Verse 25: "Camaraderie in Crisis"

I sat in my tent; or rather, I laid down in my tent, not sleeping at all. I hadn’t died, but I had gotten rather close to doing so. What a nice gift from God, letting me survive by the skin of my teeth.
          I turned over on my bedroll.
          Then again, I had gotten close. I had blacked out. Even a little more damage to my body and I probably would’ve been beyond repair. I bit my lip. I remembered something from back when me and John had first met in high school. I’d asked him why bad things happened to good people.
          His response had surprised me.
          “I don’t think there are any good people.”
          “What the heck? There’s tons of good people! Mother Teresa? Gandhi? My mother?”
          “They’re all sinners.”
          “Oh yeah? And I guess you’re not?”
          “No, I’m just as bad as everyone else.”
          Then he'd told me about sin and how, according to God, everyone is worthy of death because everyone sinned. Of course, God decided to have “mercy” on us pitiful humans by sending his kid to die in our stead, so that “our sins would be paid for.”
          Some mercy.
          Why did some random “God” get to be in charge? Who let him come up with all the rules? Why did he have the authority to decide who got to live and who got to die?
          I rolled over on my bedroll.
          “Why doesn’t He just ignore my sins? If he’s so big and powerful, why does what I do matter to him at all?”
          “Because you’re made in His image.”
          I hadn't asked to be made like that; what was I, some toy or clay pot, branded by my maker? I looked down at the shirt I was wearing and lifted it up. My chest had six long scars running down it; they weren’t bleeding, and they looked like they were old scars. I wondered why they had healed so rapidly, then recalled what Elisa had said about being an 'amazing alchemist.'
          I put my shirt back down.
          I considered more thoughtfully the idea of a megalomaniacal God who couldn't stand it when people who he cursed with “His image” sin.
          “What even is sin?”
          “It’s breaking the law of God.”
          “What if I don’t break it?”
          “You’ve inherited the failings of those who came before you; you will sin. And your sin deserves punishment by a holy God.”
          I smirked bitterly. I'd almost forgotten the part where people were, apparently, forced to sin. What a great God.
          “Here’s a world for you to live in, where horrible things can and will happen to you, and unless you decide to play by my rules, when your pitiful little life is over, I’ll send you to burn in a fiery hellscape for all of eternity! Have fun!” I said out loud for myself to hear.
          What a deal; I was practically jumping out of my skin to get a taste of that.
          I rolled over on my bedroll again.
          I couldn’t wait until I could stop pretending to be a priest. I was excited for when I would get back home and tell my family and friends all about this. They’d probably think I was crazy though, so maybe I would just write a book about it.
          I laid flat on my back and looked up at the top of the tent. 
          There was no God.
          “Then what do you live for?”
          I told my memories to shut up.
          “What is the meaning of life?”
          I told them to be quiet.
          “What’s the point?”
          I told them to hush.
          “What–”
          “I don’t need one!” I said out loud as I sat up in a huff.
          The night was quiet. I looked around the inside of my tent hurriedly, but no one was there. I took a deep breath, then laid back down slowly.
          What was so important about meaning? I could make plenty of meaning for myself; live a full life where I made the decisions. I could live a life characterized by freedom; a life of doing what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted.
          I clenched my fist as I thought more about the world I occupied. It was a world where I was the head honcho; the boss; the big shot.
          Even if there was no meaning to it.
          Freedom was more important than meaning anyway. It would be better to die free than live in a world where an omnipotent God who hated me condemned me to die because I dared to think an impure thought.
          “But there’s no purpose to anything.” My memories echoed. 
          What did I care?
          “Where does morality come from?” They chimed.
          Morality was a societal construct.
          “What’s after death?” They poked.
          Who cared; it wasn't my problem yet.
          “Why go on?” 
          People lived for freedom.
          “Meaningless freedom.”
          Meaningless freedom was infinitely better than no freedom at all. I laid there on the bedroll, looking up at the top of the tent. 
          “I can do anything.” I whispered into the darkness. Nobody answered. “You hear that God?” I said, a little bolder. “I don’t need you. I-I’m free!”
          The darkness didn’t respond.
          “I’ll do whatever I want!” I yelled in the confines of the tent. “Screw you! You aren’t real!”
          But no matter how loud I yelled, no matter how much I screamed, I couldn’t get John’s stupid voice out of my head.
          “If you start life with no meaning, and you end life with no meaning, it's absurd to think that the in-between could have any meaning.”
          At least I would be free, even if it didn’t matter. I shut my eyes tight. John had told me something else about freedom during our conversations.
          “You know Shinko, where the spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.”
          I kept my eyes closed tight, even as something leaked out of them.
          “Shinko? I heard you yell. Do you need Elisa to give you more–” Vivian was crouched down and peering into my tent. “Shinko, why… are you crying?” She stepped into my tent and let the flap close behind her.
          I laid down on my side, with one or two tears falling from my face.
          “Meaningless.”
          “What?” Vivian said softly. “Shinko, what are you talking about?”
          “Vivian.” I took a shaky breath. “Without God, there might not be any meaning to life, but that’s okay, right?” I asked quietly. “We can– we can make our own m-meaning, right?”
          I looked up at her, and her expression was one of extreme confusion.
          “Shinko, what are you talking about? A-aren’t you a priest? You’re supposed to know about this stuff, not me.” She sounded unsure.
          “Vivian, please, tell me the answer.” I asked her quietly, and a few more tears came out of my eyes in the darkness of the tent. “Why me? Why was I sent here?”
          “Shinko, you’re scaring me.” Vivian said, backing away from me slightly.
          I sat up and looked at Vivian. She wasn’t lying; she did look scared.
          I wiped away some of the tears and breathed deeply a few more times, but I couldn’t steady myself. She watched as I tried to calm myself down in silence. Once I had gotten rid of most of the tears, she looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes and spoke gently.
          “Shinko, I don’t understand why you were crying.”
          I opened my mouth to speak, but she held up her hand and looked away. Her long wavy brown hair was a little unkempt, and it covered most of her side profile. All I could see of her face was the very tip of her nose when she was facing away from me.
          “But for what you said about meaning, let me say this.” It was her turn to breathe slowly. “Until I met you, I didn’t think about it. I just went around, stealing from… people.”
          I looked at her in the darkness of the tent. She seemed so much smaller than before.
          “And, maybe I felt bad about it, but I told myself that it didn’t matter.” She trembled a tiny bit. “B-because, really, nothing mattered.”
          She looked at me again and smiled a little bit. It was a smile that was sad, and happy, and hopeful. It was radiant.
          “Then I met you. And you told me that, maybe, it did matter.” She looked at her hands. “Maybe, all the stealing I did; maybe it mattered, and it was wrong.” Her voice quieted.
          There was stillness in the tent.
          “But if the bad things I did mattered, then that meant that my life mattered.” She held her hands up and showed them to me. Her palms were covered in small callouses and scars. “Maybe, my dirty little thief hands weren’t worthless.”
          “Aren’t you scared though? Of God’s wrath? Of His punishment for sinners?” I asked quickly.
          Vivian looked down at her hands and her smile became even wider.
          “Shinko, my hands matter. The God who made the world thinks my hands matter.”
          I couldn’t handle hearing her. 
          “Vivian, I need to go to sleep.” I said quietly. “Thank you. For coming to talk to me.” I looked down at the ground as I laid back down.
          Vivian looked at me, a little surprised; then she smiled.
          “Of course. If you need something Shinko, please just ask. You don’t need to yell.” She went out of the tent, but stopped at the entrance of it. “Good night, great priest.”
          She stepped out of the tent softly.
          I laid down alone in the tent. As I thought about what she said, despite the fact that I didn't fully agree with her, it made falling asleep a little bit easier. 

Edited on 09/18/25