70
His angel had arrived.
A bank of twelve televisions covered a wall of Bishop Prince’s master suite, the displays broadcasting video from surveillance cameras placed throughout the estate. Although he normally dressed in a chamber designated for that purpose, as he donned another custom-tailored Armani suit he could barely keep his attention away from one of the screens.
His angel was bathing in a guest bathroom. The camera, concealed in a light fixture, offered a side-view of her lounging in the frothy Jacuzzi.
As he watched, she lifted a slender leg out of the water, stretched it in the air before her with the easy limberness of a ballerina, and caressed the smooth skin with a bar of soap. It was such a sensuous act that he was convinced she knew he was secretly observing her, and was teasing him.
With effort, he turned away to fetch his shoes.
On an ordinary day, one of his personal assistants would have brought all of his clothing to him, and attended to him as he dressed. He had given the house staff and his assistants the day off, as he did at least once a week. The Lord had rested the seventh day, so surely he could grant those in his employ a day of rest.
The only individuals laboring for him that day were his Armor of God security detail. There were two agents stationed at the estate gates, and three more distributed throughout the property. As Satan never ceased his attempts to sow discord and wickedness, those who served as God’s warriors must be ever vigilant.
The Kingdom had to be advanced, at all costs. There was much work yet to be done, and unlike Moses, he intended to be present to lead God’s people into the Promised Land—an era of total Kingdom rule over the earth.
Other fundamentalist leaders had sought to restore God’s sovereign control over society through political maneuvering: backing candidates sympathetic to their causes, lobbying those in power, and attempting to sway the faithful masses to vote for change. While of noble intentions, their failure was the result of ill-conceived strategy. The average American was a slothful, unrepentant heathen and could not be relied upon to cast the proper votes at the ballot box, or even to vote at all, and politicians were notoriously corrupt, peddling their influence to the highest bidder.
No, Kingdom rule had to be installed by more forcible means. Had not Joshua, Moses’ successor, led an army into the land of milk and honey?
Enter Project Revelation, his divinely-inspired vision to return God to his rightful place as the head of society, with God’s anointed servants executing his will.
In the dressing chambers, he eased onto the gold-trimmed bench, and slipped on a pair of Italian loafers. The room, like every other space in the mansion, was spacious, and lavishly appointed with antique furniture, much of it from the Louis XVI era.
The home covered fifteen thousand square feet and included seven bedrooms, but he lived there, alone. His wife and their four children resided in a much smaller home on campus, and received him for visits perhaps once a week, sometimes less often.
The estate had been built solely for his pleasure, and the pleasure of those he entertained.
After inspecting his appearance in the mirrors, he left the suite and entered the main hallway on the second floor, an eighty-foot long corridor with marble flooring. The marble tiles were so highly polished they reflected his face almost as clearly as a pool of water. The cathedral ceiling was well above his head, with a panel of skylights that admitted sunshine by day, and moon glow at night.
Several doors led off the hall. He stopped at a closed door on the right, twisted the knob.
It was a huge bedroom, decorated entirely in white: white walls and ceiling, white carpeting, white wooden furniture. The white, queen-size, hand-carved poster bed was draped in a white duvet. The bedside clock was white. Even the doorknobs were white.
He crossed the room to the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar, and pushed it open.
Like the adjoining room, the large bathroom was also entirely white.
The only thing inside that was not white, in fact, was the thirteen-year-old girl in the bathtub. She was of bi-racial heritage—Korean mother, black American father—with flawless, honey-brown skin and a ripened physique that belied her tender age.
Her name was Chastity.
For the past several months, her mother, a longtime servant of the Kingdom, had allowed her to stay with him whenever he requested her company, in return for divine blessings that he spoke into their lives. There were, after all, many ways to sow seeds and reap a bountiful harvest.
Soaping her body languorously, her back to him, Chastity did not notice that he stood at the door. She was softly singing one of his favorite hymns, “Blessed Assurance.”
As he looked upon her, pleasant warmth spread through him.
His father, the late Dr. Theodore Prince, had spoken often to him of his “thorn in his flesh,” a reference to Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. But his father had talked of it in vague terms, declining to provide details when pressed, and Bishop Prince had begun to believe that his father suffered from some debilitating, mysterious ailment.
Matters became clear when, as a seminary student, he entered his father’s church office one day to find an adolescent girl sitting on his father’s lap, his trousers gathered around his ankles and his eyes squeezed shut in rapture. The girl let out a startled screech, but his father had only looked at him and said, So, you’ve discovered my thorn.
Bishop Prince had backed out of the room, face burning. Ashamed of his father, but more ashamed of himself.
Unexpectedly, the shocking scene had excited him.
Later that day, his father had pulled him aside. Whatever you may be feeling about what you witnessed, son, remember what the Lord said to Paul: I will not take away your thorn, for my grace is sufficient for you, and my strength is made perfect in your weakness.
He had expressed gratitude to his father for the insight. His father had always been such a wise man, strong in the Lord. Bishop Prince was proud to be his son and to have inherited the mantle of the Kingdom . . . even though he’d inherited his father’s weaknesses of the flesh, too.
Chastity suddenly caught sight of him in a mirror. She looked at him over one suds-capped shoulder, and grinned.
“You were listening to me singing,” she said.
“With pleasure,” he said. “You sing like the seraphim.”
She giggled. “I guess I’m okay.”
He approached the tub. She kept her gaze on him, almond-shaped eyes sparkling, adoring.
The look in her eyes said she would do anything he asked of her, anything, and he found the prospect exhilarating. It was the same look he saw in the eyes of the Kingdom servants. Deep admiration. Complete submission. Total acceptance of his status as the appointed instrument of God, and as such, the understanding that he, and he alone, could lead them to a more fulfilled life than they could ever achieve on their own. They needed him, they craved him, because without him, their lives were meaningless . . . like rudderless ships adrift at sea.
“You look really nice,” she said.
“I wore this suit for you.”
She giggled again. She was so adorable, so innocent.
“Finished with your bath?” he asked.
She nodded, and a coquettish smile curved across her fine features. “Will you towel me dry?”
So innocent . . . yet she sometimes displayed a surprisingly mature flirtatious streak, as if she were developing a growing awareness of his weakness. He could speak to a roomful of heads of state without experiencing a trace of anxiety, could grin confidently into television cameras that beamed his face to millions of homes across the globe—but her asking him merely to towel her dry made his knees rubbery.
My grace is sufficient for you. My strength is made perfect in your weakness.
He reached for a fluffy white cotton towel, stored on a nearby rack, unfolded it, and knelt to receive her.
“Ready when you are, my angel.”