A conversation I was having with a friend this morning reminded me of this short story I wrote, back when I was in college. I dressed it up in narrative language, but the whole thing was a vivid dream I really had. Thinking back on it now, it seems more true than ever.
Darkness enveloped him.
It was like a fist clenched around his soul, squeezing, crushing. He fought it, struggling, writhing like an insect caught in some unbreakable spider’s web. It poisoned his mind, making him sleepy, his eyes feeling heavy and detached. Mind spinning, he began to become complacent, embracing the darkness, all the while knowing somewhere, deep within, that it was killing him. That little voice in the corner of his consciousness screamed out, searing, pleading, telling him to fight harder. He couldn’t think, thoughts sluggish, mind like wet cement. The answer came to him.
He whispered it, the name.
And then, light, piercing, shattering the darkness, the death grip lost like crumbling sand falling from his aching body. The light so bright he could not see, could not face it. It was pure and sweet, as it touched his skin he felt euphoria, joy, love, emotions in a tangled swirl around a deepening sense of peace.
The light subsided, now revealing its origin to him, arched doorway framing light no less intense but easier now to see. He moved toward it, entering, and now inside, looking, panoramic view of gothic structure, marble columns and gold leaf, ancient wooden pews, the smell of furniture polish and incense washing over him in waves. His footsteps echoed, reverberating off the distant walls as he traversed the course that led him to the altar. Now, kneeling, before a golden tabernacle, red sanctuary candle glowing with a presence always felt but never seen.
On his knees he prayed, supplication and repentance, begging strength and insight, repeating the name.
Behind him, voices enter, kind words and salutations, greetings from friends and queries about things of daily insignificance. He turns to look, over his shoulder, and sees them, coming, the members of the masquerade. Their clothes are unremarkable, flannel and denim and pressed cotton shirts with oxford collars, cheap silk and polyester, rayon and khaki and tweed.
Their faces contorted behind grotesque masks of piety, mocking imitations of reverence and holiness, eyes heavenward, lips parted in prayer or song, frozen facades of ingenuous religious fervor. The masks are tied behind their wagging heads, the mouths beneath them moving slanderously, the eyes behind them gazing lustfully, the minds behind them thinking murderously.
He rises from his post and turns, whispering the name, repeating it in endless succession, feeling the darkness enter this sacred space. The masquerade goes on, them filling up the hallowed halls with insincere hearts, the masks looking heavenward as their mumbling continues, deafening, sickening, confusing.
Again, behind him, footsteps heard, this time from the sanctuary. Wheeling, turns to see the man in black, his vestments cut from plastic like the costume of some child on Halloween, his face behind a sneering mask as well as he commends his audience on their goodness.
And now he knows that this name can be whispered no longer. Like a bullet from a gun to pierce the heart of all that threatening darkness in the unholy masquerade, it issues from his lips, a thunderbolt that deafens all in silence and in awe.
The masks now contort in horror, their ears ringing with the name of truth, and weakened, fall to their ungrateful knees.
Every knee shall bend….
The vested man is urging all to stand again, to rise up, but he has lost his sneer.
Again, the name is called out, directed now at this opponent, a crushing blow to he whose purpose is to represent the very same truth which strikes him now.
Every knee shall bend, in heaven and on earth…
The priest falls to his knees, his arms raised to shield his face from unseen blows. The darkness now has lost its hold upon those deceived to believe in its power. Their masks are falling off, and behind them bruised and beaten faces show unmitigated fear.
Once more it issues forth, again the driving blow of truth, aimed at the darkness now deprived of its hosts, collecting in an evil cloud above the polished floor.
Every knee shall bend, in heaven and on earth, and below the earth…
The darkness recoils from the blow, and shrieks in rage, inhuman screams, falling to the floor and taking form, a hideous blackened thing. It kneels before the majesty of truth, its own creator, and beats itself unmercifully for the foolishness of its own loss of light and life.
A final time the name resounds, and silence follows, all frozen in their place before the power of this spoken Word.
Every knee shall bend, in heaven and on earth, and below the earth, and every tongue shall proclaim the glory of the Lord.
In unison, the huddled mass begins to chant the name, and darkness is destroyed before them, shattering like obsidian beneath the blow of a mighty blade.
He awakened with a start. The fan droned on in his window, attempting to drive away the lazy heat of August through the merciless nights. Outside the crickets chirped, and the brightness of the moon offered comfort from the darkness in his room. He groped beside his bed, hand hitting his alarm clock, then his watch, finally finding the small jar with its crooked lid. Unscrewing it, he dipped his fingers into its cool and holy contents, blessing himself with the water and letting it drip down his forehead before he wiped it off.
As he moved to the bathroom, he shook himself free of the dream. It wasn’t like him to dream so vividly, or to dream at all of things religious. The metaphor pounded in his head in unison with every beat of his pulse, deafening him as he drank from the faucet, lukewarm water coming where the cold should be. He lifted his head and felt it again upon his lips, the holy name.
“Jesus.” He whispered.
No word had ever held such power.
For some reason, this reminded me of something I started quite a while ago:
~
“The Lord is with you,” sang the beaming priest, his hands held high. His amplified voice boomed through the old neo-gothic church. He smiled warmly. He certainly was warm.
“And also with you,” replied the unsteady chorus of parishioners.
Standing amidst the potted plants, he began the Mass with the approved improvisation.
“Good evening everyone.” Smile.
A smattering of muttered “good evening father”s came indistinctly from the pews.
As the lively chatting in the pews died down, the priest surveyed his congregation from behind his microphone. He stood at a wooden ambo decorated with a cloth hanging matching the green wide-weave polyester of his vestments. Fifty feet overhead the bloodied and gilded saints gazed down on him from their painted blue vault and from a previous age. The stern faced Pantocrator held out his arms of all-embracing Justice from the dome of the apse.
“I’d just really like to thank you all for coming this evening and for your wonderful singing responses…” pause, “you really are a wonderful choir.” A smile. A slight nod.
The congregation rewarded him with a collective sigh of pleasure. The Lord truly was with them, they knew.
“This evening’s readings remind us of the mercy of God for everyone. He forgives and heals and wants us to be happy.” He paused, gauging his audience’s readiness for a piece of bad news.
“As you may have seen in the bulletin, today is Life Sunday.” He caught the shuffling of feet. “And the Archbishop has asked all the parishes to read his letter to women, telling of God’s love and forgiveness and asking everyone to show that mercy and to heal divisions in the Church and the world.” The shuffling faded.
“So, I’ll be reading the letter…” pause… “right after hour two of my homily.” The priest led the appreciative chuckling.
“And on a personal note,” he said with relief, shaking his head a little to throw off the effect of the impending letter, “I would personally like to extend a warm welcome to all the fathers in the congregation this Father’s Day evening. That’s all fathers, grandfathers, uncles, step fathers, foster fathers, godfathers, step fathers…did I say that one? So, all the fathers here, including priest-fathers…” Chuckle.
“Now,” he raised his arm towards his head in a dramatic gesture, “let us begin in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Now,” the priest went on, “I invite you to be seated and listen to the wonderful word of God.”
The evening Mass was always well populated and tonight the church was almost half full. The Philippinas brought their grandchildren and the students dropped in to hear the organ, which was world-class. Father Howard Miller sat in robed polyester splendour sweating under the floodlights trained on the newly restored marble sanctuary and potted palms. The lights reflected cheerfully off his glistening bald spot.
He was fifty-six, the star of the show, and if he was under oath and facing the rack, the wheel and the entire Spanish Inquisition he would never admit that he was tiring. He was getting tired of the smile.
While the congregation pored over their paperback misalettes, Fr. Howard took inventory. Mrs. McHenry was in her spot, scowling at him as usual from under her mantilla. The large collection of middle-aged and rotund Philipinas created the impression of a flock of restless pigeons as they fanned themselves furiously between rustling about in their plastic bags, handing sweets, holy cards, toys and rosaries to their equally restless charges. The few men under fifty – three tonight – scattered about were balanced by a small collection of the Young JPII Conservatives, clearly students, earnestly hunched over their missalettes. They huddled in a clump, all carefully dressed in pressed shirts and khakis sitting appreciatively next to their short-skirted law school girlfriends.
Three young women sat together on the tabernacle side; the vocation girls from the new group. To all these were joined a smattering of older working men who came to the last Mass on Sunday evening to fulfil what they still referred to as their Sunday obligation.
Once a week, Fr. Howard heard the confessions, the same ones every week, of the Young Conservatives and the mantilla ladies. He baptised babies, usually in the summer and not very often these days. He rented himself and the church out for weddings and took the stipends, most of which, to his credit he thought, ended up in the parish accounts. He kept his hands off the boys in the youth group and was relieved that these days so few boys presented themselves to be altar servers. It was mostly girls now who wanted to carry the processional cross and book. They were easier to handle and train too.
He brought communion to the hospital and the nursing home and had dinner twice a month with the sisters. He liked the old nuns who still knew how to treat a priest and never asked him for personal advice. He tried not to think about having nearly twenty more years until mandatory retirement.
“The Lord is with you,” he said again with arms stretched wide. The gospel was an easy one tonight.
“And also with you,” they lobbied back.
“Tonight’s reading is from the Gospel of Mark.”
…