“Heaven is a promise”

The congregation sat shoulder to shoulder, crammed in; dressed for mourning. Somewhere in a back row there was room to stretch, to flex one’s shoulders, a situation vacant. “Don’t worry, my children, he is safe in the arms of the Lord now. There are no ghosts or phantoms, only angels and demons. And there are no demons within these hallowed walls, no siree, you can be certain of that.” Amen, they say, and exchange sad, reassuring smiles of consolation, each silent face saying: there is life after death!

As they leave – “and what a wonderful service it was, don’t you agree?” – their hushed tones and many footsteps echo throughout the cavernous hall, a susurration of belief. Their numbers were still many, enough to mask the quiet, disconcerting scratching sounds. But belief was dying too, an ageing congregation found itself diminishing. Over time, the parishioners fall, one by one, and there is more room on every pew, more room to flex one’s shoulders, and there are never any fresh faces amongst the crowd. “They are with Him now.”

And the scratching gets louder.

“It is a twisted world,” says the Father, “full of evil and sin. It is important, now more than ever, to believe in our Lord. To take solace in the fact that he will one day hold you in his arms.”

His words and gesticulations were a frenzy, wild and loud and unbroken. Sweat dripped from his forehead and ran out from the sleeves of his cassock. Kaleidoscopic light reflected in his glasses from the stained-glass windows: purple, green, now dazzling red. The effect was hypnotic, the congregation clung onto his every syllable.

“These wars and famines, despots and dictators, are but a test of our faith!”

But still there was the scratching.

“Children come to me in fear, they ask me…”

Scratch

Scratch

“…what if there is nothing after death? What if there is only blackness?…”

Scratch

Scratch

“… And I tell them that they need to have faith. Faith in the workings of the Lord!”

He paused, arms outstretched, uncertain. His reverie faltered.

And still the manic scratching. It came from beneath, a guttural rumbling from the depths of the earth.

There were only a few people left now. They sat on near empty pews with room enough to spread their legs and swing their arms from side to side. Another faithful had kicked the bucket, been swept away by the tides of time. “And by the saints was he a true devout!”

The Father preached his holy word, crying out over the hellish cacophony beneath.

“This church has stood here for a thousand years and will stand for a thousand more…”

Scratch

Scratch

Scratch

“… this man joins a congregation of millions. We stand upon a holy legion, buried here beneath us to be sent on their final quest.”

The Father stopped, words caught in his throat; self-affirmations knotted on his tongue. He stared at the coffin. In the silence he heard its contents begin to stir, the sound of nails on wood. He recalled one of his earlier sermons:

Heaven is a promise.

But promises can be broken, and not everyone can face the nothing.