“That’s the lie talking,” Copeland said, and he smiled again. “You can. The healing is already done. You just have to get up and walk into it.”
He descended the steps, flanked by two burly men in headsets. He walked right up to her, and Martha had to step back. He smelled of expensive cologne and coffee. He leaned down, his face inches from her mother’s, and for a moment, Martha saw something in his eyes—not malice, but a fierce, unblinking certainty. He believed. That was the terrifying part. He absolutely, completely believed. kenneth copeland healing
As they left the arena, Kenneth Copeland was already in his private jet, the runway lights of Tulsa shrinking behind him. He was not thinking of Delia. He was thinking of the offering—the harvest of desperate hearts—and the next city, and the next stage, and the next wheelchair waiting to become a testimony. “That’s the lie talking,” Copeland said, and he