The Watchman’s Rebuke

A story of blood, deception, and consecrated resistance

The storm had already begun before the thunder spoke. It wasn’t just rain—it was grief. Sirens wailed through the city like broken trumpets, announcing not rescue, but aftermath. A boy lay in the street, his name swallowed by the news cycle, his body outlined in chalk. He was not the first. He would not be the last.

Inside the sanctuary, the lights were warm and the voices rehearsed. The mature stood at pulpits, not to mourn, but to perform. They spoke of destiny, of favor, of breakthrough—never of blood. Never aching. Never of the youth who were dying outside their doors.

The watchman stood just beyond the threshold. He had not slept. He had not shouted. He had simply watched. His eyes carried the weight of too many funerals, too many manipulated minds, too many immature hearts seduced by spectacle. He remembered Paul’s warning to Timothy: that the time would come when sound doctrine would be rejected, replaced by myths and manipulation. That time had come. It was here. And it was killing them.

He stepped forward—not into the pulpit, but into the silence. His paddle rested at his side, not as a weapon, but as a witness. It had been used—not to punish, but to restore. It bore the marks of covenant, not control. He laid it down at the altar, and the thunder cracked above him.

The sanctuary trembled. Not from his voice, but from the truth. The coverings fell. The lights flickered. And for a moment, the spectacle collapsed. The watchman did not gloat. He did not rage. He simply spoke:

His voice was not loud, but it was holy. It carried the weight of fidelity—the kind that weeps, not wavers. The kind that rebukes, not abandons.

From the back of the sanctuary, a few youth entered. Not all. However, some did not come for comfort. They came for the truth. They laid down their weapons. They picked up the paddle—not to strike, but to remember. They made a covenant—not with the Church, but with the sacred.

The watchman remained. Not as a hero. Not as a leader. But as a witness. His weariness was not defeat—it was consecration. And the sanctuary, cracked open by thunder, began to rise again. Not with strategy. Not with spectacle. But with sorrow. And joy.