As the drums of war grow louder, Thomas Caudill faces a decision that may cost him everything: his reputation, his place in the community, even his freedom. Refusing to enlist, not out of cowardice but conviction, he becomes the object of suspicion in a world intoxicated by unity and vengeance.
This episode is a meditation on the spiritual power of accusation… how false virtue hides behind flags, how mobs sanctify themselves, and how Christ’s true imitators are often left outside the camp. Inspired by the writings of the early Church and the teachings of Christ Himself, Thomas’s story becomes a crucible of conscience.
The world wants a soldier. God is calling a martyr of truth.
📜 Full Episode Transcript
The Accuser’s Smile
When the Greeks could not conquer Troy by force, they tried something else: a gift!
A great wooden horse, beautifully carved and left as a tribute… seemingly in surrender. The Trojans, flattered by this unexpected and gracious surprise, brought it within their walls, celebrating their victory. But hidden within that gift, inside the charming facade, was something unexpected… hidden… soldiers… waiting patiently. And that night, as the Trojans slept peacefully behind the safety of their walls, the demons spilled out upon the streets, and the gates of the city were opened from within. (TEE-meh-oh DAH-nah-ohs eht DOH-nah feh-REHN-tehs) “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes”—“I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts.”
The warning from Laocoön came too late.
And that is how Troy fell. Not through open and direct war, but through welcome… or so it seemed.
We like to believe we can recognize danger. But this is not always the case… as some threats come in the shape of virtue… they come with a wide smile, maybe a helpful hand and a charming countenance. To your face they may compliment you… sometimes flatter you… they might offer help. But beware. Don’t step too far outside of their approval… do that, and the doors slam closed… and the lines of attack are assembled behind your back.
And not all harm is loud either… some harm is polite… or, rather, veiled in politeness.
The Apostle Paul writes:
“For such people are false apostles, deceitful workers, masquerading as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.”
— 2 Corinthians 11:13–14
In Hebrew, Satan means the accuser… not the murderer, not the thief… but the one who stands before others to condemn. It’s a striking thing, that the greatest evil in Scripture… in the entire world… is not defined by bloodshed or force, but by the cold, quiet power of accusation… the ability to shame, isolate, and destroy without ever lifting a menacing fist. It’s worth reflecting on this fact… why do you think that is? Why would Satan, ultimate evil, translate as “the accuser”
Because accusation corrodes that which God most desires. Communion.
The Church teaches that the human person is made for relationship… relationship with God and with one another - “The divine image is present in every man. It shines forth in the communion of persons, in the likeness of the union of the divine persons among themselves.”
And From the very beginning, Satan has worked to destroy that bond, but not by force, by simply turning hearts against each other through doubt, shame, and suspicion. His first weapon in Eden wasn’t violence… it was a question… the first words of satan, spoken through the serpent “Did God really say…?” this question, delivered to Eve, challenges the clarity of God's command and introduces doubt… ah, dought… that quiet crack in the foundation, that silent saboteur of communion.
With that whisper, satan accused God before man, and then man before God. And we’ve been hiding from each other ever since…
But God hasn’t been hiding from us. From the very beginning, He has searched for us in the garden, walked beside us in exile, spoken through prophets, and finally come to us in the flesh. While we hid in shame, He called us by name. While we covered ourselves, He prepared a way to clothe us in grace. “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”— Luke 19:10
The title accuser isn't incidental. It reveals how Satan opposes God at His core. While God is mercy, Satan is judgment without love. While Christ bears our sins to forgive them, Satan names our sins to condemn. His accusations aim to paralyze… turning people inward with shame, and outward with suspicion. He divides what God has joined. And worse, he does it in the language of concern. Of justice. Of holiness.
Pope John Paul II once said, reflecting on Revelation 12, that Satan seeks to “cast doubt on the sincerity of the faithful” and to destroy them through the appearance of righteousness. He is overcome and defeated by “the humble strength of those who remain faithful, even to the point of sacrifice” ( May 26, 2004).
Accusation is thus the most dangerous evil. It kills trust. It isolates the heart. It leaves no mark… but it hollows a person from within. And the most diabolical fact of all, it often comes in the form of virtue… dressed in kindness and spoken with a smile. It can come from those we think are our friends… respected members of the community… grandparents, uncles and aunts.
That’s why Scripture warns that Satan masquerades as an angel of light. Because his darkness doesn't always look like war… it often looks like a gift.
…By 1940, the world stood on the edge of another great war. Germany had overrun Poland and then blitzed its way through Western Europe. London burned under nightly air raids. Hitler's rise was no longer distant noise—it was thunder echoing across the Atlantic. Though the United States remained officially neutral, President Franklin D. Roosevelt knew neutrality would not last. The old world order was collapsing, and the machinery of war was beginning to hum on American soil.
That same year, Roosevelt signed into law the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940, the first peacetime draft in U.S. history. Men aged 21 to 36 were now required to register for military service. For millions of American families still crawling out from the shadow of the Great Depression, it brought new uncertainty: sons who had only just found work were now facing conscription. Boys became soldiers, and towns braced for change.
In cities like Birmingham, Alabama, once built on the heat of blast furnaces and the sweat of steelworkers, the effects were immediate. The New Deal programs that had sustained so many were now shrinking. WPA job rosters tightened. Relief offices turned their attention to defense contracting. War industry jobs began to appear on the horizon, but not fast enough to settle the nerves of families already stretched thin.
Young men gathered nervously outside draft offices, trying to guess what number would be called next. Some welcomed the chance to serve. Others felt the tension of duty pulled against the needs of their families, and the call of their consciences.
…James Caudill had seen plenty hard years before… it almost defined him for goodness sake! He’d seem years of empty cupboards and idle furnaces, years of soup lines and of shuttered mills. The Depression had broken many men, but it hadn’t broken him. He held on tight to the one thing no man could take: his integrity. Now, as the country shifted, again, from despair to preparation, James found himself in another strange position…not quite secure… not quite afraid, but cautious. Watchful.
The WPA job had dried up with little warning… an unfortunate casualty of shifting federal priorities. Thomas, now a man grown, had taken steady work hauling materials at a rail yard outside the city, where war contracts promised expansion. Martha kept the home steady, never complaining, though every grocery bill was counted and each meal stretched to its limits.
The streets of Birmingham were changing. There were new faces, and with them, new tensions. Patriotic murals were being painted on school walls, and draft posters hung in post offices. Some of the old WPA men had vanished; either taken by early enlistments or lured to the coasts by rumors of booming factories and shipyards. Those who remained walked a little straighter, spoke a little louder about loyalty and duty.
Thomas had registered, of course. Like every other young man in town. But the weight of the paper in his hand felt heavier than it should have. He didn’t speak of it much, not even to his father. And James, for his part, didn’t press. They both knew that silence sometimes said more than words.
No one had seen much of old Leendert Sheenderhaans after the WPA began tightening its records.
It had been a quiet sort of disappearance… no scandal, no arrests. Just a general understanding that someone, somewhere, had finally caught wind of his “innovations.” Rumor had it a supervisor reviewing payroll flagged a weird discrepancy: a bricklayer named Cluck T. Contractor and a bridge inspector with the suspicious signature Paw Prints. No one ever followed up officially, but Leendert stopped showing up to work the next week. His government check stopped coming a few days after that.
Since then, he’d bounced around. For a time, he tried to start a business training carrier pigeons to deliver legal documents. When that failed (mostly because the birds refused to fly back), he reinvented himself as a “contract procurement liaison,” which seemed to mean he stood near city offices offering unsolicited advice to anyone filling out paperwork.
Still, no matter how outlandish his ventures became, Leendert never seemed bitter. His mind remained a chaotic swirl of schemes, half-truths, and wildly unearned confidence. He was, as James once told Thomas, “the kind of man who jumps off a roof and calls it flying until he hits the ground.”
These days, Leendert could usually be found loitering near the train depot, dressed in a yellow suit, holding a clipboard that was completely blank. He claimed he was “scouting talent” for a new civilian defense project; though no one had seen any such project, or any actual talent recruited. Still, he carried himself like a man on assignment, tipping his hat and speaking in grand, ambiguous phrases like, “Patriotism is a market yet untapped, my friend. And I, for one, intend to bottle it.”
And yet, for all his nonsense, Leendert had one quality that allowed him to linger at the edges of society… he was harmless, at least at first glance. Foolish, yes. Occasionally irritating. But mostly harmless. His antics were so transparent, so tangled in their own absurdity, that few took him seriously.
…The streetcar clattered past as Thomas Caudill walked beside his father through downtown Birmingham, his hands in his pockets.
“Paris fell in June,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Didn’t think I’d see the day.”
James gave a slow nod. “And now London’s burning. I read the RAF’s holding out better than expected, but Hitler’s got no shortage of fire to throw.”
They walked in silence a moment longer, past the bakery and the hardware store and the old courthouse with the chipped steps.
“Mr. Daly from the mill enlisted last week,” Thomas added. “He’s thirty-six. Said he couldn’t stand just waiting around.”
James tilted his head. “Good man, Daly. But he’s got five kids… he paused… “War doesn’t care much who’s left behind.”
Across the street, posters hung in the barber’s window: Buy War Bonds. Register Today. Report Suspicious Behavior. The paint on the brick walls behind them was beginning to fade. Birmingham was still a city of smoke and of steel, but the edges were beginning to tremble… just slightly… with change.
“You think they’ll draft me, Pa?”
James looked at him for a moment, not answering right away.
“I think they’ll take who they need. And I think you’ll go if they do. But you don’t need to run toward the fire until they call your name. Not every war is fought with a rifle.”
Thomas nodded, the words settling deep.
The church hall on Ninth and Ash was already full when James and Thomas stepped through the side doors. Folding tables were crammed with casserole dishes and pies, and the hum of cheerful conversation hovered just above the clatter of utensils.
They hadn’t made it three steps before a familiar voice rang out.
“James Caudill! My old confidante! And young Thomas, as I live and breathe… duh… what was I saying?”
Leendert Sheenderhaans appeared from between two tables, wearing a crooked smile that nearly split his face. In one hand he clutched a napkin full of cornbread, in the other, a pocket notebook.
“Evenin’, Mr. Sheenderhaans.” Thomas replied.
“Evenin’... yes, yes... duh—evening,” Leendert nodded solemnly, then looked puzzled. “Now what was I… oh right! Important civic business.”
He lowered his voice and gestured them closer, eyes darting theatrically side to side.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” he began, “but there’s talk—duh—talk goin’ ‘round that a certain family in this very congregation is... holding back.”
“From what?” James asked flatly.
Leendert looked as if he’d just been handed a live wire. “From duty. From sacrifice. From the noble defense of Western civilization!”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “You mean the draft?”
Leendert snapped his fingers. “Exactly! Duh—the draft. The boy—only son. Fine lad. Wears a sweater vest. Always polite.”
James crossed his arms. “And?”
Leendert leaned in closer. “They’re conscientious objectors…”
Thomas blinked. “So?”
“Well, apparently,” Leendert said, his voice rising again, “they’ve got these moral objections… talkin’ about just war, natural law, some kind of bishop letter… duh… I didn’t catch all the Latin. Point is, they think their boy shouldn't fight. Might claim conscientious objection… ”
“And how exactly is that your business, Leendert?” James asked.
“Oh, no, no… not mine! Not mine. I’m just a messenger, y’see. My Lavinia… duh, she’s been very troubled about it. Says it could set a bad example. Weakens the spirit. Breaks the chain of unity, you understand.”
“She’s worried their moral objection might spread?” Thomas said, frowning.
Leendert nodded. “Exactly! Duh… like... like the mildew! You ignore it, next thing you know the whole wall caves in.”
James looked around the room. “And I take it she’s already been talking to folks about this?”
“Oh no, no,” Leendert said quickly. “Not talking. Just... expressing concern. Quiet concern. A few women on the committee. The pastor’s wife. The prayer group. That sort of thing.”
Thomas muttered, “Let me guess... she’s not saying anything directly to them? Not talking to the family privately? To express her concern? Just talking behind their backs and still bringing them pie?”
“Apple and pecan pie,” Leendert said, proudly.
James looked past Leendert toward the dessert table, where Lavinia now stood like a monument to virtue. She was speaking gently to an older woman who looked more wilted than receptive. Every so often, Lavinia would place a hand on her arm or tilt her head with sympathetic gravity.
“Look at her,” James said quietly. “Kindness like a tightening noose.”
Leendert followed his gaze and gave a cheerful nod. “Ah, she’s got a real gift, doesn’t she? Always knows just what to say to folks. They open right up to her.”
“I bet they do,” Thomas muttered.
Leendert suddenly looked confused again and opened his notebook. “Now what was I—duh—wait. I had a quote... no, that was from the farmer’s almanac... or was it the Sears catalog? Hmm...”
James clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that, Leendert.”
“Indeed! Yes—duh—likewise, likewise.”
As they walked away, Thomas leaned in. “That family he mentioned... is it true?”
James sighed. “Probably. I remember them. Good people. And probably terrified right now.”
Thomas shook his head. “So she pretends to support them. Prays for them. And then starts gossiping behind their backs?”
James nodded. “That’s how it works”
Lavinia Sheenderhaans approached with her serene poise, and smiled effortlessly, hands folded neatly at her waist.
“James! Thomas!” she said warmly. “So good to see both of you here tonight. What a fine family…just such a pillar of strength and common sense in uncertain times.”
James inclined his head politely. “Evening, Mrs. Sheenderhaans.”
Lavinia turned to Thomas with that practiced light in her eyes. “And Thomas, how tall you’ve grown! I hardly recognized you for a moment. The world’s changing so fast, isn’t it? Boys becoming men overnight... and our nation calling them forward.”
Thomas shifted slightly but said nothing.
She clasped her hands gently, lowering her voice just a touch. “Of course, not everyone feels the same sense of duty these days. Some families are... hesitant. Struggling with their conscience, I suppose.” She smiled faintly. “It’s very complicated for some people. Particularly those with, well—more formal doctrines.”
James gave a tight nod. “We’re aware.”
“Oh yes,” Lavinia said, glancing subtly across the room. “The Mitchells, for example. I’ve tried to be so supportive, but it’s difficult when their positions begin to... affect the unity of the church body. A little doubt can spread, you know. And we need strength right now. Clarity.
She smiled again. “They’re lovely people, of course,” she continued, “though I worry their boy is terribly conflicted. And that sort of conflict can weigh so heavily on a young man’s soul. I just pray he finds peace in... obedience.”
James met her eyes.
“Well,” he said calmly, “we’re all Catholics here. And we’ve been having some of those same conversations at home. The Bishop was very clear regarding folks following their conscience. Thomas has been thinking through his conscience quite seriously. He may make a similar decision.”
Lavinia didn’t flinch. Her smile didn’t crack. She simply let out a light, breathy laugh—barely a sound at all—and placed a hand gently on James’s forearm.
“Oh, of course,” she said smoothly. “Naturally, your family has always been so thoughtful. If anyone can walk that line with grace, it’s the Caudills. You’ve always known how to keep your convictions... balanced.”
The word lingered in the air just a second longer than it needed to.
“I’ll certainly keep you all in prayer,” she added sweetly. “It’s so important to stand firm in what we believe—so long as we don’t let it make us... bitter.”
She offered a final smile—warm, immaculate, unbothered—and turned with the ease of a practiced performer, her skirt swaying gently as she made her way back toward Leendert, who was now attempting to organize a stack of hymnals in alphabetical order.
She leaned down to whisper something in his ear. He nodded enthusiastically—“duh!”—then promptly dropped half the stack.
In 1940, when the Selective Training and Service Act was signed into law, the American Catholic Church found itself in a difficult position. The United States had not yet entered World War II, but conscription was already a reality, and with it came a profound moral question and the answer, then as now, was not simple.
Catholic teaching has never been pacifist in the absolute sense. The Church has long upheld the Just War tradition, first articulated by St. Augustine and further developed by St. Thomas Aquinas. Under this tradition, warfare may be morally permissible under specific, tightly constrained conditions: when all peaceful means have failed, when there is a just cause, and when the means of warfare are proportional to the threat. As Aquinas writes, “The injustice of the aggressor causes the just war” (Summa Theologica, II-II, q. 40, a.1).
But while the Church acknowledged that war can sometimes be just, it never mandated that any particular war must be embraced by every believer… and determining what just is, well, that’s not an easy question.
In the early 1940s, several American Catholic bishops issued public statements to address this question. While affirming that Catholics could in good conscience serve in the military—and even had a duty to defend justice and protect the innocent—they also defended the rights of those whose consciences could not accept military service, especially in the case of offensive or pre-emptive wars.
One such pastoral letter, circulated among dioceses, stressed the importance of following conscience informed by natural law and Church teaching. A man could not be forced to kill if, in sincere discernment, he believed doing so would violate the moral law. That wasn’t cowardice… it was fidelity.
This position often placed Catholic families at odds with the broader Protestant and civic culture of mid-century America, where patriotism was increasingly conflated with uncritical support of military service. For Catholics, many of whom were already viewed with suspicion in parts of the country, refusing the draft, even for principled reasons, could invite public shaming, social isolation, and accusations of disloyalty.
And yet, many stood firm.
They registered as conscientious objectors under the narrow legal allowances granted by the U.S. government. Some served in noncombatant roles… medics, chaplains, or engineers. Others were assigned to Civilian Public Service camps, where they fought wildfires, built roads, or worked in hospitals.
For them, the battlefield was conscience itself.
It’s a truth often forgotten in retellings of the war years: that courage sometimes looked like picking up a rifle, and other times, like setting it down.
…Satan, Scripture tells us, is the accuser of the brethren. But he rarely acts alone.
In every generation and in every community across the globe there are those that take on his work… not knowingly… for the accuser is sly and subtle… but in ignorance. The morally weak and the spiritually vapid somehow stumble upon the secret and powerful weapon of accusation… they might try it once, like the Ring of Power, see how it can bend people to their will. Once fully mastered, they find they can control other people (certain people) like marionettes.
These are the human instruments of satan’s strategy—accusers in the flesh.
At their most dangerous, these accusers wear the mask of narcissism. The narcissist demands control, not openly, but through subterfuge. They do not lead by courage, but by distortion. They avoid confrontation and responsibility. Instead, they operate through proxies… gossip, suggestion, triangulation and manipulation. They smile with one hand extended and the other reaching quietly for the dagger.
In wartime America, many families faced impossible choices. Some sent their sons willingly. Others, like the Catholic family we spoke of earlier, discerned that doing so would violate their conscience. It was not a position of weakness… but of interior strength. However, in the hands of the accuser, that moral clarity was twisted into something sinister. The family’s loyalty was questioned. Their faith made suspect. Their love for peace treated as betrayal.
This is the cowardice of the accuser:
They will never name their target outright. They will never state their views publicly. Instead, they lean close to their victims, pretending to care, while planting seeds of doubt in everyone else’s mind. They will ask leading questions, spread carefully chosen half-truths, suggest that “something is wrong,” or that “she’s not quite the same lately.” They will praise a person to their face and then quietly ask others if they’ve “noticed a change.” They confuse. They exhaust. They isolate.
Also, they rarely act alone for long. Narcissists rally others to their side… not through reason or shared values, but through manipulation. They stir fear and guilt. They cast themselves as noble protectors of the community, while directing others to do their dirty work.
If you're not looking closely, they can seem like the most devout, the most generous, the most morally upright people in the room. But over time, something becomes clear: when they are near, unity breaks down. Courage is punished. Clarity becomes clouded. And those who question them begin to disappear.
So how can we spot a narcissist?
They do not tolerate disagreement. Even mild dissent must be corrected or punished.
They isolate their targets. By drawing others into private complaints, they make their victims seem “difficult” or “unstable.” They do this behind the scenes… the other people don’t even know they’re being manipulated… because they don’t know the whole story.
They never accuse directly. Instead, they ask questions, raise suspicions, and then step back to let others finish the job.
They are always near the center… but never visibly in control. Influence, not authority, is their weapon.
Let’s watch one of these snakes in action!
In the weeks that followed, something began to shift.
The glances came first. Slight, quick, like a spark you almost don’t notice. A neighbor paused longer than usual before waving. A woman from church, who had once called Martha for recipes, now hesitated before inviting her to the next committee meeting. The pastor shook James’s hand with a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
No one said anything outright. They never do.
But behind closed doors, the story grew: James Caudill and his son weren’t fully on board. They were still “thinking it over.” They had objections. Religious ones. Philosophical ones. Who could say? But in times like these, wasn’t that kind of uncertainty dangerous?
Leendert was especially busy. He had found his purpose at last: town crier to a holy cause.
“Not accusin’ anybody,” he told one man by the feed store, “but I heard the boy’s thinkin’ of skippin’ out on the draft. Not that he’d flee—no, no. Too polite for that. Just... you know... morally reluctant.”
Another day, at the barbershop: “I always thought James Caudill was a rock, didn’t you? But sometimes even rocks crack, don’t they? It’s hard for men his age—watchin’ the world change.”
And always, at the end, with a wink or a shrug: “Not sayin’ anything, of course. Just repeating what I heard.”
And Lavinia? She didn’t repeat anything. She simply confirmed what people already feared might be true. A glance here. A sigh there. A perfectly timed, “Oh, I just pray for them constantly.” She offered sympathy for their “confusion.” She admired their “gentle spirit.” She was burdened by their apparent struggle with patriotism. It was all so tragic.
One afternoon, Thomas had had enough.
He caught Leendert near the edge of the town square, pestering the postmaster about a “community readiness ledger” that didn’t exist. Lavinia stood a few paces behind, greeting a woman with one hand while her eyes watched everything else.
“Mr. Sheenderhaans,” Thomas said, walking straight up to him, “I’d like a word.”
Leendert looked up, visibly startled. “Ah! Thomas! The very man of the hour—duh—what can I do for you?”
“You can stop spreading lies,” Thomas said evenly. “You and your wife. About me. About my father. About our family.”
Leendert blinked rapidly, then shook his head. “Lies? Oh no—no, no, no. Duh—I haven’t said anything! Just—concerns, you know. The kind of things neighbors should share.”
Suddenly, Lavinia, seeing a conversation going on that she wasn't controlling, approached smoothly. “Thomas,” she said, almost singing it, “is everything alright?”
Thomas turned to face her. “Why are you doing this? What did we ever do to you?”
Lavinia looked genuinely puzzled. “Do what, dear?”
“You’re trying to turn people against us.”
She tilted her head slightly, smiling with patient confusion. “Oh, sweetheart, no. I’ve only ever spoken kindly of your family. I’ve told people how thoughtful you are. How deeply you consider things. How much you’ve been through. If others are drawing conclusions... well, I can’t control how people interpret facts.”
“What facts?” he asked.
She offered a soft laugh. “Thomas, I think you’re misunderstanding. You seem tired. Stressed. The world is heavy right now. Maybe you’re projecting something that isn’t really there.”
He felt his stomach tighten.
“I only want what’s best for this community,” she added, her voice low and sympathetic. “And I know you do too. I know your heart. I’ve never doubted that.”
She placed a hand gently on his arm.
“Take care of yourself, alright?” she said with a smile. “We’re all praying for clarity. That’s all we ever want.”
And then she turned, slowly, and walked back toward the church steps.
Leendert adjusted his tie—which was tucked into his belt loop—and gave an apologetic shrug. “She means well, you know. She really does.”
Thomas didn’t answer. He just stood there, watching them walk away.
That evening, he sat at the kitchen table long after the dishes were cleared, staring at nothing.
Martha noticed.
“You alright?” she asked, drying her hands.
“I don’t know,” Thomas muttered. “Maybe I’m just... misreading things. Maybe she’s not doing what I think she’s doing.”
Martha set the towel down and pulled out the chair beside him.
“No, Thomas,” she said softly. “You’re not misreading anything.”
He looked up.
“She’s not confused. She’s not just dramatic or ‘trying too hard.’ She’s something else.”
“What?”
Martha folded her hands. “She’s a narcissist. A real one. Not the kind people joke about. She wants control. And she’ll use anything to get it. Gossip. Prayer. Friendship. Whatever makes her seem good while making you seem small.”
Thomas furrowed his brow.
“She’s not angry at you,” Martha said. “She’s angry you won’t play along. She tried to rope you in and you didn’t bite. So now she’s punishing you.”
Thomas shook his head slowly. “But she didn’t say anything. Not really.”
“She never will,” Martha said. “Not where anyone can hear it. That’s the genius of it.”
Thomas leaned back. “Then how do you fight someone like that?”
Martha didn’t hesitate.
“You don’t,” she said. “You outlast them. You stay decent. You hold the truth close, and you walk on. People will figure it out. Maybe not quickly. But eventually.”
She looked at her son and smiled.
“And the ones who matter? They’ll see what she is long before she ever realizes they’ve stopped listening.”
James hadn’t heard the talk between Martha and Thomas. But he’d seen the signs. He’d heard the silences. He’d watched the neighbors shift in tone, watched old friends withdraw. He’d lived through leaner years than this, but none where truth had felt so unwelcome.
So he did what James Caudill had always done when he saw something wrong—he went straight to the source.
He found Leendert first, as expected, rearranging a stack of pamphlets on a table outside the hardware store, most of which were outdated or misprinted. Lavinia stood nearby, speaking with the pastor’s wife in her softest voice.
“Leendert,” James said firmly, “I need a word.”
Leendert turned and gave a startled smile. “James! Always good to see you—duh—how’s the family? Fine, fine, I trust?”
“I want you to stop spreading lies about mine,” James said. “Now.”
Leendert blinked. “Lies? No, no—we’ve only ever said you were—what was the word, Lavinia? Thoughtful.”
Lavinia turned, perfectly composed. “James,” she said, “is something wrong?”
“Yes,” he said plainly. “You. What you’re doing.”
She tilted her head, all concern. “I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do,” he said. “You’ve been working every corner of this town, planting little seeds. Making my son seem like a coward. Making my family seem like a threat. And doing it all with a smile.”
Her eyes widened—just slightly. “James... I’ve only ever spoken well of you. You must be under a lot of pressure right now. War does that to people.”
“You don’t get to do that,” James said. “You don’t get to accuse people and then pretend you’re comforting them. You don’t get to break trust and call it concern.”
Leendert shifted uncomfortably. “Now let’s not escalate, James—this is a misunderstanding—”
“No, it’s not,” James cut in. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”
Lavinia’s voice softened, as if she were the one wounded. “I don’t know why you’re attacking me, James. I’ve never said anything unkind. I’ve defended your family.”
“No,” James said. “You’ve smiled while twisting the knife. You’ve let others say what you didn’t have the courage to say yourself, and then you stood back and reaped the rewards.”
Tears welled in her eyes, expertly summoned. “I only ever tried to help this town,” she whispered. “And now I’m being yelled at in the street.”
Heads were turning. People were watching from across the way.
“You’re not the victim here,” James said. “You just know how to play one.”
That was all it took.
Lavinia turned and fled—no tears actually shed, but the performance was masterful. By the time she reached the corner, she was in the arms of Mrs. Dalrymple, trembling with righteous grief. Within minutes, the story had changed.
James Caudill had snapped. He’d accused Lavinia in public. He’d raised his voice. He’d spoken harshly to a woman. People weren’t sure what he’d said… but Lavinia was shaken. That was enough.
Within a day, the invitations stopped. Within a week, the stares hardened. The Caudills, once pillars of the WPA community and their local parish, found themselves gradually exiled. The grocery clerks smiled without warmth. Church pews shifted subtly away. The war hadn’t even started yet, but already lines had been drawn.
Eventually, they stopped going into town unless they had to. Found a different place to worship. Bought flour from a family two neighborhoods over. There wasn’t a fight to be had anymore. Not with that kind of enemy.
…One evening, the three of them sat quietly at the table. The lamp overhead cast soft golden light across the room. Outside, crickets chirped and a train groaned somewhere far off. Dinner had mostly been eaten, though no one had said much.
Martha set down her fork and looked at the others. “We did the right thing,” she said.
James gave a slow nod. “Sometimes the right thing costs.”
Thomas looked down. “I thought if I just explained it right... people would understand.”
Martha reached across the table and touched his hand. “You can’t reason with someone who needs you to be wrong in order to feel right.”
“They won,” Thomas muttered.
“No,” James said. “They only won the noise.”
He looked up, his voice steady.
“We kept the truth. That’s the only victory that lasts.”
They sat in silence a moment longer. And then Martha stood, gathered the plates, and began to hum a hymn under her breath as she moved toward the sink.
The war had not yet touched their door. But something had. Something colder than violence. But, they stood firm to the truth.
… the accuser reappears… again and again throughout history… sometimes in pulpits, sometimes in politics, sometimes as a “friend”, or maybe a grandparent… wearing a mask of virtue but wielding the tools of division. Her voice is not always loud. Often, it is soft, familiar, probably very charming. But its aim is always the same: to isolate, to confuse, and to destroy trust. These are the tools of the accuser.
Scripture does not tell us to fight evil with cleverness, nor to win every argument. Instead, it calls us to stand. “Put on the full armor of God, so that you may be able to stand firm against the tactics of the devil” (Ephesians 6:11). That armor is not made of pride or accusation. It is forged from truth, righteousness, peace, faith, and perseverance (Ephesians 6:14–18). These are the defenses of the faithful.
Pope Benedict XVI once preached:
“The world promises you comfort, but you were not made for comfort. You were made for greatness.”
(Homily, WYD Vigil, 2005)
But greatness… real greatness… is often quiet. It looks like a man who holds his tongue when slandered. Like a mother who refuses to join the gossip. Like a young man who obeys his conscience… obeys God, even when it costs him everything. It is the greatness of Christ, who “when He was reviled, did not revile in return... but continued entrusting Himself to Him who judges justly” (1 Peter 2:23).
The accuser thrives on fear and confusion. But Christ is clarity. He is communion. He is truth. And in Him, every lie is brought to light.
So if you ever find yourself the target of whispers, of gossip, of false concern—of praise that feels like a trap—remember this:
…When your successes are minimized, and your struggles quietly amplified…
…When you feel the need to explain yourself over and over again, but never feel understood…
… When apologies are demanded but never returned…
…When your boundaries are mocked, your words are twisted, and silence is used as punishment…
…When someone flatters you in public but slowly erodes your reputation in private…
…When disagreement is framed as betrayal…
…When the people around you begin to seem confused, cautious, divided—
You are not imagining it. You’ve had an encounter with the accuser… be on guard!
“Resist him, standing firm in your faith, knowing that your fellow believers throughout the world are undergoing the same kinds of suffering.”
—1 Peter 5:9
Satan thrives in confusion and secrecy. But the truth does not require manipulation. And love does not require control.
“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
—Romans 12:21
Let the accuser speak. Let the gossip run. Let the lies twist for a time… you can’t fight evil with evil… and you can win in a game of manipulation with the devil.
You stay faithful. You stay clear. You stay free.
For in the end, the strength that matters is not the kind that silences every voice.
It’s the kind that refuses to speak falsely and holds fast to our God’s Truth!
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