The first thing they did was tear apart the pipe organs. They didn’t need them anymore. It was much easier to bring an acoustic guitar from place to place, so you could worship under the stars.
Theirs was a merciful God, so they valued freedom. There was no need to wear a yarmulke or even a priest’s collar. You could wear anything you wanted, so the men wore flannels and jeans, and the women ordered pastels from Simply Southern.
When they came to Jerusalem, they did not harm the art carved in ancient stone and tile. It was not as disposable as my father, who was too old to fight and refused to accept their message. I haven’t seen him since he was loaded in a truck and taken away.
I continued to serve the Church of the Holy Sepulchre with five other priests. This kept us safe for a time, as the site of Jesus’s crucifixion was as valuable to them as to us, but though I prayed each night, I knew this wouldn’t last.
As the journalists were shipped away and the cramped Old Town groceries closed their doors, we felt time moving backwards. We studied the Old Testament more than the New. Becoming instruments of God’s wrath, we trained with pistols and hoped to high heaven we’d never have to use them.
But it seemed we’d never get the chance. When I opened the massive wooden doors this morning, I saw a crowd of men with rifles aiming at me. A woman stood in the front, arms raised in exultation for all that was right with the world and all she could make right. Then a man holding a shotgun came around the door and knocked me to my knees. He swung the barrel of his gun into my stomach until I could taste blood in my mouth.
The pluck of a guitar drifted from a portable speaker.
“Holy Father, shine your merciful light on us as we gather today,” the Preacher’s heavenly voice said. “Walk with us as we return your lost sheep to the flock. Amen.”
I stared down at the rough stone floor as my wrists were bound together, still taking raspy breaths after my beatdown. The other five priests were escorted down the stairs, covered in dust like the old Disciples. We were deep in the Church, at the Roman Catholic chapel where the cross Jesus died on was supposedly found. Surrounded on all sides by rock, I felt like I was trapped in God’s belly.
The Followers tied the rest of us up and took their posts, staring at the Preacher.
“Who would like to read our Scripture today?” she said.
She walked amongst the six of us, who swore by different denominations but wore the same white robes. The Followers watched in rapt attention, following her path along the stone walls and back to where I knelt.
“How about you?”
I looked up at the Preacher. Even in the dim light, her perfect white teeth glittered. She wore expensive rings and a white lacy dress, with only a diamond rosary revealing her devotion. Her blonde hair was so angelic it exhausted me. I couldn’t name a single woman in the Scriptures who used conditioner.
“Yes, you’ll do nicely,” she held out a leather-bound tome. “We’ll be reading from the Book of Proverbs.”
“I don’t need the book,” I nodded to the satchel at my waist containing my own Bible. “If you’d be so kind as to untie my hands.”
“We won’t be hearing your perversion of the Lord’s word today,” she said. “Read from the One Translation.”
She held out her Bible, shoving a passage in my face that had been underlined in pen. I glanced at the other priests. Their eyes were shut tight and murmurs streamed from their lips. I bowed my head and spoke firmly.
“The blackhearted sinners will face destruction. But to the righteous, God’s reward is prosperity.”
Shalam. Even in more accepted versions, this word is translated as “prosperity.” But I wanted to tell The Preacher, this Hebrew word could also mean a simple covenant of peace or merely an end. To some of the righteous, God’s only reward is completion of their task. I didn’t say this because she cared not for the shape of the words, but the heart.
“Excellent!” she slammed the book shut. “That message will be the foundation of our lesson today!”
“And I guess we’re the ‘Blackhearted Sinners’?” the Ethiopian priest growled.
“Of course,” She frowned. “Just look at y’all.”
Her name was Joy Burnham. She had started as a politician and small-town pastor, gradually becoming a more prominent figure. Then she had a son in a virgin birth and claimed he was the second coming of Christ. However, his sermons were not for Christians like us. They were meant for those who used Christianity as another bullet in their revolver.
I knew almost nothing about her. We tried our best to ignore her until she had so many soldiers that we couldn’t anymore.
“Look closely,” Joy said, her heels rapping lightly across the stones. “These are the most pathetic sinners I’ve ever seen. Kneeling in those heavy robes in their big ivory tower. Their idea of spiritual fruit is taking care of old stones.”
“This is where the Son died and was buried,” the Eastern Orthodox priest said, his glasses sliding down his face. “We’re proud to preserve this place for future generations.”
“But the Son is risen today!” Joy stepped toward the two of them. “He wants you to redeem his people, but all you care about is this tomb!”
She stood before the altar. An opening yawned in the rock behind her, containing a jet-black statue of St. Helena wrapped humbly around the cross. I couldn’t help but compare the devout empress with Joy, who acted as if the cross were only made to support her.
“And this talk of ‘preservation,’” Joy sighed. “You don’t do anything here. Where are the services? The outreach?”
“You don’t know a thing about what we do,” the Ethiopian said. “You’ve never even set foot inside till now.”
“I didn’t have to. I saw all I needed to from outside.”
Joy approached the Ethiopian and squatted down. Though he flinched away, she placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You know what I saw?” Joy said. “The ladder.”
Joy pressed her forehead into his and stared into his eyes.
“That ridiculous ladder!”
She grabbed the priest’s face and slammed him against the nearest surface, a wall of glass panes meant to keep tourists’ hands off the original stone—tourists who had long stopped coming.
“Y’all act all high and mighty in your big fancy church, but when it comes down to it, you can’t even agree to move a tiny ladder from the front of the building,” She pressed the Ethiopian’s head against the glass so tight it seemed like it could break. “For nearly five centuries you let it sit there as a symbol of your inadequacy. How can you claim to do anything for God’s people if you won’t even move a ladder?”
“It’s not about the ladder,” the Armenian said.
“Then what is it about?” Joy asked.
“It’s about the respect we hold for one another and our history,” he said. “Something you seem to be missing.”
“I’m sick of righteous men telling me what I’m missing,” Joy said. “I’m the preacher today. Now show me some respect and listen.”
The Ethiopian’s eyes were aimed at the unyielding stone of the chapel. Joy clenched his head, digging her long nails into his cheeks, then let him fall to the coarse floor. She stepped back, but despite her plea for our attention, she only breathed. The room’s stiff air overpowered us, but it seemed to empower her. She let it fill her delicate chest, until her voice split it apart.
“As I was saying,” she said. “God may have been pleased with you in the past, but you are Philistines now. Your lack of faith will doom you.”
“Talk all you want,” the Syriac said. “I’ll never listen to a word from you or your heretic son.”
My breath caught in my throat as every gun was aimed at the Syriac priest. Joy’s head quietly turned, and her face shined on him. The Eastern Orthodox bowed his head and prayed rapidly.
“‘Heretic?’ What are you implying, sweetie?” she said.
“We all know where your Messiah really came from!” the Syriac’s face was buried in shadow. “Your lust will be your yoke, and you’ll carry it until you die!”
A gun slammed into his head from behind, knocking him to the ground. A group of Followers swarmed him, kicking him with the chaotic ferocity of a stoning, but the Syriac’s smile never faded. In fact, he seemed happier than ever.
“Enough!” Joy’s voice echoed through the chamber.
The Followers backed away. The Syriac’s robes were stained in red. His neck craned up, and he saw Joy Burnham drifting toward him.
“I need a Scripture reader again,” Joy said. “Matthew 13:3. The Parable of the Sower.”
The book was back in my face and a shotgun was on my neck. I began to read.
“And Jesus spoke to them in parables, saying: ‘A farmer went out to sow his seed. Some fell along the path, and it was lost to the birds.”
She grabbed the Syriac’s chin and lifted him to his knees.
“Some fell on rocky places,” I said. “Where there was no soil. It sprang up quickly, but when the Sun came out it was scorched and withered.”
She held the rosary in front of him. The clear glass cross caught the dim candlelight.
“And worst of all, the seeds that landed in the thorns, which grew up and choked the plants until there was nothing left.”
“That’s you,” Joy said. “You choke the Word before it reaches your ears. When a gardener finds thorns…”
She put the rosary on the Syriac’s neck, twisted the cross until it was tight, then yanked hard.
“They pull them out!” she said.
The Syriac’s scream was pulled from the sky as sharp beads pressed into his neck, drawing a halo of blood to the surface. Joy smiled firmly as if only reprimanding a child, despite the blood flowing over her fists.
“Wait! Stop!” I tried to get to my feet, but the Followers pushed me down. They put a boot on my chest and pressed my face against the floor, but I managed to call out one more time.
“I’ll take his place!”
Joy’s head cocked to the side. And then, to my surprise, her grip loosened. The rosary dangled once more to the floor, and the Syriac collapsed, drawing labored breaths.
“You would take on God’s wrath?” Joy didn’t turn around.
“Yes,” the words flowed from me, chosen long ago. “Let it fall on me, so he may learn from his mistakes and join your flock.”
“Interesting. If this is your will, Lord,” She rose to her feet and raised both of her hands. “It shall be!”
Joy turned and approached me, raising the diamond rosary. I couldn’t deny there was something divine in her eyes. They held the pride of knowing she held the world in her hands. Such feelings didn’t belong to a human.
“Not here,” I added. “I want to lay down my life on the spot where Jesus laid down his. I want to die on Golgotha.”
Joy eyed me curiously, then smiled. She returned the rosary to her own neck.
“I accept,” she said. “My followers, please escort them to the site of the crucifixion! Let this moment be part of our legacy!”
They lifted me and took me up the stairs, carrying the other priests behind me. As we walked, I eyed the white crosses carved by crusaders into the stairwell walls centuries ago. I felt no righteous fire at this moment—only the kind of fear that makes you respect even the tiniest blade of grass.
The truth is, this would not be my sacrifice.
I was the Roman Catholic. This would be my confessional.
Golgotha. The name was derived from an Aramaic word meaning “skull.” Some theorize it earned the name because of its shape, but I can’t help but wonder if people knew, deep down, what would happen here.
I first came as a child. After standing in line, I approached the altar where the depiction of the suffering Christ stood. I stooped to the floor and looked beneath at my mother’s urging. A framed portrait of the Messiah looked solemnly at the small hole marking where Jesus was crucified. I reached inside, expecting to touch the rock of Golgotha.
But I couldn’t feel anything. The hole went deeper and deeper, boring straight through the Earth, and I felt that in a moment, it would drag me inside. I knew it was just childhood foolishness, but I never reached into that hole again, afraid the bottom would still escape me.
Once tourists had flocked to this spot every day, but for many months it had been empty. I had tied ropes in front of the stairs to keep the other priests out. I had said it was out of respect for the Messiah, but it was actually to keep them away from the trap I’d placed here, in preparation for the day of reckoning.
Now they had placed the Syriac on the Stone of Anointing, mirroring the mosaic of Jesus behind him more violently than the tiles could depict. I took down the ropes in front of the stairs, and we climbed the worn steps, beaten down by thousands of pilgrims. We gathered below the chandelier, the Followers surrounding me and the four priests, who watched Joy place her hand on the altar.
“It brings a tear to my eye, Lord,” Joy stared up at Jesus’s face. “How they turned against your Son all those years ago. And now that he’s come again, they still haven’t learned.”
She placed a hand upon my shoulder. My gaze remained fixed upon the tiled ground.
“But I pray that this man’s sacrifice will cure their blindness,” she said. “May we bear witness to your amazing grace!”
The Followers closed their eyes, joining in prayer. I stepped forward, my eyes wide.
“We must touch the stone,” I said.
I knelt before the altar. My fingers stroked the edge of the pit. I couldn’t reach farther in. I only whispered to myself…
“God, please take this cup from me.”
A hand grabbed me by the neck and pulled me back. Joy kneeled at my place, having thrown me aside to reach the altar. The dancing flames hanging from the ceiling in holden canisters formed a halo around her shoulder.
“I tell you, today you will join me in paradise.”
She reached for the hole, her hand clawing to the stone of Golgotha. There was a loud snap, followed by the crunching of bone and flesh. The candles flashed as Joy’s body jerked taut and a scream emerged from her lips like Satan’s forces from the jaws of Hell.
“What the fuck? What the fuck is that?” she screamed.
The Followers flinched, not used to such language from their leader. They rocked on the edge of action and reverence.
“I’d heard she liked to play up the theatrics, but this is a bit much,” the Eastern Orthodox grunted.
Joy trembled on the floor. Her face was dark and strained.
“These aren’t theatrics, you fools! I can’t get my hand out! Do something!”
The cult rushed to Joy’s aid. I raised my Bible and ran my finger across its leather surface. The Copt leaned close to my ear.
“What did you do?” he whispered.
“I delivered God’s word,” I said. “Get your Bibles.”
The other priests nodded. They raised their own worn scriptures. The light caught on the gold edge of the pages.
The Followers were struggling to pull Joy across the floor. Her arm was crushed and mangled, leaving a trail of blood from the hole and across the white star shaped from titles on the floor. The steel bear trap I’d placed on the rock of Golgotha still clung to her flesh.
“Get these twisted heathens out of my sight!” She roared.
When the Followers turned, we’d already opened our Bibles.
“I would like to read to you,” I said. “The word of God, from the Book of Genesis, chapter 22.”
We reached into the hollowed-out sections carved through the pages of our Bibles and pulled out our pistols. Then we began firing.
The Followers were cut down like wheat on the threshing floor. Their blood flowed in rivulets between the stone tiles. This was the only sermon I knew they would listen to. As they clutched fresh wounds in their chest and thrashed to the ground, I hoped their bloodshot eyes were seeing the light for the first time.
The Ethiopian took a shot to the shoulder, but his arm didn’t waver. The Armenian collapsed beside me with the sound of steel cutting through meat. Only the grace of God kept me from joining him. I gave a righteous shout as I emptied the last of my bullets.
Then silence choked the room, and the Followers lay scattered at out feet. The Eastern Orthodox cleaned blood off his glasses. The Copt crouched by the Armenian, who might not have been breathing.
Joy sat against the glass box sheltering the top of Golgotha, her hand bleeding into her lap. She reached for a discarded shotgun, but I pulled it from her hands and aimed it at her.
“Are you familiar with the binding of Isaac?” I said.
She wheezed out a laugh. Bloodstains surrounded her on the glass, looking like the shattered wings of a fallen angel.
“I’ve read the Bible,” she said. “Why ask me this now?”
“We’ve had to listen to you,” I said. “It’s time you listened to me.”
In Genesis, God tests Abraham by telling him to kill his beloved son Isaac, but when Abraham brings Isaac up the mountain, ties him up, and raises his knife, an angel comes to stop him. He tells Abraham that he has already passed the test, and Isaac will be allowed to live.
“That story is particularly interesting,” I continued. “Because it proves the Bible wasn’t the product of one holy voice. Most of it was composed through the diligent work of many messengers. Believing you’re the only expert on anything it says is the greatest heresy of all.”
She stared down the barrel of my gun, unblinking. “Do you think God will reward such lukewarm ideology?”
“No, that’s where Isaac comes in,” I said. “As a matter of fact, the portion of the text where Isaac is spared was added centuries later by an unknown editor. The writer who first described Isaac’s binding never referenced him again. The truth is, God may be more ruthless than we imagine.”
“Really?” she smiled. “I’m actually glad you told me that. In another life, it would have been nice to talk theology with you.”
“I don’t think that would have happened,” I said. “Or at least, it wouldn’t have been the same. You made us warriors of God, so we never stop short at the bone. We don’t kill those who love but those who hate. And time and again, we bring down the empire of Babylon, even if it may rise again.”
I didn’t know where my words came from anymore. I clutched my weapon as Joy stood and reached toward me, but she only touched my cheek, anointing my head with her blood.
“You know,” she whispered. “My Son’s real father looked a lot like you.”
I couldn’t hate her. I wasn’t godly enough to. I could see in her eyes the wounded child denied one too many times.
“It’s a shame I won’t meet you in heaven,” Joy said.
“You aren’t the judge of that.”
Another shot echoed through the church. I threw the gun to the side, then I walked back down the stairs. I passed the Syriac gasping for air on the slab of rock. His worn face smiled, and he clenched his fist. I approached the heavy doors looking out on the courtyard.
I paused for a moment as I prepared to shut out the outside world. The portable speaker was still playing in the courtyard, and I couldn’t deny there was something pleasant in the humming guitar strings, the close-knit group of performers singing from their heart. Maybe something was left there that you could hold in your hands and cast up to the world above, or maybe it had hurt too many people and was hardly worthy of its own God.
It was not for me to know. I firmly closed the doors and locked them tight.