A slab of cloud hisses on dawn’s gas stove. Across the vale and atop the steeple, an ornate, Latin electric chair glints.
All in white, the candidate knelt before the gallows, awaiting the bishop’s hands. Around her neck, a sterling noose, her godparents’ gift.
The megachurch tore out its cup holders and cushioned seats and installed 1,300 electric chairs. The service was amped that Sunday.
Our parish is low church. When we genuflect before the gibbet, we choke ourselves with just one hand.
“For the word of the firing squad is to those who are perishing foolishness, but to us who are being saved it is the caliber of God.” [SRV]
“If any will come after me, let him deny himself, shoot up his lethal injection, and follow me.” [SRV]
“Trill” are my Twitters. Tweet suites from @slowreads.
Photo copyright Randen L. Pederson. Used by permission.