| The Feast of Pentecost ... a fictional submission |
Editor's note: The primary purposes of the SJA website is to further the mission of the parish and build community. However, on occasion we publish secondary pieces that we think might be of interest to our parishioners. The following piece of fiction was written by webreporter Pat O'Regan. He was gracious enough to share it with our readers.
During the late morning Mass at St Bernadette’s, the soft and diffuse light of a lovely spring day filtering through the stained glass windows bathed the congregation, the bedecked altar and the celebrant, Fr. Nicholas Shurman. The congregation, filling the church, seemed to sense the presence of the Holy Spirit, for they had sung the opening hymn lustily, and an air of rapture had greeted the priest, Deacon Clifford Walsh and the servers as they came down the aisle to the altar. Fr. Shurman, too, felt the presence of the Holy Spirit suffusing his soul and lifting it up toward Heaven. “Good morning, St. Bernadette,” he had said to the congregation, and they responded with a cheerful, “Good morning, Nick.”
But even the short speech of greeting, following the walk down the aisle, had tired Fr. Shurman. A sickness had come over him the day before. He had scarcely slept, had not eaten for a day and that morning he had had to gather a huge parcel of will to get out of bed. But not to get out of bed never occurred to him. He would not be denied the Mass on this important Sunday – though the effort was leaving him lightheaded and a little incoherent.
During the Confideor, Fr. Shurman, saying the words haltingly, doted on the congrega-tion, gliding from one familiar face to another, stopping here and there for a few seconds as someone caught his attention: Julie – who, with Robert her fiancé, made one of the couples of the recent pre-Canaan class. She had been a spark plug of bubbly interaction with the other couples. Upon meeting her, he had been tickled by her effervescence. Later, he furtively told Robert how lucky he was to have such a delightful lady. “You ought to try living with her,” Robert said with a wry smile. Karen – the spinster, who, though extremely reserved (doesn’t shake hands during Mass, just nods gravely) and apparently alone in the world, carries her Lupus like a heroine. Kathy – who runs the church office with brisk, good-natured efficiency, settling for a quarter the salary she could make in business. Roxanne – in motion on the pew behind her parents and siblings. There – her father Oliver has brought her up short. He is giving her a good scolding, getting in her face. All the while, Roxanne is holding the poor fellow by the nose. Fr. Shurman smiled and moved on. He knew these people so well. Some he had held in the throes of crisis, as they shook with weeping.
Concentrating hard, intoning the prayers with emphasis, as if otherwise they would not be said at all, Fr. Shurman got through to the Epistle. Relieved to sit down, he watched Martin, the lector this morning, get up from the front row and approach the podium. As soon as Martin began to speak, Fr. Shurman fell to thinking about the good man’s wife, Susan: “Such a tragic situation… Young…three children… Came through the surgery fine, then just…died. It was the medication… So unnecessary… Very hard to take… Poor Susan… No, poor Martin… Lord, how could you let that happen? So cruel… Mar-tin was so brokenhearted, for a while I was afraid for him… Found out what it’s like to live with three children in the house… Poor Martin, indeed… Done? Good job, Martin… You are also a credit to our bereaved group… Well, Lord, I guess you have your purposes and your timetable… I only wish you would give us a break now and then…”
Fr. Shurman read the Gospel with rather too much dramatic flair – He was being careful to be understood – and the congregation noticed, regarding him with a mixture of concern and bemusement. He was again relieved to sit down, while young Deacon Walsh delivered the homily.
Fr. Shurman liked the homilies that Deacon Walsh gave. He knew that he worked hard on them, writing them out longhand on a yellow legal pad, poring over the scriptures and the Internet for information, frenetically scribbling his thoughts when inspiration came. But this morning, as the young fiery deacon spoke of the Holy Spirit as a force in our lives, Fr. Shurman’s mind was rambling.
He began to recall the conversation he had had with his cousin Charlie at the gathering of his family at Easter. “Charlie’s just a prattler,” he thought. “But why should his prattling bother me so? The simple boy has been reading Camus – or so he says. Thinks he’s intellectual on that score. Not to be uncharitable, but the contents of cousin Charlie’s brains and the contents of his rectum bear trifling distinction… Forgive me, Charlie, but you are a dope… Easy, Nicky… In my youth, when I was so smart, I loved to read the Existentialists…especially Camus – surely the finest combination of artistic brilliance and intellectual clarity in the last hundred years… But so misguided… So this is all just a ‘leap of faith’ is it? An abnegation of the absurd condition of conscious life in the world? Surely, it was hurtful to hear Camus filtered through the brains of Charlie. But, more so, it was hurtful to hear him saying with a simper what marked his soul as twisted, darkened and benumbed to Christ… I do hope poor Albert, who died so young, found it in his heart, in the last seconds, to love Christ… Poor man… But God is merciful…”
“He sustains us in the hard struggle of life,” Deacon Walsh said. “With him beside us, we can even find a measure of joy in the harsh and gritty reality that besets us…”
“Very good, Clifford. You have the fire and eloquence. Have I not said to you in earnest that you should collect your homilies into a volume? Why will you not hear of it? It would surely be a best seller among the congregation…”
“He enlightens our minds and quickens our hearts so we may rise above the travails of the world and focus on God among us. He lifts us out of the squalor into which human nature is all-too-inclined to sink, setting our thoughts and feelings on a loftier plane – nearer to God. True, dear people, to be in the close company of the Holy Spirit, is to be as close on Earth as we ever get to being to Heaven…”
“That’s it. You’ve got them now, Clifford. One could hear a pin drop. Keep going. Every word has a touch of pain. Clifford, too, was abused… Not sexually – just physically and emo-tionally… God is merciful… Father deceased… Mother incoherent… The abuse lives on in him. He tries to pay attention to his mother, not entirely successfully… Since I was not abused, Clifford thinks I am naïve. Growing up in an emotional desert does not earn points with Clifford… Oh, he speaks powerfully… God gave you a voice, Clifford, use it! At such moments as this, I could not be happier for you…
“Julie’s looking at me… Did I remember the handkerchief in my sleeve? Ah, yes, here it is… It’s okay, Julie, it’s just a little sickness…”
“The sublime joy we sometimes feel in being loved with an infinite love – that is him, my brothers and sisters, that is him in us…”
“There’s Janet and Marge – such a lovely couple… Where are the mainstays? They always come to this Mass… Usually, they sit in that area – Where?… There they are! Carl and Roger… Which, of course, brings to mind Bishop Wherley…
“Ah, the infamous open forum for gays and lesbians we were planning to hold– it was Russell’s idea. I really couldn’t see the harm – How naïve of me – Perhaps I only thought they wouldn’t notice – They noticed…”
“Only see the Holy Spirit in others, and all the petty and trivial little hurts that others beset us with are forgotten. In the Vision of him, we transcend that…”
“But why did the Archbishop send Bishop Tom Wherley? I love that old man. I have loved him ever since I had him for Moral Theology in the seminary. I was so happy for him that he was able to slough off his natural timidity long enough to carry off his mission. He made such a good show of being a disciplinarian. I was actually afraid for you, Tommy. But you did well… Which is not to say you would not have come down on my consecrated head with both feet if I defied you…” He laughed a little but collected himself, quickly.
“Several years ago, two kooky ladies dumped a sexual abuse charge, like a load of horse dung, on poor Bishop Wherley’s saintly head. How I laughed when I heard of it! Him! A small part of me wished it could have been true – Don’t say that, Nicky… Okay…the ladies decided their memories of the second grade were unreliable and Bishop Wherley – who doesn’t levitate or keep the company of space aliens, either – was innocent. I sense Christ here – to teach him humility, to teach us all humility…
“Oh, it would have been so much easier to deal with some puffed-up, self-righteous, doctrinaire, ass… I wonder if the Archbishop knew what he was doing in sending Tommy Wherley over? Could he be that devious?
“The wonder and delight we take at times in the company of a loved one – that is him we sense in the other.”
“Did I think I could win, somehow? They own the building.
“Acceptance and inclusion, Bishop Wherley, isn’t that what love is all about?”
“Father, you cannot say that Christ would condone that life-style.”
“Should I then block the doors to them. Should I check their sexual orientation before granting them admittance to the Church?”
“Don’t be absurd, Father. Of course, we accept all people. Your response to them, as you well know, should be the same as to heterosexual couples that would live together as partners. Father – Is it not sinful? What would Christ say? Remember that he repudiated a woman for living with a man… And don’t tell me times have changed, Father. If there are no rules, we will change this Church, Christ’s Church, right out of existence…”
“I was only trying to be inclusive? Christ would not turn people away.”
“You know I am not saying people should be turned away… I am saying this behavior is sinful…”
“I love those people…”
“No one is saying you should not love them… Is not that behavior sinful?”
“I would not judge them. God does. Neither do I question them about their behavior when they join the parish.”
“It is a sin.”
“I love those people.”
“So do I.”
“See, we are in agreement.”
“Father, you will immediately cancel this forum you have scheduled. Do you understand me?”
Fr. Shurman looked quickly about him, as if trying to discover where he was.
“What, Lord?” he said aloud.
“Go on, Nicholas… ‘Take up your cross.’ I shouldn’t have to remind you of that. Continue with the struggle. Go on.”
“Clifford is standing over me,” Fr. Shurman thought. “What is it, Clifford?” he asked.
“Are you okay, Father?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Is it time to go on? Nice job with the homily, Clifford.” He got to his feet and went to the altar. Among the congregation, there was considerable stir. It was some time before the people settled down and stopped staring at the priest.
The Offertory was easy – the people came up with the gifts: Carl and Russell and two others – that made it easier. He had his strength yet. It was the Consecration that was hard. “Stand close to me, Clifford,” he muttered. “I will, Father,” he heard the young man say, and that helped, too. But at Communion, he said to Clifford, “I just need to rest,” and sat down, while the deacon and Communion ministers – including Roger, Karen, Kathy and Janet – distributed the hosts and wine.
“Father, are you sure you’re okay?” It was Sr. Andie, involved, as always. Thinking, “Where did she come from?” he assured her that he was okay, but thought further, when she went off, “These people would let me die during the Mass.”
Roxanne, clasped firmly by the hand, accompanied her father to the altar. When Fr. Shurman beheld her, she waved at him shyly, earning a firm tug on the hand for her trouble.
“Holly was that age,” the priest thought, sadly, “when it began… Gretchen was a year younger… ‘Gynecological exams,’ Holly told me he called them… Oh, the horror… Such evil… Mom must have known, though her denial is absolute…”
He could hear the soft murmur, “Body of Christ’ from Roger and Kathy.
“How could you, Lord… Poor Gretchen…ruined, just ruined. Never married, but at least still alive… Thanks be to God… Only a short stint in a mental institution following some minor harassment at work… Holly’s done better… But, as if to mitigate the lack of pain and guilt, she married Luke…who brought along a phalanx of problems… Tell me, Lord, how can he rejoice in the company of the Holy Spirit when he once came into the kitchen as a child to find his father, kneeling over his mother, drunk and unconscious, holding a knife to her chest… 
Luke ignores them… Who can blame him, Lord? Would not love in that case even be sick? And me? I assisted at dad’s funeral… I have not had a darker day…”
“Body of Christ…”
“Yes, Lord, when I arrive at the gates of Heaven – If I do – I will remind you of my faithfulness on that dark day… You’d better appreciate it… You’d better…”
“Nicholas… Go on…”
“Where were you, Lord, for Gretchen and Holly?… How can you forgive yourself?”
“Nicholas… Go on… ‘Take up your cross.’”
“No!” he said aloud.
“Go on…”
“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean it… I’ve been a little ill... I’m sorry.”
“Father!”
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“Father, are you okay?” It was Sister Andie leaning over him. He looked at her, trying to come to himself, not knowing where he was for a few seconds. Clifford was there, too, with a hand on his shoulder, a look of concern on his face. Julie was facing him.
“I’m fine, Sister,” he said. “I’ve just been a little ill.”
It took some time and persuasion, but he finally convinced them that he really was all right. At last, the nun smiled at him. “The people want your blessing, Father,” she said.
Not a soul had left the church. They would not go until Fr. Shurman had reassured them that he was fine and had given them his blessing.