Nine or ten at night, fog on a mountain road, and a Catholic chapel the size of a tool shed. A crucifix, a couple of benches, a place to pray. It was the first Catholic building Greg ever walked into, and it was quiet. A lot of people describe the same pull. An empty church on a Tuesday that is full of glass and saints and stories, and dead quiet. Confession lines, a candle, a priest anointing someone before surgery, five silent minutes while the vessels are purified after Communion. Not a lower volume. A room, and a week, that are not trying to fill every gap. Hell, in Lewis’s picture, is noise that never stops, because if it stopped you might hear something. The Church kept the other thing on purpose, from Benedict rationing even good speech to a parish that agrees to wait.
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Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus imperat.