Part 1 – Upon The Rock
Part 2 – In The Upper Room
Part 3 – The Lord of Hosts
Part 4 – The Uninvited Guest
Part 5 – The Gift
Part 6 – The Truth About Soldiers
Part 7 – The Loss

Part 8 – The Messenger Revealed

photo credit: Michael (godserv on Flickr)

To his own astonishment, Dillon was not dead. Though still in darkness, he was keenly aware of his own painful, yet quite normal breathing. A warm breeze swept over him but did nothing to lighten the cold, stricken feeling in his soul. He tried desperately to make sense of what had just happened. All of his best guesses ended in the same thought, “I’m weak.”

After a few minutes, the thought occurred to him that his eyes were closed; that this darkness was self-imposed. He wondered what he would see when he opened them, but the sound of children playing and the smell of wet grass hinted at the truth. He was sitting on the hillside in the park, looking for the entire world like a fellow sitting alone, meditating. That realization brought him no comfort so he kept his eyes closed.

More time passed and he became aware of a familiar presence sitting next to him on the grass.

“Go away, Caleb,” he whispered into the blackness.

“Sorry, chap, but I can’t do that yet.” Caleb’s voice had the sandpapery sound of someone trying to deliver the eulogy of a dear friend.

Opening his eyes, Dillon turned his head and looked at Caleb. The angel’s grey eyes were ringed with tears.

“I thought we were only sparring,” Dillon tried, unsuccessfully to limit the accusation in his voice.

“We were,” Caleb replied, “The stakes are very high in this fight, Dillon. You must understand the weapons of your Enemy. He will destroy you if He can. When we train, I cannot allow you any slack.”

“And when training is over?”

“Please don’t think me unmerciful,” Caleb reached out to Dillon and placed his hand on Dillon’s invisible chest wound. The gesture was so gentle that Dillon could not bring himself to recoil from it.

Warmth radiated from Caleb’s hand that seemed to engulf Dillon; not only healing the cold wound in his chest but relieving the guilt and hopelessness that had been threatening to consume him.

“The Enemy’s poison is quick to take hold and quick to spread,” Caleb’s voice sounded wounded. “It will effectively kill your heart in that realm and leave you a broken shell in this one.”

“How do I defend against it?”

“Two things:” Caleb’s melancholy seemed to pass as he shifted into his teaching mode. “First, you need to trade your rapier for a shield. Then you need a better breastplate.”

“But I thought I was doing so well,” Dillon felt suddenly deflated; his weeklong attempt at goodness did not seem to have accomplished much in the way of strengthening his armor.

“You cannot build your armor with good deeds,” Caleb replied. “Your best efforts to be a good guy fall flat. You must learn to own the Master’s righteousness.”

The blank look on Dillon’s face was enough to encourage Caleb to continue. “What He did for you was more than enough to redeem you, but you behave as if He stopped there. His sacrifice extends into your life with Him for all time. Stop trying to live righteously and let Him live righteously through you.”

“Oh, is that all,” Dillon said, sarcastically.

“The sooner you give up all hope of ever being able to stand on your feet before Him, the sooner He can empower you to stand on your feet before Him.”
“So, the trying is the problem?”

“Precisely,” Caleb seemed energized that Dillon was beginning to understand. “As long as you are trying to be righteous, believing that you can attain it, your pride keeps you from succeeding. The minute you give up and rely on Him – “

“He makes me the righteousness of Christ?”

“No weapon of the Enemy has ever been able to pierce that, Dillon.”

Dillon picked at the grass in front of him for a moment, digesting this new revelation. “Ok,” he said finally, “what about a shield?”

“The rapier that you carry is analogous to an intellectual faith,” Caleb began. “I think your friend, Mark, has lectured on the shortcomings of a reasonable approach to spirituality.”

“Several times,” Dillon chuckled dryly.

“An intellectual faith is very useful in this age,” Caleb continued, “or in a confrontation with a civilized opponent.”

“Apologetics?”

“Such an odd term,” Caleb mused, “but, yes, that’s the sort of confrontation that I’m talking about. Your Enemy is neither civilized nor intellectual. He will be ruthless and evil. You need your faith strengthened by experience.”

“I guess I’ve always had some existential doubt mixed in with my faith,” Dillon confessed. “How does experience strengthen my faith?”

“It becomes personal,” Caleb explained. “Stories about people being healed or touched in some miraculous way in another country are not enough. You need your own story.”

Dillon gingerly poked at the center of his chest. “Touched by an angel?” He grinned, but then asked seriously, “How much more miraculous do things have to be for me to have enough personal experience points to get a shield?”

“My familiarity with Mortals suggests that there are usually areas of doubt that need to be specifically addressed.”

“How?”

“I would suggest that you do what the Twelve did when the Master addressed their little faith.”

“What was that?” Dillon asked, after a minute.

“Ask Him to grow it for you,” Caleb answered without pause. “He knows what your doubts are. He can address the specific deficiencies quite aptly.” He stood up as if he intended to leave but Dillon rose quickly and grabbed him by the arm.

“You said our timeline had been accelerated,” Dillon said urgently. “What does that mean?”

Caleb cocked his head, playfully. “Expect the first spirit when the bell tolls one.” Dillon felt his countenance slide, but Caleb laughed. “Joking.”

“Don’t joke.”

Caleb cleared his throat. “Sorry, chap. You know, they don’t appreciate my humor much back home either. Normally, a Mortal takes years to become proficient. Deficiencies are dealt with on this side first by an apostle or an exhorter. We almost never use a poisoned durog in practice sessions. Your case is special,” he trailed off. Dillon sensed that he was leaving something unsaid.

“What are you holding back?” Dillon asked pointedly.

“Nothing that I know for certain,” Caleb answered, “and I hate to speak out of turn.” He took a deep breath and continued, “Your training is of particular importance. Otherwise, any Guardian could train you.”

“You’re not a Guardian?” Dillon had assumed from the start that Caleb was his guardian angel.

“I am Legatus of the Guard, Dillon,” Caleb answered.

“You’re a leader?” It made sense to Dillon that Caleb was a leader and a teacher among his people.

“Not a leader, Dillon, the leader. I am High Seraph, answering to the Archangel, himself. I have the duty to approach The Throne and report directly to The Most High.” Caleb did not exude any pride at the disclosure. He said the lofty titles in the same manner as an accountant delivering a financial report. “I haven’t been called upon to train anyone since the host was reorganized after The Schism.”

Dillon was stunned. He realized numbly that he was still holding Caleb by the arm. He stood for a moment, frozen by the revelation that Caleb was one of the most potent created beings in existence. The idea that he had been chatting idly with a creature that literally appeared before the throne of God on a regular basis was overwhelming to Dillon. “What?” he asked dryly. “What does this suggest about me?”

”There are those among my people who believe that the Master will select and call out a Mortal to be Legatus of His cohorts in the Last War.”

“Your equal?” Dillon could not stop the disbelief from dripping off his tongue.

“Serving the Son as I serve the Father.”

“You think I’m the one?”
“The Master has selected men who seemed far more unsuited to His purpose,” Caleb shrugged. “He rather makes a show of picking the ugly puppy.”

“Can’t say I love the metaphor,” Dillon quipped.

“Nonetheless,” Caleb turned and walked toward the bicycle path, continuing as he went, “and it’s only conjecture. I don’t have the gift of seeing the diamond in the rough and information from the Throne is distributed on a need-to-know basis.”

“For now, I’ll focus on the chinks in my armor and leave destiny to those better able to shape it,” Dillon said.

“That’s a good man,” Caleb turned and clapped Dillon on both shoulders. “And incidentally, the way you led into that attack before was audacious. No one has made so bold an assault on me in millennia. I rather enjoyed it.”

“I’m just full of surprises,” Dillon said blandly.

Caleb laughed aloud and the joy of it filled Dillon with hope. He toyed with the idea of bear hugging the angel but thought better of it. Audacity was one thing, presumption was another.

“I’ll see you again soon,” Caleb said. “If I’m not mistaken, you have an appointment.” With that, Caleb vanished.

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