The dulcet tones of the children’s choir practicing for the next night’s Christmas Eve Mass echoed through the cathedral. Father Paul nodded to the cantor as he passed by their balcony, then headed down the aisle towards the vestibule to swap in a fresh guestbook. He spied a new face in the otherwise empty nave, sitting a few rows from the back. It was an older gentleman, with more salt than pepper in his week’s worth of stubble and receding hairline. He had dark circles under his eyes and a rumpled collared shirt beneath a threadbare sweater vest. As Father Paul approached, he saw there were tear tracks running down the man’s face. The man looked looked up. “Hello, Father.” “Hello, friend,” Father Paul said with a warm smile as he reached the man’s pew and sat next to him. “Something troubling you?” “Ha,” the man said, “that’s a tale too long in the telling for the time I have left, I’m afraid.” He gave a weak smile. “Suffice it to say that I made a choice, and now, at the very end, I find my conviction starting to wane.” “Ah.” Father Paul paused, then asked, “Is it your convictions, or lack of faith in them, that brought you to God’s house?” The man sighed. “Humanity has become jaded, Father. Tragedy rocks the country, the world, and yet within a month, a year, a decade, all memory has faded, and we blithely press on as though no lesson has been learned.” His expression turned sour. “I thought to change things. I had faith that, given the right impetus, humanity could be brought together as one and build a better future. But, now that events have been set in motion, I wonder – could I bear to live in a world where they wouldn’t?” He turned back to watch the choir once more. “So here I am.” “Yes, here you are. Humanity is a resilient lot, it’s true.” Father Paul laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “But even a calloused soul can still be scrubbed clean. Have you come to confess?” “Oh, nothing like that.” The man gestured vaguely at the vaulted ceiling above them. “I’ve had little use for God in my life, but it is staggering, the beauty humanity is capable of in His name. I wanted to see it in person, before the end.” Father Paul’s hand fell away along with his smile. “Well, you’re not dead yet. There’s still time to–.” The man slowly shook his head. “It’s too late, Father. There will be no salvation. I will burn. So will you.” He gestured at the choir. “So will they.” His voice faltered as he said, “Nothing short of divine intervention can stop that, now.” Father Paul frowned at him. “My son, that is the very essence of salvation. Only through divine intervention can we be saved.” “Ha, I suppose you’re right.” The man checked his watch. “We’ll find out, one way or another, in about twenty seconds.” Something in his tone made Father Paul’s blood run cold. “What do you mean?” “I mean that if you have any last words to speak to God from this side of the veil, now’s the time to do so.” He took a deep breath as he closed his eyes, his voice suddenly calm. “As for me, whatever will be, will be.” Father Paul stood and looked to the children in the balcony. He paused for half a moment, then closed his eyes and said, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come–” A terrible flash of light nearly blinded Father Paul through his eyelids. In shock, he hid his face behind his hands, then, as the glare dimmed, he risked opening them. There, in stark relief on the far side of the cathedral, shone the image of Christ as depicted in the massive stained glass window behind him. The radiance of His visage was still near to blinding as he stared at it, transfixed. Whatever the light touched, be it crucifix, pulpit, or child’s robe, burst into flame. Father Paul heard a low rumble below the startled shrieks from the balcony. The stone floor shuddered beneath his feet, and comprehension dawned on him. He looked to the old man, still seated, eyes shut, hands folded tightly in his lap. Father Paul shut his eyes for the final time and whispered, “Thy will be done.” The window exploded, and then there was only fire.