Prophet

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Authors: Frank Peretti
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had to hold back his anger at the sheer idiocy of it all. “Dad, I hope you can see the foolishness of all this. At least admit that your actions were not cost effective, okay? For all the trouble you caused yourself and everyone else, the returns were very poor.”
    “Well . . . I said what I had to say.”
    John pounded the chair arm in anger and cursed. “They used you, Dad! Don’t you see that? That whole Hiram Slater bunch used you, and you helped him by what you did. You made it look like the only people who would oppose him are narrow-minded, fanatical, loudmouthedkooks! Kooks and brawlers, and . . . and . . .” He stopped. He hadn’t come here to insult anyone. “Now I’m not saying you’re any of those things. But you don’t understand the game, Dad. You’re up against the big leaguers out there, and I don’t think you realize the power of television.”
    Dad shook his head. “I didn’t mean to be on television. My words were for the people who were there, for the governor . . .”
    John leaned forward and gestured in Dad’s face. “Dad, you were there, you were happening, you were visually interesting. Television viewers want something to look at, something to watch. Producers are looking for what the viewers want, and, well, you were it. You asked for it, you got it. You drew those cameras, Dad. And Slater took advantage of the whole thing—you hollering, the fight, everything. That’s because he knows television. You don’t.”
    Dad thought it over and then nodded. He understood. “Yeah, you’re right.”
    “Well, I’m going to need more satisfaction than that, Dad. I want to know for sure—I want to hear it from your lips that you’re going to stop this public preaching-and-prophesying stuff. It isn’t working. It’s making a fool of you, a fool of me, and it’s only helping your enemies. Do you see that?”
    Dad rested back in his chair and looked at the wall, pondering the whole thing, his eyes full of pain. “It’s hard, son, to have God show you things and tell you things and then not know what to do with what you’ve been given.”
    John sighed. This was one of those little quirks of Dad’s—subjective experience. How do you reason with someone who’s been hearing from God? “Well, Dad, there are proper avenues . . .”
    Dad didn’t seem to hear him, but continued speaking in quiet tones, his eyes full of sorrow. “ ‘Eat the scroll, John.’ That’s what the Lord said. ‘In your mouth it will taste sweet, but it will make your stomach bitter.’ And He was right. Up front when you hear things and see things and God entrusts you with knowing things, you think of how privileged you are, how wonderful it is to see Truth parading right in front of you. And then . . . when you try to speak it and nobody listens . . . and you see people heading for a cliff and you just can’t turn them back . . . and when you find out things you would have beenhappier not knowing . . . and when you hear the cries of lost souls . . .”
    Dad’s eyes filled with tears. He dabbed his eyes again and looked at his son. “I could hear them last night, son. I could hear them as plain and clear as I can hear you now. All over the city. Souls without God, lost and dying and crying for help.” His voice broke and he struggled to continue. “Oh, on the outside they laugh and they mock and they sneer and they try to look good to all their friends and keep right on having a good time, keep right on accumulating things and being entertained because it’s the only way to get away from the pain. But I can hear them crying. I can see them drifting further and further from the light, just like they’re walking into shadows, into darkness, never to come back.” He drew a breath and then spoke out of anger and frustration. “But who can I tell? Who’s going to listen to me?”
    John heard what his father was saying, and yet, with a willful stubbornness, with a determined denial, he would not accept

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