Free Showdown by Ted Dekker Page B

wrath if you don’t drink.”
    He held the cup out to Ben Holden on the first pew. The man hurried forward, took the goblet.
    â€œPass it and drink!” Black said, spreading his arms wide. “Drink the living water and embrace hope.”
    Ben sipped, then passed the cup. It wound its way down the line.
    â€œThat’s right. Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink.”
    Stanley Yordon stared at his congregation, struck by his own powerlessness to stop this incredible charade. His earlier wonder at Black’s miracles had been replaced by a firm belief that the man was nothing but a bag of tricks after all.
    Who would use such obvious gimmicks to impress a crowd? Please. An apple, a serpent, a cross, an apple. A Vegas entertainer could pull that off. He wondered how much Black paid Chris to play along with the wart business.
    But watching Claude and Steve and Paula and the rest drink from the goblet, Yordon lacked conviction that he had the power to do anything other than make a fool of himself.
    Black was saying something, but Yordon wasn’t hearing. A few members let the cup pass by. But far more drank. Out of fear? Out of hope? Out of fear. Mostly fear. It had to be fear.
    â€œ. . . have the choice to follow my way or his way.”
    Yordon froze at the last two words: his way .Unless Yordon was mistaken, Black had motioned his way when he spoke those two words. His way . But then he could have been mistaken, because he hadn’t actually seen it. Still, a cold sweat replaced the heat under his collar.
    â€œAnd believe me,” Black continued, “many of you will be tempted to go the old way. I don’t blame you really. You’ve been stuck in the same old ruts for so long, you wouldn’t know grace or hope if they both smacked you upside the head at the same time.”
    Someone chuckled in the back.
    â€œWell, let me tell you something, when I say grace, I am talking Grace , with a capital G , not some ambiguous theological term that preachers throw at you to impress the snot out of you. I mean GRACE. Capital G-R-A-C-E. Liberty. Freedom.”
    Black stepped out from the podium and opened his huge hands wide.
    â€œAnd when I say hope , I mean HOPE , like,‘Man, I really hope I can have that. I want that.’”He closed both hands into fists. “I have to have that.”Black’s voice swelled to a crescendo. “Hope like, ‘Get out of the way, that’s mine!’ hope!”
    Black breathed heavily. Yordon stared, at a loss, still not sure what the preacher was driving at, still wondering if the man really had meant him when he said his way .
    â€œNow, if any of you are looking for that kind of grace and hope, I’m bringing them to you. Grace and hope are here.” He stood perfectly still, glaring at two hundred frozen faces. “You follow me and I’ll rock your world, baby. I’ll show you how to trip. Things will never be the same again.”
    Yordon scanned the auditorium. The silence seemed to drift on a bit long. He looked over at Black and blinked.
    The man was trembling.
    Black faced the crowd, slowly scanning it from left to right, trembling from head to toe.
    â€œI want you to think about that. I need the leaders to understand the message for Paradise. I need you to follow me, baby.” His voice intensified. “I need you to let go and let God. I need you to drop
the sickening let’s-play- church act and start slamming!”
    Yordon’s skin rippled with gooseflesh. Slamming?
    An image of some rock star peering from a jewel case popped into Yordon’s mind. Gene Simmons, right here in his church.
    â€œPaula,” Black said slowly, staring at her. “Katie, Nancy,Mary. I really do like those names. Suck up a little grace-juice, ladies.”
    His eyes shifted to Steve. “You hear me, Steve? And you, Claude. All of you. Trip with me, baby. Breathe deep and let it go where it wants to. If you let