"Your Wickedness makes you as it were heavy as Lead, and to tend downwards with great Weight and Pressure towards Hell; and if God should let you go, you would immediately sink and swiftly descend & of an angry God plunge into the bottomless Gulf" Jonathan Edwards -- "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God"
She grabbed the crowbar from the corner of her office. "This is an abomination," she muttered. Wobbling out into the sidewalk she turned, stood firmly, and waited. From around the corner "Pope Michael," as the neighborhood called him, turned his mobile confessional in Ellen's direction. He peered around the edge, saw her and came to a stop a few feet away. He didn't walk around the box. God was his shield, but it was prudent to keep a safe distance at times.
"You and this contraption are an abomination!" She shouted. Pope Michael made no move. "You are no Gabriel, you little bastard!" Her voice was getting louder. In a surprisingly deft move she welding the crowbar like King Arthur's sword.
As she swung it in the direction it of the box, she heard "Stop, in the name of all that is holy." Her swing went wide. She stumbled to the left and the crowbar flew from her hands and into the first floor apartment window, her window. Glass flew inward, and some tinkled unto the sidewalk.
"Ellen, you've long abandoned the church, but it has not abandoned you. Please step inside."
"Ellen." He still had not appeared from around the corner of the box. The door popped open as if letting out a breath.
As if in a trance, she stepped in. It creaked in slight protest of her weight.
"Wait!" She shouted, "You little conniving twit!" But the door closed and the bolt locked. She was trapped. Michael, with considerably more effort, pushed the box out into the street--stopping traffic--onto 114th Avenue, toward St. Cecilia's church. It swayed and lurched as Ellen kicked and pushed at the door and walls.