Post by bluesnailok on Mar 6, 2022 18:06:42 GMT
Pope Bartholomew had quite a tale to tell. The Pope of his church upon a medieval planet subjected to the raids and pillaging of aliens, then the de facto representative of his planet to their saviours: The ASN, and now the moral representative for millions across this union.
But for such an unlikely and extraordinary life, this aged and old Berlun still found wonder in the peace, the sanctuary, the beauty of a well-built Church. It was in a place like this that any soul, good or bad, rich or poor, could find peace, they could find comfort, they could find God, God and song. He found it strange how close this Church, built on Natar by Humans, was to those of the Ankorist Church.
Of course he hadn’t come here as Pope Bartholomew the Wise. He would not inflict such a local and untouched place with the chaos of an entourage of media outlets and protection forces. Instead as the old man hobbled down the aisle of this great, looming place of worship, he came not as a holy man, a heretic, or a troublemaker, but as an elderly alien looking for a place of peace.
It was winter outside, and the Christians were renowned for their tradition at this time of the year: Christmas. He could see the millions of snowflakes drifting towards the ground beyond the cascade of colours that made up the glass of this place, it seemed to only make the place feel more separate from the rest of the world. A ship in the storm, a clearing in the forest.
As Bartholomew took his seat, the Berlun watched the choir beyond singing in perfect harmony, it was beautiful. To his left, the Pope noticed an old babushka, she didn’t seem much younger than him.
“I’m sorry, I must admit I do not come often… Should we be singing…?” He inquired sheepishly,
The venerable lady smiled warmly, “Sometimes we sing together, but today we appreciate the choir. They’ve spent weeks practicing.”
Bartholomew nodded as he returned his gaze through the flickering candlelight that formed bubbles of warm illumination through the dimness of church. Bartholomew found a beauty in their harmony, the softness, the innocence and purity of their tone.
“If you don’t mind me asking…” The lady broke Bartholomew’s trance, “...Where do you come from?”
The Pontiff gave a brief shake of his head, “I’m happy to answer. I come from a distant world called Baredai.”
“Oh?” The lady murmured, shifting her body to face him a little more, “What is it like there?”
“...It’s beautiful… There isn’t a day that goes by where I do not wish to return to its pastures and clear morning sunshine.” The old man reminisced.
The lady seemed more curious than before, “Then what brings you here? Work?”
“I suppose…” He smiled, “...I’m a spokesman for a powerful architect.”
“How interesting…” The babushka chuckled in a suppressed manner, “...But is the job worth what you sacrifice? Doing what you wish to do most…? Being where you wish to be?”
The clergyman paused to introspect and formulate, his reply was slow, methodic and thoughtful,
“If we were driven by our wants and instinct, we would all be thieves and murderers. We must abide by tenets and codes if we are to be better, by the end of our time in this world, than as we were when we entered. We do not decide who we are… But we can fight to be above our selfishness and take the roles we are expected to take to make this world even just a little bit better.”
The lady did not reply, instead, she dwelt on his words and nodded as she returned her attention to the Church’s ensemble.
Bartholomew continued to think, however, on the question. There was so much that the Berlun personally regretted, so much he had chosen not to do. To pursue faith dutifully over egoism, to help in generosity, even if rationality demanded frugality. Now was a time more pressing for the cleric than any other. All around him were voices, desperately trying to draw him to their worldly pleas, to attend to a cocktail of injustices and a table of issues.
The ASN was struggling under the burden of its own guilt, this much was clear to the Pope.
The socialists had called upon him to join them in their crusade against inequality and greed, but he had remained uninvolved.
The men of the military and of reaction had called upon him to join them in their vanguard against materialism and Godlessness, but he had remained uninvolved.
The bureaucrats and merchants had called upon him to join them in upholding their vows to protect peace and prosperity, but he had remained uninvolved.
Each time they had made their requests; each time Bartholomew had refused. He dearly wanted to help, their arguments all raised problems to which the Pope unequivocally seeked to resolve himself, and each time he denied the opportunity was a terrible struggle for him. But each of them demanded that he do something he could not do: Embroil himself in the power struggles of the mortal realm; to jeopardise the detachment and transcendence of the Papacy’s holy sovereignty.
To use the title, the authority that his position commanded to utilize the loyalty and faith of the loyal masses would be to degrade the Ankorist Church. It would mean the Church no longer answered only to God, passing his message down to the masses. Instead, the Church would be inverted; becoming an institution that dictated the wishes and calls of God in response to the ebbs and flows of the masses.
No.
The Church would remain immovable, it would remain as it always had: A bastion of Holy Sanctuary. Just like the spirit of the church that Bartholomew had felt when entering this place, the religion would remain uninvolved; a sanctuary for all from the raucousness, the mortal struggles and troubles of the world beyond. The Ankorist Church would stand firm in this power contest of the ASN. If it didn't, then the Ankorist Church was lost, regardless of whether they came out victorious or defeated.
But for such an unlikely and extraordinary life, this aged and old Berlun still found wonder in the peace, the sanctuary, the beauty of a well-built Church. It was in a place like this that any soul, good or bad, rich or poor, could find peace, they could find comfort, they could find God, God and song. He found it strange how close this Church, built on Natar by Humans, was to those of the Ankorist Church.
Of course he hadn’t come here as Pope Bartholomew the Wise. He would not inflict such a local and untouched place with the chaos of an entourage of media outlets and protection forces. Instead as the old man hobbled down the aisle of this great, looming place of worship, he came not as a holy man, a heretic, or a troublemaker, but as an elderly alien looking for a place of peace.
It was winter outside, and the Christians were renowned for their tradition at this time of the year: Christmas. He could see the millions of snowflakes drifting towards the ground beyond the cascade of colours that made up the glass of this place, it seemed to only make the place feel more separate from the rest of the world. A ship in the storm, a clearing in the forest.
As Bartholomew took his seat, the Berlun watched the choir beyond singing in perfect harmony, it was beautiful. To his left, the Pope noticed an old babushka, she didn’t seem much younger than him.
“I’m sorry, I must admit I do not come often… Should we be singing…?” He inquired sheepishly,
The venerable lady smiled warmly, “Sometimes we sing together, but today we appreciate the choir. They’ve spent weeks practicing.”
Bartholomew nodded as he returned his gaze through the flickering candlelight that formed bubbles of warm illumination through the dimness of church. Bartholomew found a beauty in their harmony, the softness, the innocence and purity of their tone.
“If you don’t mind me asking…” The lady broke Bartholomew’s trance, “...Where do you come from?”
The Pontiff gave a brief shake of his head, “I’m happy to answer. I come from a distant world called Baredai.”
“Oh?” The lady murmured, shifting her body to face him a little more, “What is it like there?”
“...It’s beautiful… There isn’t a day that goes by where I do not wish to return to its pastures and clear morning sunshine.” The old man reminisced.
The lady seemed more curious than before, “Then what brings you here? Work?”
“I suppose…” He smiled, “...I’m a spokesman for a powerful architect.”
“How interesting…” The babushka chuckled in a suppressed manner, “...But is the job worth what you sacrifice? Doing what you wish to do most…? Being where you wish to be?”
The clergyman paused to introspect and formulate, his reply was slow, methodic and thoughtful,
“If we were driven by our wants and instinct, we would all be thieves and murderers. We must abide by tenets and codes if we are to be better, by the end of our time in this world, than as we were when we entered. We do not decide who we are… But we can fight to be above our selfishness and take the roles we are expected to take to make this world even just a little bit better.”
The lady did not reply, instead, she dwelt on his words and nodded as she returned her attention to the Church’s ensemble.
Bartholomew continued to think, however, on the question. There was so much that the Berlun personally regretted, so much he had chosen not to do. To pursue faith dutifully over egoism, to help in generosity, even if rationality demanded frugality. Now was a time more pressing for the cleric than any other. All around him were voices, desperately trying to draw him to their worldly pleas, to attend to a cocktail of injustices and a table of issues.
The ASN was struggling under the burden of its own guilt, this much was clear to the Pope.
The socialists had called upon him to join them in their crusade against inequality and greed, but he had remained uninvolved.
The men of the military and of reaction had called upon him to join them in their vanguard against materialism and Godlessness, but he had remained uninvolved.
The bureaucrats and merchants had called upon him to join them in upholding their vows to protect peace and prosperity, but he had remained uninvolved.
Each time they had made their requests; each time Bartholomew had refused. He dearly wanted to help, their arguments all raised problems to which the Pope unequivocally seeked to resolve himself, and each time he denied the opportunity was a terrible struggle for him. But each of them demanded that he do something he could not do: Embroil himself in the power struggles of the mortal realm; to jeopardise the detachment and transcendence of the Papacy’s holy sovereignty.
To use the title, the authority that his position commanded to utilize the loyalty and faith of the loyal masses would be to degrade the Ankorist Church. It would mean the Church no longer answered only to God, passing his message down to the masses. Instead, the Church would be inverted; becoming an institution that dictated the wishes and calls of God in response to the ebbs and flows of the masses.
No.
The Church would remain immovable, it would remain as it always had: A bastion of Holy Sanctuary. Just like the spirit of the church that Bartholomew had felt when entering this place, the religion would remain uninvolved; a sanctuary for all from the raucousness, the mortal struggles and troubles of the world beyond. The Ankorist Church would stand firm in this power contest of the ASN. If it didn't, then the Ankorist Church was lost, regardless of whether they came out victorious or defeated.