XV

The next morning, when everyone was at class, I put on a black dress and left the Institute.

Burials didn’t happen anymore. Not enough space for them within the city limits. All dead bodies were cremated. I didn’t know how fast the turn-around rate was, but I could only assume that by now Lady Rose was really, truly gone.

I walked to the church. If a faction wanted a religious center, they had their own—faction came before even religion. Abnegation’s was a small utilitarian building in the center of the neighborhoods. It was multifaith, of course, but mostly Christian, and on each inside wall hung at least one crucifix or painting of Jesus feeding widows and orphans.

Candor’s religious center was very different. It was a huge glass building with a fountain in front. The inside was spacious with lots of seating, a mix of a traditional Christian church and Jewish synagogue. Each pew had a strange hinge running along the bottom, suggesting that they might also slide into the floor to make the space a Muslim mosque. I had heard about that before. A sign near the door advertised worship times for all of the faiths and office hours for the rabbi, priest, and imam. The place was empty.

I sat in the second pew and looked up. The stained-glass windows—like everything else—were in black and white, a neutral geometric design. I had seen pictures of old churches and knew that Mary might have otherwise been there, holding the child Jesus in a swath of white. I thought of Miriam. I thought of the son she had mentioned in passing. My father had once said the mother of Jesus was only fourteen years old.

Fourteen years old. Carrying a child.

My fingers clenched the hems of my sleeves. Lady Rose looked at me every time I closed my eyes. Did anyone try to stop her? Did no one try to help her? Had I ever passed her by on the streets, too afraid to give her a scrap from my lunch?

Fourteen years old. Trading her body for a chance at a better life.

Footsteps drew my attention and I wiped my eyes. A very old man in a black robe and white collar walked out of a back room, across to the podium. He clearly wasn’t expecting to see anyone in the pews, because he startled when he saw me, then asked, “What can I do for you, my child?”

I stood. I realized that maybe I shouldn’t be here. “Sorry,” I said. “I just wanted some time to think.”

“No need to apologize,” said the man. “The Gathering Place is always open to those who need comfort.”

I hesitated. Then I walked up.

“I’m looking for the priest,” I said.

He nodded. “That would be me. You are familiar with the Christian church, yes?”

“Not this one, no.” I looked around. “I grew up in Abnegation.”

“A very different kind of church,” the priest agreed. “But we are all one family in Christ.”

“Can I ask a question?” I said.

“Of course, my child.”

We sat in a pew.

“The way I was brought up,” I said hesitantly, “I was taught that only people who believe in Jesus could be Christians.”

“Yes,” said the priest.

“And that the only way to get to heaven was to understand that Jesus loved us so much that he died to save us.”

“Yes, that is right.”

“And... if you don’t understand it...you have to go to hell.”

The priest hesitated. Then he bowed his head, as if sensing the question on my tongue. “Yes.”

“What happens if someone never has the chance to understand?” I asked. “What if—what if the only exposure someone might have had to the message was by people who abused her? If she dies, why does she have to go to hell?”

He hesitated again, the muscles in his face tensing. Then he replied, “I know what I am supposed to say—that even someone who has never been told of a God can see Him, in all the beauty around us. That somewhere in the depths of every human heart, there is a longing for peace; a knowledge that we are not perfect, and that we cannot fix ourselves on our own.”

I opened my mouth. I had heard that argument too and did not know how to feel. But then he lifted his head. His eyes glittered in the light through the windowpanes.

“But I don’t know if it’s within our capacity to use that against others,” he said. “We often assume that our truth is everyone’s truth, that what is clear to us is clear to the rest of the world as well. Yet there’s no way to know that. We say that all men will naturally conclude they need a Savior. Why? Because we have already concluded it. We have been raised in places full of beauty and love. We have lived in communities that encourage us to think about these things. We have had the ability to reach out for guidance when we needed it.”

“But I don’t know if everyone does,” I protested. “I thought that they did, and now I’m not sure.”

The priest nodded solemnly. “No,” he said. “Not everyone does.”

I blinked away tears. Lady Rose blinked back, her cheeks and hands emaciated from neglect.

“It’s not fair,” I whispered.

“I know, my child,” said the priest.

“She—this woman that I know—she spent her whole life suffering. The world took everything from her. And she tried everything to help set it right again. I know you can’t earn your way into heaven, but how is that justice? How—how can I believe in a god who would abandon someone like that?”

My voice echoed in the rafters, the question repeating a hundred times. I wanted to scream. I didn’t like this, I didn’t like doubt, I didn’t like having to question everything that I had accepted unconditionally for sixteen years. If what Ace and Miriam told me was true—that every factionless suffered like this, that there really was no way to get out—how could a merciful God let it happen?

Folding his hands, the priest closed his eyes, like he was praying. Maybe he was.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “Perhaps we’re not meant to.”

“That’s not an answer,” I said, bitter.

“The Scriptures do not tell us the verdicts of every person’s life,” said the priest softly. “Hagar, mother of Ishmael, was a pagan—but God spoke to her, helped her and her son. Where is she? Judas Iscariot followed Christ for years—but he turned Christ over to the slaughter and hung himself. Where is he? We were never told whether their eternal lives are spent in paradise or punishment. I don’t believe we were meant to know, my child.”

He turned to me. His face was soft but fissured with age. A shadow, an ancient grief, haunted his blue eyes.

“You will spend your whole life trying to understand justice, both earthly and eternal, and you never will. The justice of God is something that we cannot yet comprehend. It is a justice of wrath, of perfection, of an unchangeable need for truth. But at the same time—a justice of love, of grace, of forgiveness beyond our scope of reason. Whatever your friend’s journey, God has regarded her with not only the wrath, but also with the love.”

My mouth opened. “So—she could be in—”

“She could be anywhere,” said the priest. “But that is one of the truths that we are not yet meant to know.”