Power to the Pious.
I can say without pause -- the best day of my life was the day I found Her.
Or She found me. Or, It found me. She. It. Him. Whatever. She is a powerfully mutable creature and appearances are just details in the end, ain't they? Details are the devil's handiwork and as I don't put my faith in semantics, I don't trouble myself over pronouns.
No, Sir. When I first met Her, I'd already firmly put my faith in something else. I was ignorant, I'll admit. I didn't hear the call, I didn't see the righteous and bloody path that was already lain before me. Time passes, as it does, and I'd found myself living in a little shack in back of a backwater church, attending to the lord's work like a good little altar boy. I toiled and prayed and read, and I got on my knees to render myself humble and pious to the Christ figure. Some martyr on a cross; just a man -- one who was undoubtedly full of sin and prejudice like the rest of us, but who was deified worldwide. Countries were built and then torn to rubble just on his name alone. The only remaining power was in his word, but after too much use and rhetoric, those words had likewise lost their power, their passion. I'd surely fallen for it. Much like my momma, my daddy and my dead whore of a sister. Like I said, I was weak -- a sheep to a sad, failing myth. I went about my daily chores and worshiped a dead man with no spirit. A figurehead I couldn't wholly respect.
Then, I mistook Her for a dream. A series of them, in fact, each more real and intense than the next. Every time, a different face, a new voice. It wasn't until She came to me as Loretta, the sister whose death I'd attended to in my younger years, that I understood two things -- number one, everyone whose face She'd appeared in was someone in my life who'd passed on from this mortal life, and number two, that she wasn't a dream.
I stayed on at the New Pastoral Gospel Hall, even after being visited in the night by my dead sister. I stayed on to be closer to Her, to learn Her Passion, to experience the rapture. It weren't a pleasurable process, as I thought I was finally losing my marbles. But I stayed on and I recited someone else's sainted and ineffectual words, every Sunday. Like I said, looking like the right pastor for the job. But my heart was quickly changing camps, under the tutelage of my ancient new friend. Mind you, I kept the collar, because everyone loves a pastor. But, I had found a new, true faith -- even as the false worship was being burned out of my heart. I stayed -- but just long enough to complete my training and say my good-byes. Most notably, say my good-byes to the young ladies who came to me for approval and forgiveness. There were three of them, specifically, although their presence undoubtedly indicated dozens like them back in town. Whores, every one. Dirty and tarnished, even in their youth, asking ridiculous questions of a man of the cloth. When She guided my hand and heart, I realized that I'd known how to cleanse dirty girls all along. I did it just like with Loretta, back when she was following various young men down a very perilous path. I gave those girls a merciless scouring. They were better off for it, even their faces in the newspapers said so. The headline might have said "Missing," but their eyes were thanking me.
As the local law gathered their collective bumble to seek out the terrible fates of those young ladies, I gathered up a small satchel of my belongings and headed up North. My Lady had told me news of the brand-new big dogs who'd come to what they childishly considered "power." I set out in my rattle-bang old Ford, heading for the great white North, and leaving the three outbuildings of the New Pastoral parish burning behind me.
Power. I laughed about it all the way to the Mason-Dixie. Government isn't power. Power is for the righteous. Power is for the pious.
Or She found me. Or, It found me. She. It. Him. Whatever. She is a powerfully mutable creature and appearances are just details in the end, ain't they? Details are the devil's handiwork and as I don't put my faith in semantics, I don't trouble myself over pronouns.
No, Sir. When I first met Her, I'd already firmly put my faith in something else. I was ignorant, I'll admit. I didn't hear the call, I didn't see the righteous and bloody path that was already lain before me. Time passes, as it does, and I'd found myself living in a little shack in back of a backwater church, attending to the lord's work like a good little altar boy. I toiled and prayed and read, and I got on my knees to render myself humble and pious to the Christ figure. Some martyr on a cross; just a man -- one who was undoubtedly full of sin and prejudice like the rest of us, but who was deified worldwide. Countries were built and then torn to rubble just on his name alone. The only remaining power was in his word, but after too much use and rhetoric, those words had likewise lost their power, their passion. I'd surely fallen for it. Much like my momma, my daddy and my dead whore of a sister. Like I said, I was weak -- a sheep to a sad, failing myth. I went about my daily chores and worshiped a dead man with no spirit. A figurehead I couldn't wholly respect.
Then, I mistook Her for a dream. A series of them, in fact, each more real and intense than the next. Every time, a different face, a new voice. It wasn't until She came to me as Loretta, the sister whose death I'd attended to in my younger years, that I understood two things -- number one, everyone whose face She'd appeared in was someone in my life who'd passed on from this mortal life, and number two, that she wasn't a dream.
I stayed on at the New Pastoral Gospel Hall, even after being visited in the night by my dead sister. I stayed on to be closer to Her, to learn Her Passion, to experience the rapture. It weren't a pleasurable process, as I thought I was finally losing my marbles. But I stayed on and I recited someone else's sainted and ineffectual words, every Sunday. Like I said, looking like the right pastor for the job. But my heart was quickly changing camps, under the tutelage of my ancient new friend. Mind you, I kept the collar, because everyone loves a pastor. But, I had found a new, true faith -- even as the false worship was being burned out of my heart. I stayed -- but just long enough to complete my training and say my good-byes. Most notably, say my good-byes to the young ladies who came to me for approval and forgiveness. There were three of them, specifically, although their presence undoubtedly indicated dozens like them back in town. Whores, every one. Dirty and tarnished, even in their youth, asking ridiculous questions of a man of the cloth. When She guided my hand and heart, I realized that I'd known how to cleanse dirty girls all along. I did it just like with Loretta, back when she was following various young men down a very perilous path. I gave those girls a merciless scouring. They were better off for it, even their faces in the newspapers said so. The headline might have said "Missing," but their eyes were thanking me.
As the local law gathered their collective bumble to seek out the terrible fates of those young ladies, I gathered up a small satchel of my belongings and headed up North. My Lady had told me news of the brand-new big dogs who'd come to what they childishly considered "power." I set out in my rattle-bang old Ford, heading for the great white North, and leaving the three outbuildings of the New Pastoral parish burning behind me.
Power. I laughed about it all the way to the Mason-Dixie. Government isn't power. Power is for the righteous. Power is for the pious.