/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.3820022]

hi /lit/. new story. do your worst.

I walked into the church through the front door, which opens to the back of the room, the wall directly opposite the altar. Inside the dark wood of the pews and walls gave off a musty odor. The air, tinged with this smell, was full--but not too thick--with an aged stillness, solemn as the silent steps of my carpeted footfalls. There was no one else inside the church.

The altar was a tasteless red and had a crucified Jesus hanging above it. Jesus' stone skin was too smooth to be convincing, his body altogether too small to look like a real man's. No blood fell from his wounds. He was already dead, it seemed.

It had been a while since the last time I went into a church, and I didn't know whether the priest would already be in the booth or if I had to go find him in his office or something. I tried the booth.

Knocking on the post next to it, "Hello?"

"Good afternoon." He sounded old, of course, but not too old.

"This is where we do the confessions?"

"Yes, yes, have a seat in the adjacent chamber, please."

I drew back the thick green curtain and took a seat inside. As my shoes moved from carpet to thin wood, I became self-conscious about how much noise I made when I moved around. Every wall and corner of the chamber echoed loudly. When I spoke, I heard my voice come down from above my head.

"Hi, Father. I never really do this," I said nervously. "It's been a while."

"No problem, at all, my son. If you have forgotten, the custom is to begin with 'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been x years since my last confession.'"

"Okay." I took a breath. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." I paused awkwardly. The word felt foreign, from another language." I think it's been… uh, about three years since my last confession. Back when I was confirmed."

Someone entered in the far end of the church. I shifted noisily in my seat.

"What are your sins, my son?"

[Anonymous No.3820024]

2

Clearing my throat, lowering my voice to counterbalance the chamber's echo, "Well, really there's only one, I guess. I mean… Yeah, whatever. Father, I don't believe in God."

The priest was silent for a moment. "Is that all you have to say?"

"I suppose I could say a lot of things. But that is all I would like to confess, I guess, yes."

He was silent for some time again. Then he said in a calm voice, "Young man, you do understand that this is, in a way, supposed to be a confession to God himself, don't you? There is a sacred aspect to this ritual, but if you are not religious…"

I shifted in my seat again, made more nervous by the fact that the priest sounded like a genuinely nice guy, rather than an over-zealous fanatic. "I understand," I said. "I just felt drawn here to do this for some reason. I'm confessing to you… as another person, I guess. I figured that might count for something."

The priest drew a placid breath, evidently in no rush to kick me out. "Hmm, I suppose, yes, I suppose," he contemplated. He wasn't making an effort to hide his voice from the echo. It traveled through the thin lattice and amplified itself on the wall next to my head. "So, young man," he continued, "you believe that your lack of faith is something worth apologizing for?"

The question caught me by surprise. Stammering, "I… Maybe. I think…"

Someone walked by the curtain, so I waited a few moments.

Continuing, "I think it would be nice if everyone believed in God. And I understand the appeal." I loosened up--this was something that I had said before. "One time, for religion class, I had to read a few passages in the Qu'ran. I was in the right mood to read it, I guess, because I remember it made me feel very… full. Reading about God's love for us, I felt swaddled by something big and eternally comforting. It was a nice feeling." I felt a bit more confident, at least partially because I was talking about Allah to a priest, which seemed like a daring move.

[Anonymous No.3820033]

3

The priest considered this. "Hmm, interesting," he mumbled. After a moment, "I find it fascinating that we often talk about God in terms of a comforting parent, as if all we want is to return to our mother's bosoms, as if our dependence on God is largely our displaced dependence on that which bore us into the world."

I was surprised by his willingness to talk like that about God. And the intelligence I perceived in him was rather exciting. I had entered the church expecting several things, but not an intellectual discussion about the nature of religious belief.

Encouraged, I was about to join him in this meditation, but he spoke before me, the tone of his voice revealing the freshness of a sudden subject change. "Now you seem to think, young man," he thought out loud, "that faith is somehow a social duty, or at least conducive to social harmony. If I understand you correctly--forgive me if I'm wrong--I believe what you're expressing is a concern for a society that seems to be suffering a lot as a result of its loss of faith, and furthermore, a concern that you are somehow contributing to that suffering by being faithless yourself."

I leaned back against the thin wooden wall, comforted by the presence of someone who might be able to understand me a bit. "I guess you could say it like that," I said, less anxious about the reverberation of the chamber.

The priest pondered some more, mumbling "Hmm" here and there. After a minute, he returned, retired from his distant thoughts, in a light and friendly tone. "This topic always reminds me of a poem I once memorized. Would you like to hear some of it?"

"Sure," I said.

His voice was lofty but humble as he recited:

[Anonymous No.3820036]

"'The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

"'Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.'"

Slightly out of breath, he exhaled loudly.

I had enjoyed listening to the verse, but I didn't know how to respond. Letting out a small laugh, "Seems to fit my situation perfectly, I guess." Another short laugh.

"That poem, believe it or not," he said seriously, "was written well over a century ago." After a moment, "Your concern is one that people have had for a long time."

We sat there in silence for a few minutes. Outside the booth, I could hear the echoing crack of a pew as someone rose from his knee to leave.

He said curiously, "You mentioned you were confirmed?"

"I just went through the motions," I said. "I guess it's like that a lot nowadays."

"Hmm, yes, yes," he said, understanding.

We sat for another minute in silence. There pews echoed when someone made the occasional shift of the knees.

Suddenly, I confessed, "Father, I don't know how I feel about talking about it like that."

"What do you mean, my son?"

"I mean… I dunno. Yeah, we live in the secular age now. The times they are a-changing. But something tells me that we're not gonna get anywhere by just moping around in self-pity like that, mourning the death of God all the time." My voice was now very loud in the chamber, coming back at me from all sides. "Maybe we should stop complaining and just get over it."

[Anonymous No.3820042]

4

"'The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

"'Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.'"

Slightly out of breath, he exhaled loudly.

I had enjoyed listening to the verse, but I didn't know how to respond. Letting out a small laugh, "Seems to fit my situation perfectly, I guess." Another short laugh.

"That poem, believe it or not," he said seriously, "was written well over a century ago." After a moment, "Your concern is one that people have had for a long time."

We sat there in silence for a few minutes. Outside the booth, I could hear the echoing crack of a pew as someone rose from his knee to leave.

He said curiously, "You mentioned you were confirmed?"

"I just went through the motions," I said. "I guess it's like that a lot nowadays."

"Hmm, yes, yes," he said, understanding.

We sat for another minute in silence. There pews echoed when someone made the occasional shift of the knees.

Suddenly, I confessed, "Father, I don't know how I feel about talking about it like that."

"What do you mean, my son?"

"I mean… I dunno. Yeah, we live in the secular age now. The times they are a-changing. But something tells me that we're not gonna get anywhere by just moping around in self-pity like that, mourning the death of God all the time." My voice was now very loud in the chamber, coming back at me from all sides. "Maybe we should stop complaining and just get over it."

[Anonymous No.3820046]

5

The priest let out a soft chuckle through another "Hmm." Looking up, I caught his wet, pious eyes shining through the lattice as he looked at me. "Some of us still have hope, you know," he said compassionately.

Embarrassed, I sunk my shoulders. "Uh… right." I paused. "Sorry, Father."

"No problem at all, my son," he said. After a moment, and another chuckle, "You're still young."

The condescension bothered me, but I brushed it off.

"I suppose I must be going," I said. "Thank you, Father." Hesitantly, "Perhaps we will talk again."

"I would very much like that," he said. "Good luck, my son, and God bless you."

"God bless you, too," I said awkwardly.

He chuckled at that.

Pulling back the thick green curtain, I stumbled through the entrance of the chamber, relieved to have the carpet muffle my footsteps again. I noiselessly walked to the back of the room, the front of the church, and looked over my shoulder before I opened the door to leave.

There were several people interspersed throughout the pews, praying silently with their heads reverently bowed. They hadn't looked up as I left the confessional, so their presence didn't make me uncomfortable.

I took a final look at Jesus above the altar. Though impaled by thick stakes, his hands and feet were gracefully limp. He seemed to hang there almost indifferently resigned to his violent fate. That impression changed, however, when I made my last observation.

Looking at Jesus' face, I realized he wasn't dead yet after all, though he was close to death, for his eyes were open, and they were turned up painfully towards the dark wooden roof of the church. In that questioning look, I saw something I had not seen before--Jesus looked so incredibly, painfully sad.

I remembered what he had said at that point. A wave of pity shook my body.

After a moment, his heavy eyelids having assured me that he would die momentarily, I turned my back, opened the door, and left.