The Long Sermon- The Biggest Lie Of My Life

The Long Sermon- The Biggest Lie Of My Life

The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hummed, a relentless, sterile buzz that grated on Pastor Thomas Albright's ears. It was a sound far removed from the hushed reverence and stained-glass warmth of his church, a sanctuary he had presided over for nearly fifty years. Now, lying frail and diminished against stark white sheets, he felt the cool, dry hand of a young minister, barely out of seminary, on his brow. The scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint, cloying sweetness of lilies, a grim floral tribute to his impending departure.

“Pastor Albright,” the minister began, his voice a soft, earnest murmur, a stark contrast to the booming cadences Thomas himself had mastered. “Would you like me to offer you last rites? To prepare your soul for its journey home?”

Thomas’s eyes, clouded by the haze of age and illness, fixed on the earnest, youthful face of the man. This was it. The ultimate, bitter irony. For half a century, he had stood in pulpits, his voice resonating with practiced conviction, promising heaven, guiding souls towards a celestial embrace he silently scoffed at. It was the biggest lie of his life, a falsehood so intricately woven into the fabric of his existence that it had become inseparable from him. He closed his eyes, and the vast, arid landscape of his deception flashed before him.

***

*“I stared at the crowd and told the biggest lie of my life.”*

He remembered that first sermon. It wasn't the one he delivered immediately after, but the one where the new normal truly set in. Six months old, little Sarah, his daughter, had been there, a tiny, warm bundle, a miracle. Then, one quiet night, she was gone. A crib death, the doctors said, unexplainable, untraceable. His congregation had rallied, a tidal wave of casseroles and condolences, Scripture verses and tearful hugs. His devout wife, Mary, had clung to her faith like a drowning woman to a lifeline, finding solace in the unwavering rhythm of hymns and the gentle reassurances of scripture.

But for Thomas, Sarah’s tiny, lifeless body, impossibly still in his arms, had extinguished every flicker of belief he’d ever held. In the raw, agonizing depths of his grief, a terrible, unspoken accusation had formed, sharp and poisonous. Mary had been the one watching their child. She’d been tired, yes, but *she* was the one who had been there. He never said it. He never showed it. It just settled like a fine, pervasive ash in his soul, coating every tender feeling he once had for her, solidifying into a quiet resentment that calcified their marriage.

From that day on, he ran on autopilot. His life became a meticulously crafted performance. Sunday mornings, his voice, honed over years, would boom with a practiced conviction that belied the cavernous emptiness within him. He’d stand before the packed pews, his words weaving intricate tapestries of divine love and eternal salvation, each phrase a thread in the magnificent, heartbreaking lie. He’d watch the rapt faces, the occasional tear, the knowing nods, and a cold part of him would marvel at his own artistry, even as another part screamed at the sacrilege.

After services, he’d shake hands, offer profound platitudes about God’s plan, baptize squalling infants he silently believed were merely destined for the dust from which they came. He had presided over countless funerals, his voice a balm to the grieving, whispering assurances of heavenly reunions, guiding trembling hands towards a peace he scoffed at internally. He'd watch the fading light in their eyes, their last breath, feeling only a profound, almost detached numbness, a strange mix of weariness and quiet triumph that he could maintain the facade even in the face of absolute finality. He was the shepherd, leading his flock towards a paradise he knew did not exist.

At home, the performance softened, but never truly ceased. Mary, bless her unwavering heart, remained steadfast in her faith. Every evening, she’d pray over her food, head bowed, eyes closed, a silent communion that Thomas deliberately ignored. He’d just pick up his fork, the clink against ceramic a minor rebellion. Before bed, she knelt by their side, murmuring prayers into the quiet night, her voice a gentle hum. He’d lie stiffly beside her, listening to the rhythmic rise and fall of her voice, his own mind a swirling vortex of demons, hellfire, and brimstone—the very torments he preached against, yet that clawed at him in terrifyingly vivid nightmares. He consciously rejected God, but his subconscious seemed determined to punish him for it.

He was the perfect husband, outwardly. Polite kisses on the cheek for greetings and farewells, devoid of genuine affection, yet convincing enough. Compliments on her cooking – "Delicious, dear," a phrase uttered with robotic precision. He looked at her, his eyes meeting hers, but he didn't *see* her. Her laughter, her occasional frown, the way her hair curled at the temples – he processed the data but felt nothing. He never noticed a new dress, a different hairstyle, the subtle changes that spoke of her life lived beside him. He was simply present, a functional void occupying space, a polite echo in their quiet home.

He was a man of good standing in the community, respected, admired, a pillar of faith and morality. All built on a foundation of sand, meticulously constructed to conceal the abyss beneath. He often wondered, in the darkest hours of the night when the nightmares subsided and only the silence remained, if he was damning their souls—his congregation's, Mary's—by leading them with such a profound, hidden falsehood. Would his lack of faith, his hypocrisy, somehow taint their sincere belief? The thought was a chilling echo of the hellfire that pursued him in his sleep.

***

Now, on his deathbed, the young minister waited patiently. Thomas’s breathing hitched, a shallow, ragged sound. The lie had been his companion for decades, his tormentor, his identity. But as the insidious heat of a feverish chill began to creep from his feet upwards, a terrifying clarity pierced through the haze of illness and numbness. The burning wasn't just in his dreams anymore. It was real.

He tried to shake his head, to deny the minister's offer, but his body was too weak. The words, however, surged with a terrifying, final energy.

“I… I can’t,” Thomas rasped, struggling to pull himself up. The young minister leaned in, a worried frown creasing his brow. “I can’t go to heaven. There’s no heaven.” His voice, once a preacher’s clarion call, gained a frantic, guttural quality. “I’ve been… I’ve been living a lie! All of it! The sermons, the blessings, the prayers for the dead! I don’t believe! I lost Sarah, and I lost Him! And I blamed her! All these years… I blamed her!”

His eyes, wide with an unseen terror, bulged from their sockets. His frail body convulsed, hands grasping desperately at the hospital sheets, clawing at the air. “It burns!” he shrieked, a raw, agonizing sound that tore through the sterile silence of the room and surely echoed in the hallway. “It’s burning! My feet! My legs! It’s climbing! Hellfire! Brimstone! Oh, God, *it burns!*”

The young minister recoiled, his face pale with horror, fumbling for the nurse's call button. The monitors beside the bed began to shriek, a frantic, flat-lining alarm.

Thomas’s screams echoed, primal and desperate, filling the small room, then the hallway, then seeming to claw their way through the entire hospital. He thrashed for a few more excruciating seconds, his voice a choked gurgle, the smell of burnt toast inexplicably filling the air.

Then, as suddenly as it began, all was quiet. The monitors fell silent. Only the gentle hum of the fluorescent lights remained.