Page 25 of Preacher Man
I forced my eyes back to the open Bible in front of me, trying to remember where I was.The words on the page blurred, lost behind the hammering of my heart.
I cleared my throat.
“‘…and the greatest of these is love,’” I read, then looked up again, searching the crowd.“Love.It’s easy to speak of, but hard to live.It requires openness.Vulnerability.Acceptance.”
The congregation stirred uneasily.
It was a small town, and small towns liked small boxes.Boxes labeled man and woman, righteous and sinful, us and them.And here I was, the preacher man they’d welcomed with potlucks and whispered prayers, suddenly talking about acceptance like I was trying to pass out rainbow flags with the offering plates.
I kept going.I had to.
“Peace doesn’t come from judgment.It comes from grace.We are called to love one another—all of us—without exception.That’s the example Christ gave us.Not with swords and rules, but with open arms.”
I saw Mrs.Holloway’s lips pinch together like she’d sucked a lemon.The McCreery twins looked at their mama with wide eyes, clearly wondering what on earth had gotten into the preacher this morning.And in the front row, Deacon Harris gave me a glare so sharp it could’ve cut pews in half.
He leaned over and muttered something to the other deacons beside him, all of them ancient and brittle and clinging to the Old Testament like it was a security blanket.
My hands tightened on the pulpit.
Did they know?
Had someone seen me?
Was it the way Jake looked at me?The way I looked at him?
My throat closed up, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe.Couldn’t move.Couldn’t think past the fear rising like a tide inside me.
Because what if they knew?What if they’d already seen the truth etched across my skin like invisible ink?
I finished the sermon quickly, barely registering my own words.My voice sounded far away, robotic.And as I stepped away from the pulpit, nodding toward Deacon Harris to lead the closing prayer, I caught Jake’s eye one last time.
He smiled at me.A small, quiet thing.But it wasn’t innocent.It was full of knowing.Full of love.
And it wrecked me.
Deacon Harris took the pulpit like a man claiming land after battle, his hands slapping the wood with authority.He didn’t bother with the gentle lead-in I usually gave, didn’t talk about mercy or kindness.Just jumped right in.
“Let us pray,” he thundered.
The congregation bowed their heads.I did too, but I couldn’t focus on the words.Not with Jake’s presence pulsing behind me like a heartbeat.Not with sweat gathering under my collar, with shame tightening my chest like a vice.
“Lord God Almighty,” the deacon intoned, “smite the wicked, expose the ungodly.Root out those who would defile the sanctity of your house.”
My blood turned to ice.
I looked up, barely, just enough to see Deacon Harris’s eyes flick to the back row.
Then back to me.
Oh God.
“And let not your shepherd be led astray by the wolves in sheep’s clothing who slither into our midst.Let him remember your law, your truth, your judgment.Let him not fall to the whispers of lust nor the deceptions of false affection.”
I couldn’t breathe.
He knew.
Or maybe he didn’t.Maybe it was a coincidence.A general rebuke dressed in fire and brimstone.He could’ve meant anything.But my soul didn’t believe that.My soul curled up like it’d been hit.
