Page 128 of Divine Temptations

Devil’s Advocate

Chapter One

Jimmy

I’d been playing guitar for Jesus since I was twelve years old, and by twenty-eight, I knew the rhythm of worship by heart—the rise and fall of praise, the pauses where the Holy Spirit was supposed to move. The strings hummed under my fingertips like a prayer half-answered.

The studio lights glared white and hot, washing everything in a feverish glow that made our little set look holier than it was. My shirt clung to me beneath the heat, the collar tight against my throat. Three cameras stood like silent witnesses to our devotion, red lights blinking like judgment.

Daddy stood at the pulpit, his hand gripping the microphone, his eyes closed as he sang the last verse ofVictory in Jesus.His voice quavered on the high notes—thin, aching—but the crowd swayed and raised their arms as if angels themselves had descended among us. Maybe they had. Or maybe I just couldn’t feel it anymore.

I kept playing, praying the right kind of feeling would find me before the song ended. The set looked like Heaven done on a budget—plastic ferns painted gold, a wooden cross glimmering under stage lights, purple curtains hiding the chipped drywallbehind them. The air smelled of powder, hair spray, and burnt coffee from the pot the crew kept forgetting to empty.

Still, when Daddy sang, people believed. They always did. Faith made beautiful things out of small ones, and I clung to that truth like a lifeline.

When the hymn ended, Daddy lifted both arms, sweat shining on his forehead. “Brothers and sisters,” he said, his voice turning from song to sermon, “before we close, I want to speak a word of blessing to you.”

The crowd—fifty souls in folding chairs—quieted instantly. These were people I’d known all my life. Men who’d fixed my truck when it broke down. Women who’d held my mother’s hand through chemo. Neighbors, sinners, saints—sometimes all three. I knew their stories better than my own, but Daddy said what mattered wasn’t who we’d been. It was who we’d been reborn to be.

Daddy smiled, warm as honey. “Sister Margaret Henderson from Tennessee wrote to us last week. Seventeen years of bursitis, pain so bad she could hardly raise her arms to praise. But she sowed a seed of faith—a single dollar bill she sent with a prayer—and now she’s healed!”

A murmur of “Amen” rippled through the audience.

“She gave what she had, and the Lord gave it back tenfold! The number’s on your screen right now—call and sow your seed today! Faith demands action!”

Applause broke out amidst shouts of, “Praise Jesus!”

Daddy’s voice dropped low, tender. “When you give, God sees it. He knows your sacrifice.”

He lifted his hand toward me. “My son Jimmy set up our online donations—credit cards, even this newfangled Bitcoin stuff. The world may change, but the Word remains the same.”

The audience laughed good-naturedly. I smiled, a little embarrassed by the attention.

When Daddy prayed to close the show, I bowed my head with the rest, my guitar pressed to my chest. I whispered the words along with him, asking forgiveness for every stray thought, every flicker of doubt that dared rise when I should’ve been feeling only faith.

The red light on the camera went dark, and just like that, the holy moment was over.

The audience got to their feet, murmuring thanks, shaking hands. The crew powered down the lights, leaving the air cooler but heavier somehow. I set my guitar back in its case, fingers still trembling from the adrenaline of performance—or maybe from guilt that I hadn’t felt enough of what I was supposed to.

Daddy’s laughter carried from across the room, deep and genial. He shook hands with Sister Kowalski, who pressed a tissue to her eyes. “You moved me again, Reverend,” she said.

Daddy touched her shoulder. “That’s not me, sister. That’s the Spirit.”

She beamed as if she’d just glimpsed Heaven.

I wanted to feel what she felt—that simple certainty, that joy that didn’t ask questions. But lately, faith felt like something I performed instead of lived. And the thought alone made me ashamed.

I bent my head, whispering, Forgive me, Lord. I know it’s just the Devil testing me again.

When I looked up, Daddy was watching me.

“James Mathew,” he called, and my heart stuttered. He only used my entire name when there was something serious to discuss. “Wait a moment, son. I need a word.”

“Yes, sir.”

I latched my guitar case, wiped my hands on my jeans, and followed him off the set toward his office.

Daddy’s office was the finest room in the building, and I’d always thought of it as holy ground. The air felt different there—cooler, stiller, heavy with the scent of furniture polish and something faintly metallic, like old coins. A massive painting of Jesus hung behind Daddy’s desk, eyes blue and endless, gaze fixed somewhere past my shoulder. It made me stand straighter every time I entered, as if the Lord Himself were watching.