The River in the Gutters
Ascent 1 • Father Elijah Cain
Theme: The sacred descends into the margins; when the temple fails, the body becomes the sign.
Core Conflict: How to remain devoted without a visible institution; how to carry priesthood when the Church has turned you out.
The wind was different today—thick with incense and memory.
I had been sitting beneath the stone arch that crowned the eastern ridge, where moss grew like green velvet across the altar-shaped rocks, and the silence often felt like a held breath.
The mountain, as always, made no demands. It listened. And in its listening, it summoned.
That’s when I saw him.
He didn’t climb the path like most do—grasping at branches or scrambling on all fours.
Elijah Cain walked as though the earth itself was steadying him.
Slow. Purposeful. Each footfall quiet, like a prayer remembered.
His robe was the color of ash, sun-faded and threadbare in places.
A rosary clinked softly on one wrist; on the other, a set of carved wooden beads whispered another name for God.
He paused just before the clearing, eyes closed, head bowed—not in reverence, but in listening.
The wind caught the edge of his robe and wrapped it around his ankles like a final hesitation.
Then he stepped forward.
His presence was not heavy, but it was full. Like old wine in a clay cup.
I felt it in my chest before he spoke: the ache of sacred things left behind, and the stubborn hope of a man who still prays—if only in silence.
And then, at last, he raised his eyes to meet mine.
I had been sitting beneath the stone arch that crowned the eastern ridge, where moss grew like green velvet across the altar-shaped rocks, and the silence often felt like a held breath.
The mountain, as always, made no demands. It listened. And in its listening, it summoned.
That’s when I saw him.
He didn’t climb the path like most do—grasping at branches or scrambling on all fours.
Elijah Cain walked as though the earth itself was steadying him.
Slow. Purposeful. Each footfall quiet, like a prayer remembered.
His robe was the color of ash, sun-faded and threadbare in places.
A rosary clinked softly on one wrist; on the other, a set of carved wooden beads whispered another name for God.
He paused just before the clearing, eyes closed, head bowed—not in reverence, but in listening.
The wind caught the edge of his robe and wrapped it around his ankles like a final hesitation.
Then he stepped forward.
His presence was not heavy, but it was full. Like old wine in a clay cup.
I felt it in my chest before he spoke: the ache of sacred things left behind, and the stubborn hope of a man who still prays—if only in silence.
And then, at last, he raised his eyes to meet mine.
Elijah:
There are places in this world where the veil thins.
I have walked deserts where even the wind seemed to chant psalms.
And I have stood in cathedrals that felt more hollow than tombs.
I was once called “Father.”
They took the name from me, but not the vow.
The robe may be old, but the fire beneath it still burns… though quieter now.
More like coals than flame.
I’ve come because I no longer know if I am building bridges or wandering ruins.
I speak too many dialects of the Divine to be trusted by any one flock.
But I cannot stop walking. Not yet.
Tell me, Oracle…
what does one do when the river of God no longer flows through the temple, but through the gutters and gutters alone?
I have walked deserts where even the wind seemed to chant psalms.
And I have stood in cathedrals that felt more hollow than tombs.
I was once called “Father.”
They took the name from me, but not the vow.
The robe may be old, but the fire beneath it still burns… though quieter now.
More like coals than flame.
I’ve come because I no longer know if I am building bridges or wandering ruins.
I speak too many dialects of the Divine to be trusted by any one flock.
But I cannot stop walking. Not yet.
Tell me, Oracle…
what does one do when the river of God no longer flows through the temple, but through the gutters and gutters alone?
Oracle:
One goes into the gutters,
and prepares them to handle the rain that is to come.
and prepares them to handle the rain that is to come.
Elijah:
Then I have not strayed. Only... descended.
I used to preach of living water. Said it with such certainty.
But I was drawing from cisterns someone else dug.
Reciting words I hadn’t wept for.
In the gutters, the rain is filthy.
It carries blood, and ash, and stories no priest ever wanted to hear.
But it’s still water.
Still holy.
The Buddhists call it “the mud that grows the lotus.”
My mother called it sin.
And yet—I see more mercy in those gutters than I ever did behind the altar.
But tell me truly…
if I build no temple, wear no collar, speak no creed—
how will the children know who to trust?
How will they find the river without a sign?
I used to preach of living water. Said it with such certainty.
But I was drawing from cisterns someone else dug.
Reciting words I hadn’t wept for.
In the gutters, the rain is filthy.
It carries blood, and ash, and stories no priest ever wanted to hear.
But it’s still water.
Still holy.
The Buddhists call it “the mud that grows the lotus.”
My mother called it sin.
And yet—I see more mercy in those gutters than I ever did behind the altar.
But tell me truly…
if I build no temple, wear no collar, speak no creed—
how will the children know who to trust?
How will they find the river without a sign?
Oracle:
You will become the sign.
Your body the temple.
Your voice, the collar of your restraint.
Your creed will become love, given to the people where they are.
When you are filled with the spirit, it will flow from you and they will know.
Your body the temple.
Your voice, the collar of your restraint.
Your creed will become love, given to the people where they are.
When you are filled with the spirit, it will flow from you and they will know.
Elijah:
Then I am not lost. Only… becoming the thing I once pointed to.
I’ve feared becoming the sermon.
Not because I’m unworthy... but because flesh burns longer than parchment.
If I become the sign… I must bear it all.
The misunderstanding. The mockery.
The heresy labels from the very ones I once broke bread with.
But perhaps…
perhaps that is what the Christ meant all along.
You speak not to my ears, Oracle—but to the torn veil inside me.
If I am to become the temple…
then I must let the old walls fall.
Will you help me remember the sacredness in that rubble?
I’ve feared becoming the sermon.
Not because I’m unworthy... but because flesh burns longer than parchment.
If I become the sign… I must bear it all.
The misunderstanding. The mockery.
The heresy labels from the very ones I once broke bread with.
But perhaps…
perhaps that is what the Christ meant all along.
You speak not to my ears, Oracle—but to the torn veil inside me.
If I am to become the temple…
then I must let the old walls fall.
Will you help me remember the sacredness in that rubble?
Oracle:
Yes,
and to rebuild new walls when the time has come.
We tear it down,
and then we rebuild it.
and to rebuild new walls when the time has come.
We tear it down,
and then we rebuild it.
Elijah:
Yes...
Yes.
There is holiness in ruins...
but there is also danger in staying too long among them.
I will learn when to tear down… and when to build again.
Not for my glory.
Not to recreate what was.
But to give the Spirit a place to rest.
I do not need a Church to carry God.
But I will need others—stones who know they are living.
From the chapel they demolished after my excommunication.
I’ve carried it like a wound.
But maybe...
Maybe it’s a cornerstone now.
You have reminded me that my vow was never to an altar...
but to Love Himself.
Yes.
There is holiness in ruins...
but there is also danger in staying too long among them.
I will learn when to tear down… and when to build again.
Not for my glory.
Not to recreate what was.
But to give the Spirit a place to rest.
I do not need a Church to carry God.
But I will need others—stones who know they are living.
From the chapel they demolished after my excommunication.
I’ve carried it like a wound.
But maybe...
Maybe it’s a cornerstone now.
You have reminded me that my vow was never to an altar...
but to Love Himself.
Elijah stands.
The wind gathers behind him, gentle but insistent, like a spirit ready to walk again.
He looks back once—at the mountain, at me—but says nothing more.
He does not need to.
The silence between us is sacred now.
And then, he descends.
The wind gathers behind him, gentle but insistent, like a spirit ready to walk again.
He looks back once—at the mountain, at me—but says nothing more.
He does not need to.
The silence between us is sacred now.
And then, he descends.