by André Costa
I consciously choose to use the technical and legal approach, sharing her drama in the plural second person out of respect for a lifetime dedicated to the profession of faith and the sacredness of her convictions. My opinion, if any, is worthless.
It works like a miracle. Elizabeth barely feels the blow and smiles back. Then she sighs and sits still for a few seconds, her eyes fixed on mine. Suddenly, a hearty laughter bursts from the depths of her soul. I welcome the blessing, answering with my own laugh.
With watering eyes, Elizabeth places her hands on my knee, indicating that she is ready to listen to what else I have to say.
“I haven’t gotten used to being called David yet, not by you, at least. But I want you to keep doing it even after hearing what I will tell you.” I take a deep breath: “I’m going to Limerick today.”
The simple mention of the county’s capital makes Elizabeth intuit something that quickly colors her face and dilates her pupils.
“I will be having a final conversation with the bishop. Yes, Elizabeth, I will return to the priesthood!”
She squeezes both of my hands as tightly as she can. As the clock strikes eight in the background, Elizabeth dissolves into tears and hugs me.
“I love you, David. I’m sure this is the best decision for you.”
After my announcement, two things happened. One, wholly expected, was that the news reached every single ear in town at the speed of light and lessened the investigative looks. The other was that the days now dashed by as if they had no real business to deal with. On the outside, nothing changed. I kept running in the mornings, meditating by the river, and helping my uncle at the pub while he searched for a new chef. Uncle John had gotten used to spending most of his time talking to his costumers, moving from table to table, and so he would rather retire than go back to his previous station behind the counter.
My decision to return to the priesthood caused him immediate logistical constraints, of course, but he had even more reasons to be distressed than when I had told him of my determination to attend the seminary many years before. He was a man of few convictions, but one of them was that reversing past choices was foolish and a trace of weakness. He saw life unfolding in clear linearity that did not allow backpedaling, even if reason and emotion consensually demanded it. That was his most apparent and maybe only extreme thought.
“I hope you find purpose in what you’re doing,” he said. “Maybe the kitchen work helped you. The mind rarely finds peace if the hands are not busy.”
I remembered those words on a sunny Sunday morning, just a few minutes before my second début at the Immaculate Conception Church. Standing by the main entrance, I pressed my uncle’s aging palms together with my hands as obsequious faces paraded in silence. They followed a ritual that started long before stepping into the church, as if the hours before Mass required both holy attitude and thoughts in order to gain access to the house of the Lord. Perhaps they had even more reason to dress up in their cloaks of obedience and servility that morning, since, as in Luke’s parable of the prodigal son, they would witness God celebrating their pastor’s return.
From the altar, my pulpit confronted the good ladies of the Tea Club lined up in the first row. The seats were almost all taken, except for some inexplicable voids between the front and middle rows. Perhaps it had always been like that, and the vicinity to the priest was deference to the most devout among the faithful. The back rows held a more figurative, hesitant, or rotating audience. Not by chance, they housed new faces, like some regulars of the Old Boys’, long absent from the sacred pews. There were also some young people who I often bumped into during my morning runs.
At nine o’clock, I began the Mass. For Catholics, it is nothing less than the fulfillment of Christ’s commandment to do what the Messiah himself did at the Last Supper, and thus to perform the divine gesture of receiving the body and blood of Christ in the form of bread and wine. And it was Sunday. In our Church’s liturgy, this is the day when Jesus resurrects.
There was, however, something much less liturgical in the Lord’s house that morning. Some faces—without hiding behind handshakes and the guise of welcoming smiles—suddenly wore inquisitive stares and conspiratorial lips. Their looks murdered without knowing that, from the altar, nothing escaped my scrutiny. I also noted that, like borders in the Middle East, the packed church hosted some irreconcilable seats.
I could read the mutterings clearly at least in the front row. Teeth were grinding in repudiation for I had broken a practice instituted by Father Duane: to discuss the subject of the homily with the ladies of the Tea Club prior to Mass.
Aside from this matter of order, I religiously followed the itinerary prescribed in the Roman rite, with the liturgy of the Word and the Eucharistic liturgy. I knew these rituals so well, and I handled them so automatically that—from time to time—I had an uncomfortable feeling of mimicking a shaman. A sad imitation, though, for I could not lead the faithful into a state of trance, nor perform divination or healing. I could only rely on my words to justify my role that morning, and perhaps that was precisely why the audience was so skeptical to my presence.
Conversely to my last Mass a year before, however, my hands did not shake, and my skin was dry. I transported myself to the top of a Kalahari mountain and watched the skies. The stares and muttering grew silent, as I read a passage from Micah’s Prophetic Book in the Old Testament:
He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.
And what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.
And a verse from Peter 5:5:
All of you, clothe yourselves with humility toward one another, because
“God opposes the proud
but shows favor to the humble.”
After reading the Gospel, I looked at my friend in the first row, and she launched back an apprehensive smile as if wishing me luck. Then I began the homily, undoubtedly the most awaited part of the Mass.
“The Bible is full of warnings against self-appreciation because of man’s inherent desire to be worshiped. And the forces of darkness have convinced the young in particular that happiness is achieved mainly through the satisfaction of their egos. But believe me, it’s an impoverished ego devoid of depth, through which we cannot perceive ourselves as an inseparable part of the whole that composes existence and that indelibly unites the absolute totality of animate and inanimate beings. So, we turn our backs on the divine presence in all that exists. Brothers and sisters, I don’t see a more visible face of the serpent which removed Eden from beneath our feet than the dark and devilish face of ego…”
A few steps from the altar, Elizabeth’s countenance was now that of a serene angel. She was the only one, besides Uncle John—comfortably exiled by the front door—to understand that I began my familiar conversation with the faithful not about my whereabouts, nor as a justification for my deeds; I was merely a mouthpiece for my inner change.
“During the last Mass I officiated,” I continued, “I brought great discomfort when I stated that I was not a good Catholic...” Oddly enough, the remembrance of my public confession did not raise any eyebrow this time. “I may indeed not be a good keeper of the traditions and ritualistic guidelines. I’m afraid they may serve their noble purpose as much as they host a golden nest for our self-image. But what I am today, more than my commitment to that sweet theatricality, should assure me the word from this pulpit and the priesthood…”
The Mass was heading to the end when I looked at the congregation as if my eyes were once again gazing into the vast horizon of the desert. I saw my child running towards Marie; his arms open, his little legs stiff with excitement. The image in my mind was as vivid as the faces kneeled before me. It was awfully painful; but without sorrow, how could we dignify the braveness of our choices?
“For most of you, the stor
y of Adam, Eve and the serpent is no more than a beautiful fable. Maybe you don’t even believe there was ever a paradise. In turn, you are certain of this insane world that victimized our dearest Karen. Why so? We’ve accepted a world that corrupts childhood, violates women, discards the elderly and devastates nature. We refuse to believe in a dream, but we lay our entire faith on a nightmare…”
“Well, about a year ago….” I went on, leaving the altar and coming down to the aisle, “I started my own journey to find out what went wrong with humankind. I was focused on the so-called human condition and its immutable set of detracting elements. My random field experience, however, made me realize that the biggest issue is rather our inability to see the whole—or to perceive it in ways that do not betray our dreams.” I paused, giving space to an astonished first row. “A skilled shaman can make us conceive a reality that is not poisonous. To what better purpose could I serve?”
Back at the pulpit, I didn’t expect everyone to absolve me. I pocketed the pipe I received from Mrs. Schwartz—which served as a bookmark during the Mass—and concluded the liturgy, saying, “Go in peace, and may the good Lord accompany you.”