Hollier than thou

The old man shuffled under the gilded layered robes, his face clenched as he went entered the room. They were waiting, ready to take him around, wanting something, a Word, some Guidance. It was another attestation to His greatness, His mysterious ways, his infinite kindness and wisdom. And it was Work.

Work needed to be done, because people were watching, and they needed to learn. His job was to shepherd them. He has been given the light, the sword, the kingdom, he was clutching to it, although he knew it could never be taken. Not while he was alive.

But there was infinity to prove. The world was unimaginably different than even 10 years ago. There were forces. Demons. They gnawed their way into sites of uttermost holiness, and swarmed like locust, they were unabashed by gold, by gilt, by axiom. They wanted things he could not give, and his stance was fierce. Relentless. They wanted his thoughts, his pronunciations, on the unthinkable. They clawed and ravaged into his past, bringing up hazy days when he could not yet settle into the orderly, painstaking, meticulous, immaculate path, a path marked and planned and placed in front of him and only him so he could be where he was now. Closer to the throne than anyone walking the earth. An Intermediate.

In those days which were a lifetime away but sometimes, with his burgeoning age laying on him like an invisible cloak heavier than his most ceremonious robes, so close that he could smell and see them, miss their simplicity and dread their chaos, their awfulness, he had been awash, along with the masses, a helpless young body in a sea of bodies. He had made choices made by millions. And he would not be crucified for them. He had done nothing wrong, and he did not care for any implications otherwise. Had something been done, he would not have been brought so close, to such power. It was a simple truth. Once he had given his life away, and given into the wondrous machinery of the organization, he was carried upwards in a stream of light, through the rumors and the backstabbing, through corruption and scandal, through heartlessness (for their were many who would murder, and have, to be where he was), in a series of ongoing miracles that proved over and over and over, that he was the one, and that any mistake, any sin, was long forgotten and forgiven.

He believed so passionately, so intimately, like a baby in its mother's arms, seeing only her face, that circle of light. He made it so there was nothing else and there would never be, and for that he was rewarded. And he had made promises, made vows as he lay under the canopy, in these fits of sleeplessness that sometimes seized him, when calling for the doctor and having a tablet discreetly placed by his bedside was impossible, so close to the last time he had called, that the whispers, the phone calls, the electronic messages! would start before the doctor even made it back downstairs. In those torturous nights, he knew he had to face a grave challenge the next day meeting one leader or another and proclaiming once more the eternal power that seeped so endlessly, so painfully, so lethally out of the holly body placed in his shaking, eternally grateful hands. It was too much then and his mind would drift back to simpler times, to childhood games, to an innocent, harmless libido. The uniforms just enforced that innocence. He had been in uniform his whole life, but the first one he put on was supposed to haunt him, get him in trouble with those salivating, wild eyed journalists he imagined (though never actually seen, as the news was filtered to him via a hierarchical network of media advisers) how they rejoiced. The words they said. German words pronounced wrong, in grave mockery, to humiliate not only him personally, but He who was sustaining them, He who could at mere passing with turn them into ashes, He who could, and no doubt would, show them his humble face, his warm, bleeding heart, again and again and again a million times over, until their last breath. And only then turn to wrath, impersonal and practical. And they were fools. Blind and dumb. He knew that appeasement should not take place on the last breath alone, knew it in his heart when he begun serving.

He had no choice whatsoever in donning that uniform on his lank, boyish body. A body of a child who sprouted suddenly into a man, knees bumping against each other, insecure in his shorts but confident under the heavy cloth when marching in time to that wonderful music. He did not wish to, but he compiled because Papa was made happy, Mama beamed with pride, their teachers were vehement they go serve, the women, girls and little boys looked at them in admiration, almost ecstasy. There was never a choice, that's what they don't understand.

It was a war and people were killed, but he had nothing to do with that, he just put on the uniform. It was not right. It was wrong. And his country was devastated. Tragically, punishingly, as it should have been for its hubris, its foolishness. But so many lives lost... some of them Jews, of course. Killed, murdered, what does it matter. The look on the rabbi's face, he had forgotten his name, so many to be met each day, when he had said killed. He could almost take it back, but remembered that mildness needs to be affected, for the millions watching who do not care for the Jews. For his own people who have heart enough, enough about those 6 million or so, probably less, when each second more babies are murdered, unborn. They are not given any chance to hear the truth, to cross the threshold, to stand in the light with the just and the mighty. Infidels had the chance of correction and forsake it. Their organizations were strong and very few had the courage to break away towards the light. They were doomed to start with. But an unborn baby, a glob of semen with millions of them dropped carelessly into a ceramic sink (flash of distanced days when he had not yet vowed, cowering in the shared bathroom), what choice did it have when it was murdered before forming, building up its cells and heart and lungs so it could become a disciple if all things converged and the slight, incredible, unquantifiable miracle of turning a believer was made? And now everywhere, at this very second, trillions of murdered, unborn babies in places where babies were usually born in scores, where the immense power he was guiding made relentless progress and was never dismissed or ridiculed, were wasted away like bowel movements because of the idea that men and women should be carnal away from the blessing of marriage, away from his guiding presence, and being encouraged to do so by their governments, by health organizations, by their schools! And he knew that even some of his footmen, who had seen the sick and dying and chose to advocate the tool of the devil, being wrong, being misled, being blinded the ultimate test placed in his shaking hands, guarding the doors from the flood of infidels ready to ravage the Kingdom, bring the world into darkness, extinction (for hadn't he spoken very strongly in favor of environmental issues, conceding that pollution is a sin).

He was forced to issue a statement, a statement he somehow doubted when hearing from the experts, but then he heard so many statements, endless streams of facts and figures. Nevertheless it was the only thing he could think of at the time that would ward off the evil, if only until he composed himself, until he received further guidance. His advisers were against it, but they were not of strong character and has not seen the things he have, endured the tests he did. He spoke to the world. He told his flock, the innocents crowding under the warmth of his hand, as well as the poor, doomed souls fornicating extra-maritally, the condoms prevent pregnancy, but do not prevent transmittance of a certain disease.