Chris had taken Margaret out to dinner that night to their favorite Italian restaurant. Instead of popping the question, he broke her heart, informing her with unquestionable certainty that he had decided to enter the priesthood. She cried in front of him, but did not attempt to dissuade him from his choice. She gathered herself together, told him that if this was truly his calling, that he should follow it. Then she kissed him gently, and left the restaurant without him.
To this day, Father Chris never regretted his decision. He had never been surer about anything in his life, and he had always trusted God to show him the path. Even if the path was unclear to him, as he now had felt. He did volunteer to help Father Paul out where he was able with many of the church’s programs. He would work the soup kitchen, serving the homeless in the Outreach Program, and he would handle secretarial and administrative tasks necessary for the proper running of the orphanage and P.R.E.P. classes. Basically, he handled the tedious, paper-pushing, backstage chores, while the pastor ran the operations in the limelight.
As a result, the parishioners felt more connected to Father Paul, and paid little mind to Father Chris. It was evident during the mass celebrations every week, and it was evident during Saturday confessions. Even on this particular Saturday, with the pastor absent due to a leave of absence for business purposes, there seemed to be very few confessors, as if they knew Father Paul wouldn’t be there. There was no doubt about it: he was their shepherd. The people flocked to him more willingly than flies to an electric zapper. When he spoke, they listened. When he called upon them to volunteer for anything, they came. During the masses he celebrated, when it came time for the presentation of gifts, as the ushers passed baskets through the pews, they emptied their wallets. Whatever he asked for, they obliged. They would follow him to the pearly gates if need be, or perhaps to the gates of Hell.
Father Chris again silently chastised himself for thinking such things. He supposed that he must confess his own sins, that his thoughts were developing from his own self ambitions, or perhaps from envy. Maybe the Lord was testing him, and he tried with all his faith to accept his place as it was. It was just… he had never seen a congregation so loyal, without question, to a pastor before. So… blindly obedient. Maybe his imagination was running away from him, but Father Chris sometimes envisioned the parishioners of St. Elizabeth’s as one collective mind when he observed how seemingly entranced they were during Father Paul’s homilies; how agreeable every one of them would be to his messages, messages that bordered propaganda. It was almost as if the people did not think for themselves.
The young priest closed his eyes in meditation within the enclosed confessional, praying for guidance. And of course, patience. If he were to be rational about the way he was feeling, he would conclude that it was his own mind that was conflicted. It was his own self-doubts that made him uneasy. There was nothing wrong with the pastor or the church. The only problem was himself. He would strive to better himself, so that he could better serve the good people of the community.
Yet through his prayers and logical conclusions, his heart still felt conflicted. He couldn’t, in spite of his efforts, shake the strange feeling that something was not right with the church, or its pastor.
It was nearing 2 p.m., and not a soul had entered his confessional for nearly twenty-five minutes. Father Chris checked his watch and let out a sigh. Though confession hours would not end for another hour, he had half a mind to lock the doors and get an early start on preparing for the Saturday evening mass.
Just as he suppressed a deep yawn, the door on the other side of the thin wall, separating the priest from the penitents who wished to conceal their identity, gently opened and shut. Immediately following the sound, the rectangular sliding panel opened, leaving only the thin, dark screen between Father Chris and the new arrival.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” a man’s voice spoke just above a whisper from the other side. Father Chris readjusted himself in his seat, ready to administer what would probably be the last absolution of the day. “It’s been a very long time since my last confession.”
“How long?” Father Chris asked with gentleness. “Can you remember?”
“About fifteen years,” the man replied. “I was only a boy at the time. Way back when I stayed at the orphanage of this very church. It probably would have been much longer, but confessions were required of us back then, as I’m sure they are for the orphans who reside here now. I must have been eighteen. That was how old I was when I left.”
“You were an orphan here?”
“I was. Under the tutelage of Father James. Do you know of him, Father?”
Father Chris shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Father James was the prior pastor of St. Elizabeth’s. He didn’t know much about the man, as it was almost taboo to speak of him, but through the gossiping of several older, lifetime parishioners, he had learned that Father James had been arrested under charges of child molestation. Apparently, many prior orphans testified against the pastor as his victims. He had been sentenced to serve twenty years in the state penitentiary, but had committed suicide in his cell before even one year had passed.
“I don’t know of him,” the young priest said uneasily, “but I’ve heard the name.” He didn’t know what else to say of the matter. He imagined the man in his confessional must have been one of the victims, and that his trauma from the ordeal had pushed him away from the church. He suddenly hoped he could use this time to help the man find peace, and possibly start him on the path of restoring his broken faith.
But what the man said in return, instead brought surprise upon the priest: “Whatever you heard… isn’t true. That, I can tell you.”
Again the young priest was at a loss for words. After all his training at the seminary, he had hoped he could do a better job at providing the proper counsel, but he had yet to learn what this man’s troubles were. So, as he didn’t know what to say, listening was his only option.
“His reputation,” the man continued, “his life, all the good deeds he accomplished here; wiped away by false accusations and false testimonies. Even worse, the diocese refused to administer a Catholic funeral. After everything he had done…”
“I was just a boy myself back then,” Father Chris answered, “living in New York. I wasn’t here, but I imagine that’s so. The church forbids the taking of one’s own life. But how can you be sure the accusations were false?”
“As I said,” the man replied, “I was an orphan here, and I was very close to him. He was the closest thing I had to a real parent. I assure you, without any uncertainty, Father James was innocent of the crimes he was charged with. And to my own shame, I did not appear in court to testify on his behalf. This is my sin, one of many, that I’ve come to confess.”
“If what you say is true,” Father Chris asked, with no accusatory tone, only with intent to understand, “why did you keep silent? Why didn’t you testify?”
He could hear the man behind the thin wall let out a sigh. “Because,” he began with a sad tone, “Father James convinced me not to get involved.”
“And why would he have done that?” the priest asked patiently.
“He had his reasons, Father,” the man replied with a slow and steady voice. “I suppose he was trying to protect me. I argued with him quite persistently, but he was adamant about my staying away.” He paused for a moment, then went on as if speaking more to himself than to the priest. “Even though I’ll always regret giving in to his wishes, sometimes I wonder: would it have made a difference if I had testified? Or would it have made things even worse?”
“What was he trying to protect you from?” Father Chris now felt pity for the man, certain that he was quite delusional. He feared that he was not equipped to offer the type of help he believed this man needed. Nevertheless, he had to admit to himself that he was becoming somewhat intrigued by this story, unrealistic as it may be.
“From the ones who set this conspiracy against him into motion,” t
he man answered plainly. “They were after him. He was sure they would’ve been after me. If I were to attempt to reveal the truth, he believed they would have silenced me anyway, before I’d have a chance.”
“Why would anyone conspire against a pastor of a church?” There was little doubt in Father Chris now. This man was surely unwell.
“Tell me Father, why would anyone conspire against anyone? What’s the reason for a conspiracy in general?”
“Son… brother,” Father Chris corrected himself. For some reason, addressing this man as “son” felt inappropriate to him. “Forgive me, but I don’t think feeding into this… this…”
“Fantasy?” the man suggested.
“…will alleviate your troubles. Perhaps you should consider…”
“I understand this is difficult to believe,” the man interrupted, “so I will answer the question for you. Conspiracies are created when good people, either intentionally or unintentionally, stand in the way of those in power; those who seek to expand their power for self-gain.”
“And you believe that powerful men…”
“And women,” the man corrected the priest.
Father Chris continued, now attempting a voice of reason, “You believe they would gain from conspiring against a pastor, from removing him from his position in a church? Conspiracies on the scale that you’re suggesting usually occur at much higher levels… in politics and major corporations. If they occur at all.”
“Usually,” the man stressed calmly.
“Please brother, think of what you’re saying. How could anyone gain from ruining the life of a simple pastor?”
“To make way for the infestation that now corrupts this once sacred place. Do you not see, Father?”
“Friend, listen to me…”
“Do you not see; your church is sick?” The man had raised his voice slightly, but enough to intensify his question.
Father Chris became tense. He was sure what the man was suggesting was madness, but the word “sick” reverberated in his bones. He felt it may have been the word he was looking for when contemplating that there was something not right with the church, just moments before this strange visitor entered his confessional. Regardless, he refused to play along with this man’s fantasy, for fear that it would only augment his delusions. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” he answered.
“I’m afraid you do, Father,” the man answered back. “You feel it; I know you do.”
Father Chris did not reply. He couldn’t decide how to.
“You know,” the man’s tone softened again, “I’ve greeted you after Mass a couple times these past few weeks. Out in the church lobby, you spoke to me in a friendly manner, and I knew you were speaking from your heart. I can tell you’re a good man, and a good priest. I’ve compared your words during our short conversations with the homilies you’ve given during mass. It doesn’t take much to hear the difference. When you’re addressing the congregation after the Gospel reading, up there from the sanctuary, the words you speak are not your own.”
Father Chris began to feel like this stranger was boring with his eyes a large, invisible hole through the thin wall that separated the two of them, and peering deep into his soul. The man was right of course, but the priest would not entertain his perception, though it was accurate, with any confirmation. Instead, he closed his eyes while the man spoke, desperately trying to recognize his voice. He greeted many parishioners after mass, listened to many voices. It was near impossible to single out in his memory this one.
“This church is sick, Father,” the man repeated. “You can see that. All you have to do is accept what is right in front of your eyes.”
“Brother,” Father Chris stopped him, wishing to redirect the conversation, “I don’t want to engage in this slandering of a church filled with good men and women.”
“What do you want, Father?” the man asked in a serene tone, as if he were the priest and Father Chris the one seeking guidance.
The young priest paused. “I want… to help you.”
The man grunted a one-syllable laugh. “I know. You want to help everyone. But your hands are tied, aren’t they?”
“Why have you come here?” Father Chris continued his attempt to divert. “Was it to counsel me, or do you seek counsel yourself?”
“A little of both I suppose,” the man answered sincerely.
“Why don’t we focus on you,” the priest suggested. “Tell me what you seek forgiveness for.”
“Very well,” he complied. “I seek forgiveness for what I’ve done. What I’ve failed to do. But most importantly, for what I still plan to do.”
Father Chris was now more disturbed than he had been since the man first arrived. He quickly responded, “What is it you intend to do? Tell me, for your soul’s sake.”
The man did not answer immediately. When he did speak, he did so slowly, as if considering how he would begin. “If I’m to tell you, I ask that you bear with me; it’s difficult to explain.”
“I understand,” the priest replied, checking his watch. “Please go on.”
“This may sound strange, Father,” the man began, “so I’m asking you to keep an open mind.”
“Strange?” Father Chris responded, unable to help himself, “Aside from everything else?” He paused. “Forgive me,” he added.
The man offered a quiet laugh. “Not at all. Well put, I have to say.”
Father Chris’s tension eased. “Whenever you’re ready, brother.”
“How to explain,” the man pondered aloud. After a slight pause, he began. “I am bound to an unusual code. One that obligates me to… help people, in a way. Like your obligation, yet very different. I took an oath… long ago.”
“Okay,” Father Chris encouraged. “Can you explain this code? I’d like to understand it, how you help people.”
“Well,” the man answered, “I’m charged with protecting the innocent. I’m also obligated to right certain wrongs… to stop terrible things from happening. But this code mandates that every action I take to accomplish these things, all of my intentions, must be based on love. A pure, unstained love for humanity and nature. Clearly, this isn’t an easy undertaking.
“Humanity and nature have always been at opposition. It’s often that one entity struggles against the other. We, myself and others bound to this code, are meant to see the goodness of both. Even though they often conflict, one also cannot exist without the other, humanity and nature. We constantly seek to find a balance, to bring out the best of both. Humanity is flawed, but it has such potential to be better than it is. Nature is always constant, yet simultaneously unpredictable.
“Have I lost you yet, Father?”
“Absolutely,” the priest stated half-jokingly. “Actually, it’s very fascinating, but I don’t understand…”
“You’re right,” the man interrupted. “I’ll get to the point. The people of this church need help, Father. They lack balance, and their path is askew. They have allowed their ability to think for themselves to hibernate, and in turn they have lowered their own status to that of sheep. You may be uncomfortable agreeing with me about that, but the fact remains that they need help. And I cannot help them. You however, I believe are exactly what they need. Someone who can return what has been lost to them: faith. But like I said…”
Father Chris wished he could have stopped himself from finishing the man’s sentence, but it was like his words came automatically: “My hands are tied.”
“Yes,” the man answered.
“My friend,” the priest recovered instantly, “I’d like to stick to the topic that concerns me: you. You mentioned seeking forgiveness for what you still plan to do.”
The man paused again as if he had forgotten the purpose of his story. “I did, didn’t I? You know, now that I think about it, it’s pretty absurd to even make such a request. I know how it works, Father. You can absolve me for my past sins, but you can’t accept my confessing sins I intend on committing. In truth, I
don’t expect God to forgive me for what I’m about to do. But I’m here to confess regardless, because it concerns you. And you need to be ready.”
“Brother,” Father Chris lowered his voice to a whisper, “what do you intend to do?”
“Untie your hands,” he answered. “I can’t help these people, Father. First, that’s not my expertise, and secondly, they’re your people… or they should be. But I can see to the change that’s needed for you to heed to your calling.”
“If your code obligates you to act out of love for all humanity and nature,” Father Chris questioned, “then why do you not expect forgiveness?”
“Because,” the man answered, “as much as I wish that my future actions were based on my code, I have to be honest with myself. I know that, when I act, my reasons will not be influenced by something so noble.”
“What will they be based on, brother?”
The man answered slowly, “Anger. A desire for vengeance. Even… hatred. And these are the other sins I’m here to confess. I’m also afraid; afraid that I will not be able to accomplish what I need to do. My kind has always acted according to our code. As for myself, a personal vendetta is intertwined with my obligation to that code, which makes my success in this task unpredictable.”
“Then it’s a path you should avoid,” the priest decided.
The man answered with a sad voice, “Sometimes I wish I could. But then nothing changes. All evil needs to triumph is for good people to stand idly by and do nothing.”
Father Chris had heard this cliché many times. He was not about to let the man off the hook with it. Too many thoughtless Americans had used this familiar statement as propaganda to justify taking the law into their own hands. “Let me ask you, friend: do you, with hatred and revenge in your heart, consider yourself a good person?”
The Paladin's Message Page 21
