I was 14 when our pastor rewrote the Bible

As a kid growing up in the sticks of Mississippi, my mom and dad dragged me along to church with them every Sunday. The drill was getting up before dawn, putting on the same tight dress shoes, and driving for miles down the backroads just to sit on a wooden pew that hurt your ass for an excess of hours. To me, it felt like some cruel form of sleep deprivation torture. Listening to old men drone on and on about some even older man from the Bible was usually a recipe for naptime. That was until the morning of our pastor’s revelation.

It was a stormy August morning when Pastor Frapple told the congregation about the new Bible. You heard that right. The new version. His version. The true version. The purest form of the word of God that had ever been told. Or so he said.

Pastor Frapple hollered in his country drawl.

“This new, true Bible features all-new never-before-heard stories like the gospel of Little Tony and Daniel in the Lions’ Den 2… and better yet, it’s only 50 pages now!”

“Little Tony?” I questioned my mother.

“Shhhh.” My mother pointed to the pastor with her chin as if to say, “pay attention.”

Pastor Frapple held his new Bible up triumphantly toward the church ceiling. Sweat poured down his face. His collar was soaked. The congregation whispered frantically to one another. Was the pastor having a transient stroke of the brain or something? He must’ve lost his damned mind.

“When he spoke to me in that heavenly room on high, he told me, ‘Frapple, my son…let’s cut the bullcrap!’”

There was a bit of stressful laughter in the room.

“Sure enough that’s just what we did.”

The pastor tore a chunk of pages out of an old Bible.

“And that’s why,” the pastor belted out, “we ain’t talking ’bout the good book no more!”

With two hands, he tossed the old Bible’s pages in the air. They rained down over him like confetti.

“From here on out…” His voice shook the rafters. “From here on out, sisters and brothers, the only book we talking about in this church is…THE SHORT BOOK!”

“CAN-I-GET-AN-AMEN?” Pastor Frapple sang it long like an old-time revivalist.

It blew my fourteen-year-old mind when more than a few of the old folks gave him an amen in return. He couldn’t just change the Bible, could he? I mean I knew it had changed in the old medieval times or whatever but…

The pastor sing-songed his next words rhythmically, clapping as he spoke..

“Fifty dollars cash! That’s just a dollar a page. It’s the new word of God. Everybody come up and get you one!”

The rear doors of the church swung open. A couple of members of the congregation, dressed in v-neck sweater vests, rolled carts down the main aisle. The carts were overflowing with copies of the pastor’s new Bible.

“Now, I ain’t gon’ read y’all the whole thing! I ain’t got time for that.” Frapple snapped his little new Bible shut. “50 bucks and that’s the collector’s edition. I’ll even kiss each copy and make ’em doubly blessed at no extra expense to you!”

“That’s quite the savings,” my mother muttered under her breath.

Two lines to buy Frapple’s new Bible formed at the main aisle between the pews. Some folks were convinced already; more folks than I would’ve ever expected. But at the same time there was still plenty of snickering from those members of the congregation still glued to their seats. My mother straightened her flower print chiffon dress, cleared her throat, and stood up abruptly. My dad’s hand reached out as if to halfheartedly try and stop her but he was too late. She gave him a cold look. Mom joined the line, a crumpled $50 bill in her white gloved hand.

I heard a young couple behind me whispering back and forth.

“Is he serious?”

It was the question that many like myself still couldn’t answer. Had Frapple gone off the deep end or was it possible he’d had some actual revelation from God?

The pastor jogged in place on stage with the microphone in his hand. What little hair he had left dripped with sweat as he shook his head up and down. He looked drunk. The storm clouds moved quickly outside the church windows. The wind tore through the trees in the woods surrounding the parking lot. Rain began to pour.

Suddenly, Pastor Frapple’s voice seemed to shake the room just as thunder struck.

“WE SEE THE DOUBT IN YOUR HEARTS!”

He pointed to the congregation with a trembling finger, his other hand gripping the pulpit. His declaration hung in the air.

But then just as quickly as he’d snapped, Frapple’s voice eased into a softer tone. He leaned against the podium now, one hand cupping his tilted head.

“Listen now folks, like the lord says — to be…you gotta…have. And what do we have? Now we all are oh so blessed to have this here new revelation of God.” He held the little Bible aloft.

“A wise man once said that with great blessings comes a great responsibility. Now what that means for us brothers and sisters? That means…well…everybody here gotta buy at least one per person.”

The doubters bristled once again.

An elderly woman to my right stood up from her seat.

“Pastor Frapple, how in the hell can you just command us that we gotta buy your new Bible? That don’t sound nothing like no kinda God’s word I ever heard!”

“Well sister, I’m glad you asked.” Pastor Frapple shot her a wide yellowed grin. “That’s on account of GOD COMMANDS IT! Look here, sister!” His sausage fingers spread open the pages of his little Bible.

“It’s right here on page 1! Thou shalt get you a copy of the new Bible, plain as can be.”

Those still seated gave an audible groan at that answer as the sister sat back down, looking utterly defeated.

“Now listen here, brothers and sisters. Brother Frapple understands.” Frapple worked his sweaty red face into an exaggerated frown and turned both of his pants pockets out. “Money’s tight, huh? That’s true for all of us ain’t it? Our families are suffering… But let me be the first to assure you – our Lord ain’t going in your pockets for your last $50. No. Nonono no no.”

“God commands that you have a new Bible, not that you buy one!”

That information shifted some hereto reluctant butts out of seats and into line for the book.

“But brothers and sisters, God is perfect. CAN-I-GET-AN-AMEN?!”

This time, the amens came louder and from more voices around the room..

“God is perfect and I… I am just a man. A humble servant of God…Thing is y’all I really gotta make my nut back on these copies!”

Laughter filled the room. The sound of rain tapping at the windows seemed to let up just a bit. Folks started to get up and join the line. Even Dad stood up.

Dad looked down at me. He softly placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll bring you one back.”

Most of the congregation were now lined up and copies of the new Bible were exchanging hands. As folks traded their hard-earned money in for the little brown books with laminated covers, they began to return to their seats one by one. For a moment, as strange as the morning had begun, I could feel a sense of calm wash over the church.

As everyone settled into their seats, the voice of the boyfriend from the young couple seated behind me called out.

“Pastor, if your new Bible is the perfect version of God’s word, what’s so different about it from the old one?”

The sound of approval for his question could be heard amongst the congregation.

“Alright, my good brother. Let’s talk about it.” Frapple offered in a too-sweet tone as he took hold once again of the pulpit.

“Let me start by telling you a little story about a fellow called Little Tony…” Frapple said, his voice dropping into that slow southern storyteller rhythm. “And I know you ain’t heard this one…Cause Little Tony, he was Jesus’ twin brother.”

Gasps came from the congregation. In the row across from me, a woman fainted.

“Yes, that’s right. On that oh-so-glorious of evenings, Mother Mary gave birth to two healthy little boys in that oh-so-humblest of mangers.”

Frapple swayed back and forth as if in a trance while holding the pulpit in his grip. The rain picked back up again.

“Only the thing was, brothers and sisters, where Jesus was born the perfect son of God, Little Tony was — born different.”

Lightning crackled. Thunder rattled the ceiling of the church. The door to the church attic shook in its frame.

Frapple pressed his clammy forehead down onto the pulpit as he spoke.

“Little Tony was born with no ears” The pastor cried out and pounded the pulpit with his fist. “Nothing there but two lumps of flesh like balls of clay on either side a’ his head.

The pastor elongated his words for dramatic effect.

“And he had a whip-sharp tail like a full grown monitor lizard.”

“Strong too. Boy howdy.” Frapple leaned low into the microphone and spoke just above a whisper.

“They say he’s born with the strength of a man. A little baby with six-pack abdominal muscles. Washboard Abs! YES, LORD! Vascular as all get out!” The pastor ripped the pulpit off the ground and shook it..

The eyes of the congregation grew two sizes instantly. What in the world was the pastor saying?

Frapple callously tossed the pulpit aside, done with it. It snapped into pieces on the stage floor. His eyes rose to look at the ceiling as he spoke thunderously.

“Little Tony was born of the virgin, a boy. But a boy in name alone. For how could you call Little Tony a boy when he was born…without a penis? And worse yet, he weren’t even born a boy with a vagina. No. Instead Little Tony was birthed from the virgin womb with a wretched cloaca between his legs. It stank with affliction like the putrid pussy sins of man! Like some kind of amphibious malefaction or woebegone waterfowl.”

An adolescent girl a few rows back puked on her own dress and started to cry. Her mother quickly took her by the hand and they ran toward the restroom as the congregation looked on in envy.

“He was strange, say the least, misunderstood, set apart from his brother from his very first breath.”

At that point, the pastor hopped down from the stage into the center aisle. He landed roughly.

“He weren’t perfect like his brother, Jesus. Didn’t look holy like the way some folks’d expect.”

A loud buzzing like a thousand cicadas permeated the room. There was a skittering sound like frantic clawed feet from the ceiling above us. The room was thick with humidity.

A teenage voice rang out from somewhere behind me.

“Was Little Tony good or bad?”

Frapple, still recovering from his landing, was on bended knee at the front of the room. He raised his head and pulled the microphone to his lips.

“They kept him in the attic and fed him rotten fish heads from a bucket!”

Panicked murmuring and gasps from the congregation added to the cacophony of noise.

An elderly deacon rose from his seat on the stage.

“Now that’s enough outta you, Brother Frapple! This blasphemy has gone much too far! Even if your story was true, Christ our Lord would NEVER let his brother suffer like that if he knew!”

Sparse applause and amens from the congregation lent their approval to the deacon’s words.

“Oh, Jesus knew,” Frapple let the words fall out along a sinister laugh. “Knew very well. But back then… see Jesus was kinda nonchalant about it growing up. Like he was tryna play it cool. Be the cool guy who didn’t have some half dead brother up there in the attic. But he knew. Maybe he figured Little Tony was just some kind of handicapped human pet that Joseph and Mary kept around for entertaining guests. But he knew.”

Two of the deacons grabbed Frapple by his suit and tried to wrestle the microphone out of his hand. Frapple slipped out of his suit jacket and ran from them, still clasping the mic. His fat stomach heaved beneath his clinging wet dress shirt.

“THAT’S WHY LITTLE TONY BETRAYED JESUS TO THE ROMANS!” Frapple shouted at the top of his lungs as torrential rain beat on the windows behind him. “He betrayed his holy brother for a bucket of rotten fish heads — his favorite childhood meal!”

At this point other men of the congregation began to surround Frapple on all sides. Women hurled their $50 new Bibles at him from their seats. Insults and demands for Frapple to be punished were called out from around the room. As Frapple tried to bound up the steps to the stage, one of the parishioners tackled him at the ankles. Frapple’s fibula snapped in his dress pants like it was a roasted chicken bone. He screamed like an animal as he lay with his loafered left foot hanging by a meaty tendril to the rest of his leg. He still clutched the microphone.

“Christ never forgave Little Tony like he forgave Judas Iscariot! Little Tony is UNFORGIVEN!!”

“You know how I know!? Because every doggone night Little Tony carries me up to the attic and he tells me, hisself! That’s right! This very attic here in our church is the very same as the one where Mary and Joseph kept Little Tony locked up!”

The door to the church attic rattled like a subwoofer. It shook like it would explode into splinters at any moment. The buzzing in my ears was so loud, I felt like my head would burst soon too. Then suddenly the attic door swung open. The heat in the room immediately evaporated. It was replaced with an unnatural cold. Condensation covered every surface in the church.

A thick black fog began to pour from the attic opening. The smell of spoiled tuna stung my nostrils. Those brave men that had accosted the mad preacher now slowly backed away, the deacons on stage followed suit. A scaled grey tail extended from the turning black fog. Frapple laughed on the microphone like a lunatic.

“He is RISEN. He is risen! He is Risen!” Frapple repeated maniacally between laughs.

The tail almost looked like an alien creature with a mind and eyes of its own. It stretched unnaturally and seemed to turn its “head” back and forth as if searching for something or someone. The tail snaked its way lower and lower until it found its target. It flicked, patting Frapple on his fat stomach. Suddenly, the tail jerked at an angle like a snake prepared to strike. The tail flew forward past the microphone Frapple held to his lips, past Frapple’s yellow teeth, and down his throat until I could see it protruding underneath the pastor’s belly. Frapple made a sound like a gagging manatee as he was ripped upwards from his own insides by the muscular too-long tail. His crippled foot dangled loosely as his body was held aloft. As quick as it had struck, the tail yanked Frapple’s body up and away into the blackness of the attic opening. The attic door slammed behind it.

The congregation of the church only got together once more after that day. The next Sunday, in spite of the drumming summer rain, the elders gathered there. They poured gasoline over every square inch of the church’s outer walls. They threw rocks through the stained glass windows so they could toss in their new little Bibles. The congregation burned their church down in the rain. It took them all day and well into the evening before the roof of the church gave way and collapsed into its smouldering center mass. They kept at it even then, adding more fuel to feed the black smoke of the fire.

No one around here really talks about what happened that day. No one says it but everyone knows not to speak about it. It’s been 20 years on since Frapple gave his revelation. Most of the parishioners moved on to other churches; some gave up on religion all together. My family did the latter. Plenty of other good things to do on a Sunday, after all. I had even forgotten the story myself until last week. My mother’s heart finally gave out on her though she put up a hell of a fight. At one point, as she sought some spiritual comfort, she’d even gone back to church for a bit. Dad and I opted to watch football instead.

When I was cleaning out her sewing room last week, looking through her belongings, I found her stash of letters. Among them was a little brown book with a laminated cover, still in good condition in spite of signs of regular reading. The title read, “The New Bible.”