God with no believers, a church with no preacher.
He’s a hollowed out, fire gutted husk. He’s what’s left after the church burns to the ground, after the rafters cave in and the poor witch children inside stop screaming. A charred, roasted mess of a man with nothing left in his head or his hear.
Nothing except cold rage, nothing except frigid detachment.
What’s left after the fires take it away? Eat it up and crunch the bones between it’s teeth? Rage, simmering, freezing rage that numbs everything else; pain, sorrow, fear. Fire leaves purpose too, clean, untainted purpose. Fire cleanses after all, takes away all the confusing, contradicting thoughts until everything is crystal clear and burning bright.
Believers don’t matter to a God brung low. Why would he need them? Why would he take them when they’ve turned their backs before? Better to use them, abuse them, and refuse them. No one can see what he does, no one can understand his dream, so don’t explain it. Don’t waste his time, just give them what they want and take what he wants.
Preachers don’t care for desecrated churches. Who would? Why? There’s no point in them, dirty, dilapidated bits of rotten wood and ash. So don’t invite them in, stand in the empty doorway and turn them away. He holds his own sermons now, preaches to his empty pews, and takes his own sacrament. He is his own believer, preacher, and God, and he’ll accept nothing less.
