Every Sunday he stood and spoke with fake joy. With contrived affection for his flock he welcomed them in and accepted their trust, building on it with every warm smile and cunning joke he told. The people loved him and looked to him for spiritual guidance and funny football anecdotes and everything in between. But there was a predator in the pulpit.
He became a friend, a leader and most of all, a trusted member of the community. He knew what he was doing from the day he arrived, he knew his end goal and he wouldn’t be deterred in his pursuit of preying on the vulnerable. There was a predator in the pulpit.
Like a lion stalks its prey in the serenghetti, he sought out the small, easily manipulated lost souls. The children in the youth group or the left behind or sick. There was a predator in the pulpit.
In time he got what he wanted, what his sick desires longed for and eventually he went to prison where he’ll die. A trail of shattered lives and damaged souls left in his wake. There was a predator in the pulpit.
As victims we process and we heal in our time, or maybe we don’t. Regardless of how we handle our trauma it is a part of our lives because there was the predator in the pulpit.
Thank you for reading. Writing is healing. One Love.
Recovering Through Writing 