So, I’ve started writing a novel . . .
The congregation raved about his eloquent homilies, his intellect, his moral fortitude, his perfect family . . . I remember their words as if it were yesterday: “Just look at how well he manages his household. His children are so perfectly behaved!”
“Oh what a blessing it must be to have a minister for a father!”
“That man is a prophet. You hear me boy? A genuine prophet!”
How pathetic and blind they were. They couldn’t see through his disguise, they couldn’t feel the truth as I did when he went into a rage. My father, the great prophet . . . the great lie. Let me tell you about his righteousness.
At church he could maintain the facade, he could preach about the judgement and fire of a holy God, he could pat the children on their heads and smile, he could quote you an encouraging scripture, he could…
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