Romans & histoires When Narcissism Comes To Church

"As we celebrate the rising of Christ, we must also confront the sins that keep us from Him. The world today celebrates disorder. It preaches lust over love, indulgence over salvation. It tells young men that their confusion is a calling. That the body is a playground. But that is not God's way. That is not the path to heaven." My jaw clenched. He didn't say my name, but he didn't have to. The shame wasn't mine anymore. I stood up in the middle of his sermon. Heads turned. Gasps fluttered like wings. My voice was steady. "Is there room in this church for someone like me?" My father paused. His eyes narrowed. "This isn't the time, son." "No?" I said. "Seems like the perfect time to talk about

"Exes who hate each other," "For all I know, I don't hate you, not once, not now, not ever," "Well, I hate you," "I know. How was the meeting?" "You could've attended if you were that curious to know," He put his palm together right in front of me. "I went to church. Churches are for good people, meetings are for bad people," I glared hard at him. "I know you didn't go to church," He smirked, not giving me a response. I think he loves doing this, making people doubt their own sanity. He doesn't give his own point of view of the story, he just prefers letting you say whatever you want to say or assume whatever.

Members began to troop out of church and I sat back on my seat waiting for our pastor to finish up with attending to those who approached him. I was still getting used to the whispers and stares I got whenever I was there. Yes people, the fallen billionaire worships in your church, deal with it. I acknowledged those who were bold enough to wave with a courteous nod, the rest, I ignored totally. There was no point in giving room for unnecessary interactions. "Good evening sir." I walked up to him when I saw that he was slightly free. "Hello Mr Kingston. So great to see you." He shook my hand, smiling warmly. I returned it slightly.

Always performing. I've been diagnosed here. Narcissistic personality disorder, antisocial traits, probably depression I've been masking for decades. The doctors say I've likely had these issues since childhood. My father's influence, the pressure to be perfect, the belief that admitting weakness meant failure. None of that excuses what I did. But it explains it.

My Mama screamed when She came in and set sight on it for the first time, something about wanting to give my father a heart attack? “I love it. I want to be me,” I took a final look at my face in the mirror, hating how pale my lips looked. I grabbed a dark red lipstick, running it over my pout while Mama gave me the breakdown of the people who were at church already. The Mafia, as insane as they were, did not slack when it comes to church activities. As I child, I took regular mass, a lot of confessions and lots more. Made men came to church every Sunday with their wives, flaunting their fake love for Gucci and their horrible choking smell of black opium. Silvia says they are speaking attent

She turned around and she was running now…back to my car. Back to the monster. CASSANDRA BATES CRAZINESS came in all sorts of ways. I knew I was among the crazier lot God had built with leftovers when after my heartbreak with Jr, I sought answers from the church. And two seconds in that church and all I had been thinking about was the preaching thirty something year old hot as fuck priest bending me over the altar and fucking me till Jr was out of my system. Of course, that never happened. Even though I wished it had happened with absolutely no regrets.

The church was packed, the air thick with the smell of incense and the sound of the organ. Father Michael’s sermon was on the temptations of the flesh. It was a masterclass in psychological torture. He would look at me, his eyes dark and possessive, and I would feel a low, deep buzz inside me. I would shift in my seat, my face flushing, my dick getting hard.

I never knew I was a skilled basketballer. Today, as the sweet voices of the few choristers bellowed Bob Dufford's hymn “Be not afraid", an idea struck me that the little Catholic church might be just the right place to visit today. Taking few steps back from the entrance of the mental health and counseling center, I treaded to the church, looking directly at the sign of the cross placed at the middle.

I flew all the way to Naples for this and I won't leave until it's done. It's a two-hour drive from the airport to his house, and it fucking pisses me off when Boris tells me he's not there. I didn't want to bring him with me but the guy is as loyal as a dog and wouldn't let me go to Italy alone. I pull into the church driveway and park there. He's inside, brainwashing more humans with a smile on his face. But that all ends today. The service goes on for another half hour before the people start filing out. I've never been much of a church person and knowing what this priest does makes me almost grateful for it. It could have been anyone in Nico’s shoes, hell it could have been me.

He hates to see her flourish, he hates to see her doing well in that field of music. He hated it, that she rubbing his success on his face, he wants to be the one right and he doesn't want to see her getting more famous and taunting him with it. Williams wanted it all, greedy for all the power he could get, greedy for how much more famous he could gets, thinking of how his church could expand and grow more bigger. He was so greedy that he has forgotten his humble beginnings, that he has forgotten that he was called by God to do his work. To him, the church was just a business and nothing more.