The Church in the Swamp

How do we know our gods are gods?

The Spanish settlers in Florida, the land of flowers, believe that the church in St Augustine is the oldest church in America. It is a small church, white-washed, and the home of their Catholic God, now a tourist attraction in a town that parades its antiquity. But, it is only their arrogance and their ignorance that makes them think this and makes the tourists pay their fifteen dollar entry fee. But, there is an older church in America, in Florida. Of course, there are the Indian burial mounds, the holy places of the people that were here before the conquistadors with their metal helmets and disease. But, this is not one of those.

 

This church is a tiny building in the middle of a swamp, nestled among cypress knees and alligators, draped in Spanish moss. The congregation are mostly native people, but not necessarily Native American. They are descendants of people that laid claim to Florida back when it was a swamp that no one wanted. The church has no name that can be found on the cracked, faded, warped wooden wall. The people that go there have no name for their religion and beyond this congregation of maybe a hundred people there is no other followers of this particular faith.

 

The people of this congregation were here before the Conquistadors, before most of the people that call themselves the Real People. And this church was the first thing they built in this swamp. But, the Spanish claimed the land for their own, and found this church, and claimed it for its own. But the people of this congregation never needed the Spanish Dios. They had their own. And in the nature of all conquered religions, they simply superimposed the new God on top of their old religion.

 

The women here wear white flowing dresses, the men wear light suits. It's all very formal and exotic. But, anyone attending this service would claim it was basically a Christian ceremony, though they seemed to worship not God, but Joseph and Mary, and named them in some strange language. But, the icons, the man and the woman, are obviously the Christian Virgin and her Husband. There is even a cross on the back wall flanked by these icons, the baby Jesus, as a man, hangs there connecting his mother and adopted father. There is the typical hymn and the typical sermon, presided over by an elderly man who was dressed as a Catholic priest. But, there was also a sermon and hymn led by a woman, a nun, priestess, witch, who was as ancient as the man.  

 

Had the Spring Break tourists ever found this place, ever sat in the back pew, snapping pictures and paying attention to every detail to regale their friends back home of the quaint, slightly exotic, practices of this church, they would have noticed that they felt odd. It wasn't something that was tangible, or even something that you could describe, like an emotion, but a sensation that most would simply shrug off, until they couldn't anymore. It starts out as that paranoid sensation that everyone in the room knew something that you didn't and they weren't able, or interested, in telling you what that was. They were simply watching, waiting, wondering what would happen to you. Then, this sensation grows, as paranoia often does, it escalates, so that you feel as if there is something, not someone, watching you. That something is powerful. It knows everything about you, everything you ever wanted, everything you are going to do, everything you are thinking. It is an unpleasant feeling, like having your soul laid bare in such a way that most people have never experienced, even those who claim they have.

 

The reason for this is that this church is unique. It is the only church in the entire history of the world whose gods are real and whose gods actually live in the church. This is something the congregation knows, accepts, and that the rest of the world would find blasphemous or ridiculous. But, then, a tourist would find their way to this church and feel the power and the presence here, and not be able to compare it to the churches they've been to and not be able to explain it. The people of this congregation believe this hateful blasphemy because it is simply true.

 

The truth does not make them feel superior, as most people would think, because they realize they are not special, not cursed, but responsible. This responsibility is not something they think about, it is simply something they do, like a job that is passed down from generation after generation. And today, the generation is being passed.

 

There is a young woman and a young man. They are the same age, roughly the same height, same build, they could be twins. Her hair is dark, his slightly lighter. They are thirteen. At the age of three, when they were old enough to be away from their mothers, but not old enough to remember them, they were taken to the church, they had been chosen. Her name, now, is Mary. His name, now, is Joseph. What their names were before is not important and therefore not remembered.

 

They are sitting side by side, not touching, on the bench in front of the cross in front of the entire congregation. Their mothers and fathers watch them as the rest of the congregation watches them, all of them feeling familial pride, becuase these children are the best of them all. The priest and the priestess emerge from separate sides of the church dressed ceremoniously in the robes that none of these members, except for the very old, remember ever seeing. They approach the center together and hold hands, they look up at each other with love, and mount the altar together.

 

"Today is the happpiest day in our lives," the priest says. "Today we go to Heaven, we go to Mary and Joseph, and are able to lie down by their feet after so many years of toil in their service," the priestess says. "Oh, brothers and sisters, do not fear for us, but be happy for us, and one day we will greet you there," the priest continues. "And we will leave behind these two chosen to lead you," the priestess continues. "They will be initiated into the greatest bond of love they've ever known," the priest finished. "They will lead you to great happiness," the priestess finished. Night fell outside and the congregation stood as the two children were led out of the room by the priest and priestess.

 

The children are led down a corridor that leads to the stone mosuleum behind the church. It is cold here, despite the heat of the day, and the stone walls seem to be frostbitten to the touch. The air in this corridor is close, damp, heavy with the odors of the swamp, of wet and decaying soil. It is a pleasant smell, organic. The Priest and Priestess seem to be happy with this smell, the children unmoved. The small group stop at the door to the mosuleum. On the door is engraved the figures of Joseph and Mary, seated like a King and Queen, on thrones staring out at the carver. The priest and priestess kiss each other, then trace the figures with their hand, and say "Master, Madam, it is time," together, and the door opens.

 

They enter the small room, opulently decorated, warm and glowing with soft candlelight. On their thrones are the life-size stone carvings Mary and Joseph. But, as they sit unmoved and unchanged they become Adam and Eve, Isis and Osiris, Hera and Zeus, and a myriad eternal partners, back to Mary and Joseph. The Priest and Priestess walk to the god and goddess of the opposite sex and sit below their feet and offer their necks to them. The stone carvings move and frozen fingers wrap around the necks of their Chosen and bring them to their laps, their necks to their lips, their teeth to their veins, and they bite and suck. When the life has drained from the priest and priestess, the new chosen, the new Mary and Joseph, walk forward and retrieve the light bodies and take them to the catacombs and bury them with ceremony, they take their clothes and dress themselves in them. Then, they return to the statues, that are now no longer statues but living, breathing, flushed human beings. They sit, the new Priest and Priestess, at the feet of their god and goddess.

 

"She will be your partner, your lover, your joy," the goddess says. "He will be your partner, your lover, your joy," the god says. "And you will serve your people precisely in the same way you've always served them," the goddess continues. "And you will serve us precisely in the same way you've always served us," the god continues. "And you will be blessed with long life full of happiness and joy," the goddess finishes. "And you will go to Heaven when you die," the god finishes.

 

With this, the riest and priestess offer their necks and are bitten, gently, by their god and goddess, a little blood is sucked out. Then, the god and goddess open their wrists and the priest and priestess suck the ice cold blood. They are held as they grow through the transformation which is violent and can not be helped. Then, as a reward, the priest and priestess's wrists are opened in the same way their god and goddesses wrists were opened and they are joined together in a blood bond, and are now married.

 

The ceremony is ended. The god and goddess are left in their tomb, caretakers of the dead, their faithful servants, and eternal lovers. For the next few decades this blood sacrifice will keep them animated and alive, free to love and protect their following. But, in one hundred years the ceremony will have to proceed again as the god and goddess fade and die, returning to stone, to be reawakened like a Pheonix in blood rather than fire.

 

The priest and priestess, two young kids, walk out of the corridor and shut the door ceremoniously with a kiss. The corridor is warm now, warm like a porch during summer, not graveyard cold. They walk hand in hand, two young lovers, towards their new position, new responsibility, new life. They are greeted by their congregation with warmth and reverence, as both the leaders and the sacrifice they are.

 

All of the people in this congregation with no name know that their god and goddess are real and that they live in the church. They know this simply as no other religious congregation knows, not based on faith, but on reality. What they do not know is that their god and goddess are not immortal as they think, not omniscient, not omnipresent, not all-powerful. The god and goddess are merely more powerful, more ancient, and  more intelligent than the mortals who serve them, something they found out a long time ago, and have exploited since. The god and goddess have no name, or rather, they have too many names, and got tired of being called by these names to do small favors for the world, and got tired of the petty rivalries between the group that called her Venus and Isis, of the group that called him Jehovah and Mohammed.

 

And so, they retired to Florida.

Reviews

[Kimberly]

LoL The heat and humidity do seem to be biblical at the moment.

[hyancynthstofeedthysoul]

Clever so g-d is not dead. Just retired to Florida. However having lived there I can tell you they are in hell.