This Is the Most Metal Word in Christianity

I’m not well-versed in the roster or vocabulary of Christian saints. Shockingly enough, it wasn’t a core part of the curriculum for me at Hebrew school. Judaism as a religion is famously focused on the head honcho, something that has made prayers much simpler but greatly reduced my access to cool necklace pendants. 

Therefore, most of my knowledge of Catholic lore (which I’m pretty sure is not what they call it) has come through reading secular Wikipedia entries on past saints, and scrolling quickly to the manner of their death and not how many feet they washed during their lifetime. A remarkable amount of them seem to get their heads cut off, and I guess this makes sense. It’s an incredibly efficient way to send a message and end a life in one swift blow, with the added benefit of hedging against any chance of them being a vampire. 

I’ve also learned that visual representations of saints often feature the cause of death, because Christianity, for a religion preaching peace, loves the visual impact of a good arterial spray or impalement. 

To be clear, no complaints from me, because they’re right: It’s pretty awesome.

Taken together, this means that there was a real need to find a good way to illustrate a beheaded saint, and that raises a unique issue: Do you prioritize the body, or the head? Ideally, you’d like to get both in there. A headless body is pretty cool, but makes identification near impossible unless somebody had a remarkably unique posture or a trademark goiter. A head by itself is easy to identify, but there’s a lot of tapestry to fill and a head alone does have a bit of a Catholic Clippy from Microsoft Word vibe. 

What they settled on is having the saint in question cradling or otherwise holding their own head, which is incredibly badass, and a pose I’d use for every picture ever taken of me if I didn't need a consistent flow of oxygenated blood to my brain.

This specific group of saints, and their valuable cargo, also received an official classification, and the word chosen would be part of every conversation I have from here on out if I had my way. The first time I read it in a description of Saint Denis, who not only hauled his own head around, but reportedly while it was barking out a sermon, I all but let out a long, low whistle. 

That word? Cephalophore.

My god. As a metalhead and a Dungeons & Dragons fan, this is the sort of thing I’d circle twice if I found it in a discography or the Monster Manual. It’s a word that goes incredibly hard. Without knowing the meaning, my brain immediately cooks up some sort of tentacle-laden head crunching down on a helmeted skull. For my money, knowing that you’d eventually be referred to by something as cool as the word “cephalophore” is worth almost as much as sainthood itself. 

“Before him stood a cephalophore, shadows pooling beneath its severed neck” sounds like something out of the best chapter of a Lovecraft story, not a description of an evening church visit.

It comes from Greek, meaning “head-carrier.” It’s so sick that even when translated, it’s still very cool. You’re not let down when finding out the meaning, like learning that it’s actually Latin for “pumpkin-in-hand” or something equally stupid. Both the word and its translation, said out loud, feels like the smoke of an exotic herb trickling out of your mouth. 

The crown of greatest word to speak or write is now squarely atop the severed head of cephalophore. All other contenders, I thank you for your time, but we’re going in a different direction. Don’t let the cellar door hit you where the good lord split you. 

“That would be a good band name” is one of the most cliche, overused back-pocket zingers around. Regardless, I need four men in corpsepaint and a double bass drum with “CEPHALORE” screenprinted across the front immediately. I also need two T-shirts in a size XL.