I didn’t write The Last Testimony of Uriel to entertain.

I wrote it because sometimes fiction is the only way to reach into a cold soul and make an adjustment.

Doctrine can inform. Preaching can instruct. But a story—if it’s told with fire—can slip past defenses, crack the stone of indifference, and awaken something holy that’s been asleep for years.

That’s why this book exists. It’s not canonical. But it’s consecrated.

The Last Testimony of Uriel imagines something that, to me, feels truer than many “facts”: what if one of Heaven’s archangels, Uriel—the silent one, the Fire of God—was finally told to speak?

Not to judge. Not to save. But to remember.

From the first rebellion in Heaven to the final redemption of Earth, Uriel has watched it all. The serpent’s whisper in Eden. The golden calf dancing under Sinai. The pride of Babylon. The heartbreak of Jerusalem. And at last—at the foot of the cross—the first tear of an angel falls, not from sorrow… but from wonder. The kind of wonder that breaks even Heaven’s silence.

I wrote this book for the aching remnant. For the spiritual orphan. For the believer who is tired of noise and wants to feel again. And yes—I wrote it for the skeptic too, who still feels the strange sting of beauty but doesn’t know why.

This book is fiction only in the sense that it takes imaginative form. But its substance is entirely spiritual. Because Uriel’s voice is the voice I’ve heard whispering through history, through Scripture, through the ache we all carry: “I saw everything. And I still believe redemption is coming.”

Now, as I reframe Lipscomb’s Letters into a weekly spiritual offering, each edition will introduce one of my 36 books. Not with marketing. With meaning.

This week, it begins with The Last Testimony of Uriel. Next week, another sacred fire. And so on, until I’ve shared them all—not as an author trying to sell, but as a soul trying to testify.

Uriel was sent to witness.

I was sent to write.

And maybe… you were sent to read.

So read it slowly. Let the fire speak. Let the silence instruct. Let fiction do what facts sometimes can’t—wake the dead parts of you.

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