The Tree of Knowledge

“If God had a face, what would it look like? And would you want to see, if seeing meant that you would have to believe?”

-Joan Osbourne “One of Us”

“For truly, I say to you, till heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass the law until all is accomplished. Whoever then relaxes one of the least of these commandments and teaches men so, shall be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but he who does them and teaches them shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.”

-Jesus Christ

Matthew 5:18-19

It’s an oddly pretty day for an execution. For weeks winter has insisted on lingering into spring, but today it’s 75 degrees and sunshine and the bluebells are starting to bloom, their bright blue petals just a shade or two darker than the sky. Today is fucking beautiful.

It’s worth noting and savoring this beautiful day because in a few minutes there’ll be gooey, gray brain matter clinging to those same lovely blue petals. The aroma of the flowers will be replaced by the reek of human blood and shit.

I’ll probably throw up again.

My husband, Ryan, is ashamed of this. He’ll probably hit me. Last time he waited just until we got back inside the house and then shoved my head down into the corner of the polished mahogany sofa table. It opened a monster gash on my forehead. Until that afternoon I had been blissfully unaware of just how much it strings when blood runs into your eyes. The beating had left a tiny pink scar I’ll often catch Ryan staring at while he fucks (rapes) me. I often wonder if he really only did it because I shamed him, or if it was because he so enjoyed the stoning he wanted to hit something else.

I can tell his other wives don’t enjoy these either, even if they won’t admit to it. Mara always takes this very deep breath and then gets this screwed up look of determination right before she throws her rock. She closes her eyes before it hits.

Rebecca really tries to like it. She’ll yell out praises for God’s will being done and smile as she throws her stones. It’s when they shit themselves as they die and the stench hits her nose that she starts to gag. She hides it well. She really does love seeing sinners get their divine punishment, she just wishes it didn’t have to smell so bad.

The Judge stands up and approaches the podium. A screeching feedback noise issues from the speakers, forcing everyone to grimace and cover their ears. He shoots the sound tech a glare before beginning to speak.

“Today we have gathered to praise God’s divine will and judgment, and to exercise punishment upon these deserving sinners. We do this, knowing we are not just in compliance of the law, but that to carry out the Almighty’s great laws brings us joy and peace. For Jesus said, ‘Till Heaven and Earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law’.”

He leads forward a middle aged woman. She’s not bound. They never are. If anything can be said about the Great Revelation it’s that it has made everyone remarkably civil. People politely step forward to receive their slow, painful death.

There’s a man with two little boys in the front row. I think they’re her husband and sons. The boys are crying. Dad can’t seem to look at her. He’s determinedly staring down at the curly haired tops of his boys’ heads.

The Judge opens his Bible and reads, “Exodus chapter twenty verse seven, ‘Thou shalt not take the name of thy God in vain.’”

The woman is crying. She says, “It just slipped out! I didn’t mean to! Please! Please, it was an accident! I didn’t mean to!”

She’s yelling now. Begging.

“Please, my babies need me! Please, I can’t go yet!”

At this point she’s lost all coherency and just sobs. The boys sob with her.

After trying and failing a couple of times to shush her, the Judge moves on to the next prisoner. An old man. He does not scream, or cry. He steps forward voluntarily, accepting his fate. Delilah murmurs her approval.

“Exodus chapter thirty-one, verse fifteen,” the Judge says. “’Six days work may be done, but in the seventh is the Sabbath of rest, holy to the Lord. Whosoever doeth any work in the Sabbath day, he shall surely be put to death.’”

The old man remains remarkably stoic. I wonder what work it is that he did? What was so important that it was worth going to Hell for?

I can’t help but gasp as the next victims are lead forward. I know them. Before the Revelation I went to High School with them. Art and Nolan. We were in the school production of The Merchant of Venice together. They were voted cutest couple in the yearbook.

“Leviticus chapter eighteen, verse twenty-two,” the Judge says. “’Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: It is an abomination.’”

Why didn’t they just stay away from each other? Is going back into the closet really that hard? Why couldn’t they just pop a Viagra and fuck their wives like every other gay instead of making me participate in bludgeoning them to death?

They hold hands. I don’t know if it’s because they’re unrepentant or if it’s just because they have nothing left to loose.

Nolan drove me home after rehearsal once when my ride bailed on me. We sang along to the original cast recording of The Phantom of the Opera at the top of our lungs.

I’ve never had to stone anyone I know before.

“God’s will be done!” the Judge yells, amongst cheers from the crowd. “Will the accusers please step forward.”

The old man had no accuser. It would appear he turned himself in. For the mother, it’s her husband that steps forward. For Art and Nolan, a man I don’t recognize. A father? Neighbor? Teacher? At the Judge’s command, they cast their stones at their respective targets, without much enthusiasm. It doesn’t matter. This part of the ritual is really more for show anyway.

“Citizens, you may now begin to cast your stones!” the Judge intones.

It takes a long time to stone someone to death. Picture how much it must hurt to get hit by a rock the size of a baseball. It would leave a bruise, break the skin, and draw a little river of blood. It would hurt like hell, but that’s all it would do. A bruise, and a little blood. Maybe a bump on the head. Imagine for a moment the sheer number of those relatively minor bruises, cuts, and bumps on the head the body has to sustain before it finally expires. It takes hundreds.

God, please help me to remember that this is the right thing to do. That your will and your way is just and good. God, please save me from going to Hell.

And I throw my first stone.

It hits the old man in the arm, opening a fresh, bleeding wound to join company with the many others that have already emerged from his thin, veiny skin. His stoicism is fading with every blow. It’s easy to submit until you’re in so much pain you can’t think straight anymore. After about ten minutes he tries to run, just like they all do, eventually. He pushes against the crowd and Ryan takes in upon himself to punch him in the nose, breaking it with a crack that resonates through the park and sends fresh blood pouring down his face.

The husband of the woman has pressed small stones into the hands of their children, and only after much encouragement do they fling them at their mother. She rushes at them, perhaps in an attempt to embrace the one last time, but the crowd pushes her back into the circle, not letting her touch them. Blood and white gooey fluid pour from her now hollow eye socket. She looses the ability to stand. After several, agonizing minutes she is, mercifully, the first to die. Her skull reshaping until it is no longer a recognizable shape. You wouldn’t have known for certain if she was dead or just stopped moving.

Only there’s that smell.

The old man follows shortly thereafter. There’s so much blood on his face that his wide, dead staring eyes look bizarrely white by contrast.

Nolan, unrepentant to the last, has shielded Art with his body. It is in this way that Art survives the longest. They actually have to halt the stoning and haul Nolan’s corpse off of Art’s largely unblemished body before we can start again. The men that dragged away Nolan’s corpse will be the same ones to burry the bodies later, so that no one else has to be made unclean.

Art is left alone in the circle, surrounded by blood and rocks. He lets out a high pitched scream when the first stone hits him and Rebecca laughs. The people throwing the rocks seemed to have gained a new vigor being so close to the end of the executions. They keep throwing, even after his skull splits open and spills its contents onto the grass. The Judge has to tell us to stop. There’s nothing left of Art but a mangled, contorted bloody thing as everyone launches into the closing prayers.

I vomit into the flowers.