Saint Hunter's Holy Justifier Church

What kind of gun would Jesus carry? The question floats toward the dilapidated rafters in the house of God, four walls echo with colloquial drawls and buzzing mosquitoes born across the street in stagnant sewage. The question, coming from a man dressed in a long flowing white cloak, arrives at a crucial time in Sewersburg history. Word around town is that Jon-Boy, the town elder (once a privilege bestowed upon a whole fleet of people known as ‘teachers’), town drunk, and only card carrying NRA member in a 3 mile radius was caught without his gun holster, and worse than that - without his 9mm Smith and Wesson. It certainly can’t be a comfort issue, he has been wearing an elastic holster model designed for pregnant women since his big weight gain 13 years ago. Before this, he held the old town record for longest adornment of a firearm at 3 years, 6 months, and 20 days. This includes at home meals, showers (he invested in the water proof anti-jamming jackets), work, church (in case of any shootings approved under God's almighty will), shopping, and funerals. All this time, John-Boy had his 9mm right there on his hip. To be caught in Sewersburg gunless was closer to a sin than taking Kenneth Copeland's name in vain, and just because John-Boy was caught without his gun surely does not mean Jesus H. Christ would be. We can not rely on human examples alone to righteously exemplify the willful habits and perturbations of the Lord. 

The town fat man, who also happens to be the town drunk, stands up. He is a high school graduate of over 3 high schools, the most learnded man in town, "I thawnk that that Gaw up there would carry a Glock 19, a real re-lie-bull piece to keep the peace". He sits back down and the packed Church feels a rumble of the floorboards, a sign of health. He is not asked to stand again, his opinion valued by those around him. The congregation nod silently to one another.

Conversation stirs outside of the Church regarding what flavor of gum God would chew, "I theenk Gawds gum would smell like Chili Cheese fries". Debate holds the town still on this humid Sunday.

The Churches walls are adorned with stained glass depictions of Jesus flying on down to Earth from the Heavens with blinding light surrounding him, assumingly from his clean white cloak, coming to save the masses and ensure the preservation of American culture. The saviors sun beams upon the pews exposing thinning hairlines and reflecting off greasy foreheads.

"That's mighty fine and all", Billy-Travis responds to John-Boy, unconvinced that the Glock 19 would be Jesus Christ's preferred weapon of choice. "I do bee-leave thuh AR-15 would suit the all knowing higher power much better than the Glock 19", doeful heads nod, caught in the high beams of Jesus. 

"The AR-15 is awefully nice I herd" Terra-Beth says to her sister Candy-Bee, "It's what awl the youngsters are usin' in skool now-a-days". Candy-Bea shakes her head up and down, thin cracking lips sucked into her mouth blindly agreeing with her sister - being a part of something is the closest she will get to the feeling of God's kingdom. The only unfamiliar man in town sits on the last pew, wide eyed. 

"Durren’ the pheasant season me and Arnie Jr. are usin' 12 gauge shotgun", Arnie Sr. orates proudly. Arnie Jr. peeks up at his paw as he speaks up for the first time in front of the Church. Something has gotten into paw today - something brave and noble transpires from the words of Arnie Sr. to the mind of Arnie Jr. An individual thought that leads to agreement among the masses feels good,  reassurance of the decisions you have made during your time here allows the mind to feel welcome. There is an unspoken incentive among humans to belong to a like minded village, and when times are hard perseverance is valued more than innovation.

"I know'm that that 12 gauge take care of the pheasants real nice like. And that the one and only lord and savior put pheasants here on this holy land for a reason. And well.. I suppose he too put that beautiful steel 12 gauge on this planet for a reason. We shood honor the absolutin' fact that Jesus leads us out of hunger and into prosperity with that 12 gauge and that pheasant", Arnie Sr. sits, and Arnie Jr. begins clapping. Slowly, everyone within the tempered glass walls begins clapping and praising that the 12 Gauge might just be Jesus Christ's gun of choice, after hearing such a compelling argument. The church's acoustics create a riotous atmosphere - a whole town's presence felt and heard through clapping and stomping and hollering, everyone getting worked up over all the agreeing and rationality of their righteousness. 

The stranger in the last pews brain has become so polluted from conversation that his body has become the town's 4th superfund site. A modest looking man that nobody has seemed to recognize, he quietly observes the Lord's word being spoken through the townspeople. As the church goers begin quieting down from all the hootin’ and hollerin’ of agreement - the stranger walks on musty red carpet toward the pulpit that was originally built in 1972 by Jim-Bo and Bosephus Caldwell - two stout brothers the size of kegs who are both half blind from a dirt bike accident in their youth. Directly behind the pulpit is an exceptionally bloody rendition of the crucifixion of Jesus, but rather than nails in the center of his palms there were gold spray painted rusty railroad spikes taken from the now defunct train that used to pass through town. 

The stranger, gaining the silent attention of the church, begins his sermon, "I have found myself today in your town of Sewersburg, caught in between bouts of bad weather. I am a truck driver for North Star Transit, a small company that I dedicate 6 days of my week to. But, on that 7th day I aim to oblige my commitment as a devout, God fearing, bible reading Christian in whatever town I may find myself in. Seeking out God's word, I stumbled upon your place of worship, 'Saint Hunter's Holy Justifier Church'. But, what I have found within these four walls has been a crucifixion in itself of God's word. I am disgusted with the behavior, conversation, and message of prayer I have witnessed here today. I walked in with an open mind, looking passed conversations out front of the church about what flavor of gum God would chew. I have sat patiently, waiting for a sermon, a prayer, an amen, but all my ears have borne witness to is the arguing of men and women without holy thoughts, without a recollection of why we are here, what we pray for, what we live for, and what we die for. Now, I see your town. No clean drinking water, sewage seeping through the ground like crude oil, the only food for purchase being bags of chips and cookies lining the gas station shelves, the only drink being beer in your fridges, and whiskey and guns housed in the same low cabinet well in reach of your children. I can confidently assert that there is no god here. There has never been a god here. In his place I find brainless individuals spoon feeding each other lies until fat but never full you go throwing up into each other's ears and minds. I implore you all to ponder how you have gotten to this place of such lowly worship, such bastardly faith that would turn a healthy population into cancerous monstrosities. Reconsider what faith is, and what God means to you, before you destroy yourself in the name of ignorance". 

The stranger storms out through the large wooden doors - he tries to slam them shut but a breeze of leaves and cigarette butts jams the door open. He walks past the same people outside of the church, now engaged in a different conversation, “Whuh do ya think a gun tastes like?" one stout man asks another. Rain begins crying through the cracks of the church, past shoddy shingles and forgotten halos.

"What that strange man say?" Pastor Cyrus asks the congregation. 

"Sometin bout God delighting in chili cheese fries?" Michael-Clyde says with certainty. The congregation comes to a firm agreement. With the rain and impassioned speech from the stranger, the sermon has come to a close. Pastor Cyrus reminds them of next week's address: the natural cycle of atrophy and illusionment. No outside thoughts encroach upon Sewersburg for another day - left to be pure and cleansed by the rain where sun shines through breaks of cloud upon the church.