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Love and Death In the House of Prayer

Tyler Deaton, a self-appointed apostle in one of the fastest-growing evangelical movements, loved Jesus, Harry Potter and, much to his dismay, other men. When his wife turned up dead, the secrets began to spill out

Illustration by Sean McCabe

Editor’s Note: In October 2014, nearly a year after this story appeared, the case against Micah Moore was dismissed. “My office concluded that we could not ethically continue to pursue the case given the current evidence,” prosecutor Jean Peters Baker said. With a trial no longer imminent, Baker’s office and Moore’s defense attorneys released critical pieces of exculpatory evidence for the first time. When we reported this story a year earlier, without access to this new information, we presented the criminal case against Moore as entirely credible. Moore implicated Tyler Deaton in the alleged crime, and we presented that implication as credible as well. But the evidence available now suggests overwhelmingly that Bethany Deaton committed suicide and that Moore and Deaton are innocent of any crime. We now know: every verifiable statement Moore made to detectives was either proven false or was contradicted by the evidence; after the confession, investigators discovered no additional evidence that a crime had occurred; and both circumstantial and forensic evidence point to suicide. We urge readers to reconsider this story in light of the totality of the evidence. A comprehensive account of that evidence – including more detail on Moore’s confession and Bethany Deaton’s suicide – is printed below the original article.


On October 30th, 2012, at 9:40 p.m., sheriff’s deputies responded to a report of a dead body at Longview Lake Picnic Shelter No. 12, in Kansas City, Missouri. A tan Ford Windstar van occupied the far-northwest space of the parking lot. In the van’s back seat, deputies found the body of a young woman. A white plastic trash bag had been pulled over her head and tied under her chin. She wore running shoes, black sweatpants, a light-blue fleece and a diamond wedding ring. A pair of eyeglasses had been folded and placed in a cup holder.

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A handwritten note on the center console acknowledged the evil of suicide and alluded to a terrible choice made long before. Also on the console were two hundred-count bottles of acetaminophen PM, one unopened, the other empty. A photo ID for “Bethany (RN, Menorah Medical Center)” lay on the floorboard. Bethany Deaton was 27 and had recently completed her nursing degree. Her supervisor would later describe her as an excellent, empathetic nurse. On the front seat were several CDs produced by the International House of Prayer, a charismatic Christian movement based in Kansas City and the nearby suburb of Grandview. The adherents of IHOP, as it is generally known, believe that the Second Coming will soon occur and that God needs their help to return Christ to Earth.

Bethany had moved to Grandview nearly four years earlier, after graduating from Southwestern University, a small liberal-arts school in Georgetown, Texas. She had belonged to an IHOP worship group there, and most of the prayer circle’s 20 or so members had relocated to Grandview, where they lived in two gender-segregated houses about four miles apart. In August, Bethany had married the worship group’s leader, Tyler Deaton. It wasn’t clear to people outside the group what would have motivated Bethany to take her own life. For years, she had longed to marry Tyler, and they had envisioned themselves enduring the Tribulation together. But the Jackson County Medical Examiner’s Office ruled Bethany’s death a suicide, and her body was released to her family for burial in her hometown of Arlington, Texas.

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Then, on November 9th, a friend of Bethany’s named Micah Moore walked into the Grandview Police Department. “I killed her,” he said. He had done so, he claimed, on Tyler’s orders. Over the past few months, Moore told a detective, Bethany had been dosed with the anti-psychotic Seroquel, and he and several men in the house had been sexually assaulting her. They had begun to worry that she might tell someone about it. Under questioning by detectives, two of the men in the house, and one who had recently moved out, revealed that they were in ongoing “sexual relationship[s]” with Tyler. At least one of these relationships was “long-term.” A fourth said that Tyler had “groomed” him to be part of their sexual group. The men said that Tyler was their “spiritual leader.” He was “manipulative” and exercised “control over the members of the household.” He characterized the sexual activity as a “religious experience.”

Two weeks later, Moore’s lawyer recanted on his behalf. Outside the Jackson County Courthouse, she declared his confession “bizarre,” “fictional,” made by “a distraught and confused young man.”

The Jackson County Prosecutor’s Office dismissed the recantation and charged Moore with first-degree murder. The judge granted him bail. He will be tried this fall. Tyler cooperated with investigators and has not been charged with a crime. He declined to comment for this story.

In the days following Moore’s confession, a parent of one of the worship-group members told a reporter that it was impossible to imagine the events leading to Bethany’s death. “How did they fall down that slippery slope?” the parent asked. “How, in just a few years, does all this come to pass?”

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God commanded Tyler Deaton to form a worship group on July 20th, 2007, while he was standing outside a Barnes & Noble, waiting for the midnight release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Tall, handsome, haughty and effeminate, he was about to begin his junior year at Southwestern University. Deaton was taken with fantasy sagas that counterpoised the demonic and angelic – The Chronicles of Narnia, The Lord of the Rings – but he particularly revered the Harry Potter series, which he called “the greatest story ever written.” Although he had been raised in a devout Presbyterian family and remained strongly committed to Christ, he had “willfully practiced magic in junior high,” according to a college friend named Boze Herrington, and he occasionally found himself using a “mysterious power to control others in ways that were unexplainable.” (The names of all group members other than those already mentioned have been omitted or changed to preserve anonymity.) Seemingly intractable homosexual impulses also vexed his faith. He often felt a sense, he later told a friend, of worthlessness. “I just know that, sociologically, there’s a connection between this power-obsessed, dark-magician, evil-dictator thing, and altered sexuality,” Deaton told friends.

Deaton was determined to overcome those forces, though. His confidence, monolithic and exclusionary, tended to divide the world into allies and adversaries. He had been a champion debater in high school, and he brought a tirelessness to religious debate at Southwestern. He considered his positions plainly factual and listeners who rejected them ignorant. The caption accompanying his senior portrait from Calallen High School in Corpus Christi, Texas, read, “Be intolerant, because some things are just stupid.”

During the summer of 2007, Deaton had traveled to Pakistan as a missionary, where he had a number of “supernatural” experiences. A boy with one leg, he told friends, had miraculously acquired another. During a visit to a children’s home, he had heard the words “The leader of this place is committing sexual sin with young boys.” Deaton informed the trip’s leaders, and learned that two boys had been caught performing sexual acts with each other. They and the home’s leader were removed.

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Since his return, Deaton had been wondering how to access the supernatural in America. The answer came outside the Barnes & Noble. “What you just did in Pakistan,” God told him, “you are going to do at Southwestern.” The names of three friends “erupted” from Deaton’s mouth: “June,” “Justin” and “Bethany Leidlein.” In Deaton’s vision, their collective worship would “shift the spiritual atmosphere” on campus and catalyze a revival. Angels would descend and demons would flee, and Christians across the university would rush to join the group. Even non­believers would succumb. The “spirit of intellectualism” that held so many in bondage would be dispelled for good.

Like Deaton, June, Justin and Bethany were observant Christians, enthralled by fantasy fiction and devoted to Harry Potter. The group members began comparing themselves to the four Pevensie children in The Chronicles of Narnia, who enter a universe mastered by evil, win renown as soldiers in the army of a resurrected Messiah and finally assume their places as kings and queens of a renewed world. They spent many hours discussing the Harry Potter books and films, which they approached with “a religious devotion,” according to Herrington, whom they briefly resisted admitting to the group, because it would have broken the symmetry. The works “fueled our sense of being on a divine mission,” says Herrington. “One of their chief attractions was a sense of belonging to a secret club with exclusive access to knowledge and power. That was the root of our whole ideology.”

The magic at the heart of the books would always inform his understanding of his own divine power. “In the years I was with him, things were constantly happening that I had to shrug away as being ‘the work of the Holy Spirit,'” says Herrington. “Tyler would raise his voice and say, ‘Jesus!’ and the neighbor’s music would immediately stop. He would tell the birds to fly away and they would fly away. He would place curses on my appliances so they wouldn’t work.”

Bethany was small, fair, blue-eyed, reserved without being remote and from the outset wholly committed to Deaton’s mission. In some ways, she made an unlikely follower. A natural intellectual who graduated magna cum laude, she’d read every Charles Dickens novel but one by the time she was 13, and was a talented writer herself, the pride of Southwestern’s writing center. She started keeping a blog at the end of 2003, and produced some 200 pages of pointed, wry, sometimes lyric prose. In one post, she described a classmate as a “devastatingly sober playwright.” “Oh, liberal arts,” she wrote in the summer of 2006. “It’s training me to be a splendid gentleman farmer.” One evening, she stayed in the writing center after everyone else had left, “trying to cup the moment in my hands,” she wrote. “I must often consciously uncrease my forehead, unfurrow my eyebrows and walk a bit more slowly, remembering that tomorrow will take care of itself.”

Bethany took care of other people instinctively. “She had a quiet energy that flowed through the group,” a classmate recalls. “Her life was one of the most luminous and promising I’ve known,” Herrington says.

She could also be lavishly, almost immoderately romantic. She imagined herself as a novelist and professor at a small university, living in a cottage in the woods. “The dream of her heart was to be married,” Herrington recalls. “We used to stay up late talking about it, night after night. She had been praying for her husband since she was a teenager. She had written him letters, before they even met.” She found herself “fiercely attracted” to Deaton and was convinced that God had ordained their union. She was aware of his struggles with homosexuality but believed that God would use her to heal his heart.

In December 2007, at the urging of a cousin, Tyler Deaton attended an IHOP conference in Kansas City. He wrote his fellow group members right afterward: “Friends . . . I kid you not . . . when I say that I feel God has transformed me more in that short period of time than I have been so far in my life. . . . I have one word attached to one phrase that God has violently poured into my heart. It is . . . echoing in the heavens right this instant, and I mean that literally. . . . That word, that phrase . . . is this: REVIVAL through prayer and worship. Friends, I freaking cannot wait to talk to you in person.”

At IHOP’s frequent, frenetic conferences, attendees learn that they are “in the early days of the generation in which Jesus returns,” as IHOP founder Mike Bickle puts it. “I believe that people alive on the Earth today will actually see the Lord with their own eyes,” he has preached. But Jesus has no clear return path. Demons, he says, have steadily taken possession of Christian hearts and infiltrated earthly institutions.

In 1983, Bickle says, God instructed him to “establish 24-hour prayer in the spirit of the tabernacle of David.” The tabernacle was the tent erected by King David to house the Ark of the Covenant after the conquest of Jerusalem; it became a dwelling place of God and a site of ecstatic worship. To resurrect this spirit of worship, Bickle would build IHOP’s first prayer room, a storefront hall next to the Higher Grounds cafe and Forerunner Bookstore in an IHOP-owned strip mall in South Kansas City. Bickle believes that unceasing, euphoric worship and song at IHOP and in prayer rooms across the globe, which should never close or be empty, will promote passionate intimacy with the Lord, revive the church and demolish demonic strongholds. And so IHOPers pray all day and night, through blizzards and blackouts, in hours-long sessions of mesmeric, musical worship, repeating the same phrases over and over, expecting to precipitate the Great Tribulation and the final battle between good and evil that precedes the Second Coming of Jesus Christ.

This is IHOP’s most alluring tenet: God needs IHOPers to effect the Tribulation and bring Christ back to Earth. “The church causes the Great Tribulation,” Bickle has preached. Before founding IHOP, he argued that “God intends us to be like gods. God has conceived in his heart of a plan to make a race of men that would live like gods on Earth.” Bickle sometimes affects to know God as he would a peer. “I heard what I call the internal audible voice of the Lord,” he has said. He claims that he visited heaven one night at 2:16 a.m., and the Lord charged him with preparing for an End Times ministry and seated him in a golden chariot that lifted off into the empyrean. At IHOP, where prophetic experiences are endemic, the mortal and divine commingle liberally.

The vanguard of God’s End Times army, according to Bickle, will be made up of young people, or “forerunners,” seers specially attuned to the will of the Lord, “the best of all the generations that have ever been seen on the face of the Earth.” For seven years of Tribulation, they will battle the Antichrist. When Christ returns, he will slaughter by sword in a single day the unsaved, and his warriors will rule heaven and Earth forevermore.

IHOP is not the only charismatic movement in America to adopt this theology of aggressive prayer. A constellation of ministries shares its vision. Together, they make up what has been called the New Apostolic Reformation, a decades-old rebellion against traditional Christianity that counts millions of adherents worldwide; it has become such a force in evangelical America that Texas Gov. Rick Perry hosted an NAR prayer rally in Houston for his 2012 presidential campaign. As prayer rooms are established in ever more locations, according to NAR, the “seven mountains of culture” – government, business, family, educational systems, the media, arts and religion – will fall under its influence.

Within a month of Deaton’s return from Kansas City, everyone in the group had become a “hardcore IHOPer,” Herrington says. They consumed IHOP books, music and teachings, and road-tripped to NAR conferences. They soaked themselves in IHOP theology until, in Herrington’s words, “it became an integral part of who we were.”

The work that most enduringly shaped Deaton’s thinking might have been The Final Quest, an account of the End Times by NAR leader Rick Joyner, whose celestial travels and pretensions to divinity resemble those of Bickle. Joyner claims to have written The Final Quest in a “trance” state, akin to that of the Apostle John. Joyner describes his book as “a call to all who will go on to the most noble adventure of the age” – the final showdown between good and evil. The Final Quest is ludicrous self-hagiography that casts Joyner as a hero of Armageddon, “one of the saints fighting the last battle.”

“Something in Tyler made him particularly volatile when exposed to those teachings,” one group member says. Less than three weeks after he read The Final Quest, Deaton told his worship group that he had been divinely ordered to “train God’s final army.” Deaton had arrogated to himself, in Joyner’s conception, prodigious supernatural power, highest-level divine revelation and the authority to call down God’s judgment upon those who opposed him. The history of the group would play out against a backdrop of Final Quest imagery.

Years later, when Herrington tried to reread The Final Quest, he started shaking, ran to the bathroom and puked. He doesn’t think it’s possible to underestimate the influence of the book or of NAR’s latter-day apostles on Deaton. “In some ways, Tyler was as much a victim as anyone else,” Herrington says. “These apostles destroyed him. I think they drove him mad.”

Shortly before deaton traveled to Kansas City, Bethany encouraged Micah Moore to join the worship group. The two had met in an English class during the fall of 2007. “They hit it off like gangbusters,” a mutual friend says. Bethany had always “nourished her friends, and Micah had ‘Lost Soul in Need of Nourishment’ written all over him.”

Earlier in the semester, Moore had dropped acid, and the trip had unbalanced him: He hallucinated legions of angels and demons fighting over his soul, according to a friend. Herrington says Moore was “questioning the nature of reality: ‘Am I real? How do I know this isn’t all an illusion?'” Moore told one friend that only radical personal change could save him.

Moore was a patient listener, eminently suggestible. A former friend remembers him as “a thoughtful and melancholic young man, going around tugging at his beard and thinking inwardly about things.” Other acquaintances have described him as a “space cadet” and so pleasant it was “almost weird, but not in a creepy way.” He was an avid guitarist and often played with other musicians on campus. One former classmate thought that he “was looking for magic in life.”

The group became a sanctuary for Moore, who often came under “attack” from demons; some members defended him with prayers. “With a community of believers around me, I’m not vulnerable,” he told a friend. Moore became as zealous as anyone in the group. He often spoke of the fallen world. “God is so pure and we are so sinful that the only way we can ever go near him is because of Jesus. Without Jesus, God can’t even look at us.”

“I felt a little shiver of apprehension,” she later recalled. “This wasn’t a God I had ever heard of.”

Moore put his faith in Deaton completely. “He has a special gift,” Moore would say. When Deaton laid hands on him, Moore felt “a special grace.”

Many prospective members were drawn by this quality of Deaton’s. “What we all wanted was an authentic walk with God, and what we saw in Tyler was a kind of vibrancy and conviction, an extreme devotion,” one ex-member says. “It was hard not to think, ‘What if he is walking with the Lord?'”

At IHOP, it is understood that God has endowed leaders like Bickle with prophetic gifts. But IHOP theology constrains those leaders from imposing limits on the power of their followers. Their insights are no more falsifiable than the leadership’s own. “If you were to go up to Mike Bickle and say, ‘I feel God’s anointed me an End Times apostle,’ he’d say, ‘Praise God and bless you!'” says a former group member.

When Deaton announced that he had been chosen to train God’s final army, thus elevating himself to the spiritual plane of IHOP’s senior leadership, no one seriously challenged him. Nearly everyone in the group, according to former members, believed he was an End Times apostle. By the spring of 2008, when the group had grown to about 20, it was assumed that Deaton heard God with unsurpassed clarity and that he had been sent on a spiritual-martial mission that would refashion all existence.

But God spoke to Deaton so often, and about matters so minor, that it sometimes seemed as if the Lord were micromanaging the group. Once, when they were eating at a Panda Express, Deaton sensed a soul-endangering “spot of darkness” on their side of the restaurant, and said they should switch tables. He forbade Herrington from making a late-night fast-food run with two friends because they had “spirits of delusion resting on them.”

By the fall of 2008, as Deaton was beginning his final semester, his followers were seeing End Times signs and omens everywhere: in a billboard’s exhortation, a clutch of turkey vultures over campus, a stray phrase stuck in someone’s head, a small bird in a hawk’s talons. Visions came easily; people were “eating prophecies for breakfast,” according to a former member. Angels informed the group that fire would rain down on Southwestern and rip the “masks” off unbelievers. Herrington had once dreamed that a flood razed the school and transformed the land into a dwelling place of bizarre marine mammals; the dream now seemed prescient. Forecasts of obliteration occasioned hope, not sadness. Deaton told friends over lunch that death was a sign of weakness and sin, an application of justice. No believer should fear it: A good Christian would not die before his work was done.

One July day in 1988, Mike Bickle was sitting in his office, reading a wedding card inscribed with a verse from the Song of Solomon. “Jesus, seal my heart with your seal of love,” Bickle spontaneously prayed. Unaccountably, he began to weep. The phone rang. A prophet had heard the “audible voice of the Lord” for Bickle: The Song of Solomon, a dialogue between King Solomon and his beloved, should become a focus of Bickle’s ministry. It eventually came to Bickle that true believers must see Jesus “through the eyes of a bride with loyal, devoted love” – they must “feel loved and in love” with Christ. Without this intimacy in worship, Christ would not return to Earth.

But the Song of Solomon is a paean to sexual desire. “Let the king bring me into his chambers” and “kiss me with the kisses­ of his mouth,” the beloved says. “His fruit” is “sweet to my taste.” IHOP’s website states that one of its prayer guides, Bridal Intercession, “presents prayer as the joyful and romantic communion between the lover and his beloved. . . . Readers will find themselves . . . eager to encounter this lovely Lord who is their bridegroom.”

Many critics, observing that IHOP recruits post-pubescent youth, have wondered where, if they are to approach their Lord as Solomon’s beloved approaches Solomon, their imaginations are supposed to go. “[Jesus] is not coming until the people of God are crying out globally in intercession with a bridal identity,” Bickle has preached. If the Second Coming depends upon “romantic communion” with Christ, and the alternative is satanic hegemony, then any error in worship should be made on the side of erotic intimacy – to lust and repent is surely better than abandoning Jesus in his hour of need.

Bickle makes a point of warning his followers that bridal theology is not sexual. To IHOP’s detractors, though, the introduction of any suggestion of sensuality into worship invites transgression. Aggravating the libidinal diciness, they argue, is the nature of that worship. IHOPers spend 20, 30 or more hours every week in the prayer room, often for three or four hours at a time.

Across the IHOP complex, in cafeterias, hallways and the prayer room, music composed to enhance the ecstatic experience is “omnipresent,” according to an ex-member. Among the lyrics to two popular songs: “God is a lover looking for a lover/So he fashioned me” and “Do you understand what you do to me? . . . How you ravish my heart with just one glance?” Some former IHOPers have talked of being addicted to it – they become nervous and irritable when they turn it off. Another IHOPer has written about addiction to the sedative atmosphere of the prayer room itself: “A common refrain around anxious, discouraged IHOPers is, ‘I just gotta get to the prayer room.'”

“Very quickly, there were sensual escapades with God,” a former intern says, meaning that some people’s private imaginings turned explicit after exposure to IHOP’s “bridegroom” Christ. She says that an instructor told her, “God is using his word to kiss you.” The intern heard stories of IHOPers fantasizing about having “orgies with Jesus” and “sex with God.”

At Southwestern, Deaton often played IHOP music when he presided over worship, and the members referred to Christ as “the bridegroom” and to themselves as his “brides.” For most, the worship experience was spiritual, not sensual, but Deaton and at least one other person were “really into the bridegroom stuff,” according to an ex-member. Deaton pressed people to enter a prayerful state and “cuddle with Jesus,” says an ex-member.

But anything beyond holding hands was judged to be iniquitous. “Marriage prophecies” determined dating partners. According to members, such prophecies were explicitly discouraged by IHOP, but they cropped up in the group not long after IHOP theology sank in. Suddenly, everyone had a prophecy or was the object of one. The recipient would conceal it from its object while sharing it with Deaton and several others, who would pray on it. Deaton seldom matched people romantically interested in one another. It was more often to the unsuited that hesaid, “God told me that you two are destined for marriage.”

The practice created a “horrendous atmosphere,” says one former member. Deaton involved himself in nearly every relationship. He might find two people he’d matched spiritually unready, and break them up. “You are idolizing your future spouse and putting him before God,” he might say. Sometimes people were ordered to avoid one another completely. Flirtation might be punished by a ban on all contact with the opposite sex for a week or more.

Deaton himself did not date, which was taken as a sign of his commitment to God. “He’s so focused on the Lord, dating only distracts him,” people said. Deaton involuntarily exerted a strong attraction on many of the women in the group. Most liked him at some point, and when he became aware of their feelings, he tended to treat them coldly. As the group grew, maxing out at about 25, knowledge of his homosexuality remained in his inner circle.

Bethany had one of the first marriage prophecies; its object was Deaton. He was not happy. “It’ll never happen,” he told a friend, although he was unwilling to denounce it outright. He seemed to have fallen for one of the original group members, Justin, several former members say. You could tell by how Deaton looked at him, one acquaintance said, and “in photos, it jumped out at you.”

“Bethany cried almost every day” that summer, Herrington says. Unable to get past her feelings for Deaton and still devoted to his mission, she nonetheless returned to Southwestern in the fall of 2008, according to Herrington, “determined not to be weighed down by it.” It might take God longer to heal Deaton than she had hoped, and she began thinking about attending nursing school after graduation, instead of following Deaton to IHOP.

In platonic relationships, Deaton urged prolonged, affectionate contact, particularly among men, because, he said, they had been wrongly socialized to resist it. They should hug, cuddle, give one another massages. If you were uncomfortable with loving touch, you had “a wall in your heart” and were “only experiencing part of God’s love.” “You can’t function as a Christian that way,” he said. This disconcerted many of the men, but they accepted that spiritual growth might entail discomfort. Deaton might encourage two guys to cuddle on the floor while the rest “dog piled” on top of them, in the words of an ex-member. These were innocent activities for most of the men. Deaton, though, according to Herrington, “spent hours cuddling with Justin on the futon in their dorm.” Justin, who was not gay, eventually became uncomfortable with Deaton’s affections.

Meanwhile, Deaton took to ministering other gay Christian men, at least one of whom became a group member. Deaton described his own sexual orientation as a “hurt in my heart.” One day, he said, two black triangles appeared on his palms. They were “demonic signatures,” indicators of homosexuality, visible only to him. In November 2007, the group members spent several hours praying over him. During the intercession, the black triangles disappeared, Deaton said, and he dared to hope that this was “proof of deliverance.”

Problematically for Deaton, the social world he had fashioned normalized his own desires while repressing everyone else’s. In chapel, Jesus was a “ravishing” bridegroom, a perfect male form; under Deaton’s supervision, heterosexual relationships had become unworkable, unmoored from romantic desire and skirted­ by Deaton himself with a justification of piety; and he had bound together godliness and homoeroticism. One former group member, thinking about the events of the past fall and the manner of Bethany’s death, recently said, “I just don’t get it. Why couldn’t Tyler be gay? Why couldn’t he just go find a guy and be happy?”

Deaton always felt that his authority would be released to his followers after he left Southwestern, and as his final semester progressed, group members grew more confrontational with classmates, speaking openly of the Tribulation’s proximity and their exclusive knowledge of the “Spirit of God.” One day, Micah Moore biked around school, yelling, “‘I am making war on this campus!’ and roaring like a lion,” in Herrington’s words.

Deaton himself seemed to grow more intolerant. On the way home from a trip to Panda Express, at the end of November, Herrington vehemently contradicted Deaton, and he became so angry he asked to be let out of the car. The driver turned to Herrington. Deaton was the “apostle of Southwestern,” she said, “and you need to do whatever he tells you!” After group members participated in an irreverent campus skit, Deaton told them that they had blasphemed God before nonbelievers and thereby given Satan a “greater foothold on campus.” He ordered them to the chapel. Fifteen or 20 people arrayed themselves in a row near the altar to pray and repent; several were crying.

One day, Deaton played Bethany a song from High School Musical 3 called “I Want It All”: “Imagine having everything we ever dreamed – don’t you want it?” A few weeks later, according to Herrington, “she sat him down and very forcefully explained her feelings. He claimed he was overwhelmed by the radiant purity of her love and his prophetic discernment was unable to find anything worrying or unholy about it. His heart was opened by her tenderness.” Bethany began to lean toward IHOP.

In November, Moore reported that God had talked to him while he was praying in the shower: A tragedy would soon befall Southwestern. Only true believers who stood on a “firm foundation” would remain at peace. A few days after Moore described this vision to the group, four other members shared confirming visions or insights. “It sounds like someone is going to die,” one member said. Herrington predicted that the tragedy would occur on December 4th or 5th.

On December 3rd, a series of “spectacular omens” culminated in the appearance of an immense dark cloud over Highway 29, which borders the Southwestern campus. The group convened in Deaton’s room. “There was a deep feeling shared by everyone present that God was about to descend on Southwestern in glory and judgment and . . . destroy these things that were against him,” Herrington says.

The next day, a student named Rob Atkinson was crossing the stretch of Highway 29 earlier darkened by the premonitory cloud when he was hit by a car and killed. Atkinson had been a vocal supporter of interfaith dialogues, which Dea­ton considered harbingers of the Antichrist. “We were convinced that God had come down in wrath, and that our prayers had led to this student’s death,” Herrington later wrote to a friend. Several others concurred.

The worship-group members believed they had blood on their hands, and it exalted them. “We talked about Rob in a tone of gleeful triumphalism,” Herrington says. Other ex-members ruefully agree. In Atkinson’s death, according to Herrington, Deaton detected a “blueprint” for the future: After studying at IHOP, he would assemble an apostolic team, travel to Egypt and establish a ministry. God’s wrath, unleashed by the prayers of his team, would destroy all unholy things, just as it had destroyed Atkinson. Members of the worship group began hearing from God: Their mission in life was to follow Deaton.

In early 2009, Deaton and Bethany moved to Grandview, Missouri, to begin IHOP’s six-month “One Thing” internship program, devised by the leadership for “a generation who, in loving obedience, will abandon themselves to Jesus,” and thus become “equip[ped] spiritually” for “a life of prayer.”

Over the next two years, most of the other group members would graduate and join Deaton and Bethany in Grandview. (Moore, a couple of years younger than Deaton and Bethany, would not arrive until the summer of 2011.) From 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., Deaton and Bethany absorbed biblical analysis and theology, and from 6 p.m. until midnight, they worshipped in the prayer room.

It wasn’t long before Deaton had a transformative revelation. Up until then, he had seen his homosexuality as simply the way he was wired, but in a moment of divine insight, it came to him that being gay was a choice he had made, whether consciously or not. He later described this moment, and the interior anguish preceding it, in an essay titled “Good News in Why Homosexuality Is a Sin: An Answer That Makes It Conquerable and Non-Unique”: “Oh, I can tell you [God’s abhorrence] is so painful to the homosexual that struggles because this is what homosexuals feel – ‘Why is my love condemned? . . . Just because God says no without giving any explanation, why? This is so cruel, so senseless, so unfair. I can’t even imagine liking heterosexuality; it’s disgusting, even though I want to be like that so badly, but how can I change? What’s even wrong with this, God?'”

The “hopelessness” and “self-pity” in those lines was “sinful in and of itself,” Deaton wrote. But the church offered little help beyond the blunt reminder that homosexuality is “not in line with God’s established natural order.” “When I heard someone callously say, ‘Why don’t they just not be gay?’ rage would course through my being at the ignorance and insensitivity to the struggle that homosexuals try to endure, the intensity with which they always try to not be gay at least at first,” he continued. Ten years of fruitlessly praying for intervention had made him bitter and hurt and had ultimately removed hope from “deep regions of my heart.”

But then came the revelation. It was 2 a.m. He was “wrestling with God. . . . I felt like some lesser creature, a half-man, a half-human. . . .” For reasons having largely to do with childhood trauma, he explained, he had always sought self-worth in other men, and he saw now that this seeking was classically idolatrous. In Romans 1:25–27, he noted, Paul identifies idolatry as the cause of homosexuality: “They worshipped and served [created things] rather than the Creator . . . [and] for this reason . . . men were consumed with passion for one another.” For the first time, he repented of the idolatry driving his desires. “The joy that surged through me on that night and in the immediate days [afterward] is difficult to explain,” he wrote.

A few weeks later, Deaton was sitting in the prayer room, watching Bethany worship. A “giant vat of affection,” as he later described it, rushed over him. “I was experiencing real, passionate, sexual, knock-me-off-my-feet, pure and glorious attractions for the most beautiful woman alive,” Deaton wrote in the essay. When they completed their i