This is just a temporary stop ‘til you buy your first shack. God ain’t here, god ain’t got no money problems.

I ain’t ever been one ta put stock and store in religion, it has always been somethin ta quell the fear of death, somethin I ain’t got. So when the new priest comes ta town I am apprehensive: the last thin we need is some asshole in black tellin the weak willed what ta do and think. God, that cosmic comedian, he ain’t been ta Ark in a long time: If Native Americans ain’t attackin us, it’s rattlers, if not them it’s drought, and if none a that – there still ain’t no fucking gold. The only reason anyone lives here is they ain’t got the money ta get ta California.

“He’s got the biggest smile I ever seen. He must be filled with the spirit of GAWD!” I roll my eyes at Jim’s exposition, gushed amongst the salooners.

“He got out the stagecoach, wooden thing bigger then GAWD himself, and got ta shakin hands,” his brother yells. This is what I was afearin, some goody-goody sum-bitch turnin Ark inta Jesusville. If god ain’t bringin gold he can get the fuck out. Tomorrow’s gonna be his first sermon; I hate sittin through church, but folks only like other god fearin types round these parts. Tomorrow I’ll see what kinda man this Priest fella is, see what kinda shit he’s gonna force down our throats.

When he talks, it ain’t the usual god hooey. He talks with a level tone. He talks with a mightee big smile. I find myself listenin like I ain’t never done before. I find the words penetratin my… my core. He talks about the bond between man and nature, the respect n love we must have for all god’s critters, no matter how different. He throws in the word “god” as an afterthought, just as I remove it.

He ends n I’m on my feet, cheerin and a clappin. I feel like one of the flock, yet that don’t scare me. He waits by the door, shakin hands and makin grace with all the folks. Huggin the women. Jokin with the men. A different joke for every bloke: kinda impressive. I pull myself further an further ta the back of the line.

“Be careful Blanch,” he says ta Mrs. McDowell, hunchin her way down each step, “my heart will break if your beautiful face isn’t around.”

“Oh Father, ain’t you just the sweetest thang,” her sunken cheeks flush.

He turns ta me now, his mid-chest beard sways at me as he asks, “How did you enjoy the sermon my son?”

“Pretty light on the god there Father,” I say.

He rubs the back of his neck, his brow over-shadows his bright eyes, “I’m sorry, my nerves always get to me on my first sermon.”

“On the contrary friend. Short n simple. What this town needs.”

He smiles, “Well, I hope to see you next Sunday.”

I walk inta the oppressive heat of the town, “I suspect you just might.”

The man piques my interest. Not ina New York way; but I find myself curious about what he’s up ta. I don’t go outta my way ta falla him. When I see him, I observe. He never ain’t helpin someone. No matter who it is: All genders, all races; if they need help, the Priest is there. He flows into, around – becomes these people, in a matter of days. He carries them aloft, on his buoyant chest a mysticism and rationality.

Tuesday he helps Mrs. McGuiness bringin her crops ina town.

Feel the spirit.

Wednesday he teaches Tim and Enus not ta steal. He don’t raise his hand or voice, jus treats ‘em like adults.

Feel the love.

Friday he runs after Mr. Robin’s stray cattle, he don’t stop runnin until they rejoin the herd. He sits, pantin on the church steps. Wavin and smilin ta all who pass.

Feel the passion.

I feel excited for Sunday.

He gives another god-light sermon. I hear murmurs ripple through the pews.

“God ain’t likin this.”

“He don’t have enough reverence for the almighty.”

He talks about the Natives, sayin we need ta learn ta live in harmony with them. It’s an unpopular idea, yet it takes everythin in me ta not stand and cheer. We deserve their hatred. He preachers about universal love, heavy on the understandin, light on the mysticism. This time people don’t wait ta say bye ta him, some cast their hate-filled, self-righteous eyes on him. He jus smiles, wishin them well, much ta their disdain.

Unrequited hate is hard ta sustain. It’s like… tryin ta beat against the damn ocean witha 2X4, which I know half the dum bastards roun here would do in a name a the ”LAWWD”

“Glad to see you back my son. At least you were looking at me in there, thank you.”

“First time I ever heard a black cloak make a lick of sense,” I say.

“I wish more people could see through your opened eyes.”

“God-types. They don’t like strayin off the script,” I look out inta the desolate ocean a sand. At waves of heat. We both sharin in the silence. “Have a drink with me this Friday Father. We haven’t had a chance ta talk.”

“I’m always willing to converse with all who are interested,” he pats ma back, “but if you’ll excuse me, it would seem I have some work to do.”

“Say no more,” I step inta the breeze of the day. My gaze piercin the purest blue sky, “I can honestly say I can’t wait.” His smile ma payment.

On Monday it is murmurs.

Feel the paranoia.

Tuesday, momentum gains.

Feel the ignorance.

Wednesday, they call him a “Red Lover”.

Feel the intolerance.

On Thursday they talk about burnin his house down.

Feel the hatred. Feel the irony.

Can I get a hallelujah?

Our first beer shared in silence. The back of ma house looks out upon fields of dunes that crescendos inta a plateau that caresses the sky. I reach for ma second, “They is all talk.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” he cracks his second. Looks ta that peak.

“I haven’t recognized this shit hole since you came.” Swig, and my pipes getta wave of relief. I stare inta rollin heat, paintin the land blue.

“If I can sway one heart, influence one mind, I can leave a happy man,” he says.

“You the strangest clothman I ever met.”

He looks at me, those bright eyes start a fire. “I’m not into all that god shit. Since I can remember,” he takes a swig, “I’ve only ever wanted to help people. This seemed to be the easiest way.” He takes a deep calmin breath and a somber sip, as waves of grain clash with worries, sullying the mouth that holds the greates resource of all: Honesty. “Perhaps, people just aren’t ready to see the truth. For open eyes.”

“Can’t you stay?”

“My lessons will live on through you. It’s time to spread my word.” He looks to the clouds. “One day, the world will be ready. Until then, I’ll help where I can.”

“What is yer name Father? I want ma memory ta have a name.”

“Kris. Kris Trader. But let me ask my own question,” I feel his spirit strengthen my own, “does it matter? I am merely a conduit for universal truths.”

I watch Father Trader’s stagecoach carve a path through the filthy road, off to some other town that isn’t ready for him. For the truth. Off to some town that will wanna flatten him, even as he surges for the sky.

I watch Father Kris’ stagecoach cut a path through this harsh earth, and I feel myself start to panic.