They prayed to God even as they despised Heaven.
They were just like righteous officials in an ancient dynasty who believed themselves clear-minded, convinced that the emperor had been deceived by treacherous ministers, and wanted to remonstrate with their deaths.
The priests had done everything they could to preserve the churches and statues. Someone asked an old priest, "Why are you still protecting these things? Those angels killed so many people. Are you still going to speak for them?"
The old priest said, "I am not speaking for the angels. I am speaking for God. Angels are angels, and God is God. Angels can make mistakes, but God cannot."
"Where is God?"
The old priest fell silent for a long time. "In everyone's heart."
The man did not ask any further questions.
He did not know what he should believe in, but he was willing to believe that a higher existence existed. Not because he was devout, but because without that belief, the world would be too cold.
In Berlin, a young man stood before the ruins of a bombed church, a hammer in his hand.
Before him stood a statue of the Archangel Michael holding a sword. The sword had already snapped, and half its wings were missing. He raised the hammer, then hesitated.
An old man beside him said, "Smash it. You'll feel better after you do."
The young man did not smash it.
He put down the hammer. "It won't help. The people who should have lived won't come back to life."
The old man looked at him. "Then do you still hate them?"
The young man thought for a moment. "I do. But I don't hate the stone."
Then he turned and left.
In a bar in New York.
Several retired veterans sat together drinking. They