Written by Joshua

The night was haunted. Heavy rain fell. Moonlight seeped through cracks in the dark clouds above. Below, wading through mud and dirt, a group of men were hauling a great wooden box across a waterlogged field toward a village. Guiding them: a humble vicar draped in sodden robes. He looked onwards with a piercing determination—something undetected amongst the exhausted labourers behind him. They groaned wearily as they pushed the heavy wooden box forward. Through the cold rain and the bitter wind, the vicar shouted forth. ‘There can be no rest. Not until we have homed the almighty.’ The labourers, drenched too in water and mud though more severely than the vicar, did little else but grumble to themselves and carry on. The word of the vicar was the word of God. And the word of God was the word of goodness. Pure and holy goodness. Through the fields, they had arrived at the village and carried on along the main street. Before them stood the church. Nothing about this church was unus...