Page 32 of Preacher Man
I was here to be talked to, not heard.
Esther cleared her throat like she was about to spit something out, then turned on her heel and disappeared, leaving me standing like a scolded child about to be handed a ruler to the knuckles.
Brother Thomas stood at the head of the table.His hands were folded over his bloated belly, and his eyes were closed.He let out a long, dramatic sigh.
“Let us pray,” he announced, and dove into the most long-winded, self-righteous invocation I’d ever heard.
“Our Father in Heaven,” he began, voice oily with performative reverence, “We ask that You guide us this afternoon as we make decisions that uphold Your truth.Let Your light cast out confusion, disorder, and sin in all its forms…”
I didn’t close my eyes.
Instead, I let my gaze drift from face to face.
Sister Eileen: skin like burnt parchment, lips pursed like she’d tasted vinegar and liked it.
Brother Whitmore: face pocked with sunspots, knuckles white on his Bible, a twitch in his jaw that said he wanted to say something ugly and was trying very hard not to.
Sister Marla: fake pearls, a tight perm, and wearing a scowl that would sour milk.
One by one, I took them in.Not one kind expression among them.No kindness.No curiosity.Just judgment.
My fear twisted in my gut.But beneath it, something else was rising.
Anger.
Not loud or wild.Not yet.
But there.
A low simmer.
The prayer finally ended with an “Amen” that felt more like a final warning.
I echoed it under my breath, still standing, hands at my sides.
Brother Thomas turned to me, his eyes sharp, his jowls twitching like he’d swallowed something sour.“Brother Ethan,” he said, dragging out my name like it hurt him.“The Board has gathered today because we are… concerned.”
I didn’t speak.I didn’t even blink.
He continued.“Your style of preaching, while… poetic, has not gone unnoticed.Your emphasis on love, on acceptance, on the softer attributes of God’s character, these things have raised eyebrows.”
There were a few pointed coughs and a couple of nods.
Sister Marla muttered something about “slippery slopes.”
Brother Thomas didn’t pause.“And while we value passion, Brother Ethan, we are first and foremost stewards of truth.Unchanging.Firm.God’s word is not a buffet from which one can pick and choose.”
The room was silent.
I swallowed hard.
“However,” he said, “it is not our desire to remove you from your post.We believe, with guidance and prayer, you may yet return to the fold with renewed conviction.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“Therefore,” he said, with a self-satisfied sniff, “we would like to send you to a regional youth camp in the mountains for two weeks.Their chaplain has taken ill, and your services would be useful.You will have time for reflection, for spiritual examination, and, above all, to commune with the Lord.”
I froze.
