Meaningful memories of a meaningless life

The story I am about to tell did not happen very far away, but somewhere around 400 years ago. Where it happened is unimportant. There was a great king in a great kingdom city, a king considered remarkable and invincible.

King Baroth Nevelian had made his decision once again. Bishop Francis, who governed the diocese of the capital city, had every reason to oppose it. The Community Church was one of several decisions Baroth had made recently: four monasteries had been closed within the last month, and their administration had been taken away from the religious leadership and temporarily transferred to the kingdom’s government.

Baroth did not believe he was doing these things without reason. There was a systematic religious force making itself plainly visible in the city. No, no—it was not something divine. It was more like a network of spies and religious sects. Religious pressure could be felt in every corner of the city, not physically, but, if one may put it that way, spiritually. Nor had this organization appeared out of nowhere. In truth, everything happening now went back several years, but let us not hurry. Let us begin by understanding the present.

Bishop Francis was a sixty-four-year-old man, with wrinkles and dark circles beneath his eyes from reading books—by “books,” I mean only the Bible. Within the religious leadership, his word was rarely questioned. It would not be wrong to say that he led a council of thirteen people and held the greatest authority within the religious leadership of the kingdom city. News of what had happened had reached him only a few hours earlier.

The bishop’s room was more disordered than usual. He possessed one of the largest rooms among the palace chambers. Entering it felt almost like stepping outside. It gave a person an extraordinary sense of freedom. The moment you opened the door, you saw a cross standing parallel to it, and behind the cross was a bookshelf filled with numerous works of art and science that the Bishop himself had never even touched. This was the darker side of the room.

The candles had been placed far from the shelves so that they would not accidentally fall onto the books and set them ablaze. It would be fair to say that science and literature had once again been left in the shadow of religion. Fritz Haber, a court figure who took little pleasure in this situation, expressed it better than anyone. Fritz himself was the first to bring Francis the king’s decision.

Living outside the palace and merely “associated” with the king, as he himself called it, Haber was the city’s most renowned alchemist and man of science. The scholar delivered the news with irony and disgust. Francis had sensed this the moment Fritz entered his room. Even before knowing what the news was, he understood that it was something he would dislike coming from a man of science.

As Fritz entered the room, the first thing he encountered was the bookshelf and the cross, both lost in darkness. When he looked toward the side with more candles, he saw the Bishop sitting at the far end of a long table, with a Bible unmistakably visible before him, dressed in his usual black robe. Unsurprisingly, the room smelled of walnut wood and a mixture of candle wax. There was even a faint smell of something burnt.

Indeed, the side of the room containing the religious books was remarkably bright. Unable to restrain himself, Fritz muttered, “Science has not been left in the shadow of religion. Rather, religion’s false light has yet to reach science.”

Francis ignored the bald scholar with a curled mustache and glasses tied by a string to his left ear, who had entered the room and immediately approached the bookshelf in the darkness. Without changing his pace, he continued reading Matthew.

“When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the city was stirred. The people asked one another: Who is this?”

“The people answered them: This is Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee!” Fritz called out to Francis from the darkness without taking his eyes from the book he had taken from the shelf.

“Strange, isn’t it? You may be wondering why a man devoted to science would know the Bible. This Jesus, who is called a prophet rather than God—” He put the book back in its place on the shelf and sat on the sofa to Francis’s left. “I would love to sit here and tell you about my childhood, but I have more interesting things to discuss. First, I would ask you to take your mind off the book you are reading.”

“Fritz... Scholar Fritz... I see that you know the Bible at least as well as a priest does, perhaps even better. I was not going to ask how you learned it. Thus, I have spared you the trouble of telling me about your childhood.” Francis closed the Bible before him. A small cloud of dust rose into the candlelight.

He stood up and turned his chair toward the scholar with a loud, unsettling scrape. The owner of the room broke its silent atmosphere. Sitting down, he crossed one leg over the other in a manner one would not expect from a religious man. Resting his elbow on the arm of the chair, he leaned toward him.

“Go on. I am listening.”

“You heard about the king’s decision, didn’t you? Or have the spiritual ripples not reached you yet?” The scholar stretched one hand beside the sofa and the other over it with evident disdain. He crossed his legs as the Bishop had and continued with a sly smile.

“Let me tell you before your parish priests whisper what has happened to you. The king, together with his political leadership, has decided to close the last parish in the southern part of the city. As you know, this local church bears the name of Cardinal Gienus. I have great respect for that man.”

The scholar lowered his legs and leaned forward. He clasped his hands together and continued in a more serious and tense tone.

“You may wonder what connection I have with him. I do not have time to explain it, and even if I did, I would not. I do not think the name of the local church matters much to you. What matters to you is the decline of religious power.”

“Wait a moment, Scholar Fritz!” The Bishop raised the hand he had been leaning on, asking the scholar to stop. He threw back the hood of his robe, whose edges were embroidered with golden crosses, revealing his face from the shadows. Like the scholar, he leaned forward and began speaking in a hoarse voice.

“You enter my room without even asking my permission! You interrupt my worship! You interfere with it!” With every following sentence, Francis’s voice grew louder and his anger more intense.

“I say nothing about these things, but then you come here and accuse me of being interested in the fact that religious power has become an important issue in the city! The church bearing the name of Cardinal Gienus, who was once a priest, is clearly very important to you. Let me ask you something. Where were you when the decisions were made to close the monasteries and local churches before this one? Why have you come to speak to me now about something that has personal meaning to you? Have you ever considered how selfish such a request is?”

“I, Bishop Francis, live to make full use of the conditions and desires my religious faith has placed before me, and of the opportunities it gives me to fulfill them!”

Francis rose from his chair not like a sixty-four-year-old man, but like a young man of twenty, full of energy. The light of the candles falling upon the scholar was blocked by his body.

“Whether you say so or not, I must stop this fanatical, anti-religious advance. Let that, too, be a condition my faith has placed upon me!”

As the scholar was about to answer a speech that could make even a priest weep, three knocks on the door stopped his words. The door opened only slightly. From where they stood, neither the scholar nor the Bishop could see who was there.

A voice came from outside, careful not to disturb those inside:

“Reverend Bishop, with your permission, if you are not at worship, may I come in? I have something very important to discuss with you!”

Only after Francis gave permission several times did a middle-aged man enter. The scholar noticed him. He appeared to be a priest, dressed in blacker robes than most other members of the clergy. His head was uncovered. His hair was only slightly gray, and his beard was no whiter.

Holding his hands together in front of him, the man timidly asked permission from both the scholar and the Bishop before sitting on the sofa, unwilling to remain in the dark side of the room. Then he spoke.

What he was about to say might perhaps become the words he would regret most in the future.

Unlike Bishop Francis, Fritz Haber sensed that this priest was about to say something important. After making himself comfortable on the sofa, the priest clasped his hands between his knees and began to speak.

“Reverend Bishop, the king has decided to close the local church named after Cardinal Gienus in the southern part of the city. I wanted to speak to you directly about every decision made against religion before this, but as you know, speaking with you is quite difficult. Now that things are confused at the palace, I was able to come to you more easily. My fellow religious men helped me get inside. In exchange for proper respect, of course...”

He sometimes clenched his teeth and occasionally glanced toward the scholar, but he did not notice that the scholar had taken a small blue notebook from his right pocket and was writing something in it.

“My name is Luther... Luther von Prince. I have wandered too far from the point. I am a priest at the local church that is going to be closed. Unfortunately, the political blow against religion has struck our church as well, but I would like to know why the religious leadership, which I believe has political power, has not prevented these things...” The scholar lightly nudged the priest’s foot with his own as a warning. The priest corrected himself.

“I mean, I would like to know why it could not prevent them.”

“Luther... The meaning of your name is profound.” The old Francis, who had remained standing throughout the speech, turned his back and approached the darker side of the room. He stopped before the light disappeared completely and leaned against the table.

“My son, the situation is extremely complicated. Without the power God has given us, we can do nothing.”

As he said this, Luther made the Christian gesture of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Fritz watched him with disgust he did not reveal.

“This weakness will disappear. Before the decision to close the church is carried out, I will speak privately with the king and try to prevent it. This has truly gone too far.”

“I am very sorry to interrupt, but what you are saying may pose a danger to the kingdom, Bishop Francis.” Scholar Fritz stood as well and approached the chair where the Bishop had been sitting. This time, he blocked the candlelight falling upon Luther.

“Our friend the priest and I share a common desire. At least partially. However, speaking in this manner is forbidden by law. Be careful that your speech does not move beyond criticism and become physical action. It could be used as a threat to both the people and the kingdom.”

“I cannot say it is a danger to the kingdom. But the thing that constitutes a danger to the people is the very kingdom whose safety you are concerned about—or, to be more precise, the militia forces responsible for maintaining order. These forces receive their orders directly from the army.”

He turned his attention away from the scholar and toward Francis.

“Reverend Bishop, you say the decision has not yet been carried out. But the decision has already been carried out. Our local church was closed this morning. There were even certain incidents I hesitate to speak about.”

The moment Bishop Francis heard this, he turned toward Luther and nodded for him to continue. The smell of something burnt still lingered in the room, unnoticed by everyone, perhaps because of the seriousness of the conversation.

“The militia brutally beat Priest Martoks and Deacon Edmund for protesting the closure of the church. In front of the people, too. The news has not spread yet, but before tomorrow evening, the entire city will know.”

Not only Francis, but even Scholar Fritz could not believe what he was hearing.

“Several of my fellow religious companions also told me that some of the nuns were subjected to physical and indecent contact.”

The scholar could no longer remain silent and wanted to intervene, but the Bishop stopped him with a gesture and asked the priest to continue.

“The condition of the Priest and the Deacon is extremely serious. They probably will not live to see tomorrow evening.”

“Reverend Bishop, Cardinal Gienus played a special role in my life. He was a father to me in place of my father, and a grandfather in place of my grandfather. I cannot endure seeing the last inheritance and memorial he left behind subjected to something like this.”

The scholar and the Bishop stared at each other in shock. Neither had expected the king to go this far. The militia was the army. The army was controlled by the king.

After Fritz told Francis what had happened and it became clear that his concern for Gienus was no longer Luther’s alone, the scholar closed the blue notebook in which he had been writing throughout Luther’s speech and placed it inside his coat.

Without saying anything, he left the room.

After he left, the scent of perfume in the room diminished slightly, while the smell of burning became stronger. Francis could no longer contain himself and struck his fist against the table. The force sent the Bible he had been reading onto the back of his chair.

At the same moment, Luther flinched and, asking the Bishop to reconsider what he had said, left the room.

Francis walked toward the darkest part of the room and faced the cross hanging at the very top of the wall before him. Jesus was upon it as well. With his hands behind his back, he began speaking calmly, as though speaking with his God.

“Priests, men of religion, monks, nuns... The people suffering are the devout. Farmers, peasants, the poor... The people suffering are the common folk. Defenseless, hungry people serving the wealthy class... The people suffering are those who have nothing. The king, the courtiers, the wealthy live in comfort!”

The anger in the Bishop’s voice intensified. He opened his hands and curled his fingers like claws. Without taking his eyes from the cross on the wall, he continued.

“Why, my God? Why do you make us—your beloved servants—suffer, while you give an easy life to those who will have to be purified forever by your eternal punishment in Hell, yet will remain filthy even then? Why must my sister nuns and brother priests suffer? I say nothing about evil people not suffering. But why must good people suffer?”

At that very moment, a tremendous flash of lightning struck outside. Like any religious man might, Francis could not resist giving it a mystical meaning.

“My God, you are speaking to me. I hear you. I feel your anger. You are right. Prophets exist for days such as these. To set right what has been corrupted!”

His hoarse voice was becoming clearer.

“My religion has conditions. It fulfills my desires. It does not make death the end of me. It makes it a new beginning. It gives meaning to my life. The values defended by my faith, and those who defend my faith, have always been in the hands of one person...

“Me.

“The king and his army must feel God’s wrath through His beloved servants. God gave us pain not so that we would suffer punishment, but so that we would take action. The pain that comes from God can only be healed by medicine that comes from God. God has given me my pain.

“Then let me act.”

Throughout the Bishop’s entire speech, the thunder never ceased. The voice of the old man was as fierce as the lightning, heard only by himself and the god in whom he believed.

The source of the burning smell had finally become clear. When Francis looked behind his chair, he saw that one of the candles had caught the king’s portrait on fire. Even the Bible that had fallen to the floor had been damaged by it.

The Bishop hurriedly picked up the half-burned Bible and extinguished the flames with the water in the marble basin he used to wash his hands. He did not touch the king’s portrait. He merely moved it aside and kept it away from his religious books.

When the Bishop left the room, the flames had completely consumed the portrait and then gone out.