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It was springtime in Dallas, the tenth year of Lawrence (Sonny) Fleming’s tenure, or—as revelations emerge—his internment. He had just made a scheduled hospital visit—a pious prayer, a quick hug, canned words of comfort, a cheerful wave goodbye. Sonny had uncovered a talent for masking his growing duplicity and could forge expressions of kindness and sympathy like some kind of pastoral art form. But he wasn’t proud of this—he could no longer fool himself. Most of his professors in college expected Sonny to reach some high position in the denomination—perhaps all the way to the top. None thought that only ten years into his ministry Sonny would be suffering religious burn-out and sitting in a Dallas bar drinking mugs of cold beer. |
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