#WoundedSentinelWrites – Saint Dirty Face

By Saint Dirty Face (aka The Wounded Sentinel)

Disclaimer and credits below

They called her a whore.

Because they couldn’t call her a threat.

But she was one.

She still is.

Mary Magdalene didn’t run.

Didn’t deny.

Didn’t flinch when they broke Him in half.

She watched.

She stayed.

She remembered.

And that made her dangerous.

She was the first to see Him risen.

Before Peter.

Before the disciples.

Before the Church had time to spin the story into gold.

He appeared to her first.

And what did the men do?

They called her delusional.

Dismissed her words.

Erased her name from the headline.

They turned the resurrection

into a boy’s club miracle—

and locked her gospel in the Vatican basement.

But Mary still speaks.

She speaks in the silence between verses.

In the ash of burned scrolls.

In the dreams of women who never asked permission to believe.

They say she anointed Him with oil.

But that wasn’t worship.

That was preparation.

She knew He was going to die.

She just didn’t know

the world would crucify her story too.

They tried to bury her under labels.

Prostitute.

Penitent.

Footnote.

But she wasn’t any of that.

She was a witness.

A teacher.

A gospel bearer.

The Church couldn’t handle

a woman holding the flame—

so they handed her a scarlet letter instead.

“I saw Him.

I knew Him.

I carried the truth when no one else would.”

That’s not a rumor.

That’s the first sermon.

And it came from the mouth of a woman

who refused to shut up.

Mary still speaks.

Not from pulpits,

but from cracks in the foundation.

From broken statues.

From visions the Church can’t monetize.

From voices the patriarchy still calls crazy.

She doesn’t whisper anymore.

She roars.

And when the boys in robes gather to write history again,

she’ll be standing in the shadows—

oil in one hand, torch in the other—

ready to remind them:

The resurrection wasn’t theirs to tell.

It was hers.

It still is.

⚠️ 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.

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.