04/03/2026
PRIEST AND PRISON
Please read it will bless you..
Continuation from my last post
The priest sat on the cold floor of the prison cell, his back against the wall, Bible resting unopened on his lap. The bars before him were iron, but the real prison wasn’t built by men. It was built in silence, in secrets, in habits he once told himself he could control.
Outside these walls, they called him Father.
Inside, he barely remembered his own name.
Every Sunday, he preached freedom with fire in his bones. He laid hands, chains fell, tears flowed. People testified. Heaven moved. Yet when night came and the crowds disappeared, the same hands that carried oil trembled in isolation. The anointing never left him—but peace did.
This prison had no wardens shouting orders.
No locks clicking shut.
Just whispers.
“You’re still trapped.”
“God can use you, but He won’t heal you.”
“This is who you are.”
And for a long time, he believed them.
He remembered the first day the chains appeared. They were light then—almost invisible. A compromise here. A hidden struggle there. He told himself, “After this program, I’ll stop.”
But after every altar call, the chains grew heavier.
What broke him wasn’t the sin.
It was the loneliness.
Who does a priest confess to when he’s bleeding? Who delivers the deliverer? Who believes that the one casting out demons is fighting one at home?
One night, kneeling on the concrete floor, tears soaked the pages of his Bible. His voice cracked—not in preaching, but in honesty.
“God… I’m tired of performing freedom I don’t live in.”
That prayer didn’t shake the prison walls.
But it shook heaven.
Because for the first time, the priest stopped defending the chains and started despising them.
Light entered the cell—not dramatic, not loud—but gentle. The kind that doesn’t shame, only heals. He realized something then: the prison door had never been locked. Fear kept him seated. Pride kept him silent. Shame kept him bound.
And grace… grace was waiting.
He stood up slowly.
