Page 30 of Unbound
"The enemy doesn't come with horns and pitchfork," Pastor Caldwell was saying, his voice carrying easily through the simple sanctuary. "He comes as an angel of light. He comes with logic and reason and questions that sound thoughtful but are designed to undermine faith."
My hands were sweating. I pressed them against my thighs, trying to still their trembling.
"He targets the faithful specifically. The committed. The ones who pose the greatest threat to his kingdom. And he uses their own intelligence against them, making them think that questioning God's word is somehow noble or brave."
I could feel Father's attention on me, the weight of his concern. When I glanced sideways, he was studying my profile with the kind of intense focus that meant he'd noticed something wrong.
"Jesse," he whispered. "You look pale. Are you feeling well?"
"I'm fine," I whispered back, but my voice cracked slightly.
Pastor Caldwell continued his sermon, but I barely heard the rest. All I could think about was Adrian's question from Thursday:How do you know?The simple, devastating challenge that had been echoing in my head for days.
Because the truth was, I didn't know. I'd never known. I'd simply accepted what I was told, believed what I was taught, followed the path that was laid out for me without ever stopping to examine whether it was the right path or simply the expected one.
When the service ended, I stood mechanically, shook hands with the appropriate people, smiled at the appropriate moments. But inside, I felt like I was falling.
"Son." Father's hand on my shoulder was gentle but firm. "Walk with me."
We stepped outside into the spring sunshine, away from the chattering crowd of congregants. Father was quiet for a moment, studying me with the kind of parental radar that had always made lying impossible.
"You've been distracted lately," he said finally. "Your mother and I have both noticed. Is there something troubling you?"
"No, sir." The lie came automatically, well-practiced. "Just school stress. End of semester."
"Hmm." Father didn't look convinced. "You know you can talk to me about anything, don't you? If you're struggling with something, if someone's been filling your head with doubts or confusion?"
My throat felt tight. "Of course."
"Good." Father's smile was warm but watchful. "Because the enemy works hardest on those closest to God. The more faithful you are, the more aggressively he'll attack. Through friends, classmates, professors. Anyone who might plant seeds of rebellion disguised as intellectual growth."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Just remember," Father continued, "questioning God's word isn't wisdom. It's pride. And pride, as we know, comes before the fall."
Before I could respond, Pastor Caldwell approached us, his face bright with the kind of enthusiasm that usually meant trouble.
"David! Jesse!" He clapped Father on the back. "Perfect timing. I wanted to talk to you both about next weekend."
"Next weekend?" Father asked.
"The university is hosting some kind of pride event on campus. Saturday afternoon. A rally or festival, celebrating..." Pastor Caldwell's expression soured. "Well, celebrating sin, essentially. I think it's important that our congregation makes a statement. Shows these young people that not everyone supports their agenda."
My stomach dropped to somewhere around my shoes.
"You want us to organize a counter-protest?" Father asked, but his tone suggested he was already on board.
"Exactly. We need to make sure these perverts know what God thinks of their abomination. Clear signs with scripture - the real truth, not watered-down feel-good nonsense. 'God hates fags,' 'Repent or burn' - let them know exactly what they're choosing with their lifestyle."
"That sounds like an excellent idea," Father said. "Jesse, you'll join us, of course. Your presence will be particularly meaningful, since you're a student there. Show your classmates where you stand."
I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came. All I could think about was Adrian, and the near certainty that he'd be at this pride event. Not as a protester, but as a participant. As someone celebrating exactly what my church considered an abomination.
The thought of standing across from him with a sign condemning his mere existence made me physically ill.
But the thought of not being there, of missing the chance to see him again, was somehow worse.
"Jesse?" Pastor Caldwell was looking at me expectantly. "We can count on you?"
