Elena was, for all intents and purposes, a creature of habits. She ate in the same dishes at the same hours (her stomach was regular like clockwork, allegedly), with the same wooden spoon she’d had for years now (inox kitchenware was like nails on a chalkboard to her ears); stuck to the same workout routine she’d always entertained as an adult (discipline breeds success, Mum said) – never a beat, or a change, or it'd throw her off so completely that she might just break, somehow, somewhere. In the same spirit, she'd been to the same church for seven years now – some months more often than others, but she always made a point to show up at least once every two weeks. The sense of community mattered a great deal to her, probably even moreso than than the events themselves; she’d always been religious, but mostly for the connection she felt to the church-goers, for the hope and kindness they sent her way when they saw her beaten down. That was what community meant to her: somewhere to go and lick your wounds when the rest of the world was turning its back on you. Hell, even God might shun her– if she had that, then she could manage.

She hadn't been at all, though, lately. Call it shame, or the disturbing aftermath of a near-death experience, but Elena couldn't bear the idea of seeing their faces painted with disappointment and disgust, as if somehow they could hear her thoughts, experience her memories and see her for what she truly was. The thought terrified her almost as much as it made her long for support, a shoulder to lean on, an ear to talk to. But that was the thing, the very one she signed up for: she couldn't. She was alone in this, truly and completely left to her devices, with no one to confide in.
It made her wish for a numbness, a darkness she hadn't dared contemplate before. And that was when Elena knew she had a habit to break.

So on to a new church she went. It wasn't as warm: the neighbourhood was less vibrant (and pretty much deserted, if she were honest), the building itself looked as if it was holding itself together through sheer willpower, and that's how she knew it was perfect. Here, no one would look at her twice, or second guess her presence; the walls were the only spectators and the decrepit, somewhat muddied statue of Jesus up behind the nave the only witness. She almost didn't notice the man sitting on a bench close to the altar; she almost left, for he was so silent and solemn she feared her presence might spoil the moment. She left her bag further down the bench, though, and she sat in silence, chin down, as if to hide from The Man Himself: surely, the brash Brazilian overgrown kid wasn't his favourite child. She tried to pray, half-expecting Him to blast her on sight; she couldn't focus, though, and her eyes kept going back to the guy sitting on the bench opposite hers. His quiet, almost withdrawn yet weirdly loud presence tugged at something inside of her. She felt kinship towards this man, and she was ready to blame it on the church and its gloomy statues, when she felt him look back with the same wonder, and so she dared: « Kind of deserted, this place, innit? » Barely a whisper, and she wondered if he’d hear. She added, louder this time: « Never been before. Don't think lots of folks come, anyway. » And behind her words, a question: so why are you here? She couldn't tell if she was annoyed to have to make her own conflicted feelings public, or relieved to have at least a soul to share them with, even quietly. « Betcha we’ll wait a long time before anyone shows up for confession. »

@Solas Forthys

tw: religion. holy war.

ft. @Elena Esteves

romans
7
For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I.
17
Now then it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me.

How about a gang leader that throws scriptures instead of throwing gang signs ?

Even though, as a rhetorical question: do I look like I feel any type of connection with churchgoers ? From the outside I don’t even look like I feel anything, like "I’ve become so numb" in a Chester Bennington kinda way. But the fact that I am at church tells a very different story, one of SØRRØW.

All my life past high school "I have served, I will be of service". But I avoid church services at all costs. Because I’m a different type of breed amongst the sheeps, isolated from the herd ready to follow the first fool to jump off a cliff yet, I am connected to the only One that matters, and He’s good enough. It might look like I walk alone but, don’t be blinded by your narcissism: "fire walk with ME". Not with your manipulative controlling ass walking on a path paved with evil intentions and in case you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m far beyond your reach. Intellectually, spiritually, philosophically, alchemically… all of it. Far, far away from your understanding.

During my adolescence my worried mother - bless her heart - tried to drag her deeply troubled son of darkness to the Sunday Service and that felt counterproductive as hell to me, heightening my sense of not belonging anywhere as if the kingdom I came for is not of this world. Even if I had made an effort to concentrate on the sermon that was being preached any of those days, how was I supposed to get saved feeling even more miserable and alone when observing the people around me instead of focusing my attention on the cross trying to fully grasp the meaning of the ultimate sacrifice ? My blessing and my curse: one that allows me to see right through the bullshit of the mundane, irritated me even more: I’d rather dwell around authentic misfits than spending time with a bunch of souls that are deluding themselves into believing that they are saved just because they go to church. I don’t have it in me to pull the dire statistics on how many Christians own a Bible that they don’t even take the time to open and read. But those numbers tell you everything you need to know about how most of them are faking it and lack the discipline to get into it for their own sake and salvation. Thirty minutes a day would be great but their stats show that they are mindlessly spending hours on end scrolling though the most poisonous platforms online such as “X formerly known as Twitter”, TikTok and such, instead of reading and taking in the Word to hopefully better themselves. But because they go to church or wear a cross pendant around their neck they think that it’s all it takes to be saved and to be an actually good person, oblivious to the fact that they are still lost and nasty treacherous people that you can’t even have a meaningful conversation with, the majority of them having no clue about what’s actually going the fuck on. They are in the church because it’s a cultural thing, they grew up in the church for some even, but still struggle to understand the meaning of it all and have yet to forge a true connection to the Most High let alone an honest connection with their fellow brothers and sisters. Pieces of shit that deserve 9mm through their empty hearts. Some are downright hypocrites, receiving the sacraments and as soon as they are out of there, just return to their secular lifestyle indulging in all kinds of sins until the next Sunday as if it will clean it all away. That's not how any of this works.

Granted, most of these people are acting "normal". We’ve all been dysfunctional in some way ever since Eve messed up with that apple. And by nature I am like these people too - human - and as such I am a sinner as well, the first of them all saint Paul had the humility to say. The worst of them all people who know me would say. The type of guy who you’d think deserves to get struck by lightning as soon as he tries to take one step that leads to the entrance of the church but God is forgiving, merciful and most of all welcomes any and everyone of his creations in His home so they can get closer to the Way, the Truth and the Life.

Laying bare my grievances towards the Church as an establishment, it is still inside a church that I find myself right now. Along with the Dojo where I practise iaidō - the Way of the Sword - this has always been one of my favorite places to go to reflect in peace, hence why I chose this specific church. To reflect on the Word, to repent most of all, and to pray of course. Right now I’m praying the Rosary, alone or so I thought I would be alone because very few people come in here. There are far more active and more beautiful churches around town, but they also attract far too many people including tourists and their commotions that disturbs the state of meditation that I need to be in. The gold and garnets beaded Rosary dangling from my hands is one of a kind, a family heirloom passed down generations. Why did it end up in the hands of the most deranged person from my family tree ? Because I’m the one who needs it the most, spiritual warfare is nothing to joke about and as much as I love my Katana, this weapon can only be effective against the flesh, not demons. I’m halfway through a series of Hail Mary when my focus is slightly disturbed by the sound of footsteps entering the church and approaching towards my location. It happens sometimes and I got used to it. As I do, people do actually come here and I will most likely see another churchgoer minding their own business with the Lord once I’m through my practise cause it takes more than another person entering a space dedicated to prayer to break mine. A few minutes later, I have completed the Rosary and its mysteries for the day and decide to glance at the person sitting further down the bench out of curiosity. What kind of person chooses this church of all places ? A good question that prompts her to speak out with the same type of reflexion about this place as our eyes meet each other:

"Kind of deserted, this place, innit?"

If this wasn’t a question I couldn’t tell if she’s speaking directly to me or if she’s thinking out loud.

Jeremiah
31:2
The people who survive the sword will find favor in the desert.

"That is precisely why I am here" would be my answer to her, but I remain silent.

"Never been before. Don't think lots of folks come, anyway."

Obviously not and well, the chances of two people finding themselves here at the same time and engaging in a conversation are so slim, I guess I need to take back the statement that I’ve made about not connecting with the average churchgoers because as I remain silent still but am looking at her looking at me, there is a tentative of connection being made based on the fact that the ambiance of this place is in appearance far from uplifting for the spirit. What are we doing here ? It’s a question that could escalate quickly to the real but very personal question: how did we get here ? And I’m not talking about our means of transportation.

"Betcha we’ll wait a long time before anyone shows up for confession."

Now I’m smiling in agreement, nothing short of a miracle on my stoic face whose resolve was seemingly carved in stone. Confession is exactly what I am doing here. But my own personal path is off-pist, I don’t think I would confess my sins to anyone but to God. What does a priest, a pastor or a bishop even is supposed to do with me except calling the feds on my ass ? As long as a talk to them about the usual sins such as struggling to put the bottle down, or that my body count taken first degree is so high that there’s a possibility that I have children that are going to struggle with generational curses passed down from me that i’m not aware of, they can handle it. The second degree body count as in “I’ve been killing people for a living” is something else entirely. The pit of fire is what I’m looking at as far as my soul is concerned. Whatever martial or spiritual discipline that I put my mind to, I remember my sins. What do we do about that ?

hebrews
10
By the which will we are sanctified through the offering of the body of Jesus Christ once for all.
17
And their sins and iniquities will I remember no more.

"The priest doesn’t even show up either."

And I laugh. It’s such a small church, except a few exceptions here and there, regular offices and services are conducted at a larger, more active and attractive church.

"It’s ok, I talk to God, He’s good enough."

An understatement: He’s above anything and everyone else. Just don’t ask me what I talk to Him about. And I don’t think she will: do you sit in the waiting room at the therapist asking people why they are there, what mental disorder, trauma or anguish they are going through ? No you don’t, and in some cases like mine maybe hers, it’s classified. She did mention that it’s her first time coming here. I haven’t explained to her that this is because this place has a desolate feeling to it that I can relate to that I chose to come here but I’m curious as to why she decided that she would come in too, was it on impulse ? Or something deeper that I’m not entitled to know about ? I decide to ask her respectfully anyway, out of curiosity:

"You came in anyways, does it make you feel like you will come back regardless ?"

Because that’s the most important thing regarding such places. Our minds focus on the material aspect of things, and this church not being maintained the best it could doesn’t mean that nothing good dwells in it. And so we’re as clear as I am aware of the type of person that I am, I’m not talking about myself. Obviously.

She has no idea what exactly draws her into talking– she does, anyway, never one to question her own motives or impulses. If she did, she might find that she actually hated the emptiness, the silence of it all; going to church made her anxious these days, and she felt that if she stopped talking, someone would surely call her bluff. « Probably gave up, wouldn’t blame the guy. » So she didn't stop, and when the man answered, she took the bait. Didn't seem like he knew the place, either, this guy– upon closer inspection she couldn't help but notice he didn't look quite at home, among the benches; something about his pose, about his nonplussed stare when she first talked to him. Now he asked if she’d come back, if somehow something could drive her back to this place a second time. She had to consider it, for a while. Would she turn her back entirely to her community in her usual church? Was it possible that she'd be so ashamed of herself that she'd never show her face in her own church? « I could, yeah. »

She licked her lips as if to swallow back the taste of guilt. She had to clarify, for her own conscience: « Not my usual turf, though, to be totally honest with you. » There was no such thing as total honesty with Sparrow; the kid lied for a living. To her family, to her friends, to her wife who stayed far too long before deciding she had enough of her conniving ass and heading out. With him, though, she'd be honest so far: her usual church was miles from this one, in every way that mattered. Hadn't God taught her to value the symbol of the place instead of its grandeur, she'd probably be long gone. The man to her side was right, though, and a priest was but a vessel, and what did he bring except a fresh perspective to the conversation? Elena could do without– and the least she had to confess to anyone human, the better.
Which was a funny way to put it, frankly, as even Backseat French Fry dipped when, at last, he got bored by the same old monologue his owner inflicted on him during nap time.

« Usually go to a church with actual people in it. The priest shows up sometimes, if you can imagine. »

The shadow of a smile on her lips hid the unease that her own confession brought up - why not go there, then, would be the next logical question, and how could she say she avoided them simply because the idea of looking in their eyes had become intolerable? « Maybe it's the simplicity of the place. Makes you feel closer to Him, somehow. » She agreed with his previous statement then– didn't need much more than God, and wasn't it what He had intended? Had she gotten lost into the principle of community to drown her own guilt, when the foundation of religion was to look inward, always? There was no swallowing back the pang of guilt, now: « Ironically, the prayers I sent His way landed best when there was no church at all. ‘Was in Syria, of all places. » Her fingers scratched at her cheek, trying to ease her nerves; maybe tear at them. She didn't look at the man anymore, now. « Haven't really felt connected to anything related to christianity since. Something about seeing dead people, staring in their eyes, and then going back to your community and the worst they've seen and done is run a cat over with their car or cheated on their spouse. » She found she resented them, for having it so easy and thinking she did too. « I’m military. Talk about a damn cliché, coming here to get some sort of amnesty for a guilty conscience. Bet that's half the reason the priest stopped showing up. » The joke didn't land because of how bitter it sounded in her mouth; she certainly wasn't the first to come wash away her sins here. Most of them justified their actions by claiming it was what God asked of them, to defend their country. In retrospect, she pondered over how they were fed the same stories, all of them, most too young to question it: she'd never felt Australia was ever at risk, or that God had asked anything at all. « Sorry. Kind of a rambler. » Stating the obvious, here. She wondered how she could confide so easily in an unsuspecting stranger when she couldn't even bring up the subject to her wife, and reminded herself that she was more often than not the problem in the room. « Hear from Him much? »

@Solas Forthys