They called us cultists, but didn't Jesus to face persecution?

They said our rituals were twisted and wrong, but didn't the Romans say the same about Christ's

first followers? Such was Father Elijah's logic. They hated us, he said, because we spoke the truth,

and all sinners hate the truth. My mother joined Father Elijah's congregation just a few months after

I was born, and I grew up in his church's compound in the Nevada desert.

There were only about 30 of us, and we spent our days trying to scratch a living out of the church's

barren land. At night, we collapsed exhausted into our bunks, which were set up in aluminum hanger

bays. What little free time we had left was taken up with sermons, prayer, and Bible study.

Only Father Elijah and a select few ever left that compound. According to Father Elijah,

the evils of the world outside were too strong for the rest of us to bear.

Sometimes, I'd stare out over the red rocks and scrubby plants, wondering if things out there

were really as bad as Father Elijah said they were. His lurid descriptions of sex maniacs,

hollow-eyed drug addicts, and bloodthirsty gangsters haunted my nightmares.

Did young women really dance around half naked to seduce godless men, whose fortunes were made

from the sweat of modern day slaves? Did invisible demons really force people to keep their eyes

locked on tiny screens that they kept in their pockets? I had no idea, but I secretly yearned to

find out for myself. And I soon discovered that the only way to do that was by earning Father

Elijah's favor. Looking back, I don't know where I found the energy to work in the green

houses before dawn every day, studied the Bible for hours, and then respond to Father Elijah's

evening sermons with the kind of rapturous, frenzied enthusiasm that he loved. But in the end,

my plan worked. Father Elijah noticed me, pointed me out as an example of virtuous youth,

and invited me to join his elect. Just not in the way I'd imagined. I'll never forget that night.

...