The Empty Church
The oak doors closed behind him with a soft but heavy thump.
As the sanctuary was sealed off from the outside world once more, the air of the old cathedral gathered close around him, embracing him as if to draw him into this different world. He took a few steps towards the center line of the nave, the heels of his boots knocking solidly on the marble tile. The stern, impassive walls returned the sound with a cavernous indifference. The beautiful symmetry of the medieval architecture regarded him coldly, awaiting his next move. The vibrant stained glass had assumed a bluish haze brought on by the quickly waning evening light outside. The nave itself was lit by simple candles atop tall brass candlesticks; the flickering light of their companions danced in the luster of the metal as darkness crept forth from the nooks and crannies in the Gothic detail of the cold walls.
He felt he was supposed to be here, although he could not say why. Regarding the dark wood of the screen far ahead and the opening therein, he felt drawn onward down the church. The detail of the screen was lost in the fading light and the darkness of time. The doorway into the choir seemed so close but somehow a lifetime away. He felt the pull increase as the arches and the angels grew impatient. He stepped forward, each step producing a hollower echo than the last.
As he stepped through the screen into the choir, he knew he had arrived elsewhere. He was not sure where exactly, but he knew this was no longer a space constrained to reality. The solemn figures in the glass regarded the lone visitor to their residence. Their stoic visages betrayed nothing, but a palpable sense of anticipation grew with every step. It felt as if the walls themselves leaned inward in expectation, and a feeling of overwhelming possibility grew in the quiet.
Approaching the end of the stalls, a strong voice boomed from the pulpit, introducing a sermon to an unseen congregation. It was him, or himself. He sat down for a moment to listen to his own message to his invisible flock. The rhetoric was admirable, if hastily delivered. As he listened, he wondered, but he had turned from that life long ago.
He felt a touch on his shoe and looked down to find a small boy reaching forth from his location under the benches to retrieve a crayon. The child didn’t bother apologizing for the benign brush in his recovery attempt, evoking the ambivalence of a child at a task. This little boy had no interest in the preacher’s message, no more than he was concerned with his career or his ultimate purpose in life. The nine-year-old version of himself never even looked up from the word search on the church pamphlet.
He stood and continued down the church, and as he looked ahead he saw a young man in his early twenties standing in a tuxedo before the altar, looking back down the aisle. Pausing on his stroll, he turned and looked over his shoulder to see a sun-kissed beauty with dark hair and swallowing eyes. She was breathtaking in white. She was also long gone. He turned forward once more, his face attempting to mask the pain as the figures in the stained-glass gallery shed sparkling tears.
He passed the altar and regarded the image of Jesus crucified. The carpenter may have been the son of God, but his face showed the pain, despair, and confusion of a simple man. Christ regarded him momentarily with sadness and fatigue before letting his head drop slowly once more. He turned away, feeling ashamed that he could not bring the innocent man down.
Back at the altar stood a closed coffin of a rich, dark wood. In front of it stood a weathered but solid old man dressed in black. He held his black hat in his hands in front of him as he mourned with a bowed head and a few silent tears. The visitor did not recognize the fellow. Was that him? Was he in the coffin? It did not matter, he decided. All that mattered was that the rest of the church was empty. It was empty.
“May I help you?”
The question startled him. Gathering himself, he rolled his slumped shoulders and attempted to resume a posture of poise, but he lacked the fortitude to do so convincingly. Inwardly sighing, he simply spoke his mind. “No, Father, I don’t suppose you can.” He turned to leave before the priest could say anything in reply. With each step the burden on his shoulders lessened as he escaped that space of possibility, but the visions still haunted him, leaving hollowness within. As he returned down the aisle of the cathedral, the structure itself seemed to withdraw, returning to its dormant state. All that remained was the sound of boots on marble echoing off the somber stone walls.