Rise of the Mystics (Beyond the Circle Book #2)

by Ted Dekker

“This isn’t good news! Why is everything getting worse? It’s too much . . .” Talya turned to me and gently took my face in his large hands. “How else are you going to learn that bad news is only misperception, dear daughter?” His eyes searched mine. “Do you feel the fear?” I swallowed. “Yes.” “Think of the shadow as an evil man. Do you feel that evil man coming against you?”

“Yes.” “As written, do not resist the evil man who comes against you.1 In resisting, you only give the shadow authority by honoring it as a threat against you. Don’t honor what has no true power except that which you give it.” He held my gaze. “Do you feel the fear?” “Yes.” “Do not resist. Enter that fear with love, which casts it out. Work out your salvation from the storm through that fear. It’s the only way to finally see fear for what it is, a shadow.”

“Every problem you see is simply an opportunity to see the goodness of Elyon, until you finally understand that all problems are only shadows. They have power only to the extent you put your faith in them. Surrendering your faith in those shadows, to see who you already are in divine light, is called being Inchristi. That is your true identity. Your name. You’re already glorified, meaning not of this world but of divinity. You just don’t see yourself or the world the way Justin does until your mind is made new. When it is, you will tremble at the goodness of Elyon. As will all.”

Thomas breathed in great gasps now. He stretched his arms out before him. His chest heaved on the warm sand. His skin tingled with each droplet of mist that touched him. Elyon. Me too! Me too! I love you too. Then he formed the words screaming in his mind. “I love you,” he breathed softly. Immediately, a new burst of colors exploded in his mind. Gold and blue and green cascaded over his head, filling each fold of his brain with delight. The lake is inside. Always present but rarely known. He trembled with the thought and rolled to one side, eyes closed. A hundred melodies mushroomed into a thousand. His nostrils flared with the pungent smell of lilacs and roses and jasmine, and his eyes watered with the intensity. It was as though Elyon was a bottomless ocean, and Thomas tasting only a stray drop. As though Elyon was a symphony played by a million instruments, and he thrown from his feet by a single note.