"The Lord be with you," Father O'Leary mumbled from the pulpit. He
knew the automatic response and only need wait for its monotone reply.
He didn't want it to come. He wanted his sheep not to be led, but ritual
breeds complacency, and Catholics love their ritual. He finally was
questioning its purpose. Standing in front of his congregation wasn't
the ideal place for chaos, doubt, or skepticism, so he wiggled his
shoulders trying to shake it from his body hoping no one would notice as
they blindly kept their faith. Notice they did, but they just thought
it was Father O'Leary trying to keep himself awake. He had been known to
fall asleep at mass on occasion.
Barry sat at the back
of church. Black ringed his eyes, a left over from the night before,
and cast shadows of hope. He wanted to believe. He wanted to be among
the parishioners; he wanted communion. He wanted the warmth of nostalgia
and childhood memories. He longed for the black and white simplicity of
sin. His life, complicated by disease and an undying belief in
compassion, waxed gray. He needed a little separation.
The
mass continued its dull progression. Father O'Leary droned
dispassionately. His homily was a meditation on boredom that bored the
congregation to the verge of dreams and disillusionment. His lack of
conviction almost produced his hope: there was a young man with black
around his eyes that continually dropped the song book creating a
reverberation of dissonance that echoed throughout the chapel; its loud
thud caught on subconscious thoughts of conformity and habituation. It
became like a metronome metering the monotony of Father's monologue. It
sunk deep to the point of omnipresence: everywhere and nowhere at the
same time. But then the weight of ritual and prayer overwhelmed, and
everyone, including Father O'Leary and Barry moved on to the Apostle's
Creed.
Professing devotion to a singular being wasn't
something that Barry could do. He'd seen too much to believe in one
truth above all else, yet that was precisely what brought him to church.
He so wanted to believe in something other than his senses and reason.
He liked the concept of blind faith, the ultimate release of one's self
to something otherworldly. He just couldn't accept its reality or
disconnect from true responsibility. If one could repent to be forgiven,
why ever bother with doing the right thing at all? He placed the song
book back in its wooden placeholder and stood to leave. This wan't what
he really needed. It's what he thought he needed. As he began to leave,
an itchiness grew.
Everyone rose in unison with Barry.
His metered book dropping wove a web between him and the rest of the
congregation. It spun deep into the nether regions of free will and
critical thought. He held them captive beyond the grasp of Father
O'Leary's doctrine and liturgy. Being sheep, they didn't notice it
wasn't time to stand. Rather it was time to kneel, to press knees on
hard planks of stained wood, to be uncomfortable, to remember suffering
as a component of faith. It was modern self-flagellation.
Father
O'Leary watched his parishioners stand. He was momentarily baffled and
scared. Had they heard his dark thoughts of doubt? Did they know how
bored he was of ritual? Were they rejecting their faith? And he had a
moment of clarity made manifest by the man with the black eyeliner
making his way towards the exit: he loved his power; he needed his
parishioners. A crack in composure brought a point of panic and a scream
let loose snapped the invisible strings connecting his congregation to
Barry.
It sounded more like a whistle or a soprano's
high note. It was more melodic than a scream, but underneath the melody
was untethered emotion: a feeling of despair, disjointedness, disbelief.
It was eerily intimate. It was that which Barry was searching for, and
when it tickled the tiny hairs in his ears he abruptly stopped, turned,
and stared at Father O'Leary.
The congregation stood
between these two men locked in limbo. They buzzed like fireflies
trapped in a jar aimlessly wandering, searching for an exit, unaware of
what kept them trapped. Without their guide, their leader, their father
they were left directionless and hopeless. They were waiting, like those
trapped fireflies, for their last breath of air until their light was
extinguished.
Father O'Leary stood motionless in front
of the pulpit. He watched his fireflies like the child who trapped them:
detached and slightly titillated at the decreasing oxygen and
increasing lethargy. He now knew the true power he yielded, and he hoped
it would respark his faith.
"My dear congregation,"
Father O'Leary lulled in his best imitation of his best Sunday voice.
"You are my children. You are the reason I am here. You must not leave."
Barry
turned again to leave. This wasn't his place any longer. He had left it
behind when he put on his mascara at nineteen, and it still wasn't his
place. It was a mistake coming back. He should have known this, but his
body ached for relief and simplicity. His body wanted a final healing
before its final release. The disease was growing. He could feel it
multiplying underneath his skin causing incredible pain and discomfort
and sensitivity to touch. Father O'Leary's message meant nothing to him.
He wasn't a child and didn't want to be treated as one. At least not in
these final moments. He wanted peace.
The
congregation, conflicted, didn't know which way to face. Half stared
blankly at Father O'Leary. Half faced Barry's back. They were still
trapped somewhere between devotion and disbelief.
"Stop!"
Father O'Leary demanded, and something broke inside of him. "Stop!" He
yelled again as tears streamed down his face. "Sto..." and he couldn't
even finish the word because he found himself falling to the wooden
floor.
Barry heard the pain. It was more real than the
aches in joints or burning red rash that covered his body. He wanted, no
needed, to comfort that pain. Something told him
this was his healing. He rushed to Father O'Leary's side.
"My dear child," Father O'Leary began.
"I am no child," replied Barry.
"Forgive me. Please forgive me. I have failed you."
"I can offer no forgiveness, Father. Only solace."
The
disease quickened its deadly progression. The red itchy rash bubbled
and blistered. Joints popped. A fever burned and boiled blood.
Father O'Leary just cried. Cried and cried.
The
entire congregation witnessed Barry clutch Father O'Leary in his arms
and kiss his forehead. They watched as Barry's body turned fire red and
blood flowed from his eyes. They beheld Father O'Leary's body go limp.
They bore witness to the passage of life and the relinquishment of
power, doubt, and belief.
They were free.
Labels: catholic, fable, faith, fiction, life, truthfully fictitious
