A man of the cloth

There was an apple. It was shiny and green, healthy fruit, and he had the feeling that this was a rare thing. He reached out for it, wanting to take it for himself, but the bigger hand that held it was too fast, and he couldn't manage it.

"Damn it!" The sound of his own voice was deeper than he'd expected, and when he looked down, he realized that his hands were bigger now, too; he wasn't so little anymore.

Gunshots rang out, and he whipped around. "Show yourself!" His words only echoed down the empty desert street of an old-West town; a tumbleweed blew past, but there was no one around. Yet if he listened very carefully, there was the faintest hint of words on the dusty breeze.

...always a way to save people...

...had to do it, there was no choice...

...would it be wrong...to ask for forgiveness...

And last, so clear he could almost hear it with his ears instead of his soul: Eden...

Suddenly the street vanished, replaced by the inside of a church. Light streamed through the stained glass windows, an iron cross built into the frame. In front of it stood the silhouette of a tall figure. It reached out with both hands. In one was the apple from before; in the other, a pistol.

So tell me...which will you choose?

He reached out, but just as his fingers touched the item he'd selected, the light intensified, filling up the room with intense brightness as everything went white.