From the Journal of Elion Karsis
On a Man Who Has Not Let Go of God
I met a stranger today who unsettled me more than any priest ever has.
He was middle-aged, Syrian by accent and bearing, with sharp, calculating eyes that did not flinch when they met mine. His face was weathered in the way of men who have outlived explanations. He wore practical, dark clothing—no ornament, no pretense—suited equally for negotiation or violence. A shoulder holster held knives instead of pistols, and a combat blade rested against his boot like punctuation rather than threat.
His name was Faris Khan.
He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly how much force he can apply—and how rarely he needs to.
We spoke at first of routes and risks. That was easy. Men like him speak logistics fluently. But it was when the conversation turned to meaning that I expected him to fracture.
He did not.
Faris values truth the way others value survival. Calm, measured, unwilling to rush even when danger presses close. He listens longer than most men tolerate and responds only after weighing not just outcomes, but precedents. He respects rules—not because he believes they are sacred, but because he understands why they exist. And when he bends them, he does so without romance or apology.
What surprised me was not his pragmatism.
It was his faith.
He quoted the Qur’an without ceremony. Not as invocation. Not as argument. As reference. As one cites gravity or time. When I asked him—carelessly, perhaps—how he could still believe after witnessing the Forever Night, he did not bristle.
He smiled faintly.
“God does not promise fairness,” he said. “He promises meaning. Men confuse the two.”
I told him meaning was a luxury afforded by distance from suffering. He tapped his fingers lightly against the blade at his side while thinking, then answered with a verse I did not recognize at first—about patience not being passive, about justice requiring action tempered by restraint.
He believes God is not absent.
He believes God is testing interpretation.
That stopped me.
Faris does not believe revelation ended with answers. He believes it ended with responsibility. That faith is not a shield against horror, but a discipline that prevents horror from becoming justification. Where I see delay as cruelty, he sees delay as demand—an insistence that humans choose correctly without being coerced by miracles.
He has not abandoned belief because belief, to him, does not excuse inaction. It constrains it.
He does not wait for God to intervene.
He believes God is watching how we do.
I asked him if that faith had ever cost him something.
He nodded. “Everything worth keeping.”
We parted without promises. Men like Faris do not trade in them. But as I walked away, I realized why he disturbed me so deeply.
He lives by principles without requiring closure.
Where I seek endings, he accepts continuation. Where I see systems that must be shattered, he sees structures that must be rebalanced. He uses force when necessary, bends rules when required—but never confuses either with righteousness.
He still hopes.
Not because the world deserves it, but because abandoning hope would make him efficient in ways he refuses to become.
I do not know if he is right.
But I know this:
If gods exist, they would prefer men like Faris—
not because he obeys them,
but because he argues with the world
without surrendering to despair.
That may be a form of faith
stronger than any prayer I have ever heard.