A Note from the Author

Writing Fire of Heaven has changed my life. I've been told the same has happened to others who have read it while preparing it for publication. Some of this is due to the time spent visiting and waiting upon the Lord at each of the ruins of the seven churches of Revelation as well as in Jerusalem. Some of it is due to the people who have been interceding daily in prayer and often fasting over its writing. But, more than anything, I believe it's because God is calling His people to get cleaned up and prepared for the eminent return of His Son, Jesus Christ.

With Fire of Heaven, I wanted to write a piece of Christian fiction for Christians. Something that begins with what we already believe about God and explores Him from there. Something that assumes exploring His truths can be just as engaging as the fastest car chase or steamy romance scene.

Also, despite what you may have thought, this is not an end times prophecy book. My purpose is not to expound upon end time events. There's a ton of other books out there that claim to have those answers. This isn't one of them. In fact, I'd be surprised if any end time happenings unfolded the way they're depicted here. That wasn't my purpose. I wanted to explore end time themes, not events. I wanted to touch upon end times teaching as Christ might have when talking to His disciples. It seems nearly every time they asked Him for the eartickling details, He gave a few generalities and then used the opportunity to springboard into a deeper truth. instead of getting their flesh worked up and excited about the mark of the beast, or the timing of the rapture, or who the Anti-Christ will be, He usually went for a deeper, Spiritual truth... like asking them, "Are you ready?"

That's what I've tried to do here. The rest is just backdrop, a little scenery that we may or may not see along the way to His second coming. As I've said, if you want a clearly marked road map there are hundreds of other books that claim they know the way. All I want to do with this one is to challenge us to examine our hearts as we make that journey and as we prepare ourselves for His return.

On the morning of the third day Brandon was sweating again. Only this time it had nothing to do with a fever. He wasn't sure if he was awake or asleep, but he knew he wasn't in the hospital. He still lay curled in a twisted knot, and he still writhed with the pain. But he was no longer in his hospital bed. Instead, he lay on a moon-shaped platform above a sea of flames, the same crescent moon he had seen tattooed on Salman's arm and now had on his own, the same crescent moon he had dreamed about.

He didn't know how long he lay there before he saw the light ... the blazing brilliance that appeared from somewhere behind him. He tried to turn and face it, but the pain in his body was too great.

A moment later he heard the voice. Its power vibrated the air, the flames, the platform ... everything shook with the sound ... and yet it resonated gently within his own mind.

"Hello, my child."

Again Brandon struggled to turn his head. The pain was severe, but he fought and strained until he succeeded. He had to. The light was piercing, blinding like the sun, like a thousand suns. He squinted, trying to protect his eyes until, at last, he saw a form in the light ... a form carved from the light. It was the form of a man. in one hand he held what looked like seven glowing stars. From his mouth came a razor-sharp, double-edged sword. And behind him were lamp stands-seven as well. It was an astonishing sight. But even more astonishing for Brandon was to see this being quietly kneel down at his side.

That's when he noticed the eyes. They were made of fire ... pure, leaping flames of fire. But they were not flames of destruction. They were flames of passion. A burning, consuming passion. A passion that Brandon instinctively knew burned for him. It was so intense and overwhelming that he could not move. All he could do was stare at them and drink in the love. There was no doubt who he was looking at. And there was no doubt of the all-inclusive, all-consuming love. That's why, before he could stop himself, Brandon spoke. It came as naturally as a little boy talking to his daddy, though his mouth was still deformed by the hearings... "Et hoorts."

Sorrow filled the flaming eyes. The voice responded. This time it contained as much pain as it had tenderness.

"I know"

"Why?"

The voice answered gently. "You say you love. Yet, My child, you know nothing of love. You know nothing of its depth or of its passion." The voice was tender, yet the words cut deep into Brandon's soul. "I have given you the briefest taste of My love. These three days you have felt the merest fraction of what I feel, you have ached the smallest trace of what I ache, you have wept the tiniest portion of what I weep."

Brandon's head reeled. Were such things possible? Could any one person contain such love?

The voice continued, its passion growing. "I have purchased My bride with My very life. You know nothing of the depth of My love for her; you know nothing of My passion. You who claim to love more than I."

Suddenly Brandon felt fear, a tremendous terror rising up inside of him as the voice grew in emotion.

"Do you dare speak to Me of love when you know nothing of its meaning? When you cannot comprehend the price I have paid, nor the depths of My devotion?"

Tears sprang to Brandon's eyes. He had to close them. There was no argument to be made. The thoughts running through his mind these past several days, those silent accusations of God, they'd all been heard. They'd all been heard and they'd all been wrong. Brandon knew that was true from the moment he looked into those eyes, from the moment he heard the words. He'd been terribly and ignorantly wrong. A sob of remorse escaped his throat. How could he have been so blind, so presumptuous? Another sob came. And then another. He lowered his head as tears began to fall. The voice did not respond but waited patiently Brandon had no idea how long he cried, but finally, when there were no tears left, a hand reached out and touched his cheek. He opened his eyes and recognized it as the hand from his past, the hand from his father's church, the pierced hand of his Savior.

With excruciating effort, Brandon reached up his own crippled hand to take it. And, as he did, his pain immediately disappeared. But not just the pain in his hand, the pain throughout his entire body-and his mind. It suddenly ceased.

He looked up, startled. The burning eyes smiled. Reaching out and taking the pierced hand with both of his own, Brandon began to kiss it over and over again as a fresh assault of tears sprang to his eyes and streamed down his cheeks.

"My son-"

He looked up.

"I have set before you and your bride a great call. I have given you a glorious promise. But you have allowed worldly thinking to turn that promise into worldly glory. You say you are yielded to Me, yet yielded is not the same as broken. The promise I have given must die and face darkness. For only in the darkest places dwell My brightest victories. You and the promise must be ground into the powder of contriteness, then mixed with the oil of My Spirit before My glory is manifested."

Brandon nodded, not because he understood, but because he knew truth was being spoken.

"You are able-but only if you live in My strength. Only if you hold My hand and look into My eyes. You are able. But if you are not willing, I will understand. My love will be no less, but I will understand and I will find another."

Alarm filled Brandon. Was it possible? Would He really pass him over

and choose someone else? After all they'd been through?

The eyes waited patiently until Brandon finally realized they were waiting on him. Impulsively he wanted to shout, "Yes, whatever You want and then some! Anything You choose will be fine with me!" But what of the cost? Look what he and Sarah had been through so far, and they'd barely begun. And if the prophecy in Revelation was to be taken literally, the reward for their obedience would be their murder and their bodies left in the streets to rot. Not exactly the happily-ever-after ending one would hope for. Yes, there would be a resurrection, but-What was so wrong with having a normal life? What was so wrong with having a wife, of having children, raising a family, growing old together? What would be so terribly wrong with just being normal?

Brandon looked back into the eyes. He knew there would be no condemnation if he refused. The flames of passion would burn just as intensely for him regardless of his decision. But, as he stared into those eyes, Brandon realized something else. How could anyone say no to such love, to such all-consuming passion?

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Brandon began to nod.

The eyes sparkled in delight. And it was that expression that burst Brandon's chest with joy. To think that he, a nobody, could actually make the Creator of the universe smile.

The voice spoke again. "I will give you a gift few have received. I will give you My heart. My words will become a fire in your mouth that you cannot contain. They will burn until you have completed the warning to My bride."

"What..." Brandon's voice was a trembling whisper. "What am I to say?"

"Warn her before it is too late..."

She who preaches to love herself, when I have commanded her to hate.

She who prays for her will, but does not seek Mine.

She who claims to be My servant, yet demands I serve.

She who cries out for answers, but will not listen.

She who demands healing, but will not seek Me in sickness.

She who indulges her every whim, yet allows My least to suffer.

She who is quick to raise the sword, but slow to drop to her knees.

She who chases her dreams while forgetting My call.

She who raises her skirts to the world while ignoring My call to holiness."

"But ... how?" Brandon whispered.

"She no longer has ears to listen, but by seeing, she will understand."

"See what? What are we to do?"

"As My bride's affection has turned from Me, so Sarah will turn from you. "

Brandon's protest came before he could stop it. "No!"

The eyes looked upon him with overwhelming compassion. Brandon searched them, hoping for a reprieve, for some other solution.

Again the hand reached out, gently touching his cheek. "It is the only way But she will return just as My bride will return to Me, so she will return to you. And her act, the returning to your covenant, will be My testimony to the world."

The lump in Brandon's throat made it nearly impossible to talk. "But ... can't there be ... another way?"

"No."

Brandon looked down, his eyes burning with tears.

The voice continued. "You and I will share the longing for our bride. And that love, followed by her obedience, is the message the two of you will proclaim to the world."

Brandon nodded, barely able to breathe for the sorrow.

"Study My letters of love to My bride. Point to their warnings, lest I come and take away her lamp stand. Be strong and courageous, My son. Do not tremble or be afraid. For I will be with you. I will be with you always."

Tears spilled down Brandon's cheeks and onto his pillow. The pillow from his hospital bed. The pillow that he was now lying on. He clutched it and continued to weep until it was soaked with his tears.

* * * * * * * *

The closer Brandon came to the end of the road the harder his heart pounded. He knew he was about to hear something, to learn something. And he knew it had to do with the other half of the Ephesians letter ... the warning half. Because, as much as Christ had praise for the church at Ephesus, He also had a stern rebuke:

But what did that have to do with the end of this particular road?

As they approached, Brandon noticed they were no longer surrounded by tourists. They were entirely by themselves. And why not? The road went nowhere, and it was nearly closing time. They had walked six hundred yards down the uneven stone pavement until it finally came to an end. The stones stopped abruptly and were replaced by a dirt bank three to four feet high, covered in grass and brush.

There was nothing else.

"See," Salman said, squinting at Brandon who stood between him and the setting sun. "It goes nowhere. There is nothing here."

Brandon turned toward the bank, looking out across the flat land. "But it used to go somewhere."

"Of course. It was the great road to the city; it led to the harbor where the ships docked. All of the world's kings and emperors were greeted upon these very stones."

"But there's no water here."

"Not now. The sea is two miles away."

"I don't understand."

"Ephesus, it used to be one of the mightiest seaports in all of the Roman Empire."

"What happened?"

"The Cayster River. Gradually, over time, it filled the harbor with its dirt and silt. Since no one cleaned it out, the harbor eventually filled up. Now there is only dirt and weeds."

Brandon's head began to swim. There was a truth here. Something profound, if he could just grasp it. He looked down at the bank, then kneeled before it. Without looking at Salman he asked, "And since the city no longer had a harbor?"

"It no longer served a purpose."

Brandon slowly turned to him. "And it was deserted."

Salman shrugged. "Of course. What good was it to anyone then?"

Brandon nodded, but barely heard. He looked back at the bank and reached out to finger the dirt. It was good soil, some of the best ... just like the Ephesians had performed good works, some of the best...

And yet... it was that excellent soil that had slowly replaced the most important thing to the city-its harbor, just as ... now he had it! just as the excellent works of the church had slowly replaced its love.

Unnoticed, silently, the good quality soil had replaced the city's harbor...

Unnoticed, silently, the good quality works had replaced the church's love.

Now Brandon understood. That's why he'd been led to the end of this road ... to see this truth.

But there was more. The truth didn't end with this city or this church. Wasn't this also what the makeup woman had said about Jimmy Tyler... at first he was full of love, but gradually his works consumed him? That somehow they'd "lost" Jimmy Tyler? "You don't become one of the biggest ministries in the world without sacrificing something," wasn't that what she had said?

The thoughts swirled in his mind. How much of it was his own thinking, he didn't know. How much of it was inspiration, he wasn't sure. But understanding raced into his head, almost faster than he could absorb it...

Wasn't that the main reason he'd hated church, the reason his friends never darkened its doors, because of the lack of love? Wasn't that what everyone needed more than anything ... sincere, genuine love? Sure, there was the teaching, the preaching, the programs ... and they were all necessary and they were all good. But, somehow, amidst all of the programs and good ... love had been forgotten.

But not just their love for others ... more tragically, he sensed it was the Ephesians' love for God. Their "first love"...that zeal, that joy for being saved, that excitement he'd seen on Sarah's face the first time she under-stood how loved and forgiven she was. For him, for those who had grown up in the church, it had become old hat, cliché... as lifeless as some other religion's ceremony or prayer beads. Like the silt, good religion had replaced heartfelt love. Godly works had replaced fervent passion.

But what could be done?

"Mr. Brandon, Mr. Brandon, are you all right?" The concern in Salman's voice made it clear he saw the moisture welling up in his eyes.

Brandon nodded and reached into his backpack. He fumbled for his pocket New Testament and Psalms and pulled it out, quickly flipping through the pages to Revelation.

What had he done at first? What had Sarah done?

They'd thanked God, they'd worshipped and adored him. Not from rote, but from their hearts. They didn't recite dusty hymns from dusty hymnals, they didn't recite overhead projection verses. They truly worshipped, using their minds and their hearts. That's what had started to fade...the love from their hearts.

He turned back to the Bible and read.

But how could the others be warned? How could today's church be reminded of the subtle deception that was slowly creeping in and-Brandon had the answer before the question had completely formed. Slowly, he rose to his feet and looked back down the road toward the amphitheater. in the distance the multiple rows of stone seats reflected gold in the setting sun. He fought off an involuntary shiver.

But he knew...

He would be the one to tell them. Once again, he would be required to stand in front of a crowd. And, just as in L. A., and just as in that amphitheater two thousand years ago, the answer would be booed and shouted down. The thought made him cold inside. But just as surely as he felt the cold gripping his gut, he knew it would be done.

Not here, not now. There were still lessons to be learned. But in time it must be done...

* * * * * * *

Brandon had been ravenous. And the lunch of cheese, flat bread, cucumbers sprinkled with lemon juice, and a large bowl of yogurt with a glob of unprocessed honey plopped in the middle was a welcomed feast. Once again the food came compliments of Salman's swift tongue. This time he'd convinced the restaurant owner that it would bring him great fortune to feed the "holy man and his disciple." That had been half an hour ago. After that, word quickly spread through the city of Bergama. Now it seemed every time Brandon glanced up from their sidewalk table he caught more faces staring at him. Concerned faces. He'd smiled politely, then did his best to ignore them. And still the crowd continued to grow.

A thousand feet above them on a mountaintop overlooking the city stood another acropolis. It had once been called Pergamum and was the address of the third letter. Of all the locations so far, this one made him the most nervous. He wasn't entirely sure why, though he suspected much of it had to do with Jesus Christ calling it "the throne of Satan."

"Some more drink?" Salman held out a bottle of sweet cherry juice, a favorite of Turks. Brandon shook his head and watched as the young man set it down and refilled his glass from another bottle. Its blue and white label read "Raki." It was also a favorite, but with a bit more kick ... a forty-five-proof kick, to be exact.

"I'm still not sure how you pulled this off," Brandon said, marveling at the food before him.

"Take a look around you, my friend. We are in the Bakir Valley ... the most fertile in all of Turkey. Nowhere in the world do they grow finer tobacco or cotton."

"But what's that got to do with..."

"Their livelihood, it depends upon farming. And the drought, it is wiping them out."

Brandon looked back up at the faces. "But what's that got to do with me?"

"Mr. Brandon, you're the man who called down this drought."

"Please, I saw it on TV- ‘My anger and fury will be poured out on the trees of the field and the fruit of the ground and it will burn and not be quenched.’ "

"But that didn't necessarily mean..."

"So if you can call down a drought from heaven, then you can call it back up and make it rain again." He leaned forward with a smile. "As long as they don't make you too angry."

"Is that what you're telling them?"

Salman shrugged and broke into a grin.

Now the anxiety on their faces made sense. So did the growing crowd. "Salman, I didn't..."

"Well, looky who we have here."

He glanced up and saw Tanya Chase approaching. Looming beside her, his hands stuffed into his pockets and looking miserable in the heat, was her sullen and balding cameraman, the one from L. A.

"We figured you'd show up," Tanya said as she peeled off a 500,000 lira bill, amounting to about two U.S. dollars, and handed it to the boy who had brought her. "It was just a matter of time." She pulled up a chair and joined them. The cameraman followed suit. "You remember Jerry, don't you?"

Brandon and the cameraman exchanged nods.

"Waiter, waiter." She motioned to Salman's glass. "I'll have whatever he's having. Oh, and one of those cheese and honey desert things." She turned to Salman. "What are they called?"

Struck by her beauty and her boldness, Salman was only too happy to be of assistance. "Hershmalem. It is called Hershmalem."

"Yeah," Tanya called, "one of those Hersh-whatevers."

"Make that two," Jerry muttered.

The waiter nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Brandon watched as Tanya reached for an olive on his plate. "How did you find me?" he asked.

"We knew you'd gone to Turkey. Figured it wasn't exactly a family vacation, with your wife leaving you and all."

Brandon ignored the barb.

"Hometown rumor has it you fancy yourself one of the two witnesses in Revelation. So..." She reached for another olive. "Doing our best to think like a delusionist, we figured you'd head for Patmos, the island where the book was written. When you were a no-show there, Jerry here guessed you'd be hitting the seven churches." She glanced at her camera-man. "Nice work."

He shrugged and said nothing.

She glanced around the sidewalk. "You seem to be drawing quite a crowd."

Brandon did his best to keep his voice steady. "What do you want from me?"

"I'm just a reporter after a story."

"Haven't you done enough damage already?"

"Me? Haven't I done enough damage? Look around you, Brandon. Look at all these people suffering. And not just them. What about the thousands that have been killed in the Pacific Northwest? What do you have to say to..."

"Wait a minute. What thousands?"

"Don't tell me you haven't heard? The volcanoes. Baker and Hood, they've both gone off. Washington and Oregon look like war zones. Twelve thousand dead and counting. And Mount Bandai is getting ready to blow in Japan."

"And you think ... I'm responsible?"

"You tell me. That's why I'm here. And while you're at it, maybe you can explain again why you believe this God of yours, who's supposed to be an all-merciful, loving Father, has reduced Himself to the level of throwing cosmic temper tantrums."

Brandon blinked in surprise. But before he could respond, a little girl's scream suddenly cut through the din of the sidewalk and traffic. Another followed. People turned, looking across the cobblestone road toward the plaza on the other side.

There was another cry, only this one was from a woman.

Other guests at surrounding tables rose, stretching their necks for a look. The screaming continued.

"What is it?" Brandon asked as he stood, trying to see. "What's going on?"

Then he spotted her across the street. A young mother was being held by two other women as she shouted and pointed. Twenty, maybe thirty feet beyond, pressed against the base of an Ataturk statue, was her two-year-old daughter. She was screaming in terror at the fifty-pound mongrel crouched in front of her, snarling. And the more she screamed, the more incensed the dog became.

"He's rabid!" Salman said.

"What?"

"Look at the foam. The dog, he has rabies."

Now Brandon saw it, the white foam frothing and falling from the animal's lips. For the briefest second he wanted to move to action, to try and help. But he felt a check in his spirit. Something told him to be still and to simply watch.

Those closest to the plaza began backing away. Some crowded into the safety of doorways. An older gentleman was doing his best to ease the hysterical mother away.

But the dog saw none of it. His attention was focused only upon the little girl and her awful noise.

A handful of men, four to five, began shouting. They stepped out from the crowd, waving their arms, their hats, doing anything they could to draw the animal's attention. But the girl's cries were too loud, too immediate. The men moved closer, pleading with her to be calm, to be quiet, but she would have none of it. She started toward one of them. The dog immediately crouched, ready to spring. The man shouted for her to stop and she froze, still crying.

Another yelled and started running toward the animal. He came with-in ten feet before the dog saw him and spun around. The distraction worked, but only for a moment. Because as the man veered off for safety, the little girl's cries drew the dog's attention back to her.

Another one tried. Approaching slower. Shouting louder. Waving his arms until he caught the animal's attention. The dog turned and the man ran. But again the little girl's cries focused the animal's attention back on her. It crouched lower, snarling at the insufferable noise.

Others, near the safety of doorways or behind open windows, shouted and hollered, but they were too far away The animal was focused only upon the girl, when suddenly...

"Sevim!"

Heads jerked around to see another man running toward the plaza. He was a farmer, dressed in dark clothes, racing directly for the animal.

"Sevim!" It was obviously her name. He shouted other things in Turkish that Brandon did not understand.

"What's he saying?"

"He is the father," Salman explained.

"Sevim!"

The crowd murmured as the man raced across the dead grass and dirt of the plaza. By the look of things he had no intention of stopping.

"What's he going to do?" Tanya yelled. "Is he crazy?"

Salman's response was the same. "He is the father."

The man closed the remaining distance. The dog spun toward him snarling, white froth dripping from its fangs. But, before it could attack, the man leaped at the beast with a ferocious cry.

The dog was strong, fifty pounds of crazed muscle ... lunging and biting, clawing and tearing. But the father fought relentlessly, crying out in pain and rage, as he tried to grab the animal's head.

The crowd watched in horror and fascination.

And still the battle continued. Snapping teeth, tearing flesh. The man's face and arms were covered in blood. Some of the others worked in closer, hoping to snatch away the little girl. But it was still too dangerous.

The snarling changed to gasps and grunts as the father wrapped his bleeding arms around the animal's chest and began to squeeze. If he couldn't break its neck, then he would crush it to death.

The dog yelped and writhed, twisting its head, lunging for the father's face, but the man continued to squeeze. With superhuman strength he began breaking ribs, crying in rage until he let the animal slip a foot between his arms, then grabbed its head and lathering muzzle and jerked it hard to the right.

The dog went limp and dropped to the ground.

The little girl shouted and started toward him, but she was immediately swept up by the surrounding men.

Chest heaving, dripping in sweat and blood, the father looked down at his arms, at his torn and bloody clothing, and finally to the dog that lay at his feet. He was as dazed and as astonished as anyone.

Others approached, motioning him to follow, careful not to get too close, lest they, too, become infected by the saliva.

"Did you see it?" Tanya turned in amazement to Brandon and Salman. "Did you see what he did? How he risked his life?"

Salman nodded. "He is the father."

"Such love, such anger. I've never seen anything like it. No one else would get in there. But he did. And did you see what he did to that animal?"

"It was about to destroy his child."

"Yes, but such passion - and rage."

"He is the father."

As Brandon watched the scene, his understanding grew God's anger, His wrath had nothing to do with the throwing of what Tanya had called temper tantrums. Instead, it had everything to do with His love, with His overwhelming passion for His children. Instead of petty rage, it had everything to do with awesome love - and with destroying the very thing that was destroying those He loved. Because, as Salman had so clearly put it:

"He is the Father."