, wearing a collar, holding a black book. It appeared to be a Bible, but a very small one, which Jake intuitively knew had been edited down from the original to include only the sayings this man liked. He’d ridded it of all he found offensive. This time the Champ could not refrain from a comment. His eyes were full of rage, not toward Jake, but toward the minister-referee.
“You dare to try to soften the blows of the Almighty? You dare to edit my Book, to dilute my Word? To deceive and prolong the agony of this one I love? Stay out of the ring, you who would cross the sea to produce a convert and make him twice as much a child of hell as yourself. This isn’t about you, it’s about him and me. It’s between the two of us. Depart from me!”
With a flick of a hand, he knocked the man three rows back.
Jake took advantage of his opponent’s distraction and landed a solid blow to the Champ’s midsection. His hand and wrist burned. His opponent did not flinch. Jake had given his best shot, but the Champ was unaffected. The Champ’s eyes didn’t burn with rage now, but were filled with a cool sadness.
This opponent was like no other. Jake had defeated adversaries on the field, in debate, in the classroom, in the rice paddies. He had defeated writers and editors, candidates and sports heroes, ministers and judges. With pen and typewriter, computer terminal and phone call and column, he had made them all eat dust. No matter what they said, he always had the last word. Not this time, not with this One. This One would have the last word. This One was the last word.
Suddenly Jake noticed his opponent was bleeding, and from the strangest places—from his hands and feet and from a long wound in his side. Why? Jake had hardly touched him. Yet somehow Jake knew he had once joined others, a myriad of others, in a galactic-sized mob that beat this man senseless. These wounds were the reopening of old ones, ancient wounds inflicted upon the Champion before the dawn of time. He was bleeding profusely. It amazed Jake, and moved him, that one so powerful was capable of bleeding.
A wraith now dared to ring the bell and declare the round over, as if he had authority to do so. One piercing side glance from the Champion and the wraith frantically flew to the far end of the arena, cowering like a dog expecting a whipping, begging for mercy yet wanting nothing of mercy but on his own terms, pathetically drooling and slobbering. He wore an old sweat-drenched robe that declared he was champion of the universe.
A gang of equally wretched beings surrounded him and whined and whimpered continuous tales of how unfair and cruel the Champion had been to them all. The irony hit Jake with the force and sting of a bullwhip—a world full of little self-important gods, self-proclaimed champions. But only One was worthy of the title.
Jake retreated to his corner, looking for solace and help, but there was no one there. He’d been abandoned. Where were the coaches who said his teams were the best, his commander who said his company was the finest, his philosophy professor who applauded him, his psychology instructor who told him he was so competent, his journalism professors and editors and admiring public who had told him he was the best, that no one was better?
Where was Doc now? And Finney? He’d always counted on having them in his corner. Doc’s voice he could no longer hear, but Jake swore he could hear Finney’s voice. Yes, there he was, a few rows back. But he was saying all the wrong things, Finney-like things. He seemed to be rooting for Jake’s good, but he kept calling on him to throw in the towel and bow to the Champion. To lose his life that he might find it.
Jake’s arms fell limp, slapping against his sweat-drenched sides. Overcome with fatigue, drained of everything, he was finally willing to give up and die.
“Go ahead,” he spoke to the Champion. “You’ve won. Go ahead and kill me.”
Jake closed his battered swollen eyes, anticipating the blow from which he would never awake.
But the blow did not come. And now there was someone in his corner, a coach offering mouthwash and a towel and leading the blinded challenger to the comfort of the stool. A manager wishing him the best and willing to do anything to help him, to relieve his pain, to help recondition him and get him back in the ring fighting opponents of his own caliber in his own weight class. There was no shame in this, he assured him. Everything would be all right. Tears and bl
ood and sweat blurred the manager’s image beyond recognition, but having been abandoned to his misery, any help was now welcome.
As his eyes were tended and cleaned, vision began to return. But wait, his comforter’s hands and feet were bleeding. What was he doing in Jake’s corner? Was there no escaping him? Who was this … this hound of heaven who relentlessly pursued him, who relentlessly pummeled him, who relentlessly loved him?
“No more. I meant what I said. I give up. I am so tired, so sick of myself, so tired of living life by my rules and not yours. You win. I accept your terms of surrender, whatever they are. Take my life … or use it, whatever you wish.”
Jake cried, at first in despair, but then with heartfelt relief. The coach sprayed the astringent over his swollen gums, lifted the Gatorade to his parched lips. He held Jake’s head in his strong hands. Jake’s neck muscles could no longer bear the weight, but he felt the Champion’s strength where he had none.
The irony pierced Jake’s soul. Of all people, the one helping was the One he had always resisted. Those who had claimed to be Jake’s advocates were nowhere to be found. Those who had heralded him and bet on his ability to win had slunk out the door, disgusted at his loss, yet powerless to help him win. Those who had tried to make the rules, to bend them, to tip the advantage to him, were all gone, caring nothing for him now that he belonged to someone else.
One voice and only one voice responded. “I have stopped, as I have longed to stop, for finally you have bowed your knee to me. You have turned from certain death and chosen eternal life. I am your God and also your friend.”
Jake’s eyes began to focus. No one was there but the One. He had the fierce strength of a lion, the vulnerable warmth of a lamb. He was all God and all man.
He carried Jake to the center of the ring and gently lifted his rubbery arm alongside his own.
