Fastening his sandals and preparing for morning Mass, Father Anthony realised that it was not Mass but Maria on his mind. He was looking forward to seeing Maria and he felt happy. His body felt as though it was waking up, coming alive. It felt light. He smiled at himself in the mirror, taking longer than normal to comb his curly black hair and splashing his face with aftershave. He felt joyful. Life away from Maria was dull, tedious and empty. His whole body longed for Maria’s presence. He didn’t mention Maria in his Confession with the Rector.
The Rector was a tall, athletic man of sixty-five. He was jovial and kind hearted with many years of experience as a Spiritual Director. He simply loved life and was glad to be alive. He was grateful for the gift of life. He pushed his shoulders back, straightened himself, tapped his stick on the ground as though to make the point, “It’s now …and isn’t it wonderful!” His body quivered like a spring being pulled straight. Father Anthony felt himself energised by the Rector’s presence. He felt an inkling of the Rector’s joy. It was contagious. He only had to touch the Rector’s hand and he contracted the virus of happiness for a few minutes. The Rector’s words struck his eardrums, setting them tingling and vibrating with their wisdom. His gestures to Father Anthony were lightning bolts of energy splitting the air around him, smoking the room with a hazy mystery. He strode across Father Anthony’s cell tapping his shiny mahogany walking stick vigrously on the wooden floor. He took a deep breath, smiled and looked through the window before sitting on a chair facing Father Anthony.
“It’s a day for climbing Cave Hill. Beautiful. How do you fancy a walk along Napoleon’s nose?”
Cave Hill was shaped like a giant sleeping on his back, hair streaming into Belfast Lough. Napoleon’s nose a high cliff edge jutting into a clear sky.
“Maybe another day but not today, thank you.”
A wintery white sunbeam highlighted three black hairs in the centre of the Rector’s otherwise bald head. The Rector smiled again with an open unwrinkled face unusual for a man of sixty five years of age. Some might say even miraculous. His features were strong, angular, chiselled and polished as though from the finest cherry wood. He had the kind of face that you might imagine unfold from a life with few problems, but that was far from the truth. The Rector, on the contrary, had had more than his share of sorrows but it seemed to have affected him differently from most of mankind. He had been left an orphan at ten years of age, left in a workhouse, where he had serious health problems, suffering from a mysterious undiagnosed illness which left him lying in his bed unable to move for twelve months. Aged fourteen he was accepted to study for the priesthood. Although he walked with a stick, his body exuded vitality. He spoke with energy, emphasis and joy. He laughed his way through life in a way that left Father Anthony amazed, fascinated with a sense of awe, bemusement and bewilderment.
Where did he find his energy, his vitality, his sense of humour? To Father Anthony the Rector seemed a little too perfect. His tortured past and calm and joyful presence had turned him into a superhuman – unreal – someone difficult to aspire to – or to follow. Father Anthony couldn’t imagine the Rector ever committing even the smallest of venial sins – never mind a mortal sin. In his presence Father Anthony felt obliged to hide the whole truth. By doing that he was aware that he was only fooling himself. God could not be hidden from. Yet, what had he done that needed to be confessed? Faith was a gift from God. If God took his faith away, that was not Father Anthony’s fault. Had he done anything wrong? Yes. He had deliberately engaged in his fantasy of Maria.
He knew that there was nothing wrong with thoughts of Maria arising in his mind. What was wrong was his decision to hold onto those thoughts and do something with them. That was the nature of desire. Desire for Maria lured him like the call of the Sirens lured Odysseus. Father Anthony could have asked the Rector to tie him to the mast. He could have explained his weakness, his temptation. He could have begged for help. Yet he shrivelled at the thought of confessing all to the Rector. The truth was he didn’t want to be tied to any mast. He was sliding down the wooden decks with no hope of return. He wanted to slide. So, he said nothing about Maria as he sat facing him in his cell.
The Rector patted his knees as the logs sparkled into life by the open fire. Father Anthony began a half-hearted confession. What was he going to say? Being half-hearted it was filled to the brim with half-truths.
“Father, I no longer enjoy a sense of the Presence of God. It seems I have lost my faith.”
The Rector slapped his thighs and leant forward on his walking stick.
“You haven’t lost your faith. Faith has nothing to do with a sense of the Presence of God. A sense of the Presence of God is a consolation of faith – a gift from God and only a part of your spiritual development. True spiritual maturity takes you beyond that. You are equally happy with the sense of God’s absence as you are with his presence. His absence purifies you from all feeling, from all attachment to his manifestation on earth. Faith has everything to do with what you do when you no longer feel the Presence of God. Faith is openness to the unknown, to the mystery. It’s not a sense of belief.”
“Why the Creed?”
“The paradox. We proclaim what we believe but at the same time we are open to the mystery of knowing the limitations of belief.”
“What if I don’t believe in God, in the Trinity?”
“Act as if you do.”
Father Anthony shook his head. The Rector laughed.
“It’s not so difficult. St Augustine said, ‘Love and do what you will’. So act now with love. Let faith and belief take care of itself.”
Father Anthony returned a weak smile.
“How do I know that what I do is from love rather than a selfish desire?”
“What do you think you should do? It’s simple. Trust your internal Master. You know what to do. Don’t lie to yourself. Be honest.”
“How do I listen to my internal Master?”
“It’s simple – stop thinking. Sit with your loneliness. St Ignatius advises us to absorb our loneliness as if it were drops of water falling onto a sponge. We are the sponge. Don’t try to escape this loneliness. Stay awake. At such times the ego will do anything to survive. Don’t allow for rationalisation. Conscience is snuffed out like a candle with rationalisation. I have seen it happen so many times before to others. Live with confusion.”
Father Anthony brushed away the beads of sweat from his upper lip.
“Go to the place that hurts and stay there. Open up to the pain. It will teach you everything you need to know in the right time.”
“Sometimes it feels so difficult to get from one minute to another – from one second to another.” Father Anthony searched the Rector’s blue eyes for some recognition of what he was not saying.
The Rector smiled as he rubbed the palms of his hands against the back of his black cassock which was warming like a hot air balloon with the heat from the logs.
“I know you feel the space immense between each moment. You want to fill it.” The Rector took two steps towards Father Anthony and pulled up a chair beside him.
“You feel an unbearable emptiness of being between one second and the next – don’t you?”
“Yes.” Father Anthony felt his eyes stinging with tears. One rolled out of the corner of his left eye. He knew the Rector had seen it. He knew also that he had heard the tiny gasp of his in breath.
“Is it emptiness or is it angst?” The Rector leaned his head to one side and peered into Father Anthony’s eyes.
“Aren’t they the same?” Father Anthony found his voice a little stronger.
“No.” The Rector whispered.
“They’re not. One gives birth to the other. Find out which does which and you will be more than half way there.” He laughed gently, tenderly ruffling Father Anthony’s dark hair which felt silky beneath his fingers, like bows circling an Easter egg.
“I will try. Thank you Father.”
“Don’t say you will try
. Do it.” The Rector thumped his walking stick on the floor. “Just do it and don’t think about it.”
When Father Anthony said, “Your sins are forgiven. Say three “Our Fathers” and resolve never to sin again” Maria maybe should have known that something was different. Her normal penance was one “Our Father”. She said, “Thank you Father.”
Maria left the Confessional. Father Anthony sat in the darkness, listening to the soft tread of her shoes taking five steps to the wooden bench where she knelt to say penance. He heard the swish of her skirt against the kneeling board, the rustle of her rosary being folded into a small black leather purse which snapped closed. He heard the clickity-clack of her heels against the marble floor, walking towards the holy water font where she blessed herself on the forehead, lips and heart. The wooden door slammed shut. Father Anthony bowed his head in the Confessional. His hands throbbed. His breathing was shallow and fast. He closed the wooden shutter to his left, turned off the light before opening the confessional door, lowering his head to exit, letting the door swing gently closed behind him as he walked quickly to the back of the church. He lifted the brass latch, pulled the solid mahogany door towards him. It banged closed as he descended the steps two at a time. A silvery light from a full moon fell intermittently on the ash and oak trees. Clouds scattered, sending dark shadows into the depths of the Grove. Father Anthony took a deep breath as he jumped the last three steps onto the gravelled path.
Maria walked along the grassy verge of the path, in the direction of the monastery, turning right in the direction of the Crumlin Road. A few drops of rain trickled down her neck, snaking their way inside her warm woollen coat. She shuddered, stopping to open her umbrella, shaking it for a moment. The wind moaned softly before blowing the umbrella inside out.
Father Anthony paced quickly after her, his long coarse black habit brushing against his leather sandals. His curly black hair catching rain drops before heavily rolling down his cheeks. He could see Maria struggling with the umbrella. He needed to be with Maria. Without her he was hurtling into darkest space, catapulting into a lonely scary infinite blackness. Without Maria life was numb. It was numbness where his head and heart felt stuffed with ash. He was a walking urn that knew the slow passing of time in infinity.
At the sound of his footsteps Maria turned around. She saw his dark silhouette against the grey moonlit granite of the Church.
“Father Anthony, are you alright? Did I forget something?”
He was standing now only two steps away.
“Maria, Maria …”
Father Anthony pushed Maria against the solid, heavy barked oak tree. Her open umbrella dropped from her hand, tumbling over and over, rolling towards the Crumlin Road. He started to unbutton her black woollen coat, two buttons shooting into the air as he pushed her onto the dampening grass.
“Please no!” Maria touched his face, pushing his lips away with her hand. He grabbed her wrist, digging it into cold wet earth, kissing her deeply. Her lack of response seemed to urge him to press his lips even more deeply against her soft, warm mouth. His teeth crunched against her teeth as his arms moved in a frenzy of undressing. He opened her coat and unbuttoned her blouse.
Maria closed her eyes, lying on the grass, her hair matted with mud. Father Anthony’s hands moved towards her neck. For a brief instance he tightened his grip feeling the throb of her heart beat in his hands. He squeezed her neck gently, as though squeezing out his sin, whispering, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t. Don’t.” Maria coughed the words as she felt his nails scratch the front of her neck. Drops of blood mingled with tears, rolled onto the spiky grass. Her breathing shallow, almost non-existent as she watched Father Anthony’s face twist in pain and pleasure. “Please don’t.”
Father Anthony soon loosened his grasp; laying his head on her half naked body as he looked at her hand stretched out on the wet grass. In the light of moon which slithered between the spires, he saw Catherine’s ring on Maria’s finger. The ring glistened in the light of the moon drawing him like a magnet to her hand. He reached out, catching her hand and touching the ring with his finger, then kissing it and pulling the black woollen coat around them both, sobbing as his breathing returned to normal. The rain continued to fall; now in large drops bouncing off the gravel path – ping, ping, ping – like a small bell being struck, calling to Matins. The drops soaked into Maria’s black woollen coat. Maria rolled her head to one side, seeing the moon emerge from the behind the clouds framed between the spires of Holy Cross Church.
Father Anthony sat in his cell alone before seven o’clock Mass. He prayed to the God he no longer believed in. He closed his eyes, aware of his breathing. God was not in any of his thoughts. God was not in his deep burning remorse. This was the fruit of his sin. He repeated over and over again Psalm 50.
“My offences I know them; my sin is always before me
Against you, you alone, have I sinned;
What is evil in your sight, I have done.”
Then in the gap between his breath going out and before breathing in, he remembered. How pure the heart must be that bears the holy name of Jesus graven upon it. Father Anthony knew that he had betrayed God. God had been there in the Grove when he raped Maria, present in the gap between his in and out breath. There was no need to confess. His sin was known by God. Yet did he need to confess to the Rector to hear his own voice speak out aloud his sin? Did he need to make his remorse tangible in words? How else could he find forgiveness? He needed Maria to forgive him, not the Rector.
He blessed himself, crossing the room, looking at the picture of Jesus pointing to his Sacred Heart, dropping his head before opening the door. For the first time in his life Father Anthony understood the Sacred Heart not as an emotional heart but more a heart whose function was a purity of seeing. It was a heart that was able to see reality – a heart that could respond to the pain and suffering of others with compassion.
The emotional heart needed Maria as an object of desire. It was attachment which needed to be constantly refilled by the presence of the ‘lover’. Father Anthony knew now that the Sacred Heart was true Love. It was Love inside of him which never needed an object to make it complete. It was infinite in its capacity to give and to receive love. It loved everyone equally without preference. Father Anthony breathed deeply, head down, bare toes curling up in his sandals as he walked along the corridor into the church and towards the main altar to say Mass. Holding the Host high the altar boy rang the bell loudly for the consecration. Father Anthony genuflected, took a second deep breath and broke the bread.
• • •
In the surgery Doctor Stewart felt Maria’s tummy. He took out his stethoscope and listened to her heart. He asked her to turn around and listened again through her ribs. He listened to the blood swishing back through her heart valve. There was a tinge of blue in her lips which worried him.
“You need complete bed rest. The heart valve is damaged.” Doctor Stewart helped her on with her coat, saying, “You must tell your Aunt Lily and Uncle Tom. They need to know.”
“What can I tell them? Maria asked.
“Tell them the truth. Tell them what happened”.
“I can’t. You mustn’t tell anyone. You promised me.”
“I won’t Maria, but you should.”
It was as she expected. Lily’s face turned white and then red as she asked, “Who is the father?”
“I’d rather not say,” Maria replied. “Please don’t ask.”
“I don’t think you should keep it a secret,” Lily insisted.
“Don’t ask, I beg you.” Maria shook her head.
“Someone needs to take responsibility for his actions.” Lily looked at Tom.
“Let it go Lily. When is the baby due?” Tom stirred the burning embers with the poker.
Lily sighed and pushed herself against the back of the chair. “How can you say to her to let it go?” Lily asked in a perplexed voice.
Tom stacked a few more piece
s of coal on the fire and wiped the marble fireplace with a wet cloth. “Maria will have her reasons. Maybe it’s better if we don’t know.” Tom’s voice was gentle, undemanding.
Maria knelt on the rug beside the fire, holding her hands out to warm them. “It will be a January baby.”
• • •
Maria caught the bus with Tom and Lily to the Mater hospital on the Crumlin Road to a month before her baby was due. Her heart was weakening. Father Anthony visited, bringing the Eucharistic Host in a golden ciborium. He listened to her Confession, lighting a candle beside the bed, blessing her forehead with Holy Water and praying, “May Our Lord Jesus Christ, take care of you, forgive you your sins and lead you to eternal life.”
Maria closed her eyes, lying back on the pillow. She opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue to receive the Host. It was dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Father Anthony blessed her forehead with Holy Water and moved closer asking, “Maria, do you forgive me?”
“You know I have forgiven you, Father. I’ve already told you. Forgive yourself now. You told me that God’s love doesn’t depend on anything you do or don’t do. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Maria nudged him with her elbow. She laughed. “Sure you know that. You don’t need me to remind you. Where’s all that theology when you need it?”
Father Anthony held her hand and brought it to his lips in silence. He kissed her fingers. “Thank you Maria.”
He looked at her once more as he left the ward. A thin right arm, raised high into the air, waving at him. As he walked along the corridor outside the ward, her hand continued to wave at him through the window. For the first time in almost fifteen months, he smiled.
Next day, alone on the Ward, Maria cried out, “Help. Nurse. Help.”
Eden Burning Page 9