In a land full of pews and of bells and of smoke, There once stood a Church — but it started to choke. It choked on its incense, it choked on its pride, It painted its altars and let Truth slide.
There once was a time it was sturdy and bold, With statues and silence and chalices gold. But now it’s all tambourines, handshakes and lights, With priests who wear sneakers and bishops in tights.
They used to teach sin — now they just say “mistake.” They used to say “fast” — now they say “take a break!” They used to preach Christ — now it’s all “let’s be nice.” No more Ten Commandments, just lukewarm advice.
The dogma? Diluted. The Latin? All gone. The silence? Replaced with a sing-along song. They preach Mother Earth and the climate and pride, But won’t speak of Hell — now that they just hide.
The Pope tweets of migrants and melting ice caps, While cardinals lounge in theological naps. The shepherds wear mitres but speak like the mob, And Peter, poor Peter — he’s out of a job.
The candles are plastic, the homilies canned, The Mass is a pageant — not sacred, but bland. And back in the choir, where angels once wept, Now “On Eagles’ Wings” is sung while folks slept.
But somewhere out there, past the smoke and the spin, A remnant remembers what burned deep within. A fire that won’t flicker, a flame that won’t die, A truth that won’t change when the winds of men lie.
So yes — let them dance, let them prance, let them clown, Let them spin up their Church till it all tumbles down. Because when it falls — and fall it shall do — The Bride will stand up. Not painted. But true.
She’ll rise from the rubble with incense and steel, With silence that cuts and a sword that can heal. And Peter will weep, and the Rock will grow warm — When fire returns in its righteous form.
“Let he who is without shame cast the first innuendo.”
[Scene opens. Obsidian bar. A cosmic jukebox hums. All twelve spirits lounge around a levitating table of molten glass. The afterlife smells faintly of sex, smoke, and sandalwood. The orb in the center pulses like a cosmic heartbeat.]
Woody Allen (wringing his hands): “Look, I’m not saying I’m uncomfortable talking about sex with Jesus here, I’m just saying if anyone’s going to judge me, I’d rather it be a licensed therapist and not… you know, the guy.”
Jesus (grinning, sipping wine that keeps refilling):“Relax, Woody. I died for your sins, not your browser history.”
Oscar Wilde (twirling a peacock feather he found in his martini): “Darling, your browser history is the only holy scripture I read anymore. It’s filthy, tragic, and oddly symmetrical.”
Freud (scribbling furiously): “Symmetry implies repression. He wants to be punished. Possibly by a woman with authority issues and a tight pencil skirt.”
Cleopatra (raising an eyebrow): “I’ll volunteer, provided I get a kingdom, three slaves, and control over his neurotic little soul.”
Woody Allen (gasping): “I already gave my soul to anxiety in 1973. It’s been on layaway with guilt and brisket ever since.”
Einstein (tapping the orb with a tuning fork): “You all forget—sex bends time. Just ask anyone who’s ever lasted thirty seconds and claimed it was a spiritual awakening.”
Genghis Khan (pounding the table): “Sex is war. Quick, messy, and someone always leaves bleeding.”
Marilyn Monroe (dragging smoke from a ghost-cigarette): “Speak for yourself. Some of us made it an opera. I died in silk sheets. You died with mud in your beard.”
Nietzsche (grinning): “Death is the climax of life. Sex is just rehearsal. I climax philosophically—alone, in a dark room, to the sound of thunder.”
Hitler (muttering in a corner, clutching a cold glass of milk): “Degenerates… the whole lot of you. Sex should be nationalized, race-certified, and ideally supervised.”
Oscar Wilde (without turning his head): “Is he still here? Can someone please exile him again? Preferably to a silent film with no subtitles.”
Dalai Lama (sipping tea, smiling beatifically): “Even he deserves compassion. But not the good kind. The boring kind. The one that makes him sit in a waiting room forever with no magazines.”
Elon Musk (projecting from a flickering AI drone shaped like a dragonfly): “I’m building a NeuralLink that will eliminate the need for bodies. Sex will be streamed. Death will be optional. Or downloadable.”
Jesus (looking amused): “Ah yes, a messiah with worse UX.”
Freud (nodding): “Tech is just the new mother. Cold, brilliant, and withholding.”
Cleopatra (to Elon): “When I wanted to be remembered, I built temples. You built a car that catches fire.”
Woody Allen (whimpering into a bar napkin): “I came here to ask if it’s okay to still feel bad about a kiss I had in 1985. Instead, I’m trapped in a divine orgy with history’s most terrifying personalities.”
Genghis Khan (grinning): “And yet somehow, you’re still the most anxious one here.”
Marilyn Monroe (whispering): “He vibrates like a broken violin. I find it… charming.”
Nietzsche (raising his glass): “To Woody. The only man here who dies a little every time he thinks about sex.”
Oscar Wilde (standing dramatically): “And to sex and death—our twin divas. One seduces, one slaps. And neither ever returns your calls.”
Jesus (smiling): “And yet… they are the only reasons we ever bother showing up at all.”
[The orb pulses. A piano plays a single, eternal note. The afterlife laughs quietly in its own dark corner, waiting for the next scene.]
