The man trod through the water that was clearer than heaven around his calves. The priest's hand was outstretched and waiting, but there were so many questions, so many little blocks keeping the man back.
Hadn't he already come to Heaven? Wasn't he already in the Kingdom of God? He couldn't see it beyond the glowing windows, but he had heard the stories. Columbia. Shining, golden, and perfect. There was no more need for baptism, was there? Would God have let a weed into the Garden of Eden? But the priest demanded it. Comstock demanded it, and so the man needed it for the city waiting behind the gate. He and the other pilgrims, dressed in white and deep in prayer, were around the priest, waiting for their turn to enter the shining city of Columbia.
"Come, son. Take my hand and wash away the stink of the Sodom Below. Take my hand, son, and feel the freedom of the Prophet in the sweet waters of baptism."
All of the pilgrims cooed and hummed in agreement, like a flock of doves in their white robes.
"Take my hand," the priest insisted.
The man's soul trembled, but his hand reached out. Alleluia, he was coming home.
John Taube waited in the circle of pilgrims, watching his brother accept baptism. They were all brothers and sisters now- and John relished the chance for a family, a real family. Back in the Sodom Below, he was left with only the dream of the Holy Family awaiting him in Heaven. He dreamed of Mary, with her soft eyes and voice, calling out to him; the Christ Child, only a young boy of 8 years old, asking John to play with him some more. He'd see them soon enough. He was coming home.
The first man emerged from the water, choking and sputtering. All the pilgrims waited for the tell-tale words, the first sign of a reborn man.
"Oh, God," the man groaned, "Lord God, I can't breathe."
The priest moved with ferocious speed, dunking the man back into the water before he had time to close his mouth.
"Alleluia, alleluia," murmured the pilgrims. John nodded with them, still thinking of the Paradise awaiting him. He had come from the Sodom Below, like the rest of the pilgrims, but he was not like them. Not at all. They were pure and perfect, practically saints in their simplicity and devotion to the walk with Christ. But he wasn't, and God knew- He knew the sickness in his soul. Here John was in Heaven, but his thoughts remained on Earth; he couldn't bring his heart up to Paradise, because it was stuck in the cold ground back home. No- it was back in the west. Paradise was his home now, alleluia. He was coming home.
The man was pulled back out of the water by the shirt; water droplets went flying through the air like diamonds, catching the pink light from the stained glass window.
"God, God, God…," the man choked pitifully, "Oh God, don't let me drown."
The priest frowned tremendously, and with all the fury of God cried out, "This sinner has not yet felt the love of God!"
"No, he has not!" cried the pilgrims.
"And how can we teach ourselves to love our God?"
A woman cried out in ecstasy, "Bring ourselves to Him!"
The priest threw the man back into the water, coughing and splashing all the while. The pilgrims cried out in delight, scattering cheers and utterances of faith.
John watched with envy, eager to feel the priest's fingers around his collar. In the water, he would see the face of the Holy Family awaiting him. Gentle Mary, who loved soft breezes and fresh bread; the little Christ Child, with scrapes on his knees and a single tooth missing. John would pick the Child up and swing him around and listen to him laugh sweetly and freely. Oh, God.
They had thought the West would be the Kingdom of Heaven. The western sky was blue enough and wide enough to hold all the hosts of Heaven, at least. Death had never come to the West, they thought. There was no room.
Of course they were wrong, and John saw that now. Death was waiting in the West. Death had been waiting in the water; Death had been waiting in the fields; sometimes Death was red, whooping and hollering, and sometimes Death was green, devouring and multiplying. The West was not the Garden. The West was all weeds and sickness, and John had fled it. He had come to Paradise to escape death, and he had now come home. Alleluia.
The priest pulled the man up from the water. He was weak and limp, and the priest had to shake him to rouse him. The man's head lolled unresponsively as he struggled to come to consciousness. The priest struck him about the face and smote him on the head, making the man's eyes flicker.
The pilgrims began to sing quietly, singing sweet words of Heaven with swelling intensity.
Will the circle be unbroken?
By and by, Lord, by and by.
Is there a better home awaiting?
In the sky, Lord, in the sky.
The man shouted with sudden and surprising vigor: "GLORY! GLORY! I CAN SEE IT, I CAN SEE HIM!"
The priest exclaimed with joy as he pressed the man back into the water.
"OH, LORD!"
The pilgrims exclaimed with joyous noise, singing in fantastic swells as the priest sent the man back and forth, between the water and the air.
There are loved ones, in the Glory…
"ALLELUIA!"
Whose dear forms you often miss…
"I CAN SEE THE GLORY!"
When you close your earthly story…
"The glory… the glory… alleluia…."
Will you join them in their bliss?
"I'm coming home."
When the priest brought the man back up, he had rejoined his Family in Heaven.
John watched with unbridled excitement, his voice reaching to the highest curves of the ceiling. The priest passed the man's empty shell to the waiting circle of pilgrims, floating him down the waters to the undertakers waiting on the other side of the door. John held his breath as the priest turned back to his flock, holding one hand out:
"Who is next, my children?"
John stepped forward eagerly, hampered only by the weight of the water. He took the priest's hand, sighing with delight as all the peace and glory of Heaven entered his soul. Alleluia, he was coming home.
Alleluia, alleluia- he was coming home.