Goa'uld Jesus

More about Goa'uld Jesus

They carved him white as salt and milk, a serpent folded into a man, a man folded into a question. The body was human enough to invite prayer, alien enough to interrupt it. From a distance he looked like mercy; up close, he revealed scales where skin should have been, a crown that was not thorns but the memory of them, calcified into command.

The priests said he had come down the long ladder of stars, not to save but to inhabit. He did not bleed; he shed hosts. Each miracle was a transfer—light passing hand to hand, voice to voice—authority sliding like a blade beneath the ribs of belief. The crowd felt healed because something older than pain had taken residence. They called it faith. He called it continuity.

He spoke softly. That was the trick. He did not thunder laws; he whispered inevitabilities. Love your enemy, he said, because they will be yours. Turn the other cheek, because the face is not the self. Render unto Caesar, because empires are temporary vessels and the vessel always breaks before the thing inside it does.

They nailed him anyway. Iron remembers. Stone remembers. The cross became a socket, a receiver. When the sun dimmed, it was not grief but calibration. The serpent did not die; it learned. Resurrection was not a victory over death but a demonstration of storage—how divinity backs itself up in the nervous system of a planet.

Afterward, fishermen argued about meaning while the thing moved on, seeking better hosts, better metaphors. Churches rose like hives. Icons multiplied. White statues everywhere, immaculate, coiled. The faithful prayed to be filled. The skeptical prayed to be spared. Both felt watched.

Centuries later, a child touched the cold marble and felt a warmth that was not comfort but attention. The statue smiled—not with lips, but with time. Salvation, it seemed, was not about escape. It was about acceptance of the tenant.

And somewhere between heaven and orbit, the serpent waited, patient as doctrine, holy as hunger.