"…Since it's founding by Peter the Rock, the Catholic Church has continually and tirelessly spread God's Word. By its most Holy work of love, all men shall come into their own in the Kingdom of Heaven, standing at the right of the Father and the Son…"

"You're wrong."

The voice was quite, so quite one might have missed it—that is if it wasn't for that hard iron edge in its tone—the iron edge of immovable surety.

The professor looked up, shocked that someone would interrupt his lecture.

"And who, may ask, said that?" he asked, scanning the rows of maybe 100 students—some looking around, others staring off into space, others still scribbling notes.

"I did."

The professor looked up towards the upper right hand corner of the lecture hall, to find a student he didn't recognize, one with black, slightly unkempt hair and dark eyes.

"And why would you—the student—think me—the professor—wrong?" By now most of the students were aware of the dangerous tone of his voice, exchanging glances between the professor and the student in question.

"Was it love that lead to the Inquisition? To the torture and death of hundreds—thousands of innocent lives? Was it love that brought about the prosecution of the Goddess traditions in Europe? Or the Native tribes in America? Or the Jews and Muslims in Jerusalem?"

"The first commandment tells us to 'love the Lord our God.' The groups you just mentioned—these pagans," he said the word with considerable malice, "—did not. The civilized Christians of the time did what they thought best to bring them the Word," the professor said, his eyes narrowing, "If it wasn't for their work, those peoples would still be ignorant and damned to Hell."

Suddenly, the feeling in the lecture hall changed—even those who previously were staring into space could feel the tension—the power—in the air. As one, the mass of students turned in their seats, finding the young man with dark hair to be standing silently, eyes glaring at the professor.

Those eyes… everyone, the professor included, felt their intensity, their glare. They all could not look away, yet could not meet him eye to eye. They didn't dare—his presence filling the hall was palpable as it was, none wanted to—or could—meet it head on.

"The Word of God," he began, "of which you speak is the propaganda of control. The God who dolled out commands, seeking to crush and hold all in his grasp, is false. All he did was hoard wisdom, hoard truth, to keep us blind to ourselves and the love around us, and see only him!"

The young man looked around him, staring into his audience's eyes, and spread his arms wide.

"We are the true God!" he said, gesturing to those seated about him, then down to the professor, "Matter, life, is the true God," he continued gesturing out the window, then to himself.

"All that loves is Holy; to love God and to love your neighbor are indeed the greatest commandments. But is it love to dominate and control? Is it love to work only for ones self? To take and never give? Is it love to hoard true and wisdom, but not to teach and rear?"

He looked about the room once more, and some of the more observant students could see something more in his eyes—beneath the fiery passion and presence—something soft and pure. If any had the fortune to experience it like he, they would recognize it as the deepest of love. But none had, and so none could know.

"Jesus came and told you this," he said, pointing violently at the professor below, "but still you are blind, just as his closest of male disciples. They could not let go of the need to dominate—the need to control—and so twisted his message of inclusion and love into one of power and command. Why else do you think he invited whores to the table, but the church refuses to even accept sexuality?

"Have any of you truly loved?" he asked, staring down at them from his now seemingly enormous height, "have any of you truly felt a lover's touch on your very soul?"

Looking around, the young man found down cast eyes and empty stares.

Turning back to the professor, he said, "Then you have no idea of what Jesus taught."

In that moment, some of the more sensitive in the room could almost see something beside this…priest. A form, proud and strong, sharing his eyes, deep and dark, brightened by something so strong that it radiated past her black shadowy fur…

But the moment was lost as he spoke once more.

"You speak of Eden as something lost, held only by purity, and of Heaven as something out of reach, attainable only by submission and innocence. Humph… I have seen the Kingdom of Heaven, and no pure souls resided within it's clouded walls. And I have seen Hell, and the 'damned' are not the only ones to cross its shores."

Somehow, the light coming through the windows seemed dulled, and the speaker, his shoulders slumped, seemed to draw within himself painfully, and all present could not help but see the truth in his words.

"No!" he shouted, straightening once more, "This is Eden! This is our Heaven. But we have to work together to make it so. Paradise cannot be achieved by hate and dominion; only by communion and love can we reach its shores. Forgive, share, teach. Seek out and learn, and love what you find. Hold it in a lover's embrace and give back to it like a mother to her child… How else can we continue to live on this Earth? How else can we form it into Heaven, unless we love life for what it is and what we have?

"Or would you rather have a world were the rich and powerful grow fatter on the misery of others? A world where the church controls all, and abducts children to look into their souls? A world where greed rules like a plague, sucking the life—the souls—out of men and women, leaving the children to fester in fear and hate? For that is what we will have if we continue on this path. Already it has lead to cooperate scandal, abuse of power—both secular and religious—and the destruction of the earth and lives around us.

"When they ask you for your story," he asked the room, "what will you tell? That you encouraged growth? That you helped—even just a little—to build a paradise—a real live Eden? Or that you let others bind you to slavery, letting the few control and rise above the many? Or—even worse—that you encouraged such a world, beating down on the lives of others for your own gain?"

As he asked this, he looked every person in the eye, his gaze pounding on their soul like the sun's blaze, and each felt the dire need in his words. Each person felt moved by his presence, though not a hand or foot even stirred.

"I have told my story," the young man—the priest—said, taking a hold of his bag, "Go and tell yours."

And with that he left the room, an awed silence echoing in his wake.

TG…TG…TG

Will walked down the path towards the bench, Kirjava's comforting presence as she walked beside him, warming his leg from the chilly December air.

Reaching the bench, he sat down, a smile playing on his lips as he absently stroked his daemon's fur.

"I understand, Lyra," he told the sky. "I finally understand what it is I must do."

And though it was not Midsummer—in fact it was about as far from it as it could be—Will could feel her presence beside him, comforting him with her joyful eyes and mischievous smile.

I'm glad, Will, he heard her say, I'm glad.

TG…TG…TG

Just my take on Will's path, as well as a rebuttal of sorts to the surge of fundamentalism—Christian, Muslim, all of it—that seems to be taking the world by storm. (Thank you George Dubya Bush and Tim LaHay!)

Please Review. Thanks.