Free Scarecrow Gods by Weston Ochse

missing. He needed to experience God, to discover if everyone else was being duped, or if he was merely out of the loop.
    When he’d eventually returned to America, he’d taken all the pay he’d never had a chance to spend and boarded a plane to France. He’d gone from the gothic spires of Notre Dame to the Spanish mission of the Church of The Sanctified Virgin, searching. Searching, until he’d finally found himself in a church in the small border town of Nuevo Laredo.
    Carmelita was right about tonight. It was a full house. It took six trips to bring up enough chairs, but finally Simon had set up three more rows behind the pews for the overflow. Ever since the Revivalist had come two weeks ago, the number of parishioners had doubled. In fact, the entire complexion of the church had changed. What had been a traditional, nearly boring Methodist-like service had become a footstomping, arm-waving spectacle where the people were as likely to shout Amen as they were to speak in tongues.
    Simon had been to a Pentecostal church as a kid where he’d had the shit scared out of him when half the parishioners had fallen to the floor twitching and screaming crazy dialogues. His father had said they’d made it up and explained about mass hysteria. But then that was Dad, always a reason for everything. Every emotion, every action was the result of the brain. His father’s world could be completely explained in psychological terms.
    But now, weeks later, the church was awash in the after-effects of the revival, as if the revivalist had injected it with a holy energy, turning the services into more Baptist than Methodist. Simon had heard the Padre grumbling, but knew the man secretly appreciated the renewed interest in God and the overflowing collection plates. It would return to normal eventually, but for now the Padre seemed determined to ride out the wave and appreciate any increased interest in God, regardless of the reason.
    The inside of the church was almost suffocatingly hot with no chance of any air-conditioned relief. Even as hot as it was, the temperature was at least ten degrees cooler than outside, the inherent coolness of the granite providing the tiny respite. Simon sat all the way in back. While waiting for the service to begin, he once again admired the church.
    He’d chosen the church because of its architecture and style. The grandeur had grabbed him with its opposition to the structural norms and its ambition to be a shining place amidst a land of brown squalor. The outside was pure Spanish Mission—white stucco walls reflecting the sunshine like a mirror. But when he’d stepped inside, he’d been shocked to discover that instead of a continuation of the Spanish style, the interior was Baroque, reminding him of the Cathedral of Smolny Convent he’d visited in St. Petersburg. Tall, flat coffered ceilings allowed space for clerestory windows to light the central space and lower outer windows to light the side aisles, the sun reflecting through interpretive, Mexican stained-glass gospels.
    Simon loved the architecture. Sitting within such grandeur always evoked a feeling of somberness, and like the old churches of Europe, he felt closer to the God that he was becoming closer to understanding.
    The service started on time with the Padre stepping upon the platform. The congregation immediately hushed.
    “Peace be with you.”
    “And also with you,” they replied.
    Simon accepted the almost imperceptible nod of thanks from the Padre with a nod of his own and settled into the service. It wasn’t until mass was half over that, literally, all hell broke loose.
    Simon felt the man before he saw him. He was a wiry young man in a stained white t-shirt and jeans. His skin was unwashed. His hair was matted with small leaves and twigs. His eyes were animal-wild. His aura tainted the happy lethargy of the people, and almost as one, the gathered ensemble turned in their seats and examined the newcomer.
    When his mouth