#and we all have some religious trauma

[loch-detected]

if I can honest a second? I really don’t like the depictions of Arceus being ‘apathetic, uncaring’ or even ‘cruel’ god. like from what I’ve seen in various forms of media, it’s just inaccurate.

[chuuyadelune]

(BSD 113 SPOILERS) the fyodor jesus imagery is driving me insane, so here are a couple of things i noticed from this chapter (all translations from @/nineofscans).

1. fyodor’s position

so the first thing that was most obvious was fyodor’s positioning here. he may not be on a cross, but this is very intentional i would say! he is still in the position of christ on the cross.

2. fyodor’s outfit

i could be reaching, and this is less to do with jesus, but his outfit to me resembles a monk’s habit somewhat—perhaps signifying his position as a man of god.

3. stabbing with spears as the rooster crows

two things are standing out to me here:

first of all, stabbing fyodor with spears as a means of execution is interesting to me considering how jesus also was stabbed by a spears before being taken down from the cross after he gives up his life (following the “my god, my god, why have you forsaken me?” line—which was quoted in the last chapter!)

i cannot remember if jesus is also stabbed before then, but that is the one i remember the most.

the second thing that jumped out to me about this line was the part about the rooster crowing.

in the new testament, when jesus is betrayed by judas, he warns peter that before the cock crows, he (peter) will have betrayed him (jesus) three times.

what are the implications of that? i can’t really say, maybe it has something to do with why bram later gets stabbed with the holy cross sword and why he later works under fukuchi/fyodor. but it felt like an intentional nod to this part of the passion of christ.

4. bram as the devil

this is perhaps another reach, but i’m including it anyways.

before jesus re-enters jerusalem and the events of the passion of christ, he fasts for 40 days in the desert, where he is tempted from the devil (each of the gospels talks about this differently).

but anyway, this does say something. if bram is the devil, and considering all of fyodor’s positioning and religious imagery surrounding him—i feel the jesus references are very intentional. fyodor is deliberately positioned as— if not jesus, then definitely at least a disciple, or a messenger of god, almost supernatural in energy and appearance.

and with all the buddhist references to angels scattered throughout this arc—i think there’s a lot to be unveiled about fyodor yet. we definitely haven’t seen the last of him. but i’m excited to find this all out later!

[whogirl42]

Is it bad that my first thought after total shock seeing that Alicole scene was man, that'll be great to use for Rhaenicent manips?

[taegularities]

some men are textbook villains fr

[ccherrybloom]

Ashtrays & Antihistamines Pt. 2

oc, m, hayfever + cigarette smoke, wc: 2.6k

Part 1

CW: foul language, hints of religious trauma, crappy/absent parents, smoking

~~

a.n. + summary: …i have no excuse. i busted this bad boy out fast as hell. this chapter includes the men hitting up a local pub, shooting the shit around some drinks, memories of a crappy childhood, and Peter sneezing himself silly. i originally also intended to include Peter’s first night trying to sleep in the motel room and keep quiet, but i felt the pub shenanigans ended in a good spot, so i’ll just include that at the beginning of the next chapter instead. anyway, hopefully you guys get some enjoyment out of this! my boys are stupid, lol.

~~

The four men trudged their way down the cobblestone streets of Cork, hands shoved deep into their pockets as a light misting of rain left small droplets splayed across their clothing and blurred the frames of Peter’s glasses. By the third time the guitarist had to pull them off to wipe them clean, he was more than fed up, instead choosing to take them off fully and hook them to the front of his shirt. He’d deal with the stupid things when they reached the pub.

Unfortunately for Peter, the fresh rain was doing more than just dirtying his glasses. The spring shower seemed to only enhance the earthy smells around them, doing nothing to help the persistent allergy-induced tickle lingering in the back of his nose. The damp air clung to everything, amplifying the scent of wet stone, fresh-cut grass, and budding flowers – all of which seemed to be conspiring against his sinuses. He could feel the beginnings of the stupid itch growing deep within his nose, constantly teasing him with the threat of a sneeze.

Thankfully the pub they were heading to was only a few blocks from their motel, meaning he wouldn’t have to deal with the overpowering outdoor scents for much longer. He sniffled quietly to himself as they rounded a corner, the pub coming into view despite his blurred vision.

“‘Bout damn time.” Peter grumbled mostly to himself. Realistically, they hadn’t been outside for long at all, but the light spring rain and the setting sun were leaving all four men a bit chillier than any of them had anticipated. It felt as though the cold was seeping into Peter’s bones, and he shivered involuntarily. Maybe heading to the pub had been the wrong idea after all, he thought, as his already annoyed mood worsened when another sharp itch prickled tauntingly within his nose.

Peter was the first to reach the pub’s door, pulling it open and gesturing for the others to file in one by one. The warm light spilling out from inside coupled with the familiar chatter of an Irish pub was a welcome contract to the chilly evening. As the others moved their way past him, the guitarist felt his nose twitch, the persisting itch travelling from the base of his nostrils up into his sinuses like an electric shock.

He turned his face away from the door slightly and scrunched his nose, bringing his free hand up to scrub a knuckle into it uselessly. He could feel his breath beginning to hitch and his eyelids start to flutter as he tried his best to keep the oncoming sneeze at bay. Just as the last of the men passed into the pub, Peter felt his control begin to slip.

Acting fast, the guitarist twisted his head away and into his shoulder as he attempted to stifle the itchy sneeze, only being half successful as it forced its way out of him.

“hH’nXGt’Shhiue!” The sneeze was sharp and wet, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake that he recognized as a sign that there would surely be more to come. He shook his head pathetically, trying to will away the lingering itch.

When he raised his head, he was surprised to see Maurice, who had been the last to enter, staring back at him with an unhappy look on his face. The blonde’s hazel eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he had something he wanted to say but couldn’t. Peter just rolled his eyes and trudged inside, giving Maurice a shove to keep moving before giving his glasses a thorough wipe and slipping them back on.

The inside of the small pub was cosy and inviting, a welcome change from the chilly spring shower. The place was lively but not overcrowded, the atmosphere filled with the sounds of drunken conversation, occasional boisterous laughter, the clinking of glasses, and a light beat of Celtic music. Although Peter had never visited Cork previously, the inherent Irish-ness of all the sights and sounds surrounding him left the musician with a warm sense of belonging deep within his chest. Although Maurice wasn’t Irish himself, Peter still wondered if the singer might also feel the same way as he did, considering the Frenchman had practically grown up in Dublin.

The four men quickly made their way to the bar to order their drinks before finding an unoccupied booth towards the back and sliding in side-by-side. Once seated, Peter wasted no time taking a long sip of his stout beer, relishing in the bitterness as it bubbled down his throat. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, enjoying the smalltalk of his bandmates and the way the alcohol warmed his body and made his head swim. But the momentary break was short lived. The dampness clinging to his clothing combined with the indoor air, slightly musty from the age of the pub, was starting to coax out that all-too familiar tingle in his nose.

The guitarist did his best to ignore it, instead attempting to turn his focus towards Chris who was telling some animated story about a fight he got into a few months back. Unfortunately, Peter could barely concentrate – the itch in his nose was back with a vengeance, causing his nose to involuntarily twitch. He tried taking another sip of his drink, hoping he could simply will away the feeling, but it was getting considerably harder to ignore.

Just as Chris was reaching the climax of his story, Peter’s breath quietly hitched, and he rubbed his nose as subtly as he could, desperate to try and stave off the inevitable. Maurice, who was seated beside him, glanced in his direction, immediately clueing into the other’s struggle. Peter caught his eye in return and gave his head a discreet shake, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but soon realised it was no use as he sucked in a wavering breath.

“HINg’Gsch!” Peter whipped himself away from Maurice and stifled hard into the back of his hand, trying his best to muffle the sound as his breath abruptly caught again. “hH’RRSHhiue!” The second one burst out of him unstifled as he attempted to twist himself away further, crushing his nose harder still, feeling the cold metal of his nose rings dig into the skin of his hand.

“Cheers to that,” Geoff teased as he raised up his glass and clinked it gently against Peter’s. “Alright there, Pete?”

“Fuck, -snf-, shit. Yeah, I’m fine.” He affirmed with a nod, his hand still pressed tightly against his nose. Despite his attempts at reassurance, the annoyed expression plastered on his face told his bandmates otherwise.

“Let’s order some shots.” Suggested Chris with a playful smirk as he tilted his drink towards Peter’s. “Maybe gettin’ pissed will cure you.”

Peter snorted, but it quickly morphed into a sniffle. “Wouldn’t that be lovely.” He grumbled before grabbing his beer and taking a large gulp.

“Maybe ya should get some fresh air, instead.” Offered Maurice, his tone more serious.

“You jokin’, Murry?” Peter scoffed, shooting the singer an unamused look. “Damn ‘fresh air’ is what got me into this mess.”

“Then maybe ya should swing by the chemist and pick up some antihistamines or somethin’.”

Peter opened his mouth to argue, but another sharp tickle in his nose cut him off, his breath immediately catching in his throat. Maurice just rolled his eyes.

“HAT’SHhhiuew!” Peter sneezed hard into his elbow, letting out a loud, irritated groan immediately following. With a frustrated shake of his head the guitarist took a final swig of his drink before slamming the empty glass down and gesturing aggressively for Maurice to stand up, kicking at his feet slightly from under the table. “Move yer arse, I need a damn smoke!”

Maurice huffed, defeated, and slid out of the booth so the other could stand — he wasn’t in the mood for another argument. Practically leaping from his seat, Peter muttered something under his breath before skulking his way towards the exit.

As soon as he pushed open the door he was immediately hit with the cool, damp air which brought instant relief to the allergic and embarrassed flush that had begun to dance across his cheeks. His nose was still annoyingly itchy, but being back outside made him feel much less on display, which he was grateful for.

He pulled a beat up pack of Marlboro out of his jacket pocket and fished a cigarette out quickly, sticking it between his lips and lighting it with an expert crack of his old, worn Zippo.

The first drag was heaven, and he savoured the way the smoke filled his lungs, the hit of nicotine immediately taking the edge off of his frustration and easing the slight tremor in his hand. He hadn’t realised how desperately he’d needed this.

As he allowed the smoke to drift lazily out of his mouth into the damp evening air, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to his early childhood in Belfast, back to a time when his hayfever was much, much worse. The memories flooded his mind, as vivid as if he were standing back in his childhood bedroom staring out the window at the vast fields of overgrown grass and wildflowers that surrounded their run-down countryside home.

He recalled the suffocating, ever-present itch that would take root in his sinuses from spring through to summer, turning his life into a mess of incessant watering and itching. It had always been worse in the mornings, when the dew still clung to every blade of grass, and the pollen seemed at its most potent. He’d lie in bed for as long as his mother allowed it, dreading the moment he’d have to step outside and walk to school, knowing full well that he’d be fucked by the time he got there.

Of course Saoirse, his mother, never offered him much sympathy. In fact she seemed much more inclined to view his suffering as just another one of his many shortcomings; another thing about her son that she resented. Peter could still hear her cold, nagging voice in his head.

“Stop yer whinin’, Peter. God only gives us what we can handle. If this is His plan for you then you’ll just have to deal with it.”

And so he did. The guitarist learned quickly not to expect help, not from Saoirse, not from anyone. When his eyes were on fire he’d scratch them, when his nose ran incessantly he’d wipe it, and when he’d sneeze his way through a Sunday sermon he’d deal with his mother’s reprimanding with a stoicism much too well-practised for an eight-year-old. There was just no point in complaining — it wouldn’t change anything. Saoirse would just turn up her nose and tell him to toughen up, or throw a half-hearted prayer his way if he would be so lucky. The worst part was easily how little she even seemed to care. It made him tougher in some ways, though he often wondered what his life would’ve been like if he’d had a mother who offered him more than just indifference and disdain. Perhaps things would’ve been different had his father stuck around, whoever that man may be.

Peter took another drag of his cigarette, the nicotine pulling him back to the present as the tickle in his nose flared back up. The combined scents of wet earth and pungent tobacco were like a one-two punch straight to his irritated sinuses. He leaned himself against the pub’s stone wall, his cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers as he slowly felt the sensation begin to build. Initially, he tried to fight it, breathing slowly through his mouth before taking another drag. The itch, however, was relentless, and crawled deeper into his sinuses with every passing second. Before long his eyelids had begun to flutter and his breath hitched in anticipation.

“hH’NGSCHh!” Peter stifled hard into his shoulder again, the residual smoke held in his mouth shooting out of his nostrils with the sharp expulsion. This, of course, sent the tickle in his nose into overdrive and he immediately sucked in another breath through clenched teeth with a newfound urgency.

“hiH’ISHHhiuew! ‘ISSHhhiue! ‘ISHhhu! ‘tIsh!” The sneezes toppled over each other as they forced their way out of him, leaving no room for breath in between, each one forcing him to curl deeper into himself before his head rose back up with a sharp gasp of air. “hHeHh! HET’DSHhhHiuEw!” The final sneeze shook his lean frame and caused his cigarette to slip from his fingers, landing onto the ground with a wet fizzle.

“Fer the love of Christ,” Peter cursed, trying to catch his breath as he picked back up his cigarette, flicked the ashes, and took another sharp drag, more out of stubbornness than anything.

“That was quite the spectacle.”

Peter couldn’t help but jolt in surprise as he turned his head to find Geoff standing in the pub doorway, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“Jaysus Geoffrey don’t go sneakin’ up on a man like that.” Peter scoffed, taking one final drag of his cigarette before dropping the butt to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot. “Nearly shit meself.”

Geoff laughed at this and stepped over to his bandmate, leaning against the wall next to him.

“You alright?” He asked. “I mean, really.”

He nodded, blowing out the last of the smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, grand. Was just tryin’ to have a smoke without sneezin’ me fuckin’ head off.”

“And how’d that fair for you?”

“Go fuck yerself.”

As Geoff threw his head back to laugh, it dawned on Peter how much the bassist looked like his mother. The same fiery red hair, the same bright blue eyes, the same freckled face. Hell, the man was pure-blood English but somehow looked more Irish than he did. His mother had always told him that he was the spitting image of his father, just another reason for her to dislike him, his black hair and green eyes always misplaced amongst her side of the family. But as Geoff’s laughter fizzled, Peter couldn’t help but wonder if his mother would’ve liked him better had he came out looking more like Geoff.

“Anyway,” Geoff started, wiping away a tear. “I just came out to see what was taking you so long. You know Maurice. He’s all in a tizzy.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“He just worries.” Geoff added with a grin, slapping a hand onto Peter’s shoulder as he took a breath of the cool evening air. “But he might be onto something about picking up antihistamines, mate.”

“Don’t you start with that shite too.” Peter shot back, though it was clear his initial resilience was beginning to peeter out. He shoved Geoff’s hand off of his shoulder. “Besides, it’s not like I can pop into the chemist at this hour.”

Geoff pulled up his sleeve and glanced down at his watch, humming in agreement.

“But if it means gettin’ you two eejits off me back, then I’ll go in the mornin’.” The guitarist added, shooting the other an annoyed look. “Alright?”

“Alright.” Geoff echoed with a small smile as he patted Peter on the back. “The pub’s closing soon. Let’s head back in before the others think we’ve run off.”

Peter nodded, giving his nose a quick scrub before stuffing his hands back into his pockets. As much as he hated to admit it, the idea of picking up some allergy meds was starting to sound pretty damn good. Perhaps after one more drink they’d head back, and he could worry about it again when the sun rose.

[againstthegrainphoto]

You ever stand over your father’s grave in tears and have your mom try to use him to make you believe in her fairy tales??

Truly think we’ve hit a new low.

Unfuckingbelievable.🥺

[strwbrymlkshake]

who up praying for downfalls 🤨

[galacticlamps]

very minor thing I still definitely deserve a medal for:

being raised catholic, and now as an adult repeatedly falling in love with characters that fandoms like to declare catholic, but still managing to reject those headcanons because at heart I'm too much of a stickler for accurate analysis to get behind them when i know the person in question is really meant to be anglican/episcopalian/whatever other flavor of christian

i am being, as the poets say, so brave about it

[xannerz]

part of our job as arm*nians is to remind amerikatsiner that it's okay to be critical abt tur/aze!! you wont be racist for criticizing their fascist policies and war crimes!! uwu it's okay!! ""brown"" countries can also be imperialists 💖 and it's okay to call them out on it uwu

[merriclo]

“we are bound by the same sins” is such a raw fucking line and i cannot remember who said it but it’s just so fucking good

[caffeinatedopossum]

I just realized something really sad

I have two best friends outside of tumblr (my only irls that aren't roommates basically) and one of them I try to talk to constantly but she doesn't always respond, in fact she kind of barely does. I want to talk to her all the time but I always feel like I'm boring her or like she doesn't understand why I can't do some of the things I can't do.

The other one is always trying to talk to me, usually trying to call me. But I rarely ever pick up or respond or text first. My relationship with her is really complicated because some of my alters are very hurt from some things she did a while ago, others just don't trust her, and then the ones that front when we talk love her.

I have so many mixed feelings and the switches triggered by that mean I always don't answer or forget because I have dissociative amnesia about her trying to contact me in the first place... I don't know, I don't want to make excuses for myself but I genuinely don't know if this is a valid reason for treating her the way I do or if I'm an awful friend. Of course, it could also be both. I just don't know what to do. I don't want her to feel neglected by me like I sometimes do with my other friend.

[giantkillerjack]

Happy to report I'm no longer responding to the religious people on my posts! Apologies to anyone who may have taken the psychic damage of seeing that unexpectedly!

It had been a while since I had purposely kicked a metaphorical wasp nest so I guess I was overdue. I am simply a sexy fool. 🙄 I do it a lot less nowadays tho, which is good!

I did genuinely set out at first to get information about how Catholics reconcile certain paradoxes within their faith, and then I was like oh right oh no I just remembered why I stopped doing this

On the upside I DID actually learn a lot; even if part of what I learned was don't tag Catholic tumblr in your posts about Catholicism, Jack. (Listen. I'm a work in progress! 😅)

And now I am very dedicated to putting a priest in my graphic novel who fucks a demon. Which I was going to draw anyway, so I might as well make it work with the story. For art. And penises.

Anyway, I hear the song "Godsend" by Trebuchet and I go a little bit insane in a good way. It's like if Supernatural was good and also a song. I'd really like to capture that energy in my work. There's also this song called "the queer gospel" that I love very much, which is about the inherent holiness of queerness and queer community regardless of if there's a god. (I actually made a burlesque routine for that song once, and more than one person said it made them cry happy tears! Which is a hell of a point of pride for me! AND a hell of a point of Pride!)

*okay if someone sends me an anonymous message that makes me laugh out loud and not feel rancid, then I will answer it if it brings me joy and I have a funny response. I will tag it accordingly and then block that person as soon as they stop being funny. But I'm good on debate and philosophy now. I got my answer. I had forgotten what those answers looked like. But I am grateful for (and moderately horrified by) the reminder. Please see the tags for an explanation of my new favorite phrase involving a man, heliocentrism, and one very hot piece of wood~

[paint-music-with-me]

Now I'm not saying I'm thinking of writing a Steddie Midnight Mass AU

But

Imagine Hawkins, a little idyllic town in the middle of nowhere, so out of ways from any other community for miles, only surrounded by trees. It's small and cozy and it brims with simplicity.

It's been years since Steve came home. He was never supposed to come back.

His family obviously did not greet him; instead they go to the church more often than not, just to avoid him. He saw the kids, happy and healthy and definitely older, the weight of life starting to bear down on them. And then to his own surprise, he saw Eddie. He wasn't supposed to come back either.

Eddie claimed it was because of Uncle Wayne, but even Wayne was confused. Soon enough, Steve became suspicious. Because Eddie was spending a lot of time at church, with his parents - always away at night.

That's the thing, too. Night time was different. Everything was so still and it sent shivers down Steve's back because he could feel something watching him.

He started reconnecting with Eddie, trying to figure out what's going on - why he's back when they promised each other that this town was far from anything they ever needed. But maybe it was the thing they needed to come back to each other.

Meanwhile, Hopper found dead animals around the perimeter of the town, El's been acting weirder than usual, Will felt the shift in the air, and maybe Nancy could figure it all out like she usually does - before it was too late.

Is there a second chance amidst all the darkness surrounding this town of Hawkins? Or will it be consumed by its demons, preying at night?

[faithfromanewperspective]

it's possibly my brain that's the weird and fucked-up one, because when i find myself compared to (insert criminal who did a Really Bad Thing) i'm like. ahh yes. validation. and a bit of a less judgmental world. even if it means i deserve to go to hell (which i don't, but for some reason i want to). anyway. bit of religious trauma for your thursday

[oracularpig]

navigating religion as a system is SO WEIRD HELP

[inhonoredglory]

Aziraphale’s Choice, the Job Connection, and Michael Sheen’s Morality

Update: Michael Sheen liked this post on Twitter, so I'm fairly certain there is a lot of validity to it.

I’ve had time to process Aziraphale’s choice at the end of Season 2. And I think only blaming the religious trauma misses something important in Aziraphale’s character. I think what happened was also Aziraphale’s own conscious choice––as a growth from his trauma, in fact. Hear me out.

Since November 2022 I’ve been haunted by something Michael Sheen said at the MCM London Comic Con. At the Q&A, someone asked him about which fantasy creature he enjoyed playing most and Michael (bless him, truly) veered on a tangent about angels and goodness and how, specifically,

We as a society tend to sort of undervalue goodness. It’s sort of seen as sort of somehow weak and a bit nimby and “oh it’s nice.” And I think to be good takes enormous reserves of courage and stamina. I mean, you have to look the dark in the face to be truly good and to be truly of the light…. The idea that goodness is somehow lesser and less interesting and not as kind of muscular and as passionate and as fierce as evil somehow and darkness, I think is nonsense. The idea of being able to portray an angel, a being of love. I love seeing the things people have put online about angels being ferocious creatures, and I love that. I think that’s a really good representation of what goodness can be, what it should be, I suppose.

I was looking forward to BAMF!Aziraphale all season long, and I think that’s what we got in the end. Remember Neil said that the Job minisode was important for Aziraphale’s story. Remember how Aziraphale sat on that rock and reconciled to himself that he MUST go to Hell, because he lied and thwarted the will of God. He believed that––truly, honestly, with the faith of a child, but the bravery of a soldier.

Aziraphale, a being of love with more goodness than all of Heaven combined, believed he needed to walk through the Gates of Hell because it was the Right Thing to do. (Like Job, he didn’t understand his sin but believed he needed to sacrifice his happiness to do the Right Thing.)

That’s why we saw Aziraphale as a soldier this season: the bookshop battle, the halo. But yes, the ending as well.

Because Aziraphale never wanted to go to Heaven, and he never wanted to go there without Crowley.

But it was Crowley who taught him that he could, even SHOULD, act when his moral heart told him something was wrong. While Crowley was willing to run away and let the world burn, it was Aziraphale (in that bandstand at the end of the world) who stood his ground and said No. We can make a difference. We can save everyone.

And Aziraphale knew he could not give up the ace up his sleeve (his position as an angel) to talk to God and make them see the truth in his heart.

I was messed up by Ineffable Bureaucracy (Boxfly) getting their happy ending when our Ineffable Husbands didn’t, but I see now that them running away served to prove something to Aziraphale. (And I am fully convinced that Gabriel and Beelzebub saw the example of the Ineffables at the Not-pocalypse and took inspiration from them for choosing to ditch their respective sides)

But my point is that Aziraphale saw them, and in some ways, they looked like him and Crowley. And he saw how Gabriel, the biggest bully in Heaven, was also like him in a way (a being capable of love) and also just a child when he wasn’t influenced by the poison of Heaven. Muriel, too, wasn’t a bad person. The Metatron also seemed to have grown more flexible with his morality (from Aziraphale's perspective). Like Earth, Heaven was shades of (light?) gray.

Aziraphale is too good an angel not to believe in hope. Or forgiveness (something he’s very good at it).

Aziraphale has been scarred by Heaven all his life. But with the cracks in Heaven’s armor (cracks he and Crowley helped create), Aziraphale is seeing something else. A chance to change them. They did terrible things to him, but he is better than them, and because of Crowley, he feels ready to face them.

(Will it work? Can Heaven change, institutionally? Probably not, but I can't blame Aziraphale for trying.)

At the cafe, the Metatron said something big was coming in the Great Plan. Aziraphale knows how trapped he had felt when he didn’t have God’s ear the first time something huge happened in the Big Plan. He can’t take a chance again to risk the world by not having a foot in the door of Heaven. That’s why we saw individual human deaths (or the threat of death) so much more this season: Elspeth, Wee Morag, Job’s children, the 1940s magician. Aziraphale almost killed a child when he couldn’t get through to God, and he’s not going through that again.

“We could make a difference.” We could save everyone.

Remember what Michael Sheen said about courage and doing good––and having to “look the dark in the face to be truly good.” That’s what happened when Aziraphale was willing to go to Hell for his actions. That’s what happened when he decided he had to go to Heaven, where he had been abused and belittled and made to feel small. He decided to willingly go into the Lion’s Den, to face his abusers and his anxiety, to make them better so that they would not try to destroy the world again.

Him, just one angel. He needed Crowley to be there with him, to help him be brave, to ask the questions that Heaven needed to hear, to tell them God was wrong. Crowley is the inspiration that drives Aziraphale’s change, Crowley is the engine that fuels Aziraphale’s courage.

But then Crowley tells him that going to Heaven is stupid. That they don’t need Heaven. And he’s right. Aziraphale knows he’s right.

Aziraphale doesn’t need Heaven; Heaven needs him. They just don’t know how much they need him, or how much humanity needs him there, too. (If everyone who ran for office was corrupt, how can the system change?)

Terry Pratchett (in the Discworld book, Small Gods) is scathing of God, organized religion, and the corrupt people religion empowers, but he is sympathetic to the individual who has real, pure faith and a good heart. In fact, the everyman protagonist of Small Gods is a better person than the god he serves, and in the end, he ends up changing the church to be better, more open-minded, and more humanist than god could ever do alone.

Aziraphale is willing to go to the darkest places to do the Right Thing, and Heaven is no exception. When Crowley says that Heaven is toxic, that’s exactly why Aziraphale knows he needs to go there. “You’re exactly is different from my exactly.”

____

In the aftermath of Trump's election in the US, Brexit happened in 2018. Michael Sheen felt compelled to figure out what was going on in his country after this shock. But he was living in Los Angeles with Sarah Silverman at the time, and she also wanted to become more politically active in the US.

Sheen: “I felt a responsibility to do something, but it [meant] coming back [to Britain] – which was difficult for us, because we were very important to each other. But we both acknowledge that each of us had to do what we needed to do.” In the end, they split up and Michael moved back to the UK.

Sometimes doing the Right Thing means sacrificing your own happiness. Sometimes it means going to Hell. Sometimes it means going to Heaven. Sometimes it means losing a relationship.

And that’s why what happened in the end was so difficult for Aziraphale. Because he loves Crowley desperately. He wants to be together. He wanted that kiss for thousands of years. He knows that taking command of Heaven means they would never again have to bow to the demands of a God they couldn’t understand, or run from a Hell who still came after them. They could change the rules of the game.

And he’s still going to do that. But it hurts him that he has to do that alone.