She was sitting across from me on a District Line train; the line marked in green on the map. Turnham Green, Stamford Brook, Ravenscourt Park, Hammersmith; station after station passed, the platforms crowded with people, each with their own destination and purpose.

Her purpose and plans, if she had them, I couldn't begin to guess. Why would any woman wear what appeared to be black army boots? My eye kept wandering around the carriage.

Those standing by the doors on the train, rocked back and forth holding onto whatever was available. Suddenly, the daylight disappeared as we passed into an underground tunnel. The noise of the train doubled. At the next station the doors again opened with a hydraulic psssshhhh. A bored voice announced, "Mind the gap," so that travelers won't misstep and fall onto the track. People hurried through the doors. One bumped into another, "Sorry." The batteries underneath the carriage whined as they recharged. "Mind the doors, please, mind the doors," preceded another hydraulic psssshhhh, and the doors closed.

"She could be a very attractive young lady if she wanted to be," I thought. My eye had again settled back into its natural place looking forward. "To each his own..."

I looked up at the ads posted all along the inside of this underground snake. Cigarettes and success, houses and hotels, lagers, bitters, ales, and stout; each ad commands your eye "look at me." Helplessly my eye flittted from one to another until it was saturated with colors, words, and shapes. I looked back at the punker and wondered, "What does she do all day when there is nothing worthwhile to do. What's her destination?" My destination, like many of the people seated in my carriage was Victoria Station. As it turned out, this was hers, too.

The veterans don't really look. They don't need to. They step out through the sliding doors, onto the platform, turn and walk to the "Way Out." The tourists and other novices stick out. I stepped out onto the platform and looked for the "Way Out" sign. Ten people walked past me, all of them moving from left to right. Twice I was in the way of someone and got bumped.

"Sorry."

"Excuse me," I responded, as any misplaced American tourist would.

I finally noticed the "Way Out" sign pointing in the direction everyone was moving, to the right, so I finally fell in step and proceeded to the end of the platform, down a corridor and out into an open area with signs and arrows: "Victoria Line North, Victoria Line South, Victoria Station, Way Out." Again I stopped and looked while everyone hurried past me. "What will I face at the gate," I wonder, "a man in a small ticket booth?" No, here it is a machine with a picture of a ticket and the words "insert here."

"Will it eat my ticket? It's a return ticket. I need it to get back home. Which pocket did I put it in?" I wondered, not having developed habitual behavior yet. I began a thorough body search but it wasn't necessary. I had kept it in my hand. I didn't want to lose it

. Into the slot it went, whisked from my fingers and spat back out the top. The machine affirmed my honesty, opened the gates and let me pass. Another barrier conquered, my confidence increased, I set out to find Westminster Cathedral. Fortunately it is only two hundred yards from the front of the station according to the A to Z map of London.

"Laura! Laura!" A well dressed, professional looking young lady was waving on tiptoe to the punk rocker with the purple hair.

"Karen?" She responded with little enthusiasm.

I was intrigued by the study in contrast, but then remembered I was trying to get to Westminster Cathedral. I looked again at my map and located the Cathedral and Victoria Station only to realise I had no idea where I was in the station. The "Way Out" signs, which I had faithfully followed, did not distinguish between the front, the sides and the back. Having learned something earlier about crowd flow -- it normally is the heaviest in the direction you are supposed to go -- I went with the flow and found my self at the front of the building now needing to cross Wilton Road and Vauxhall Bridge Road. Faithful to my upbringing I looked to my left, saw no oncoming traffic and stepped onto the road. Fortunately the taxi had good brakes. It also had a good horn. Suddenly, I remembered a well known and often forgotten fact. Vehicles drive on the left in Britain. Pedestrians are supposed to look to the right. The cab driver glowered at me, caught my eye, and then gazed at my feet. I backed onto the curb again and looked down at the pavement. Written there, in white twelve inch letters were the words: "LOOK RIGHT."

I had come to London because I work for a travel company. I was to put together a tour for the coming summer's tourist season. I started by reviewing all the popular sights - Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, The Tower of London, Windsor Castle - and was now heading back into the heart of London to review the lesser known sights. Like any tourist I was getting satiated with sights and facts I would quickly forget like a lunch at a McDonalds in Minneapolis - Westminster Cathedral is made of twelve and one half million hand-made bricks. It is 360 feet long, 156 wide and 117 to the top of the nave.

Having previously visited Westminster Abbey I didn't make the common mistake of confusing the two. The cathedral is about a mile from the abbey. It is set back off Victoria Street. The front is adorned with the usual abundance of statues, gargoyles, and stained glass windows. Two statues representing the Archangels Michael and Gabriel are posted above the doors. I stepped inside.

The Cathedral was busy. I realised, once inside, that it was Wednesday of Holy Week. The line for confession was long. Tourists were looking at things others tend to ignore, at times taking pictures. Others were quietly praying. The floor in the nave was being waxed. Extra chairs were being set up for anticipated over-flow crowds expected on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. A man on my left was dusting a statue of St. Peter. There was a smell of wood polish in the air. Everything around me was being prepared in anticipation.

I walked to the racks holding guides, magazines and bulletins. I wanted a guide to the building. Near one of the racks a man was standing alone. He seemed to be reading to himself. "Don't miss the Chapel of St. Michael the Archangel. In front of the altar you will see St. Michael the warrior as he appears..." and his voice trailed off as he turned the page. Since my name is Michael, I decided I would make a point of seeing the chapel. The man's quiet voice continued, "The chapel is located in the front of the Cathedral on the left." Then he turned away and was off, apparently to go on his own brochure guided tour.

I put a pound into the money box, picked up a guide and began making my way through the long halls of the Cathedral, reading as I went. Like almost every cathedral, the lighting was dim and the temperature cool.

"Not a very impressive set of tombs," I thought to myself as I went along. I had recently been to Windsor Castle and seen the burial crypts of numerous kings and queens, knights and nobles: Henrys and Marys, Williams and Edwards. "But then, this church isn't really all that old. Too bad. I had hoped this would be more interesting."

I passed the chapels of All Souls, St. George, and St. Joseph, noticing the echo of my footfalls off the high walls in the long nave. It all gave a sense of majesty and importance.

As I reached the front of the Cathedral on the left, I was consoling myself with the thought of at least seeing the statue described in the brochure. I expected something 12-15 feet tall that captured both the fierceness of a warrior and the holiness of a saint. I looked around the chapel for the expected statue. Finally, I saw it. It was barely 2 feet tall, and done in low relief on the front of the altar. I was not impressed. None-the-less, I stepped up to the altar and bent down to get a closer look. I heard someone approaching from the rear. "Nothing unusual," I thought, and continued my observation. A quiet, masculine voice spoke, "It's not a bad work of art." I turned around to look. As I did, he said, "I believe it was you that requested the interview."

I straightened back up. "Excuse me?" I couldn't recall any request for an interview and I certainly couldn't place this man's face. It was vaguely familiar. Had I once imagined it or seen in a dream? He was about six feet tall with tightly curled blond hair. What was most noticeable were his eyes. The iris was light blue, in a starred pattern. The corona was a dark blue, almost navy.

The stranger repeated his question. "I believe it was you that requested an interview. 12 months ago. I'm sorry I have taken so long in reaching you, but I have been quite busy."

"This is London," I thought, remembering the woman with the purple hair. I said, "Sorry, I think you are looking for someone else."

He ignored what I said and continued. "You were in Ann Arbor, Michigan, last year, one week before Good Friday."

I quickly checked to make sure I wasn't wearing something that said Michigan or Ann Arbor on it. I wasn't.

"You said," he continued, "'I wonder what it would be like to see an angel.'" He paused and looked again at the statue of Michael the Archangel. "No,...not a bad work of art, but it doesn't really capture who I am."

I assumed he was a whacko who got lucky on his guess, unless - and I shuddered thinking this - maybe he has been following me. I needed to decide what to do. Leaving the chapel seemed to make the most sense. I stood to go. He continued to look at the statue and carried on speaking.

"It was eight in the morning. You were praying and singing the song 'Oh Sacred Head Surrounded.' When you got to the line, 'And angel hosts adored thee and trembled as they gazed,' you saw in your mind a vision of an angel trembling before the cross as Christ was crucified. That was when you said, 'I wonder what it would be like to see an angel... better yet, I would like to speak to one that was there.' Your request has been granted. Do you still want the interview?"

Awkwardly, my mind was searching for a new decision, what to do now? His description of that time of prayer was accurate to the smallest detail, but the thought to speak to an angel was a fleeting one. I later tossed the idea around with a few friends, but that was it.

My mind finally came up with a question rather than an answer, "Well, is this man an angel or isn't he?" That was the right question, I thought, but you don't just ask someone, 'Well, are you really an angel?' At least I don't make a regular practice of it.

"Are you really an angel?" I asked.

"Yes." he answered, "I am Michael the Archangel."

I looked at him and then, again, at the statue. There was little resemblance

. "It lacks a sense of purpose and determination."

I looked again at him. From head to foot he was a very ordinary man in most respects. "You don't look much like an angel."

"Oh?"

"No."

"And how many have you seen?"

"Ah.... Well, I really haven't ever seen one. At least, not a real one."

"You have, actually. You have seen two. With the first you didn't know it, and with the second you don't believe it... at least not yet."

He saw my puzzled look.

"When you entered the Cathedral I believe you were directed here by a man saying, 'Don't miss the Chapel of St. Michael the Archangel. In front of the altar you will see St. Michael the warrior as he appears. The chapel is located in the front of the Cathedral on the left.'"

I looked away trying to collect my thoughts. How could this man know these facts? The man had been whispering. There was no one else near us.

"Did you read your guide-book?" he continued. "What does it say about this chapel and the angel?"

I opened the guide to page 18 and read under the words The Chapel of St. Michael, "...on the frontal is a low relief of St. Michael." That was all there was.

"He was giving orders to you, not a suggestion from a guide book."

I began to fear that London was having its effect on me more than on him.

"Look at me." He said softly, but with authority. I looked at him.

"I am Michael. My name means 'the right hand of God,' or 'he who is like God,' and I am an archangel."

The authority in his voice was amazing, like the authority of irrefutable truth. It was clear and perfect in my ear. In my mind doubt vanished, replaced by a certitude that he was Michael the Archangel. The certitude seemed given to me, infused, not something I had come to through my own deductions. I suddenly grew very self-conscious - aware of my own smallness. All sense of self- importance left and I knew I was in the presence of someone far superior. In awe I felt compelled to kneel. As I began to move, he took me by the elbow and held me up.

"Do not kneel. I am an angel, a servant of the Most High, but you are right to be afraid, for I hold the highest rank in the army of heaven. I am a warrior. My orders come directly from the Most High himself. My master is at war and I am at war. This is an unprecedented age. The powers of spiritual darkness have gained greater and greater influence in the affairs of this world, conspiring together against the Lord and the race made in His image and likeness. At issue is the eternal fate of every individual. These are days determined for battle, a battle for the soul of every human being. In this we are engaged day and night, in every nation, in every city and every home. There is not a man, woman or child whom we do not defend. We are nearing the day of the great battle when the Lord's anointed will stun the enemy and bring him to his knees. In that day, once and for all, humanity will be free from the trial of temptation, from the disfigurement of sin, from the tyranny of death. In that day the power of Satan will be broken and every knee shall bend and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord of all, including Satan himself."

Michael paused, but continued in that same soft yet authoritative voice, "The vision you had of the angel before the cross was more accurate than you might have thought. The story is meant to be written, and I am supposed to answer your questions so that you can write it."

"What story? For whom?" I thought, though I expected it would become clear in time. "So, when should I start to ask questions?"

"You have already asked five questions, ...seven if you include the original requests for an interview, and fourteen if you include the ones you have thought but not asked."

It was suddenly becoming clear to me that my mind was an open book to him. I wondered how to proceed. "Is what I am thinking that obvious?" I asked.

"To me, yes."

I did not immediately know what to do. How does one interview an archangel? I repressed the subjective questions flooding into my mind and decided to conduct the interview in as professional manner as possible.

"How long will I have with you?" I asked.

"I don't know," Michael replied. "I haven't been told, but I am sure it will be long enough to tell you what is necessary."

His response helped. I felt I could speak to him as I would to a normal person, not an unapproachable being of tremendous glory. "That takes the pressure off some anyway." I responded. "Next question.... Are you visible?"

"Can you see me?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"What I mean is, can other people see you?"

"Yes, I am as visible as you are."

"What if someone I know sees me and begins to talk to us?"

"Yes?"

"I assume you don't want everyone around here to know you are an angel do you?"

"No, you are right, but how would they know?"

"What if I told them? What would you do, disappear?"

"Oh, quite the contrary." I saw his point: Who would believe me? How could I convince anyone? I would simply end up rather embarrassed. I asked my next question.

"Are there other angels around here now?"

"Many."

"Where? Are they visible?"

"No, not just now. In fact, most of us never take visible shape. But to answer your first question in a bit more detail, this building is filled with them. As you can see, there are quite a few tourists here as well as some who are here to pray. Wherever there are people, there are angels as well."

"What do they all do?"

"It depends on what type of angels they are, and their level of rank. We are quite diverse in what we do, how we appear, how we work, and what powers we have."

"Could you explain? You said angels are divided according to their rank..."

"Yes, each of us is given a rank, and with our rank come certain powers and privileges. It works a lot like your military ranking systems. Some of us are like generals and captains, colonels and sergeants, although we use different terms. I am sure you are at least familiar with some of them: angels, archangels, cherubim and seraphim. Those of us of higher rank have greater power. We can intervene in the course of nature - only in obedience, of course. Whereas some of those of lower rank can only sow ideas or thoughts in the mind."

"You said there were different types of work in which you are engaged. What are they?"

"There are angels who act primarily as messengers. They bring the word of God as revelation to the hearts and minds of men. They give pastors inspiration for sermons and musicians ideas for hymns. It was one of these that gave you the vision twelve months ago.

I was sure I could guess what the warriors did, so I asked about the angels of comfort.

"Angels of comfort... They have a great role to play for those who are lonely or in misery, whether that is due to sin or simply the circumstances of their life. With the great amount of suffering in the world today we have assigned many to this role. Every victim of war, famine, illness, and disaster is assigned an angel of comfort. This is true even when the misery due to sin. Each person in these circumstances is assigned an angel to comfort them and draw then back to the truth. The greatest of sinners still receives the offer of comfort from the Most High even if they may not want it. These angels minister by urging the individuals assigned to them to cry out to the Most High for mercy. The Most High, in his great love, is always ready to show it. He wants them restored. Whenever someone cries out to him for help they receive it. Unfortunately, many are so hard hearted that even in the greatest of misery they refuse his mercy. But when the least of them turn to him, the rejoicing in heaven is great."

"Is the rejoicing done by these angels of comfort or by some others?"

"Well actually, by both. Certainly those involved rejoice, but also the angels of worship. They are the ones described in the book of revelation who never leave the throne room in heaven and never cease to praise God. Before the fall of Satan we were all angels of worship."