The Shepherd and the Shadow

The Sermon

The sanctuary glows under the warm hues of the stained-glass windows, a haven of peace and reverence. My voice carries through the vaulted space, commanding yet soothing.

“My brothers and sisters,” I say, spreading my arms, “sin is a thief. It disguises itself as ambition, survival, necessity. It whispers promises of satisfaction, but it only takes—your joy, your peace, your soul.”

Murmurs tell me the crowd is in my hand. I continue. “Sin disguises itself in the light. It whispers in your ear, makes you think you’re in control—but it owns you.”

Soft echoes of amen ripple through the congregation.

“But hear this,” I continue, leaning forward, my fist striking the pulpit, “God forgives! No matter how far you’ve fallen, His grace is infinite. His light will guide you back!”

The applause rises, a tidal wave of trust and devotion that washes over me. I bask in it, letting their belief in me fill the cracks inside.

My gaze sweeps the room, drinking in their faces—the widow clutching her Bible, the young couple holding hands. And then I see her.

Third row, left side.

She sits still, arms crossed, hood low over her face. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her dark eyes bore into me with unsettling focus.