Office of New Evangelizations
Interesting times call for archaic measures.
By Ray Imgrund
Edited by Yuval Kordov
“Office of New Evangelizations. How can we assist you today?”
An average of twenty calls a day, five days per week.
“If a bodiless voice is asking you for assistance in any way, I advise you seek either psychiatric guidance or a spiritual director. No, my son. No, there is no such thing as a spirit that can be given the Eucharist. How would you propose even administering such a thing? No, I thought not. God be with you.”
For twenty years, still answering these calls. Same old office, same old phone. Father Thomas had been a parish priest for ten years first, then a diocesan exorcist for twenty, and then this. He had been fully successful in all these roles, technically speaking. He had led his flocks well, handled the callers aptly. It was only his tenure as an exorcist that savored somewhat of anticlimax.
Not once had he performed a true exorcism: all of his patients had been suffering some affliction of the mind or body instead. They had all screened out after psychological evaluations, and been happier and healthier for it. He was always glad of this, of course, but his unique education and training never actually came to the fore.
After two decades of this, a new position had opened up at the Archdiocese: Office of New Evangelizations.
“Good afternoon, Office of New Evangelizations. How may I help? Ah. Mr. Andrews. Let me guess: abduction again? Yes. Yes. You’ve already told me that they were the actual creators of mankind. I don’t suppose they left you with any proof of this idea this time? Indeed. Mr. Andrews, this is the fourth time we have had more or less the same conversation. No. No, thank you. God be with you. Please consider my recommendations from last time.”
The new office was necessitated by the long expected codification from Pope Leo XVII, forbidding the use of (or consulting with) Artificial Intelligences, until such a time as they could be determined spiritually safe for the faithful. The codification also established the Dicastery for Ministration to Non-Human Intelligences, which was intended to deal with any inhuman (but rational) species that the Church might encounter. This was also necessitated by the advent of humanity’s fledgling interstellar space programs, with many leading theorists assuming that they were merely a hair’s breadth from encountering extraterrestrials any day now.
So far, the number of such creatures encountered was precisely zero.
The Office for New Evangelizations was a sub-office within the new Dicastery, with the goal of sifting the wheat and the chaff regarding reports of any new possible encounters. This could include but not be limited to: communications from truly sentient AI, extraterrestrials, or previously undiscovered rational inhabitants of Earth itself. Father Thomas had applied for this position both out of aptitude, as well as a certain level of ennui. He knew how to evaluate such claims, knew how to talk to people, and discern the truth of a given situation.
What he had not expected would be just how boring this work would be. It was part crank-call hotline and part schizophrenia diagnostic assistance call center, and all-around repetitious drag. All this time, and not even one semi-credible claim. Not one had held up beyond a second phone call (and the necessity for even a follow up call was rare indeed).
“Good afternoon. Office of New Evangelizations. How may I help you? Your computer has requested baptism? I must remind you that by order of His Holiness, consultation with machine intelligence is considered at least a venial sin when not performed by monks of the Order of Holy Inquiry. No, it doesn’t matter what it asked, you engaged with it in the first place. In any case. Go to confession, my daughter. As regards the rest of it, how did it even propose to receive the sacrament? You cannot very well pour water on a motherboa… Oh. Well then. Completely shorted out? I guess we will find out if it was ensouled if we find it in Heaven one day. Go see a priest, and God be with you.”
No communications were to be received by email. That was another unique feature of the office: no computers at all were permitted. All electronics Fr. Thomas worked with were either analogue or mechanical. This prevented corruption of data, and shielded him from AI potentially trying to communicate with him directly. Even the telephone was of the old rotary style. Incoming calls were filtered through several layers of security—designed by the Order of Holy Inquiry, of course—to ensure no unauthorized tampering. The Order (or the Leonisians, as they were popularly known) managed all advanced technical aspects of the Church since Leo’s Great Directive, and their members were trained to interface with and study artificial minds without losing their own souls.
Father Thomas sighed. It was getting toward the end of his assigned on-call hours, and he was stiff from sitting still and craning his neck over books and informational documents for so long. Whenever he was not on an active call, he was either reading, doodling, or praying. In his seminary years he had fancied himself an artist and made many sketches and drawings, but that activity of leisure was long behind him: now, the margins of many of his books merely had intricate little Celtic crosses throughout. Aside from the usual rootless calls, today had been spent almost entirely on reviewing the latest summary reports from exorcists across the western hemisphere. They all reported the same as had been described by the trends of the past decade: growing mental illness, demonic activity, and obsession with occultic practices. Much of it centered around meddling with artificial intelligence and generative technology. Long gone were the days of ouija boards; the machines could do everything that those mundane instruments could, and so much more.
A glance at his watch: ten minutes over. Time to retire to his chambers, finally.
Riiiiiinnnnggg
A second, heavier sigh from Father Thomas. Hopefully this would not be one of the long ones.
“Good evening, Office of New Evangelizations. How may I help?”
“Father Thomas, God wants the Church to build a starship to minister to His lost children.”
He felt a pressure behind his eyes that signified overtiredness, and foretold an oncoming headache. He took a deep breath and prayed for patience before responding. “Er… For what purpose? She already ministers to the extra-terran colonies. They are hardly lost.”
He heard an exhalation of frustration from the other end, followed by: “No, that’s not the point! It isn’t them it would be for! It’s to be for the lost ones, those who have not yet been found.”
“Speak plainly. You mean that this would not be for ministering to mankind?”
“Finally, you get it! Yes, that’s right.”
“I see. And where did you come by this information?”
“An angel told me.”
“Of course. Did he say to where this ship would go, or offer you any proofs of himself?”
“Well…”
“Please speak to your confessor about this. Call me again if you have anything more concrete than a command to just ‘build a starship.’”
“I… But… The broken baptistry… This is your chance to fix—”
Thomas irritatedly slammed the receiver home.
***
He paused for a moment, just short of packing up and leaving his office for the night. How had she known his name? And the tone of his interlocutor…
He picked up the phone again, this time to make a call of his own. What had she said about a baptistry, of all things? It reminded him of something distant, but his thoughts were interrupted by the greeting of the operator.
“Hello, this is Fr. Thomas. Can you please connect me with Brother Augustine at the O.H.I. chapterhouse? Thank you.”
Brother Augustine was a Leonisian, specially trained to evaluate false voices that spoke in the tongues of men. He was also a long-time friend of Thomas, from even before his exorcist days. By providence or coincidence, they had managed to be posted near each other, to their mutual surprise and delight.
“Hello, Thomas. A bit late for you, isn’t it?”
“Yes indeed... Could you please evaluate the authenticity of the last caller today?”
“Certainly, I’ll have my analysis ready by tomorrow morning. Anything unusual I should look for?”
“She already knew my name, though I cannot remember speaking to her before, and my name is not posted with the number for the helpline. She also sounded… young. Petulant. Just make sure it is not some computer or a prankster child wasting my time.”
“I’ll see it done, Thomas. Get some rest.”
***
Much of the next day passed like any other. He awoke early to pray the Liturgy of the Hours followed by his private Mass, after which he brought a small breakfast with him to the office. The calls were of the usual kind, except for when Brother Augustine called him back.
“Hello Thomas. The call you asked about was genuine. Vocal analysis suggests that it was a young woman, aged fourteen or fifteen, calling from a small property out in the country near Lake Michigan. Nothing unusual to note: the call was made from a standard vox-only phone, so tampering is unlikely.”
“Many thanks, Augustine. I suspect the child was bored. Any idea how she knew my name?”
“I’m guessing she has a friend or family member who has spoken to you in the past, since there is no history of calls made from that particular device or location.”
Lord, grant me the patience to deal with these trivial things.
Late that day, just as he was beginning to gather his things to retire for the evening, another call came in. With a resigned sigh, Thomas picked up the receiver.
“Office of New Evangelizations.”
“Hello Father, I was told to call you again. I’m supposed to—”
“Would you care to tell me who you are?”
“Didn’t I say yesterday? I’m sorry, I’m Martha. Anyway, I was—”
“Child, are you not aware of the time? The hours of my availability are clearly posted.”
“I’m not a child. And I can’t help that it takes me so long to get home from school.”
Thomas pulled a bottle of sherry out of his desk, poured himself a glass, and sighed again.
“Please make it quick, then.”
“Fine! Fine. The Church needs to build a colony-class starship designed for a three-hundred-and-sixty year voyage. Fully sustainable hydroponics, along with a generational crew of lay support staff. At least one bishop—”
“A moment, please. Where is this ship supposed to be going? And why? A bishop seems excessive. We already send priests out on every voyage that does not expressly forbid them.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I got carried away, and forgot that I was given specific words to say. Can I start again?”
“Do.”
“Thanks. Ahem. Thus says the Angel of the Lord: I desire that my lost children be given the graces of the sacraments. They have lived uncounted ages in darkness, rejecting the Incarnated. But, there are yet some that hunger for Me. I command that you build an astral ship in my honor, to carry one of the Princes of the Church across the waters of night to relieve their sorrow.”
“Watch your language, child. It is not reverent to invoke the Lord or His angels lightly. And, I am afraid you are not making any sense. Some of the colonies have forsaken the Faith, certainly, but the Church cannot afford to send its own ship to any of them.”
“They’re not human!”
A pause.
“You say an angel told you this? Did he explain why the Church, who worships the God-Man, would need to bring salvation to a nonhuman creature?”
Another pause.
“The Father wills it. It is their penance, for trying to reject their own incarnated being.”
“Do you have any proof of this? Logistical issues aside, the Church cannot wantonly send an entire crew out into space. Humanity has not even left its own home solar system yet. The Lunar and Martian colonies are barely even established.”
“Well… I’ve been told a few things that I could use to convince you. I know you are located in Stella Maris colony. No, not the one in Wisconsin.”
“I—”
“Don’t deny it! I also know the last secret imparted by Our Lady of the Rus. It’s this very mission I am trying to tell you about!”
“That… counts for little. Only the Holy Father himself knows it.”
“Then, pass it up to the Pope!”
“All of this could have been revealed to you from illicit sources, natural or supernatural. None of what you have said proves your claims. I have a duty to verify anything before I can pass it on to my superiors, let alone his Holiness.”
“I know… I was just hoping you’d take me seriously without the package you’ll be getting soon. You know, Blessed are those who have not seen and yet…”
“I know the quo... Wait. Excuse me? How do you propose to do that? You do not know where I am.”
“Yes I do. I have to go to dinner, I’ll talk to you again after it arrives!”
Click.
“Impossible,” he muttered to himself. And yet, precautions must be taken. He hurriedly took up the receiver again.
“Please connect me with the Senior Guardsman Clark. Arthur, it’s Father Thomas. I have received an odd communication today. Are there any packages for me on the next incoming shuttle?”
“I’ll check the manifest! Why, yes. Something from family or friends back home?”
“No… Please… evaluate it carefully when it arrives. I know everything gets checked extensively by scan before getting loaded earthside, but I need extra caution here.”
“Sure, that’s fine. I’ll keep my eyes peeled, Father, don’t sweat it.”
***
That night, he did not sleep well. He was puzzled and worried by what this strange girl had said, but at the same time… undeniably curious and intrigued.
However, his curiosity was not satisfied for some time. The next day was an unusually busy day for calls, with a particularly lengthy one from a woman who was desperately looking for a reason to have her dog ordained. “Not to the priesthood,” she was swift to clarify. “Just the deaconate. I think he really has a heart for ministry.”
Lord, grant me a calm and loving spirit.
As the day came to a close (and even fifteen minutes after the standard time), Father Thomas reluctantly left his office. Instead of retiring for the night, he went to visit Monsignor John Lewis, the pastor of Stella Maris and his spiritual director.
Stella Maris was one of the greatest projects the Church had ever begun. To seclude the chapterhouse of the O.H.I. and its secretive databases from direct contact with exterior influences—human, machine, or spirit—the Church had chosen this place, Earth’s first and most magnificent satellite. Mankind had started to extend its grasp to the heavens, and the Church wished to remain at the very fingertips of that reaching hand. Authorized by the Great Directive, the colony also included provision for Thomas’ own Office of New Evangelizations, safe away from the prying eyes and ears of Earth.
In a pleasant little rectory with a single tinted window looking out on the stark moonscape, Monsignor Lewis lived next to the subterranean cathedral in the center of the colony. Our Lady, Queen of the Heavens was a lovely church, though occasionally Thomas missed the stained-glass windows of terrestrial sanctuaries.
“Tom, how’s the conspiracists helpline?”
Thomas made himself comfortable in a wing-backed chair. Lewis had the best chairs in the whole colony. “Just booming, Monsignor… I have received some strange calls recently. I have been wondering: is there any potentiality for intelligent life, aside from us, in God’s creation?”
Lewis smiled, sensing that this conversation would be neither purely academic, nor purely paternal spiritual direction. “The angels come to mind, first and foremost.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Other hylomorphs; body-soul unities. Is there a way for such an idea to cohere with the Incarnation?”
“Son, your own Aquilinean namesake speculated that any creature which was oriented to look upwards at the heavens could be rational.”
“I realize that. But our Lord became man. If they were to be in need of salvation, Christ cannot have yet taken on their flesh. He would need to be incarnated again in their shape, which runs contrary to his own prophecies of himself!”
“I don’t know, Tom. It has been argued from the idea of fittingness that God became man for our sake, but he need not have done so. He could have saved us another way.”
“Fair. But why make two kinds of intelligent animals? We are made in the Imago Dei. Would another creature be, as well, if it were not made in human shape? And if it were man-shaped, why make it to be separate from us to start with?”
“Presumably there are multiple ways to image God; “male and female He created them” tells us something about God’s activity as masculine, and His receptivity as feminine. However, our being made in His image places no monopoly on humanity imaging the totality of God, and there are likely depths of His majesty that are not reflected in the parts of creation that we have encountered. Another rational animal might image another part of God’s nature: His unity, His simplicity, or even His multiplicity, inasmuch as He is an infinite being.”
After allowing a comfortable silence to roll over the conversation, Lewis cleared his throat.
“Ultimately, I think most of this falls into the category of mystery: if it is the case that the Lord saw fit to create another intelligent species, it presumably lies outside our understanding or our ability to reason our way to it. If such creatures do not exist, then it is none of our concern anyway. No, wait, my son. You sound to me like someone who wants to be convinced, but is resistant at the same time. I think we can trust that if God willed it, we must simply submit to the mystery if we encounter it: the mystery of another outpouring of God’s magnificent love into His creation. Is that helpful?”
“I… think so. This is a peculiar concept to entertain.”
Lewis chuckled. “You haven’t even thought of the administration of the Sacramental aspect yet, I bet. I’ve given it some thought; even published a few papers on the matter before coming here. Part of my ridiculous obsession with space, my doctoral instructor always said.”
“Do you want me to stay all evening arguing with you?”
“No, I just wanted to make your night a little more sleepless.”
“I’m managing to do that just fine on my own, thank you.”
The Monsignor bestowed a blessing upon Thomas and he left feeling slightly lighter, although still confused. Contrary to his expectation, he slept a little better that night.
***
It was, in fact, another two weeks of suspense before the package from Martha arrived. It was hand delivered by S.G. Clark, who let him know that the simple brown box contained (to the best of his knowledge) naught but a simple book. He advised Thomas that there were no electronics, and likely no metal components inside the package.
Nevertheless, after Clark left, Thomas opened the box gingerly, revealing a simple leatherbound journal. The cover was unmarked (though worn from use), and the pages appeared to be numerous and dog-eared.
He sprinkled the cover with some holy water, intoning several prayers of protection and cleansing. Then, with a rubber-gloved hand, he lifted the cover…
To find gibberish! Line after line, in a script that resembled no language (or even alphabet) he knew. However, there did seem to be some patterns. Perhaps a cipher? He bent closer to examine the strange scratchings.
“Funny looking, aren’t they?”
Thomas nearly jumped out of his skin, whirling and flinging holy water all around him as he did so. Bending over his shoulder was a scrawny teenage girl with a now bemused expression, her thick glasses doused with water. She slowly crossed herself. “Thanks for the blessing…?”
“Who are you, and how did you get in here?” Thomas stammered, putting his desk between the two of them.
“You don’t recognize my voice? I’m Martha.”
“Ridiculous,” he muttered, feeling behind him for the door to his office. Locked, just as it had been when Clark left.
“Nope, merely extraordinary.” She grinned. “It was decided it would be easier to explain this in-person.” She picked up the book.
Thomas responded by making a cautious imprecatory prayer against influences of the devil, invoking the names of the Holy Family.
“I understand being careful, but come on, now! I’m not exactly burning up!” The being calling itself Martha crossed herself again, and then flicked some of the holy water back at Thomas. “Surely you know about bilocation?”
Thomas snorted. “You are claiming to be some kind of saint? That this is miraculous? What is the book, then? And why would you be here?”
Martha paused, and cocked her head to one side as if listening to a distant voice. Thomas felt a strange prickling of hairs on his scalp, like there was electricity in the air. “Yes… I guess he isn’t likely to listen to me about the book if he doesn’t believe me already.” She focused on him again. “Sorry to invade your privacy. Twenty years ago, one month before your current position was created, you made a prayer in your heart that only the Trinity has known until this moment: you prayed that you would be allowed to witness something marvelous, and save lost souls. You were disappointed from all your apparently fruitless time as an exorcist, and felt like your talents had been wasted. Well, cheer up now! This is it! And now, you’re the one to start the process that will bring this before the Holy Father!” She clapped her hands in youthful joy.
Thomas started at the sound, his mind having wandered. Witness something marvelous… Impossible. Those words had never been spoken aloud, could not have been known by any man here or any devil below. And then, like a thunderclap, he was struck with a vision of his own past: just before making that very prayer, almost completely overcome with fear and sadness, he had feverishly drawn a broken baptistry, with the contents leaking all over the floor. By it had been a kneeling priest, weeping, his tears mingling with the spilt holy water. He had never shown another soul, and had burned it (along with much of his other work) out of embarrassment when he had to pack up for his current post. She had told him of this during his very first conversation with her, and he had not listened. Like a librarian with an ancient book, he peered back into his memory and remembered his silent plea from so many years ago. Perhaps… Perhaps…
“What have you come to tell me?”
“You aren’t the only one I’ve been sent to visit. I’ve talked with them, and written it down in this journal.” She put the book down again and pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper out of her pocket. “This should give you a starting point for the translation.”
“Translation… To whom have you spoken?”
Martha blinked slowly, eyes magnified behind her glasses. “The Lost Children.”
Thomas abruptly sat down, and snatched up the piece of paper. On it, there were two lines: one in English, the other in the incomprehensible scribbles. The human language read: To the Children Who Are Found. Find us. Bring us back to the Light.
“Why us?” Why me? “Why are we asked to help save another race?”
“I’d guess because the Incarnation will only ever happen once, and it’s in our bodies that He took on Flesh. I got the sense that they had, at least, once been a people of great pride. Perhaps this is an exercise in humility for them, to beg for our help. Is it not mystery enough that He entered creation in the first place?”
She paused, then giggled. “I need to go home now, but this has been such fun. I’ve been doing homework all this while, as well. This is much more interesting than algebra!”
Thomas said nothing, feeling a bit dizzy.
“Oh! Speaking of which! There’s some technical information in the first part of this text: where their homeworld is, of course, as well as some engineering data to help us get there faster than the millenia it would take our current starfarers. Very helpful of them, I thought. It was nice meeting you in person, Father!”
He looked up, and she was already gone. Only the piece of paper she had brought with her served as evidence that she had not been a phantasm of his addled brain. He turned the sheet over on his desk. On the other side, he saw an alphabet. Of course, she had delivered that part personally; without a key, the journal would simply be a meaningless curiosity to any interloper. That had ensured it could not be intercepted.
Could there truly be other rational creatures in the universe? Another shattered Imago Dei waiting to be made whole again? After one long moment, he picked up his phone.
“Operator? Get me a language specialist at the Holy See.”
***
Postlude:
Father Thomas stands at a large bay window near his office, looking outside with an admixture of humility and holy pride as the first Cathedral-class starship prepares to embark on its maiden voyage. It had been secretly assembled near this very base, both for privacy and the ease of eventual departure compared to Earth. Thomas is now very old indeed, and lucky to see this day. He always knew that men stood a chance of living to a greater age on the moon, with the sterile environment and the lower gravity being easier on the aging bones. However, he had never imagined he would reach the ripe old age of 115.
In the intervening years, he had fought tooth and nail for this new mission field, and his efforts had been rewarded. The Church had ultimately (after a time of characteristic slowness and caution) moved with astonishing speed, realizing how many souls might be endangered by any additional delay beyond the long voyage that would be made. In his spare time, he had tried to find a way to reach out to Martha, to tell her that their shared hope was coming to fruition…
But with no luck. The Holy See was treating the entire matter with the greatest secrecy, with none being aware of the true purpose of the project beyond the few who truly needed to know. He was unsure if Martha had been included in that group, aside from the contact necessary to establish her mental and spiritual status. Thus, Thomas had tried contacting her, unsanctioned, without any assistance, but she seemed to have moved only a few years after her last call. He had never been able to get in touch with her again after that final conversation in his office.
He takes a deep breath as the ground vibrates beneath him: the great beasts within the ship’s engines have awoken, roaring to joyful life. He is conscious that two tears are running down his lined face, like water trickling across parched ground.
He whispers, “If only you could see it for yourself.”
There is a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision, over his left shoulder; a familiarity. Another prayer answered. He smiles through his tears and does not turn, as the glorious throne-ship of the Blessed One lifts away from Luna’s face and rises toward the heavens.
Nunc dimittis servum tuum…
Ray Imgrund, BA of theology and BBA of accounting, lives in Wisconsin with his wife and two children. On Substack, he publishes most of his observations on art and religion at Harmony of the Heavens - Theology Revealed Through Art. He has also been published in the St. Austin Review cultural magazine. When he isn't pouring over spreadsheets at his 9-5, you can find him taking outdoor adventures with his family, whipping up new cocktail recipes, and arguing about books and movies with his loved ones.
Copyright © 2026 Ray Imgrund & Incensepunk Magazine
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 | A guest post by
|
Loved this.