Devil’s Advocate (Divine Temptations #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Jimmy

I’d been playing guitar for Jesus since I was twelve years old, and by twenty-eight, I knew the rhythm of worship by heart—the rise and fall of praise, the pauses where the Holy Spirit was supposed to move. The strings hummed under my fingertips like a prayer half-answered.

The studio lights glared white and hot, washing everything in a feverish glow that made our little set look holier than it was. My shirt clung to me beneath the heat, the collar tight against my throat. Three cameras stood like silent witnesses to our devotion, red lights blinking like judgment.

Daddy stood at the pulpit, his hand gripping the microphone, his eyes closed as he sang the last verse of Victory in Jesus.

His voice quavered on the high notes—thin, aching—but the crowd swayed and raised their arms as if angels themselves had descended among us.

Maybe they had. Or maybe I just couldn’t feel it anymore.

I kept playing, praying the right kind of feeling would find me before the song ended.

The set looked like Heaven done on a budget—plastic ferns painted gold, a wooden cross glimmering under stage lights, purple curtains hiding the chipped drywall behind them.

The air smelled of powder, hair spray, and burnt coffee from the pot the crew kept forgetting to empty.

Still, when Daddy sang, people believed. They always did. Faith made beautiful things out of small ones, and I clung to that truth like a lifeline.

When the hymn ended, Daddy lifted both arms, sweat shining on his forehead. “Brothers and sisters,” he said, his voice turning from song to sermon, “before we close, I want to speak a word of blessing to you.”

The crowd—fifty souls in folding chairs—quieted instantly.

These were people I’d known all my life.

Men who’d fixed my truck when it broke down.

Women who’d held my mother’s hand through chemo.

Neighbors, sinners, saints—sometimes all three.

I knew their stories better than my own, but Daddy said what mattered wasn’t who we’d been. It was who we’d been reborn to be.

Daddy smiled, warm as honey. “Sister Margaret Henderson from Tennessee wrote to us last week. Seventeen years of bursitis, pain so bad she could hardly raise her arms to praise. But she sowed a seed of faith—a single dollar bill she sent with a prayer—and now she’s healed!”

A murmur of “Amen” rippled through the audience.

“She gave what she had, and the Lord gave it back tenfold! The number’s on your screen right now—call and sow your seed today! Faith demands action!”

Applause broke out amidst shouts of, “Praise Jesus!”

Daddy’s voice dropped low, tender. “When you give, God sees it. He knows your sacrifice.”

He lifted his hand toward me. “My son Jimmy set up our online donations—credit cards, even this newfangled Bitcoin stuff. The world may change, but the Word remains the same.”

The audience laughed good-naturedly. I smiled, a little embarrassed by the attention.

When Daddy prayed to close the show, I bowed my head with the rest, my guitar pressed to my chest. I whispered the words along with him, asking forgiveness for every stray thought, every flicker of doubt that dared rise when I should’ve been feeling only faith.

The red light on the camera went dark, and just like that, the holy moment was over.

The audience got to their feet, murmuring thanks, shaking hands.

The crew powered down the lights, leaving the air cooler but heavier somehow.

I set my guitar back in its case, fingers still trembling from the adrenaline of performance—or maybe from guilt that I hadn’t felt enough of what I was supposed to.

Daddy’s laughter carried from across the room, deep and genial. He shook hands with Sister Kowalski, who pressed a tissue to her eyes. “You moved me again, Reverend,” she said.

Daddy touched her shoulder. “That’s not me, sister. That’s the Spirit.”

She beamed as if she’d just glimpsed Heaven.

I wanted to feel what she felt—that simple certainty, that joy that didn’t ask questions. But lately, faith felt like something I performed instead of lived. And the thought alone made me ashamed.

I bent my head, whispering, Forgive me, Lord. I know it’s just the Devil testing me again.

When I looked up, Daddy was watching me.

“James Mathew,” he called, and my heart stuttered. He only used my entire name when there was something serious to discuss. “Wait a moment, son. I need a word.”

“Yes, sir.”

I latched my guitar case, wiped my hands on my jeans, and followed him off the set toward his office.

Daddy’s office was the finest room in the building, and I’d always thought of it as holy ground.

The air felt different there—cooler, stiller, heavy with the scent of furniture polish and something faintly metallic, like old coins.

A massive painting of Jesus hung behind Daddy’s desk, eyes blue and endless, gaze fixed somewhere past my shoulder.

It made me stand straighter every time I entered, as if the Lord Himself were watching.

“Sit down, son,” Daddy said, lowering himself into his leather chair.

I obeyed, setting my guitar case beside me. My hands rested on my knees, and I tried to quiet my breathing.

He steepled his fingers under his chin, smiling with that calm that always came before something important. “I want you to know how proud I am of you, Jimmy.”

My chest tightened. Those words had the power to undo me. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve been steadfast in the Lord’s work,” he went on. “Through all the trials life’s put before you, you’ve held firm to your faith. That’s rare these days.”

Heat rose to my face. I didn’t deserve that praise, not really. There were nights I’d prayed and still felt nothing, mornings when temptation whispered like a shadow in the corner of my thoughts. I never spoke of it—not even to God—but I felt its weight, heavy as sin itself.

Daddy leaned forward, eyes shining. “You’ve been a blessing to this ministry, son. A light in the darkness. And now, the Lord’s got a new mission for you.”

“A mission?” My voice came out softer than I had intended.

He opened his laptop, fingers clicking briskly. The screen glowed blue across his face. “You’ll see what I mean.”

A video began to play—a local news clip, the anchor talking about protests up in Virginia. A group called The Satanic Temple had filed a lawsuit against the Chesterfield County schools, demanding equal time if Christian symbols were allowed in classrooms.

I watched, my stomach tightening. The footage shifted to a crowd outside the school board meeting.

People shouted, waved signs, some praising God, others mocking Him.

In the middle of it all stood a man—a calm figure dressed in black, speaking to a reporter as if the surrounding chaos couldn’t touch him.

The man’s voice carried through the speakers—steady, certain, too calm for someone speaking blasphemy.

“We believe in compassion, empathy, and the pursuit of knowledge,” he said, smiling like he meant it. “We reject superstition and arbitrary authority.”

Each word landed cold in my gut. He spoke of kindness the way a preacher might speak of grace, but without God in it, the sound felt hollow—beautiful, and wrong. Daddy stopped the video, and the image froze on that man’s face.

“You see that?” His voice dropped low, weighted with fury. “That’s the Devil at work, right there in plain sight. Corrupting our schools, poisoning our children’s minds.”

I nodded, because what else could I do? “Yes, sir.”

“The world’s full of evil men, son. But these… these people call evil good and good evil.” He looked up, meeting my eyes. “That’s why I need you to help me expose them.”

“Expose them?”

Daddy smiled the way he did when the Spirit moved him. “The Lord laid it on my heart. You’ll go to Richmond, son. Infiltrate this Satanic Temple. Pretend to be one of them. See what they’re really doing behind closed doors. Film it. Bring back proof.”

My breath caught. “You want me to go undercover?”

“Exactly that. Think of what it’ll mean for Tanner Ministries—our viewers will finally see what kind of filth the Enemy spreads. It’ll wake people up and perhaps save a few souls.”

He rose from his chair and circled behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders..

“It won’t be easy. You’ll be walking straight into the lion’s den. The Devil himself will tempt you—he’ll whisper lies, make sin look like freedom. But you’re my son, and I know you’ll stand strong. You’ll be the Lord’s soldier in the enemy’s camp.”

My pulse hammered in my throat. I didn’t feel brave. I felt small. But if Daddy believed I was strong enough, maybe I could be.

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled.

He squeezed my shoulder. “That’s my boy.”

He moved back behind the desk, closing the laptop. “You’ll leave next week. I’ve already arranged your cover—James Harper, a graduate student studying alternative faiths. We’ll make sure you’ve got what you need.”

I nodded, though a cold unease crept up my spine.

Daddy clasped his hands together and bowed his head. “Let’s pray.”

His voice rolled through the room, slow and thunderous. “Lord, we send Your servant James Mathew into the darkness. Shield him from temptation. Let him stand firm against the snares of the wicked. Make him a weapon for Your glory.”

Each word struck deep. When he said temptation, my chest tightened, and I prayed harder, though I couldn’t have said exactly what for.

When the prayer ended, Daddy smiled. “Your mama would’ve been proud.”

That always hurt—the softest blow, but the one that landed deepest. I forced a smile. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I know you will.”

I rose, picking up my guitar case. The office felt smaller now, the air thicker. As I turned to go, I whispered a prayer under my breath: Lord, keep me pure. Keep me safe. Don’t let me fail.

Outside the studio, the lights had gone dark. The fake gold cross gleamed faintly in the dim hallway, catching a trace of the EXIT sign’s red glow.