Chapter Text
Guard your steps when you go to the house of God. Go near to listen rather than to offer the sacrifice of fools, who do not know that they do wrong. 2 Do not be quick with your mouth, do not be hasty in your heart to utter anything before God. God is in heaven and you are on earth… 5:1-2a
His steps are sluggish. Matt knows he needs to go. Go confess. Go grovel. But it's just past one in the morning. The doors will be closed, locking him out. His excuses are limited, though. Because each hop and movement he makes gets him closer to the unknown route leading to his church until he's sat next to the steeple.
This will be his last patrol. Then he may just give up for good.
Slipping into the church, he lowers himself down. Perched on the balcony, he takes it in.
Patchouli has seeped into the well-loved cushioned pews, which hold up his heavy body. He’s home. And he is surrounded by incense. As a child, the smell hurt. Sometimes he couldn’t come and partake in Mass because the smell was too strong.
Back then, the smell was overpowering, but then again, everything was. Matt closes his eyes in meditation, perhaps in reverence, and inhales deeply through his nose; all notes of the incense are consumed and understood.
The church breathes with him. The walls of this sanctuary have known sorrow and joy, good and evil, death and resurrection. And Matt has endured all of the above. Oftentimes, when he is tired, he strays back here. Like an abandoned dog, he limps back to the place that has shown him the most kindness, in the hopes they may be generous again.
And it always folds him back in. Something special occurs when he’s here. In his day-to-day life, everything is moving. Sounds, smells, feelings pour over him even when he actively tries to push them away; something will slip through. But not here.
As soon as his combat boots fall onto the holy ground, it's like the stone is rolled over the tomb, and no interruptions leak through. Because when he’s here, it’s quiet. When he’s here, fragrant perfumes swaddle and cradle him. It strengthens him.
He hears the flicking flames behind him. Votive candles live towards the entrance, begging visitors to light their burnt offering. The flames behind his eyes are strong; Matt sees a world on fire.
He shudders and moves to the most familiar pew. His mind is relentless.
Saint Peter discusses how fire refines the faith. How the whipping heat will cause dross to boil to the surface, so the maker can purify his gold; the imperfections are removed, and the gold becomes pure.
Yet, Matt finds himself here, amazed that his body didn’t burst into flames when he crossed the threshold; he is so tainted. You’re one bad day away from being me.
Fire can condemn or it can refine. Sometimes he gets so caught up, he pushes himself too far. He ends up crawling towards snapping guilt of scorching fires. But the moments when he lets go? The moments in which he acknowledges the refinement and understands he is made better through trials?
The moments when he remembers that all hardship is not punishment? Those moments extinguish the guilty flames he feeds. And he does this endlessly. Daily.
Reds, oranges, and all forms of warmth flicker across his view. Whispering, he confesses, “Forgive me. I— ” But the words of admission lodge in his throat, unable to call out. The words are stuck. He is stuck. He came here to…to what?
He thinks of Hannah in the Old Testament, so devoted, begging at the Temple, but in such anguish she could not speak. Hannah was praying in her heart, and her lips were moving, but her voice was not heard.
And that is all he can manage. Unable to voice his confession, his sorrow, and his shame, his lips move, but no words cross his tongue. A pounding heart slams into his chest, hoping that God will see him. Hear him. Understand him. And love him in spite of what he has done tonight. Left undone.
Everything shudders. Light quakes rock the church’s foundation. Though he feels the pew under him, he can’t feel anything else. The sonar senses he’s depended on for practically his whole life are gone.
He cannot…feel. What the hell is happening? He is left on an island. Matt remembers losing his hearing and knowing what pure loneliness was. What complete isolation felt like. “Hello?” He can hear his loud voice echo, but there are no pews or objects for the sound to run into, no curtains or cushions to absorb the waves. A cautious tone shifts to quiet fear, whispering, he whimpers, “What’s happening?”
A faint “Matthew?” floats through the air, but he doesn't know where it comes from. Fear floods him, and his body shakes. Sweaty hands grip the wooden pew. He screams, “Hello?!”
Again, “Matthew.” Terror. Terror, pure terror. He isn’t alone, but he can’t hear a heartbeat or breath, and he doesn’t know where anything is. Disorientation makes his head spin, vertigo clasps onto him. In a much more pathetic attempt, he cries, “H-hello?”
“Matthew.”
A rushing wind blows into, over, and around him. In his vision, light hues of blue and purple join the ever-present reds and oranges.
The Highpriest realized that the Lord was calling to Samuel. So he told him, “Go and lie down, and if he calls you, say, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’”
Oh. He hopes he doesn’t seem like an absolute fool, but the waves of recognition feel too warm, too understanding for him to stop himself from shifting. He moves to lie supine; the pew’s velvet cushion holds him. Matt quietly says, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”
“Oh, Matthew.” A loving reverence washes over him. A love so confounding and encompassing. But he shouldn’t have it. He doesn’t deserve it.
No human could hear the “Yes?” that falls from his shaking mouth. He doesn’t know where he is, but does that really matter?
A calm, pure, and soft question seeps into his ears. “What happened tonight?”
All of his fears are quickly compounded, filling every space inside. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. Judgement is imminent. Words that were once slanted in his throat spill, “I was too slow.” His quiet voice and heart crack, “I didn't mean- ” He licks his lips; He tastes tears. “I'm sorry, 'm sorry.”
Drug deal gone bad. Both parties vicious. The dealer stabbed the receiver. Matt was too focused on doling out his own form of justice against the attacker that the sudden echo of silence across the alley pushed him back into reality.
The man's body was quiet. Matt can still feel the cracking of his ribs as he desperately tries to bring him back. The way he tried to kickstart his heart again. Desperate. Haunted.
Again, that voice of peace is soft and sure, “Matthew. I know. I know you.” The fiery blue hues intertwine with oranges behind his eyes. The colors still shine bright, and the pillow beneath him is as present as he could get. “Who was Levi?”
It's whiplash. Disoriented and with a chattering jaw, Matt desperately hopes he gives the right answer. “L-levi was a tax collector, but you c-called him, and he followed you.”
“Levi took from my people, left them poor and sorrowful. They felt destitute.” They sit in silence. Matt turns the words over in his mind.
“But I saw him. I knew him. I called him.” The fire behind his eyes shows licks of light violet dancing around the edges. “And I call you, Matthew. Every day. Levi, do you not go around and collect others’ debts? Taking them by whatever means necessary?”
“Y-ye” Clenching and unclenching his jaw, he tries to answer once more. “Yes.” In a voice as soft as he can attempt, he reasons. “B-but you know me. You know I need to do this.”
“You feel a calling, yes.”
Overwhelmed with dejection, Matt whimpers, “I thought I could help. I need to do something.”
“You love justice. I want justice more than anyone.”
“I know there will always be evil on the Earth, but what am I supposed to do? I hear them crying. A-a-and why don't you shame me? Condemn me?”
“I see you. I hear you. I know you. And I am with you, Matthew.” Matt feels hollowed out and yet so full, as if his chest is stuffed with cotton. His mind and body, woozy. “Whenever my creation hurts, I hurt the same.”
Incense blossoms under his nose, and the old pew beneath him creaks when he shifts awake. The world is as it was. He feels as though he has slept for days. The whispering hues of blues and purples flick and flutter, waving goodbye.
Matt returns; he sees a world on fire.