Lies of P and My Relationship with God

Growing up in the Bible Belt means being surrounded by Christianity, even if neither of your parents are from down south. It means being taught at an early age that God is real and has a plan for everyone, that you're supposed to stay on the path God has laid out for you, and that it's somehow both possible and impossible to steer away from it. While Christianity is taught mostly in churches, it's also absorbed through cultural osmosis. Without enough reinforcement of the intended teachings laid out at an early age, things begin to fall to the wayside, and that path that God allegedly laid out for you all the way back at the beginning of time becomes even blurrier than it was when you gained consciousness. 

I've always had a weird relationship with Christianity. My parents raised me to be Baptist at an early age, but their methods were lightweight compared to some of my more pious peers. What I learned from “Veggie Tales” is that the tuba is a fun instrument, and that the King likes Daniel more than me and you. As a result, I've always felt distanced enough from the gospel to form very vague beliefs without a ton of support or inspiration to dig further than my surface level ideas of God and the universe. 

Though my attraction to scripture has little substance, I’ve continued to find myself attracted to the religious aspects of Lies of P. While there is magic to be found, humanity's advancements have been rooted in technology, fueled by an energy source called ‘ergo’. Puppets have no strings attached, running purely on ergo, and have been terrorizing the citizens of Krat, kicking off the game's initial events. The first few chapters of Lies of P are almost purely industrial, taking the player through ruined city streets, a factory overtaken by rogue puppets, and facing off against the few humans that stuck around to stave off the puppets.

Walking into St. Frangelico’s Cathedral felt like a miracle. Gone were the blighted blues and greys that littered the game’s earlier sections. Things were yellow now! Stained glass windows let the sun’s divine rays glow against the chapel floor. A church organ plays a daunting, beautiful song in the background. A lone statue stands at the end of the hallway, arms up in praise to accept those who enter this shared domain of man and God. 

Walking up to the statue prompts text that reads:

You who have sinned, repent with your tears. Only those who have cleansed their souls may move forward. 

It was here that I thought about the churches that I had been in. The cathedral brought me back to earlier this year, when my uncle passed away, and my grandparents whose celebrations of life were in big, southern churches, where the whole town showed up to see them away. The light peeking through the stained glass was just the same as it was in the Cathedral, although the pews were much longer and closer together. 

Something grotesque lies underneath the piano's booming voice. It’s growling, devouring, sinking its teeth into some meat, and all you can do is listen to it, until you round the corner and watch it slither away beneath the chapel floor. Behind the hallway illuminated by the sun is a church left in ruin: columns collapsed, a checkered floor now overtaken by grass and dirt, leading into the dark depths of what was once a place of worship. 

The path to this beast is riddled with pious decor, consisting of stone statues of angels and women who refuse to look at the player or show their face at all, and zombie-like enemies, dubbed “carcasses”, scattered about. As the trek through the cathedral proceeds, the angels choose not to see the carcasses that wander the halls nor the puppet striking them down. Mentions of a one-winged angel appear multiple times throughout the cathedral, the particular aspect of God that St. Frangelico worships. 

Towards the end of the level, there’s a nun standing alone. Her habit consists of a drab white and gray tunic with a simple black head covering. This is Cecile, the last person alive to serve the archbishop of this cathedral, and she's surprised to see anyone alive. She asks the player to bring back the holy mark from the archbishop’s quarters, his words being the only thing fueling her will to live. “If I write his words into my heart, maybe it’ll give me the strength to carry on,” she says, almost like she’s trying to convince herself. 

I didn’t die, but my heart breaks more each day.

Every morning my father sends me the same thing – a pleasant image with a bible verse right up front. Words to guide me through my day and to let me know that God is always looking out for me. Then I think about the weird, existential feeling that I get when I lie in bed at night and remember that I’m 24 years old, and that 25 is next, and that the number never goes down. I think about the weird smiles I get from the people on college campuses that invite me to bible study or try to get me to sign up for some group that I’ve never heard of. I think about how the meaning of God has changed so many times over the centuries, even in the past few decades, and how nothing about any of it seems very clear. Faith is a blind act, and sometimes it may be a blinding one, and Cecile fits the bill perfectly in that regard. 

The levels caps with a full circle moment, reintroducing the beast from earlier. It’s disgustingly beautiful. One body, two beasts: a serpent with centipede-like appendages sticking out from the side, a vacuous hole where a face should be, only concealed by a mask, all coiled within a mass of creature dragging itself across the floor and lashing its tongue, eyes blue and looking in every direction. It’s an image that sticks with me even after seeing it over and over again as I failed to defeat it.

The level opens with the revelation that this creature is Archbishop Andreus, the man whose words are carved into Cecile’s heart. It conceals its face with a bejeweled mask, only to attack the player in a much more beastly form: a fat, disgusting beast pulling itself forward with two legs,using its tongue and breath riddled with decay to attack. The second phase reveals its true form, slithering out from the shell on its back as if it is reborn. He shouts “I am the One-Winged Angel! Only I can sense the presence of God!” 

So, God has abandoned them…right? People who took the power of industry and made it their own, people who found a way to use the essence of life as fuel for automatons, people who boast and sing their own selfish praises for bringing a city on the brink of ruin out into the light.

Throughout the battle with Archbishop Andreus, he mentions how he turned into the homunculus he is because of his greed, but he’s the only one who has been punished so severely. He curses an ‘Arm of God,’ and upon dying he wishes to “go back to the old Krat… before the greed overtook [him].” Perhaps in this world everything happening is some sort of divine punishment, God using a plague of madness to stave off man from touching the once-holy grounds of creation. Perhaps He hasn’t turned his back, giving humanity a way out, through the playable character. Or perhaps there is no God, just man and their perceptions that drive them to measure everything in the divine, whether that be getting on one’s knees to pray, or bringing life to puppets to serve their human creators obediently, the way a good Christian acts and serves God. 

As I continue my journey through Lies of P I can only wonder how many characters have taken heed of the archbishop’s words. How many of them lent an ear to scripture, only to see the world around them continue to burn, and whether that burning is one of renewal or destruction. And when I see my fellow man peddling a church group or a scripture my way, I can only wonder how they see God, and through what lens they use that to see the mortal world.

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