Faith in the Dark

Day 2 – The Morning After the Announcement

Father Gabriel Royce had always believed in the end of the world.

But he never thought he’d live to see it.

He stood at the pulpit of St. Mark’s Church, staring down at the crowd of frightened souls who had gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across the wooden pews.

The air smelled of burning wax and desperation.

The church had never been this full before.

Men and women who hadn’t stepped inside in years now sat clutching rosaries, whispering prayers they had long forgotten. Some wept openly. Others sat in stunned silence, their eyes unfocused, as if waiting to wake from this nightmare.

Gabriel’s fingers tightened around the worn edges of his Bible.

"Lord, give me the words," he prayed silently.

But he had nothing.

Nothing that could ease the fear. Nothing that could explain why the world had been given a death sentence without hope of salvation.

Nothing that could stop the beast of doubt clawing at his own heart.

The heavy church doors creaked open. A woman stumbled in, clutching a child to her chest. Her clothes were torn, her face streaked with sweat and tears.

Gabriel moved toward her. “Are you all right, my child?”

She barely heard him. “Please,” she gasped. “Please, they’re coming.”

His brow furrowed. “Who?”

Then he heard it.

Shouting.

Chaos.

Footsteps thundering toward the church.

Gabriel turned just as the mob arrived.

A dozen people poured into the church, their faces twisted in panic. They shoved past one another, seeking shelter beneath the high stone walls.

Behind them, five men stormed in—armed with pipes, knives, and desperation.

Gabriel took a step forward, raising a hand. “This is a house of God—”

A man with a shaved head spat at his feet. “God’s dead, Father.”

Gabriel looked at the congregation—the elderly couple clutching each other, the mothers shielding their children, the teenage boy gripping a wooden cross as if it might save him.

No.

God wasn’t dead.

But faith was crumbling.

The leader of the thugs—a wiry man with hollow cheeks and hunger in his eyes—scanned the church. “We need food. We know you keep stores for the poor.”

Gabriel’s heart pounded.

They weren’t wrong.

St. Mark’s had a basement stocked with non-perishables, enough to feed dozens. In a different time, he would have gladly given them what they needed.

But these men weren’t asking.

And if he let them take everything, there would be nothing left for the people cowering in the pews.

He took a slow breath. “I will not deny aid to those in need,” he said carefully. “But you will not take it by force.”

The leader grinned. “Then we’ll just take it from your cold, dead hands, Father.”

The first punch came before Gabriel could react.

A fist collided with his stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. He staggered back, gripping the pulpit for support.

Someone screamed.

The church erupted into violence.

Gabriel hit the ground hard. Pain exploded in his ribs, but he refused to stay down.

Through the chaos, he saw two men drag the food crates from the basement, their arms full of canned goods.

A young woman—no older than twenty—tried to stop them. “Please, my daughter—”

One of the thugs shoved her to the ground.

That was when something inside Gabriel snapped.

He wasn’t a violent man. He had spent his life preaching peace, turning the other cheek.

But in that moment, as he saw innocent people being trampled, he felt rage surge through him.

He grabbed the heavy brass candlestick from the altar.

And he swung.

The base of the candlestick connected with the shaved man’s head. He crumpled instantly, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Silence.

For a moment, no one moved.

Gabriel stood over the unconscious man, breathing hard. His hands shook. The candleholder felt heavier now—not because of its weight, but because of what he had just done.

The leader stared at him.

Then he laughed.

“Well, well, Father, didn’t think you had it in you.”

Gabriel gritted his teeth. “Get out.”

The leader tilted his head. “You gonna kill me if I don’t?”

Gabriel’s grip on the candlestick tightened. “No.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

Gabriel stepped forward.

“I may be a fool,” he said, his voice low. “But this is still God’s house. And if you think I will let you take from these people—hurt these people—you’re more of a fool than I am.”

The man held his gaze.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spat on the floor and turned away.

“Not worth it,” he muttered, motioning for his men to follow.

They left, dragging their unconscious friend with them.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind them.

The silence in the church was deafening.

Gabriel dropped the candlestick. It hit the floor with a metallic clang.

His hands trembled. His heart thundered against his ribs.

For the first time in his life, he had hurt someone.

For the first time in his life, he had fought back.

And worst of all?

He knew he would have to do it again.

This wasn’t God’s world anymore.

It belonged to the desperate. The ruthless. The ones willing to fight.

Gabriel turned to his flock—the scared, starving, hopeless souls who had come here for protection.

"I have to protect them," he thought. "No matter what it takes."

He swallowed hard and lifted his Bible once more.

“If you are afraid,” he said, his voice steady, “you are not alone.”

Heads lifted.

“I do not know what comes next. I do not know what we will face. But I know this: we are still here. And as long as we are here, we will stand together.”

A few murmurs of agreement. A faint glimmer of hope.

It wasn’t much.

But it was a start.