[It's nice, to be in the presence of real faith. Like catching a hint of Deanna's perfume in the crowd, if she'd ever been the kind of girl who wore perfume. Nice to hear words he can't make himself say, anymore, because they always feel hollow and cheap and ill-fitting, like a man trying to get warm under a baby blanket.
Not that he's outgrown God. Nothing like that. But the shape of the church. Too many people have called him the second coming or the antichrist for him come forward in humility without making a mockery of it. It's the connection with God that's gone, strained to the breaking point by his own weakness and fear, the pieces abandoned in self-serving hunger, and he doesn't know how to rebuild it.
But now he is listening to a dead man recite Corinthians, the way the resurrected people who gathered around him used to whisper his name, and it feels like - a good sign, somehow, disparate pieces of his history welded together in new ways. He waits for a pause in the smooth flow of words, not wanting to interrupt.]
I could make you live again. But you don't want me to, do you?
[That's comforting in a way Dillon doesn't really know how to articulate, even to himself; it just is.]
[spam]
Not that he's outgrown God. Nothing like that. But the shape of the church. Too many people have called him the second coming or the antichrist for him come forward in humility without making a mockery of it. It's the connection with God that's gone, strained to the breaking point by his own weakness and fear, the pieces abandoned in self-serving hunger, and he doesn't know how to rebuild it.
But now he is listening to a dead man recite Corinthians, the way the resurrected people who gathered around him used to whisper his name, and it feels like - a good sign, somehow, disparate pieces of his history welded together in new ways. He waits for a pause in the smooth flow of words, not wanting to interrupt.]
I could make you live again. But you don't want me to, do you?
[That's comforting in a way Dillon doesn't really know how to articulate, even to himself; it just is.]