Blessed Child
Blessed
     Child
Blessed
     Child
TED DEKKER
AND
BILL BRIGHT
B
LESSED
C
HILD
© 2001 Ted Dekker and Bill Bright.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherâexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc. titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotations used in this book are from
The Holy Bible,
New International Version (NIV). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.
Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dekker, Ted, 1962â
    Blessed Child / by Ted Dekker and Bill Bright.
       p. cm.
    ISBN 978-0-8499-4312-6 (TP)
    ISBN 978-0-8499-4513-7 (repak)
    I. Bright, Bill. II. Title.
    PS3554.E43 B58 2001
    813'.6âdc21
2001026271 CIP
Printed in the United States of America
07 08 09 10 11 RRD 10 9 8 7 6
CONTENTS
G
OD OFTEN BRINGS
H
IS CHILDREN TOGETHER
in the most unusual ways to accomplish His unique purposes. The way in which we were drawn together leaves us humbled. The seeds of this novel were planted in each of our hearts independently at least a full year before our paths crossed.
From the beginning, our intent extended beyond telling a good story. Good stories, although hard enough to come by these days, don't necessarily trumpet the truth. More than weaving a worthy tale, we wanted to write about the mysteries which lay beyond the skin of this worldâto bring into focus that truth which is precious to us who believe in Christ's power and captivating to those who, as of yet, do not.
With this purpose firmly under our belts, we set out to honor the Holy Spirit with an unapologetic rendering of His power, to draw a grand portrait of our God across the canvas of our world, an offering for His pleasure, rather than one for the pleasure of man.
Doing so requires a vivid story of God's power in our world. It requires a clear message, and it requires a canvas on which to paint our portrait. It was in this context that our collaboration was born.
The story and the writing are primarily Ted's; the heart of the message and the canvas, if you will, are primarily Bill's. A thirty-eight-year-old novelist and an eighty-year-old church father; a hand and an arm, members of one body, each gifted for the edification of the other, brought together for His purpose.
We sincerely pray that your short walk through Caleb's world will encourage you to consider the kingdom of heaven in new and maybe even challenging ways. We pray it will spur you on to earnestly seek Him, and above all we pray this journey will fill you with hope. The hope for the true treasures of this lifeâmay you seek and find them quickly. The hope of the glory which awaits us in the life to come. May it come soon.
We would both like to thank the many friends who encouraged us to write from our hearts rather than from good political senses; their names would be too many to mention here. But there is one man whose insight, brilliance, and diligence cannot be overlooked. Thank you, Helmut Teichert, for your unwavering work and inspiration on this project. You have the heart of a champion.
T
ED
D
EKKER
B
ILL
B
RIGHT
The greatest difference between present-day Christianity,
and that of which we read in these letters (of the New Testament),
is that to us it is primarily a performance;
to them it was real experience.
We are apt to reduce the Christian religion to a code or,
at best, a rule of heart and life.
Perhaps if we believed what they believed,
we could achieve what they achieved.
J. B. P
HILLIPS
in the introduction to his New Testament translation
Minus 3 Months
W
E HAVE TO KILL THE PRIEST
,” Roberts said.
Charles Crandal sat still in the subterranean room's dim light, legs crossed and relaxed. His dark eyes peered from a shiny bald head, past Roberts to the glass cases filled with his precious artifacts. He said nothing, which could mean anything. But looking into those cold eyes, Roberts felt a very gentle unnerving, which considering his own steely disposition, said volumes. He just didn't know which volumes yet. Ambiguity was a prerogative that followed great power, he thought, and power was the air Crandal breathed.
Roberts pressed his point. “He's talking, sir. If Tempest gets out it'll be the end.”
Crandal shifted his eyes but he still did not speak.
“You kill the priest and this all goes away,” Roberts said.
“This paranoia is asinine,” Crandal said. “It's none of anybody's business. I did what needed done.”
“Of course. But you're wrong: they'll make it
everybody's
business. And when the public wakes up one morning and learns that you ordered the killing of several thousand civiliansâ”
“It wasn't an order.”
“It might as well have been. And either way I guarantee they'll crucify you. We have a simple solution here, sir. We head this off at the source and it's the end of it.”
Crandal unfolded his legs, pushed his large frame from the stuffed chair, and walked to the desk. A green lawyer's lamp cast an amber hue over its mahogany finish. All but one of the study's walls were paneled in the same wood, a rich backdrop for his collection of Rembrandts. The other wall was encased in glass and lined with outrageously rare artifacts Crandal had personally collected from the most remote regions of the world. Another dozen pieces sat in their own cases about the office. The few who had seen this room sometimes referred to it as his museum.
He had furnished his private enclave in majestic fashion, which seemed appropriate considering the kind of decisions that had been conceived here, three floors under the D.C. earth in seclusion from even the agency he had directed for eight years. The National Security Administration's roots ran deep, but the ex-director knew its holes and he lived in one now.
Two years ago he'd left the agency and set his sights on this loftier goal, but he'd never relinquished his power. Not really. He hadn't even lost his command postâhe still ran his world from this room.
Crandal reached for a copy of
Time
magazine, featuring his smiling face on its cover with the inscription “The Power Broker” beneath it. “Killing is never the end of it, Roberts. You should know that by now. You end one problem and create another.”
“Then tell me a better way.”
“Did I say there was a better way? I'm simply telling you that killing someone doesn't always silence them. Especially not a priest in a country that worships their priests.”
“It's a risk we can't afford not to take. Sooner or later someone who matters will listen to the old man.”
Crandal tossed the magazine back onto the desk. “Then we go all the way. We go after the entire monastery. If we set out to silence, then we silence them all. Including the village around it.”
Roberts felt a tug at his lips. Here was the old Crandal talking, putting aside politics for the moment and dealing decisively with the problem at hand.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“It worked before, why not again?”
“Another invasion?”
Crandal nodded. “Tempest.” He stretched his neck and rubbed his throat with a thick hand. “Did we go this far south last time?” he asked.
Roberts arched his right brow. “You're thinking we should search again?”
“Why not. It's in that region somewhereâI'd stake my life on it.”
“But would you stake your presidency on it? The last thing we need is another leak.”
Crandal chuckled. “Leak? We plug our leaks, remember? And if you're really worried about leaks, Ethiopia is the least of your concerns.”
He had a point there.
Crandal sighed. “Stage the invasion, kill every living soul within ten miles of the Debra Damarro, and then flatten it. But have them at least take a look. Okay, Roberts? Humor me.”
Three Months Later
Minus 3 Days
J
ASON BROUGHT THE OPEN-TOPPED
P
EACE
C
ORPS
J
EEP
to a stop and turned off its ignition. The engine coughed once and died. He hauled himself up by the roll bar and studied the browned valley ahead. The Ethiopian Orthodox monastery known to locals as Debra Damarro loomed against the rolling hills, a square fortress hewn from solid rock. Why the ancients had built here, in such a remote corner of Tigre in northern Ethiopia, so far from the beaten track of worshipers, was beyond him, but then so was the tenor of Orthodoxy in general. And Christianity, for that matter.
Acacia trees swayed in the courtyard, serene in the afternoon heat. Jason kept his eyes fixed on the iron gate where Daal insisted he would be met and speedily serviced. The Eritrean invasion was only three days old, but already the Eritrean Peoples Liberation Front (EPLF) had brought the border dispute as far south as Axum to the west; it was a wonder they had not overtaken these hills yet. But then Ethiopia wasn't taking the sudden invasion along its northern border lying down. They were obviously keeping the enemy forces occupied elsewhere, where more than a single remote monastery was at stake.
It was not the first time Eritrea had made this absurd claim to the land beyond its drawn borders. Absurd because even the pagans knew that Orthodox Ethiopians would defend their northern holy sites to the death. The queen of Sheba had first brought Solomon's wisdom and, according to many, his child, here to her castle near Axum, fifty miles to the southwest. The Jewish religion had swept through the hills, and several hundred years later, the Ark of the Covenant had followedâalso to Axum, the priests insisted. A growing contingent of scholars at least agreed with the Ethiopian Orthodox community that the Ark's last known resting place was indeed somewhere in northern Ethiopia.
Christianity had first come to Africa here, along this northern border. And now for the second time in ten years, Eritrea was openly disputing that border. It was like trying to argue that Florida really belonged to Cuba.
