I'm in the sanctuary and the pews are filled with luggage

I'm standing at the pulpit and every pew is stacked with suitcases — no people, just luggage, all tagged with names I almost recognize. The train schedule is printed in the bulletin instead of the hymns, and I keep reading departures out loud, wondering if these are the souls I'm supposed to be sending off. Then the thunder starts, the only kind of arrival I know how to wait for.