Faith
Title: Faith
Characters: Peter Petrelli, a couple original characters, mentions of Sylar, mentions of Peter/Sylar
Rating: PG
Warnings: Religious contemplation
Word count: ~2,000
Setting: Post Brave New World, written as a companion piece to means2bhuman’s Advent entry, “ Not Religious, but a Doubter”.
Summary: Inspired by Sylar’s recent visit to church, Peter makes a visit of his own and considers what parts of his faith he would like to share with his partner.
Notes: Beta and collaboration by means2bhuman. My many grateful thanks to her!
Peter stood in the old church, just within the narthex, a solemn, contemplative spirit settling over him. He’d walked in off the street without any plan or purpose. After leaving the subway, instead of turning left for their apartment, his feet had led him right towards the church. The day before, he’d been coming back to the apartment when he could have sworn he’d seen Sylar walking off down the street towards this very place. He’d followed, discreetly, because when was the last time he’d seen Sylar in a suit? Answer: never. Peter’s friend, partner and now lover had seemed like a different man. Later, over breakfast, Gabriel had talked about religion, which had once been very important to his self-image. The picture he had painted of God was bleak and unforgiving, always finding fault in a mortal life that by definition couldn’t measure up to divine standards. Peter could see how it had led to Sylar.
Although their conversation had drifted to other topics without Peter being called upon to share his own thoughts or experiences, the same had stewed in his mind for the last day. How much of the man Peter was had been formed by how he’d seen God? Or, if he was getting nature confused with nurture, then which lessons of the Church had Peter chosen to internalize because of who he was?
He looked over the place, which was different now than it had been the day before. Much of one side of the vaulted room was portioned off, with several workers methodically tearing up the flooring, as far as Peter could tell. It was noisy and not at all conducive to prayer. From what he could see, they were chiseling up the individual tiles, probably doing restoration. Today was the early afternoon on the Monday after Christmas Day - not exactly a high traffic time for passers-by as most people were recovering from the holy days or had returned to work. This was probably their best time to get the work finished.
One of the deacons came up to Peter, smiling tensely. Like Peter and to some extent like Sylar, the man was of Italian descent. He was dressed in the standard dark robes of his office. Peter had only been inside this place a few times before, but the man’s name still came to him - Deacon Jason Alascano. Peter had always had a good memory for names. Being a paramedic had improved it. The aged man said, “Hello, my son. As you can see, we are having some repairs done. But you are most welcome here regardless. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Peter smiled back gently, which seemed to put Jason at ease. “No. I just came here to think.” He glanced over at the work and shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.” He worked all day surrounded by sirens. The irregular clatter and scuffling didn’t put Peter off.
The deacon nodded and said, “They should be done soon. I appreciate your patience, my son.” He withdrew to fret over the continuing hubbub.
Peter’s smile deepened, warmed by being called ‘son’ again. His dad used to call him that and although he hadn’t thought much of his father, Peter had felt very strongly about his familial bonds. It gave him a sense of belonging; a sense that he was where he needed to be in the world. He took a lot of comfort in finding those ties echoed in the Catholic Church, especially with how wretched his biological family had turned out to be.
He refused to think further in that direction, however. He walked forward a little and looked up at the beautiful stained glass windows, alight with the morning sun. He could recall sitting in a pew in a very similar church with his family on Sundays. Those were better times, when he knew nothing of what would eventually happen to tear them apart. Young Peter had spent most of his time looking up instead of down, looking at the people immortalized in the glass and wondering what sort of lives they’d led. He’d watched the play of light as it fell on various pews and parts of the church, wondering, too, if there were any significance to one family or another sitting in the light cast by Jesus receiving the cross, or that of the station where Jesus had His face wiped by Veronica. Was this family an instrument of punishment or judgment? Is that other one more merciful?
He had to admit he’d rarely listened to the sermons themselves. There were just too many people here, all pressed together, all concentrating so hard on feeling different things, for Peter to be the still, head-bowing boy he was supposed to be. Instead he occupied himself looking at people, noticing who paid attention and to what, who dozed and who occupied themselves reading the lyrics in the hymnals.
He didn’t think that everyone in the church believed. It wasn’t a big secret, if you listened to what people said and watched what they did. Many were present only for their families, for their community, or out of a sense of obligation. They went through the rites automatically. Even as a child who saw things very much in black and white, Peter didn’t begrudge them their ritual because the important part was that they still attended, going through the motions and thereby doing what was right. What they thought about it was secondary.
The Church recognized that as well. When he was a teen, he was enrolled in a Catholic youth class where they were to be taught morals and standards that would have more day-to-day application for boys who would soon be calling themselves men. Among other things, Father David had talked to them about the importance of making up their own minds about the role faith would play in their lives. The middle-aged priest admitted that he had never heard the voice of God, never felt His divine presence for sure, and never personally witnessed a miracle. That was normal, he told them. They were called ‘miracles’, after all, because they were so phenomenal. Father David told them they might never feel the direct Hand of God guiding their lives and, in the absence of that, they would need to learn to make moral and just decisions on their own.
Father David had talked to them about the many people and philosophies they might run into in the secular world - atheists and nonbelievers, Protestants and Jews, Muslims and many others. ‘These are all the children of God,’ their teacher had reminded them. ‘No matter what they believe, you should treat them kindly and with respect. We should have tolerance and lead by example.’ It was hardly the sort of message one would expect from such a hidebound institution as the Catholic Church, but Father David was trying to prepare them for the reality of different points of view.
Doubt, Father David had said, was normal. Most religious people had nothing to rely on but their personal faith, believing in something they could not show to anyone else, could not verify, could not replicate in experiments or tests. He expected that, as young men, they would have their moments of faithlessness and possibly even blasphemy. But what he wanted them to know was that God was merciful. God was graceful. God was forgiving. So that when their adolescent rebellion against the Holy Father was at an end, He would welcome them back, for they were His children, no matter what.
Peter believed in God. He knew his faith was blind, but that didn’t matter. It was just like his faith in humanity itself and he would no more give up on God’s greatest creation than he would on God Himself. Peter’s faith had been shaken in both when his family was torn apart - father turned against mother; brother battling brother - and he knew he’d stumbled, but his teacher’s words had given him great heart. It didn’t matter if he stumbled, or even fell, because there would be Grace waiting to help him rise to his feet again.
He didn’t want to imagine losing faith entirely, becoming jaded and cynical. Even in the most beaten down people he’d ever met (and he’d met many as a nurse and paramedic), there had always been a spark of hope. Even in Sylar, he had seen the desire for salvation - a tiny flame that guttered and flickered, but was present all the same. The most hopeful person Peter had ever met was terminally ill: Charles Deveaux.
Charles had approved of him. He’d had faith in Peter. Knowing, as Peter did now, that Mr. Deveaux had been in possession of telepathy made him wonder if the man had seen into his very soul. He’d at least seen Peter’s thoughts. It meant Charles’ approval wasn’t the pleasant façade of a polite, good-hearted old man who liked to think the best of everyone. No - Charles knew. He knew people’s hearts and he’d said things to Peter that in retrospect were so flattering and encouraging that Peter wiped at the corner of his eye even now. He’d built Peter up. He’d lifted him up. He’d helped Peter fly.
The faith that someone else had in him warmed Peter against all chills. Peter knew he’d been lucky though. Few people knew someone like Charles Deveaux, or more importantly, knew that Charles’ kind words were more than the friendly doddering of the aged. But that support and approval was what God offered for all His children, no matter how alone they were in the world. The central idea of Peter’s spirituality was that God was there to offer comfort and love, approval and acceptance, no matter what. He would forgive; He would understand; He would soothe the ache of the heart and provide a balm for the injuries of the world.
Everything else - the exact way to worship, the trappings, the customs, the observed holidays, even the form of God Himself - was less important. Peter was Catholic because he’d been raised that way and it was the community he was part of. It was what he was comfortable with and where he turned when he needed spiritual guidance. He believed, fervently in a sense, in God, but it was the impact of God on people’s lives that Peter embraced the most. Everyone needed to know that someone cared, someone approved, and someone would love them despite their flaws. He thought back on Gabriel hoping that his mother would be proud of him.
What Peter had gained from his religious instruction were the ideas of forgiveness and redemption, mercy and grace, moderation and acceptance. He believed that God, in His infinite Love, would not make salvation an impossible task. The previous morning Peter hadn’t taken the chance to share his experiences. Just as Gabriel had feared his mother would never forgive him, Peter realized he needed to explain how he’d found strength from a Father who would always forgive.
By now, the workers had finished removing the old tile. Some were now laying a new substrate as others polished and cleaned the original pieces. Just as with the Church, everyone needed a solid foundation for stability. It was evident to Peter that Gabriel was searching his soul and tearing up the old tiles to show what lay beneath. Peter rose, knowing what he needed to do and why he’d come here.
Characters: Peter Petrelli, a couple original characters, mentions of Sylar, mentions of Peter/Sylar
Rating: PG
Warnings: Religious contemplation
Word count: ~2,000
Setting: Post Brave New World, written as a companion piece to means2bhuman’s Advent entry, “ Not Religious, but a Doubter”.
Summary: Inspired by Sylar’s recent visit to church, Peter makes a visit of his own and considers what parts of his faith he would like to share with his partner.
Notes: Beta and collaboration by means2bhuman. My many grateful thanks to her!
Peter stood in the old church, just within the narthex, a solemn, contemplative spirit settling over him. He’d walked in off the street without any plan or purpose. After leaving the subway, instead of turning left for their apartment, his feet had led him right towards the church. The day before, he’d been coming back to the apartment when he could have sworn he’d seen Sylar walking off down the street towards this very place. He’d followed, discreetly, because when was the last time he’d seen Sylar in a suit? Answer: never. Peter’s friend, partner and now lover had seemed like a different man. Later, over breakfast, Gabriel had talked about religion, which had once been very important to his self-image. The picture he had painted of God was bleak and unforgiving, always finding fault in a mortal life that by definition couldn’t measure up to divine standards. Peter could see how it had led to Sylar.
Although their conversation had drifted to other topics without Peter being called upon to share his own thoughts or experiences, the same had stewed in his mind for the last day. How much of the man Peter was had been formed by how he’d seen God? Or, if he was getting nature confused with nurture, then which lessons of the Church had Peter chosen to internalize because of who he was?
He looked over the place, which was different now than it had been the day before. Much of one side of the vaulted room was portioned off, with several workers methodically tearing up the flooring, as far as Peter could tell. It was noisy and not at all conducive to prayer. From what he could see, they were chiseling up the individual tiles, probably doing restoration. Today was the early afternoon on the Monday after Christmas Day - not exactly a high traffic time for passers-by as most people were recovering from the holy days or had returned to work. This was probably their best time to get the work finished.
One of the deacons came up to Peter, smiling tensely. Like Peter and to some extent like Sylar, the man was of Italian descent. He was dressed in the standard dark robes of his office. Peter had only been inside this place a few times before, but the man’s name still came to him - Deacon Jason Alascano. Peter had always had a good memory for names. Being a paramedic had improved it. The aged man said, “Hello, my son. As you can see, we are having some repairs done. But you are most welcome here regardless. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Peter smiled back gently, which seemed to put Jason at ease. “No. I just came here to think.” He glanced over at the work and shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.” He worked all day surrounded by sirens. The irregular clatter and scuffling didn’t put Peter off.
The deacon nodded and said, “They should be done soon. I appreciate your patience, my son.” He withdrew to fret over the continuing hubbub.
Peter’s smile deepened, warmed by being called ‘son’ again. His dad used to call him that and although he hadn’t thought much of his father, Peter had felt very strongly about his familial bonds. It gave him a sense of belonging; a sense that he was where he needed to be in the world. He took a lot of comfort in finding those ties echoed in the Catholic Church, especially with how wretched his biological family had turned out to be.
He refused to think further in that direction, however. He walked forward a little and looked up at the beautiful stained glass windows, alight with the morning sun. He could recall sitting in a pew in a very similar church with his family on Sundays. Those were better times, when he knew nothing of what would eventually happen to tear them apart. Young Peter had spent most of his time looking up instead of down, looking at the people immortalized in the glass and wondering what sort of lives they’d led. He’d watched the play of light as it fell on various pews and parts of the church, wondering, too, if there were any significance to one family or another sitting in the light cast by Jesus receiving the cross, or that of the station where Jesus had His face wiped by Veronica. Was this family an instrument of punishment or judgment? Is that other one more merciful?
He had to admit he’d rarely listened to the sermons themselves. There were just too many people here, all pressed together, all concentrating so hard on feeling different things, for Peter to be the still, head-bowing boy he was supposed to be. Instead he occupied himself looking at people, noticing who paid attention and to what, who dozed and who occupied themselves reading the lyrics in the hymnals.
He didn’t think that everyone in the church believed. It wasn’t a big secret, if you listened to what people said and watched what they did. Many were present only for their families, for their community, or out of a sense of obligation. They went through the rites automatically. Even as a child who saw things very much in black and white, Peter didn’t begrudge them their ritual because the important part was that they still attended, going through the motions and thereby doing what was right. What they thought about it was secondary.
The Church recognized that as well. When he was a teen, he was enrolled in a Catholic youth class where they were to be taught morals and standards that would have more day-to-day application for boys who would soon be calling themselves men. Among other things, Father David had talked to them about the importance of making up their own minds about the role faith would play in their lives. The middle-aged priest admitted that he had never heard the voice of God, never felt His divine presence for sure, and never personally witnessed a miracle. That was normal, he told them. They were called ‘miracles’, after all, because they were so phenomenal. Father David told them they might never feel the direct Hand of God guiding their lives and, in the absence of that, they would need to learn to make moral and just decisions on their own.
Father David had talked to them about the many people and philosophies they might run into in the secular world - atheists and nonbelievers, Protestants and Jews, Muslims and many others. ‘These are all the children of God,’ their teacher had reminded them. ‘No matter what they believe, you should treat them kindly and with respect. We should have tolerance and lead by example.’ It was hardly the sort of message one would expect from such a hidebound institution as the Catholic Church, but Father David was trying to prepare them for the reality of different points of view.
Doubt, Father David had said, was normal. Most religious people had nothing to rely on but their personal faith, believing in something they could not show to anyone else, could not verify, could not replicate in experiments or tests. He expected that, as young men, they would have their moments of faithlessness and possibly even blasphemy. But what he wanted them to know was that God was merciful. God was graceful. God was forgiving. So that when their adolescent rebellion against the Holy Father was at an end, He would welcome them back, for they were His children, no matter what.
Peter believed in God. He knew his faith was blind, but that didn’t matter. It was just like his faith in humanity itself and he would no more give up on God’s greatest creation than he would on God Himself. Peter’s faith had been shaken in both when his family was torn apart - father turned against mother; brother battling brother - and he knew he’d stumbled, but his teacher’s words had given him great heart. It didn’t matter if he stumbled, or even fell, because there would be Grace waiting to help him rise to his feet again.
He didn’t want to imagine losing faith entirely, becoming jaded and cynical. Even in the most beaten down people he’d ever met (and he’d met many as a nurse and paramedic), there had always been a spark of hope. Even in Sylar, he had seen the desire for salvation - a tiny flame that guttered and flickered, but was present all the same. The most hopeful person Peter had ever met was terminally ill: Charles Deveaux.
Charles had approved of him. He’d had faith in Peter. Knowing, as Peter did now, that Mr. Deveaux had been in possession of telepathy made him wonder if the man had seen into his very soul. He’d at least seen Peter’s thoughts. It meant Charles’ approval wasn’t the pleasant façade of a polite, good-hearted old man who liked to think the best of everyone. No - Charles knew. He knew people’s hearts and he’d said things to Peter that in retrospect were so flattering and encouraging that Peter wiped at the corner of his eye even now. He’d built Peter up. He’d lifted him up. He’d helped Peter fly.
The faith that someone else had in him warmed Peter against all chills. Peter knew he’d been lucky though. Few people knew someone like Charles Deveaux, or more importantly, knew that Charles’ kind words were more than the friendly doddering of the aged. But that support and approval was what God offered for all His children, no matter how alone they were in the world. The central idea of Peter’s spirituality was that God was there to offer comfort and love, approval and acceptance, no matter what. He would forgive; He would understand; He would soothe the ache of the heart and provide a balm for the injuries of the world.
Everything else - the exact way to worship, the trappings, the customs, the observed holidays, even the form of God Himself - was less important. Peter was Catholic because he’d been raised that way and it was the community he was part of. It was what he was comfortable with and where he turned when he needed spiritual guidance. He believed, fervently in a sense, in God, but it was the impact of God on people’s lives that Peter embraced the most. Everyone needed to know that someone cared, someone approved, and someone would love them despite their flaws. He thought back on Gabriel hoping that his mother would be proud of him.
What Peter had gained from his religious instruction were the ideas of forgiveness and redemption, mercy and grace, moderation and acceptance. He believed that God, in His infinite Love, would not make salvation an impossible task. The previous morning Peter hadn’t taken the chance to share his experiences. Just as Gabriel had feared his mother would never forgive him, Peter realized he needed to explain how he’d found strength from a Father who would always forgive.
By now, the workers had finished removing the old tile. Some were now laying a new substrate as others polished and cleaned the original pieces. Just as with the Church, everyone needed a solid foundation for stability. It was evident to Peter that Gabriel was searching his soul and tearing up the old tiles to show what lay beneath. Peter rose, knowing what he needed to do and why he’d come here.