Slumrat Rising

Vol. 3 Chap. 47 What You Owe and What You Sow

Truth sat about midway back in the pews. They were on tiers, like stadium seating. The church was trying to cram the most bodies possible into the hall and making sure everyone had an excellent view of the dais. No obstructed-view seats here. And the acoustics simply could not be beat.

He knew the last point because he had watched the sound check. Professional sound and light technicians, specialized mages in all but name, came out and flicked up the sound-catching talismans. They hovered where they ought to- either positioned next to an instrument or discreetly by the jaw of the technician.

“Test test. Test one two, one two.” They ran through each talisman, testing the pickup, the noise isolation, and the range of captured sounds from bass to treble. They were clearly old hands- it took less than six minutes. The lighting check ran a bit longer. Truth was grimly unsurprised to see that the light talismans were, indeed, unreliable. They were highly modifiable- ranging from spot to flood to ambient, shifting through color gradients with deceptive ease. Until they exploded in tiny showers of sparks for “no reason.” Only two or three of them, out of hundreds of talismans. He would bet cash none of them ever reached the end of their alleged service life.

Complexity means more points of failure. Pack in a half dozen new points of failure in any kind of consumer talisman, run it hard every day, and sooner or later, they will start breaking down on you. Not that it was a big deal to replace the talismans. They had plastic bins full of light talismans. A tiny servitor golem flew up with the replacement talisman, made the change, the technician connected the talisman to the lighting array, tested it, and they were off to the next fault. No rush, no delay. Just another day on the job.

The band came out, a quartet of fit-looking people in their mid-twenties. Clean cut, neatly dressed but just slightly too casual for church. Attractive, but not startlingly so. The kind of people you would desperately want to chat up in a coffee shop or not-too-loud bar and think you just might, maybe, have a shot with them. A long way from the unearthly beauty of the idols or big national stars. They tested their guitars, drums, tambourines, and trumpets and ran their own sound check. Sounded good to Truth. They seemed to disagree, making minute adjustments to their instruments.

While they were working, the illusion array came to life. The projectors on the ceiling turned the bleach-white walls into forests, pristine beaches, laughing children, the spinning gold face of Praeger and the wrought silver of Saint Florian. He could sense the illusory array trying to persuade him he was smelling things- cedar, the brine of the sea, or rich incense. Trying to make him feel calm or excited or loving. He didn’t feel much.

The lights went out, then slowly came up again. Sharp white spots lit the dais, the top step blindingly golden in the harsh light. Softer, warmer lights lit the stairs for the seats. That old church music came up- the songs he remembered from his childhood. No words, now, just instrumentals lifting him up. Making him feel something in a way the illusions couldn’t. This was going to be something special. This was something big and real and he was part of it.

The congregation started filing in, families smiling and nudging each other as they found their usual seats. Everyone dressed nicely, some in suits or fancy dresses, most in what would pass as “business casual.” Making an effort to be upbeat but respectful. It took a long few minutes to get everyone in. The house was packed. Everyone settled in. The house lights dimmed to almost nothing. There was quiet.

A sudden blast of music! The illusions burst into life, all brilliant colors and joy and hope and the face of Praeger smiling down on everyone. Thudding bass and high-pitched horns got everyone up and cheering, thousands of them up and cheering, and from the rafters a robed preacher floated down on two wings, like a messenger angel bearing the word of God.

He waved, and the crowd roared back. He pointed to each section in turn, getting a roar, a cheer, foot stomping, hands clapping.

“Brothers and Sisters. Those friends we know and those who we hope to know. Every living, breathing, loving soul in this building. ARE YOU READY?”

The congregation cheered and yelled.

“I SAID ARE. YOU. READY?”

The congregation got even louder.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU. SAINT FLORIAN'S FAITHFUL ARE. YOU. READY?”

They screamed and screamed like their throats would burst if they didn’t get all the sounds out.

“ARE THE HEAVENLY HOST HERE? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

One section seemed to lose its mind, hundreds of parishioners bursting into ululating shrieks, waving handkerchiefs and flailing their arms.

“SAINT FLORIANS. ARE. YOU. READY… FOR BLESSINGS?!”

Oh, they lost it there. People stumbled out onto the stairs, shaking and crying and yelling. They were ready. They were so, so ready.

The band opened the service with a song. It seemed to be mostly about God raining blessings on them, Praeger leading the way, and, occasionally, trees. The illusions of streams and soft rains on fertile fields and the smell of spring all lifted the song beyond the banal into something rare and special- showing how the holy and the material were really one and the same.

The preacher opened up with a few prayers, inviting blessings and warding away evils, reaffirming everyone’s faith and devotion. Reminding everyone that this was no solo act- they were the glorious army of God in this sinful world, marching behind Praeger’s standard and flying the colors of the faithful.

Truth thought the preacher would give the sermon, but it turned out he was the warm up act. The actual Arch-Priest delivering the sermon flew in on six wings, embraced the lead man, and sent him off the platform. Handsome, but not too handsome. Perfect teeth, a good suit. You would buy a luxury boat from him, or try and get investment tips from him at the bar in the country club locker room.

The sermon ran for half an hour. It should have been agonizing, but Truth found it strangely compelling. It started with an odd little passage from the writ- Child Zephram and the apple tree. The tree was old and withered, and wouldn’t bear fruit anymore. Child Zephram prayed and prayed but no fruit. Then one day in the middle of winter, the tree suddenly burst into a beautiful crop of plump, delicious, apples. A blessing out of season, but perfectly timely for the starving boy.

The gist of it was that God would bless you, but on his schedule. He had a plan for the whole universe. All your blessings were ready, all prepared for you to receive them. But they wouldn’t come when you wanted them. They would come when God decided the time was right. Even if you thought it was too late, the damage was done and all was lost. That was the precise moment God (through the intervention of the Praeger, the saints and those who had received the blessings of priesthood through the apostolic succession from the hands of Praeger himself) would display his glory and give you what you needed.

But, naturally, you could refuse his blessings. You could close yourself off from faith, live in pain and despair, make your life a little taste of the Hell to come. He wouldn’t force you. The message was repeated again and again, in tiny homilies and anecdotes and one sentence quotations of the Writ, all reinforcing the same point- God is on his schedule, you will get all the blessings that are coming to you, but only if you made a way for them. Only if you were ready to accept them, by being faithful, patient and humble.

One part in particular stood out to Truth- the resurrection of Oila.

“Now I’m sure you all know the story, but I ask you to, for today, consider that story another way. Pulim had called Praeger. Pulim, who was full of faith, and Oila, full of faith, they called to Praeger, asking for the blessing of good health. Praeger was friends with them, good friends, but still, even as Oila got sicker and sicker, he didn’t come. Now, the Writ doesn’t tell us why Praeger didn’t come. He wasn’t stuck in traffic. He wasn’t getting his hair done and just lost track of time. The Writ says that Pulim called for Praeger to pray for his wife, to pray for Praeger’s dear friend Oila, that she might be returned, healthy and happy to her family.

“And for one week, Praeger did not come. On the fourth day of his absence, Oila died. Blessing God and Praeger with her dying breath, she died. And the Writ doesn’t tell us why Praeger wasn’t there. Praeger and God don’t need excuses. They don’t need a note from their mom. We know why he wasn’t there- it wasn’t time for him to be there.

“On the seventh day, Praeger came, and Pulim, full of grief, collapsed on his manly chest. He pulled on Praeger’s robes of celestial silk and divine gold. Weeping, weeping, he cried- “Why? We love you! We worship you! She died with your name on her lips. Why did you abandon us in our hour of need?” Praeger said nothing. His own tears joined Pulim’s. God knows the fall of the smallest hummingbird. How much more does he know the pain of men and women?

“So Praeger went out to the cemetery and walked up to Oila’s urn and said, “Come back, Oila!” Now, this is the bit I want you to think about. Go home and pray on it, wrestle with it, test yourself against it. Praeger goes up to the urn holding the ashes of Oila and says, “Come back, Oila!” and there is a pause. You can see it right in the Writ, right there at Miracles 23:2, there is a pause. He calls out, “Come back, Oila!” and there is a line break. God himself, through the disciples and the testimony of the Writ, tells us there was a moment between the call and that lid jumping off the urn.

“Now we all know what happens next- The hand reached out of the urn. Then the arm reached out of the urn. Then the shoulder reached out of the urn.”

The priest’s voice was sing-song, like a nursery rhyme. The congregation started singing with him, and the band’s guitarist “spontaneously” decided to play the tune to accompany them. Truth realized with a jolt that he knew this song. It just listed all the different parts of the body as Oila slowly crawled out of the urn that held her ashes. He didn’t know where he had heard it. It was just… around. Somehow, even not going to church, he couldn’t escape it.

“Haw haw! That’s right. But think about what we talked about today. Think about Child Zephram and the apple tree. Praeger could have been there on the first day. He could have been there and blessed Oila before she got sick. She was his friend. She never missed a tithe, and every little extra she could raise went to the Treasury of God. But that’s not when he needed to be there. He needed to come after it was all too late, and everything was lost.

“When he called out to Oila, when he resurrected Oila, there was no question that it was anything but a miracle. She didn’t get better on her own. She was ashes and dust, her soul returned to heaven and God. This was a true, indisputable miracle, a blessing out of season, and it saved not only Oila’s family, it also saved generations of believers. It saved every soul that heard of that miracle and opened their hearts to God.

“But remember- you get to choose! Oila got to choose. The Writ tells us there was a pause. The writ tells us that the resurrection was not instant, that there was a moment where things could have gone either way. That was Oila’s moment. That was her opportunity. Remember, Oila was devout and devoted. She died absolved of sin. Her faith never wavered. She was in Heaven! Brothers and Sisters, Oila was in HEAVEN, kneeling before the Throne of God and as blissful a soul could be.

“Oila chose to return to the world. She chose to accept the resurrection, no blessing for her, so she could be a blessing for others. Her resurrection was an act of piety, devoting the balance of a mortal life to earthly suffering. A sacrifice for all those who would be saved in the future. She chose to be God’s instrument in the world, safe in the knowledge of her place in Heaven and the eternal, perfect life to come. She chose to be a piece of Praeger’s shield, protecting humanity from all demons and evils of the world.

“I believe and declare: wagon loads of blessings are coming your way: favor, healing, the right people. Like with Child Zephram, “who-would-have-thought” blessings, dreams bigger than you’ve imagined, problems that look impossible suddenly turning around, the fullness of your destiny, in Praeger’s name.

“And if you received it, can you say Amen today?

“Now, I see the basket is going around, and I see you all are ready to contribute to the Treasury of God. Making sure those blessings and protections are here for not just yourself, but all the faithful. But in these dark times, deadly times, times of wickedness and the oppression of the ungodly, the oppression of those who have not opened their hearts to Praeger, it falls to the faithful to be a shield for the whole world.

“I am asking you, the faithful flock of Saint Florians, to be that shield. Today, we are doing something very special.” The priest held up a little bit of colored paper, trimmed into the shape of a kite shield and bearing the symbol of Praeger and Saint Florians.

“Each of these Holy Shields has been blessed and prayed over by myself, by Father James, Father Farsid, each and every ordained priest here at Saint Florians has prayed over them and loaded with blessings of protection against wickedness and demonic forces. And there is one prepared for each of you.”

The crowd went nuts, screaming Hallelujah, and God is Great, some seeming to have seizures as the ecstasy of the moment took them.

“There are blessings prepared for each of you. That’s the standard God sets, and we hold ourselves to that standard. Brothers and sisters, we have prepared the blessing for you, but have you prepared a blessing for others? We are asking that every member who can to donate what they can to the Emergency Treasury Drive. There is a shield for each of you, and if you can’t spare even five wen, then you can’t, and God bless you. But if you can, we ask that you donate at least five wen. To be that shield for your brothers and sisters and the whole world.

“Not part of the tithe- that’s what you owe. This is what you sow.”

After the celebrations ended, the congregation filed out, and the volunteers from the Heavenly Host came to sweep up, Truth made his way to the offices at the back of the church. The sun was setting later and later, as the solstice approached- James’ office was flooded with coppery light, painting the pale sin eater. Truth walked in, a bonfire of sin shrouding a hole in the air.

“Good evening, James. Find time to visit the slums?”

“My pastoral duties kept me occupied. Never thought a ghost would make an appointment. Or pay in blood-gold.”

“Blood gold? You could call it that. Someone certainly died for it. One way or another.”

James flinched at that. Truth slowly poured the jewelry store loot out on the table, raining treasures from the empty air in front of the priest.

“Here, Sin Eater. Ready to reap what you have sown?”