The Shepherd never teaches His sheep to hate
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A television interview becomes a searching conversation about truth, persecution, corruption, false shepherds, and what it truly means to follow Christ.
An excerpt from The Monologuist by Don Kenobi.
Under the Lights
The studio was brighter than Timotheus imagined.
Banks of white lights hung overhead, bleaching every colour into something slightly unreal. Cameras glided silently across polished tracks. A live audience filled the tiered seating, their anticipation amplified by the quiet choreography of floor managers, technicians and producers counting down to airtime.
Everything about television suggested certainty.
Timotheus felt none.
He sat between two men who represented very different worlds.
To his left was the host—a seasoned journalist whose reputation had been built asking questions that left politicians searching for exits.
To his right sat Father Gabriel, an articulate Catholic priest with an easy smile, a sharp mind, and a collar that immediately communicated authority.
Timotheus carried neither notes nor Bible.
Only a glass of water.
Behind them, a giant monitor flickered to life.
The audience watched images of crowded Molues weaving through Lagos traffic. Then came clips of university students laughing around him after lectures. Workers standing in circles on dusty street corners. Strangers listening as though ordinary conversations had somehow become sermons.
Finally, the recording settled on Timotheus himself.
"...Where is the profit?"
The clip ended.
Applause filled the studio.
The host smiled.
"So," he said, almost casually, "who exactly is Timotheus?"
He glanced at his card.
"A mathematics teacher?"
"A preacher?"
"A disappointed seminarian?"
The audience laughed.
Timotheus simply smiled.
Nothing more.
The host leaned forward.
"Let's begin there."
"You applied to become a Catholic priest."
"Twice."
"You were rejected."
"Twice."
He allowed the words to linger.
"Is everything we're seeing today..."
"...simply revenge?"
The audience fell silent.
Timotheus studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded ever so slightly.
"Perhaps."
A collective gasp swept across the studio.
Even Father Gabriel turned to look at him.
Then Timotheus burst into laughter.
Not polite laughter.
Real laughter.
The audience joined him.
When he finally recovered, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, he shrugged.
"Maybe."
The laughter returned, louder this time.
The host smiled despite himself.
He had not expected his first attack to dissolve into comedy.
A Priest Without Permission
"So now," the host continued, "instead of preaching inside churches..."
"...you preach in classrooms."
"On buses."
"On street corners."
He looked directly at Timotheus.
"Almost like..."
"...a priest without permission."
Timotheus considered the description.
Then shrugged.
"Perhaps God enjoys unusual architecture."
The audience laughed again.
Even Father Gabriel smiled.
Only briefly.
The host turned another page.
"You stopped attending Mass."
Timotheus looked genuinely puzzled.
"Who told you that?"
The journalist hesitated.
"Didn't you?"
Timotheus shook his head.
It was at that moment the audience began noticing something unusual.
Timotheus never answered questions directly.
He dismantled them.
Sundays
"No," he said.
"I attend church three..."
"...sometimes four..."
"...times every week."
A murmur travelled through the audience.
"Really?" the host asked.
"Yes."
"I simply avoid going on Sundays."
Laughter rolled across the studio.
Father Gabriel remained expressionless.
"You avoid..."
"...sermons?"
"I go," Timotheus replied quietly, "for an encounter with the Holy Spirit."
"To renew my Creed."
"To pray the Hail Mary."
He paused.
"Sometimes..."
"...sometimes silence teaches better than microphones."
The laughter disappeared.
Even those who disagreed found themselves listening.
Father Gabriel finally spoke.
"Then surely..."
"...you're still Catholic."
Timotheus smiled warmly.
"Entirely."
The host frowned.
"Yet many Catholics accuse you of attacking the Church."
Timotheus reflected before answering.
"No."
"I attack darkness."
He paused.
"Sometimes..."
"...darkness wears a collar."
The audience shifted uneasily.
Father Gabriel straightened in his chair.
"That's unfair."
"Priests have devoted their lives to Christ."
Timotheus nodded before the sentence had even finished.
"Many have."
"Some are saints."
"Some carried Christianity upon bleeding shoulders."
"They gave us hospitals."
"Schools."
"Universities."
"Orphanages."
"Some died anonymous deaths serving Christ."
He turned towards Father Gabriel.
"They deserve monuments."
For the first time that evening, Father Gabriel visibly relaxed.
Then Timotheus quietly added,
"Others..."
"...deserve investigation."
Silence returned to the studio.
Not hostile.
Reflective.
It lingered long enough for everyone to recognise that he had not spoken those words in anger.
Only sorrow.
The Gift
The host sensed the interview changing.
He leaned forward.
"Are you saying..."
"...the Church failed you?"
Timotheus smiled.
"No."
"The Church gave me something priceless."
"What?"
"Rejection."
Even Father Gabriel blinked.
"You're grateful..."
"...for rejection?"
"Very."
Timotheus folded his hands.
"Rejection gave me distance."
"Distance gave me perspective."
"Perspective..."
"...gave me a bird's-eye view."
The host leaned forward.
"A bird's-eye view..."
"...of what?"
Timotheus did not answer immediately.
Instead, he looked directly into Camera One.
The small red tally light glowed steadily.
"The Body of Christ."
He paused.
"From above..."
"...patterns become visible."
"Light..."
"...and shadow."
"Truth..."
"...and performance."
No one interrupted him.
Not even the host.
For reasons none of them could quite explain, the interview had stopped feeling like an interview.
It had become something else.
A conversation in which everyone, including the interviewer, had quietly become a student.
The hardest questions, however, were still waiting.
The Hardest Question
The host sat back in his chair.
For a moment, he simply watched Timotheus.
Then, almost deliberately, he changed direction.
"Let's talk about persecution."
The atmosphere shifted.
On the screen behind them appeared images of burned churches, grieving families, and villages scarred by violence.
The audience grew quiet.
"Churches burned."
"Christians murdered."
"Families displaced."
He looked directly at Timotheus.
"Many people call this Christian genocide."
"Why won't you?"
Applause swept through the studio.
Timotheus did nothing.
He simply waited.
He had learned long ago that applause often interrupted thought.
Only after the room had become silent again did he answer.
"Because truth..."
"...must never become a casualty..."
"...even while defending truth."
The silence that followed was heavier than the applause.
The host frowned.
"That's not an answer."
"It is the only answer."
"Are Christians suffering?"
"Absolutely."
"Then why hesitate?"
Timotheus folded his hands.
"Because Christianity was born suffering..."
"...not escaping it."
He spoke almost gently now.
"The first Christians were never promised safety."
"They were fed to lions."
"Burned alive."
"Crucified."
"Some upside down."
"They were hunted across an empire like rabid dogs."
"They worshipped in catacombs."
The host interrupted.
"What's a catacomb?"
Timotheus smiled.
"An underground cemetery."
"The early Christians buried their dead there."
"They also worshipped there whenever it became too dangerous to worship above ground."
He paused.
"In one place..."
"...they preserved both memory..."
"...and hope."
Define the Word
Father Gabriel leaned forward.
"Fine."
"Are Christians being persecuted in Nigeria?"
"Yes or no?"
Timotheus smiled almost sympathetically.
"Before I answer..."
"...we must first agree on what persecution means."
Father Gabriel shook his head.
"No."
"Yes or no."
Timotheus ignored the interruption.
"In the first three centuries, Christians suffered repeated waves of persecution under Nero..."
"...Decius..."
"...and Diocletian."
"Yes or no."
For the first time that evening, Timotheus raised his voice.
Not angrily.
Precisely.
"Persecution meant being arrested simply for refusing to sacrifice to the Roman gods."
"Being arrested for refusing to acknowledge the emperor's divinity."
"Losing property."
"Losing employment."
"Imprisonment."
"Torture."
"Public execution."
He paused.
"Beheading."
"Crucifixion."
"Burning."
"Being thrown into an arena before cheering crowds."
The studio had become motionless.
Father Gabriel refused to surrender.
"Yes..."
"...or no?"
Timotheus continued as though he had not spoken.
"The Romans called Christians..."
"...atheists."
A ripple of surprise passed through the audience.
"Imagine that."
"Atheists."
"Not because they believed in no god..."
"...but because they refused to worship Rome's gods."
He looked towards Father Gabriel.
"The principal accusation was never..."
"'You worship Jesus.'"
"It was..."
"'You refuse to worship the gods who protect Rome.'"
Again the priest interrupted.
"Yes..."
"...or no?"
Timotheus took one slow step towards him.
"Very well."
"Let us use the Roman definition."
"Are Christians in Nigeria arrested by the State for refusing to sacrifice to other gods?"
"Yes or no, Father Gabriel?"
No answer.
"Are Christians imprisoned by the constituted authorities for refusing to acknowledge another religion's lordship?"
No answer.
"Are Christians stripped of their property..."
"...their employment..."
"...their civil rights..."
"...because they refuse to worship another god?"
Again...
silence.
Father Gabriel smiled.
"Why did you stop?"
"Why not ask whether Christians are publicly beheaded in Northern Nigeria?"
Timotheus never broke eye contact.
"By the constituted authorities?"
"Or by criminals?"
"There is a difference."
"A profound difference."
"And if we lose that distinction..."
"...we lose the meaning of the word."
His voice softened.
"I am not frightened by marauding criminals wielding machetes and axes against Christians trying to live in peace."
"They are wolves."
"Without question."
"But they are wolves..."
"...outside the sheepfold."
No applause followed.
Only thought.
Wolves
Elsewhere, the nation had stopped moving.
In a crowded beer parlour, untouched bottles warmed on the tables as every eye remained fixed upon the television.
In a barber's shop, electric clippers hung motionless in mid-air while a customer sat with only half his haircut completed.
Inside a seminary common room, young seminarians leaned closer to the screen.
No one was taking notes anymore.
Back in the studio, the host's voice had almost become a whisper.
"Then..."
"...what frightens you?"
Timotheus answered immediately.
"Corruption..."
"...within the Church."
"The wolves within."
He looked slowly around the audience.
"Outside wolves rarely destroy Christianity."
"It is the wolves inside..."
"...the wolves in shepherds' clothing."
The room shifted uneasily.
Father Gabriel folded his arms.
"Are you calling priests wolves?"
Timotheus turned towards him.
His expression carried neither anger nor accusation.
Only sadness.
"Some."
"Not all."
"Never all."
"But enough."
"Enough that Christ warned us."
"Not once."
"Repeatedly."
He allowed the words to settle.
Then quietly continued.
"A wolf outside the sheepfold..."
"...looks like a wolf."
"A wolf inside..."
"...usually carries a Bible."
No one moved.
Even the host had stopped interrupting.
Somehow...
without anyone noticing exactly when...
Timotheus had taken control of the room.
The Shepherd
The host glanced at his notes.
Then quietly placed them face down upon the table.
For the first time that evening, he asked a question he had not prepared.
"May I ask you something..."
"...not as a journalist..."
"...but as a Christian?"
The audience became perfectly still.
Father Gabriel noticed immediately.
This was dangerous.
The interview had changed.
The journalist was no longer interviewing.
He was searching.
Timotheus nodded.
"Of course."
A long silence followed.
Then—
"How..."
"...do I know..."
"...I'm following the Shepherd..."
"...and not merely..."
"...someone speaking about Him?"
The room froze.
Father Gabriel closed his eyes.
He knew this answer would outlive the programme.
Timotheus reached quietly for his glass of water.
He took a sip.
Placed it gently back on the table.
Then turned.
Not towards the host.
Towards Camera One.
Towards millions of people watching at home.
When he finally spoke, his voice was almost tender.
"The Shepherd..."
"...never teaches His sheep..."
"...to hate."
Silence.
"Start there."
He paused once more.
Almost as though the final thought had arrived unexpectedly.
"Any shepherd..."
"...who teaches his flock to hate..."
"...is merely speaking about Jesus."
"He is not following Jesus."
"And he is certainly not..."
"...leading his sheep..."
"...towards the Lord."
After the Broadcast
Across the country, nobody spoke.
In the barber's shop.
The beer parlour.
The convent.
The seminary.
Even in a small mosque, where a television murmured quietly in one corner, no one reached for the remote.
In a yellow Molue rattling through Lagos traffic, the conductor forgot to call for passengers.
The old bus simply kept moving.
Silently.
The Next Morning
The newsroom was unusually quiet.
Editors replayed the interview without saying a word.
Finally, the presenter looked up.
"Who is he?"
An editor shrugged.
"I'll find out."
He glanced at a sheet of paper lying on his desk.
"I hear...he's a janitor."
An excerpt from The Monologuist by Don Kenobi.
