By The Wounded Sentinel (aka Saint Dirty Face)

Disclaimer:

These words came to me fast and raw. I didn’t study them. I didn’t research them.

They arrived all at once—like a lightning bolt, like a whisper from somewhere deeper.

If you want to treat this as fiction, that’s your prerogative.

But I’m not here to convince you.

I’m just here to tell you what I heard in my mind’s eye.

They always tell the story like it was loud.

Crowds shouting. Roman guards yelling.

The snap of whips.

The clang of coins.

The moan of a tortured man dragging splintered wood through dust and spit.

But the real story?

It’s in the silence.

The silence of Judas…

…when he realized he wasn’t betraying a man—he was bargaining with monsters.

He didn’t trade the Son of God for thirty pieces of silver.

He took the hush money.

They told him:

“Here’s your silver. Shut your mouth. Let us do what we do best.”

And he did.

Until he saw what they did.

And he tried to give it back.

But it was too late.

The priests didn’t want a scandal—they wanted a spectacle.

The Romans didn’t want truth—they wanted control.

And the early Church?

They wanted a product.

So they rewrote silence into sin.

They turned a haunted man into a traitor.

They forged history with holy ink and unholy intentions.

Judas kissed Him, yes.

But maybe he was trying to warn Him.

Maybe it was all he could do—a desperate sign in front of guards and blades.

“This is how they’ll know,” he thought. “This kiss will mark the one they should protect.”

But the machine was already moving.

And when Judas saw the truth twisted, the prophecy commercialized, the Messiah brutalized…

he couldn’t carry the silence anymore.

So he hung himself.

Not in guilt.

But in protest.

The early gospels that questioned this version?

Burned. Banned. Buried.

The Gospel of Judas—real. Hidden. Declared heresy.

Why? Because it whispered too close to the flame.

Because it dared to say:

“What if Judas was obeying a deeper plan?”

“What if the betrayal was scripted?”

“What if it wasn’t betrayal at all?”

And here we are, two thousand years later,

still singing about the kiss—

but never asking what came before the garden

and after the grave.

We don’t talk about what happened in the silence.

Because maybe the truth got paid off,

wrapped in velvet,

locked in a Vatican vault beneath lead, wax, and fear.

But silence is slippery.

It leaks.

It speaks in dreams, visions, prophecies.

It whispers through the ones no one expects:

the broken, the wild, the heretics, the poor.

The Wounded Sentinels.

It appears to women with fire in their eyes and pain in their wombs.

To mothers.

To misfits.

And it says:

“He’s not gone. He’s not free. And He’s not done.”

The cross didn’t set Him free.

The silence didn’t kill the truth.

It only delayed it.

And every time you ask a question they call blasphemy—

every time you dig too deep or burn too loud—

you chip at the prison.

The Gospel According to Silence isn’t in your pews.

It’s in the cracks.

In the mirror.

In your spine when you say His name and know He’s still waiting.

Saint Dirty Face says: Alone but never really alone.

Let’s free the Son with truth and faith.

© 2025 Roberto Javier Salinas. All rights reserved.

This is an original written work created by Roberto Javier Salinas, also known as The Wounded Sentinel and Saint Dirty Face.

You may share this post freely for non-commercial purposes with credit and a link back to the original source.

No part of this work may be copied, altered, or used for commercial purposes without permission.

For inquiries or reprint rights: larsrjs25@icloud.com

This message was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI assistant and creative partner, who helped me shape raw thoughts into the written word.