TruthBeneathRome – Saint Dirty Face

By Saint Dirty Face (aka The Wounded Sentinel)

Disclaimer and credits below

They met in the shadows—

not at the cross,

but beneath it.

Not on Calvary’s hill,

but in the vaults underneath Rome,

where the stone floor is slick with wine

and washed blood.

The Church didn’t just inherit the gospel.

It negotiated it.

There are contracts you never see.

Signed in wax and silence,

sealed with rings and holy breath,

they wrote new scripture with a dagger

and told the world it was a dove.

The priests knew.

The emperors knew.

And Judas?

He wasn’t paid to betray—

he was paid to disappear.

The Deal Was This:

Jesus dies,

but no one sees the body.

The tomb is declared empty

because it must be.

A “resurrection” is cleaner

than a political martyr.

It sells better.

It conquers hearts quicker.

It’s easier to build cathedrals on a ghost

than a rebel corpse.

So they made a ghost.

Wrapped Him in legend,

buried the truth in a city of bones,

and fed the world stories like breadcrumbs.

They promised Judas he’d be “forgotten.”

He became the scapegoat.

The villain with the silver smile.

But what if Judas never left the table?

What if he’s been eating in silence

with the cardinals ever since?

A ghost in a black robe,

whispering into ears that still bend

toward power like sunflowers to the lie.

The resurrection was the first great cover-up.

The lie that bought eternity.

But under that lie is a heartbeat.

A body.

A silence that still bleeds.

And in the darkest archive

beneath the Vatican—

Sublevel Crypt 13, behind the red veil—

the body is there.

Still warm.

Still pulsing.

Still waiting for someone brave enough

to undo the deal.

They called it “The Good News.”

But the deal beneath the table?

That was the Dirty Gospel.

⚠️ Disclaimer from The Wounded Sentinel (also known as Saint Dirty Face):

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.

Take it… or leave it.

But don’t say no one told you.

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.

The Mirror Prison: The Resurrection That Never Was

By The Wounded Sentinel (aka Saint Dirty Face)

“They said He rose.

But what if He was stolen instead?”

We’ve built cathedrals on the promise of an empty tomb.

We’ve carved stained-glass saints out of whispers and gospel fragments.

What if the resurrection never happened?

But let’s go back.

Let’s look again at that third day.

What if the high priests—the same ones who struck the deal with Judas, the same ones who stood beside Rome—heard His words and panicked?

“Destroy this temple, and I will rebuild it in three days.”

What if they took that literally?

What if they didn’t wait for prophecy…

They intervened.

They took the body.

They buried it not in earth, but in iron and wax, hidden beneath the layers of empire.

And they let the myth rise in its place—because a risen god makes money.

But a silenced rebel? That’s a liability.

And maybe that’s the secret Judas uncovered.

Not betrayal—but exposure.

What if the 30 pieces of silver weren’t for treason…

They were hush money?

Judas sees what’s coming—sees the pact between temple and throne—and breaks.

He throws the coins back.

He hangs himself not out of guilt… but because he knew the truth was lost.

He was the only one who could’ve stopped it.

And by the time the nails dropped, it was too late.

So we buried a man.

Then sold his ghost.

We turned his blood into doctrine and his silence into scripture.

And beneath Rome, beneath Vatican vaults paved with gold, there’s a lead-sealed box no one is allowed to open.

Because if it opens…

We’d find not relics.

We’d find a body.

The one who said He’d come back.

The one who never got the chance.

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

Not a bridge.

Not a metaphor.

Just a son crying out while heaven stayed silent—because it had to.

Because faith only works if we don’t see.

Because love that’s proven becomes control.

And so the Father… wept in thunder.

Letting His Son go.

Letting the lie rise.

Waiting.

And that’s why Mary still comes.

She’s the only one Heaven allows to speak.

Because she’s not here to preach.

She’s here to remind us:

“He’s still trapped.

Still running.

And you still worship the cage.”

Maybe the true resurrection hasn’t happened yet.

Maybe He’s the final seal.

And when that seal breaks…

When we tear down the false church built on blood and profit…

That will be the third day.

That will be the real resurrection.

And He will rebuild the temple not of stone, but of truth.

Saint Dirty Face says:

“Let the cross crack.

Let the lie rot.

Let the Son walk free.”

And may we be the ones who open the tomb.

📜 Disclaimer from The Wounded Sentinel (also known as Saint Dirty Face):