Kill the dove!

by Francis Kroncke

  Chapter 10: The first night back Inside

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  No, that’s not how Jared wants to begin! But how else? They never taught another way. Really, why not start like that? Is he too proud to say, I have sinned? Is that it—he’s simply too arrogant? Is it pride that keeps him from using the old familiar words? Yes, pride—that probably is my sin.

  Jared is meditating, lost inside New York City’s massive monument to American Catholicism—St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He has come here on his final trip back East before entering prison. Here he has sat for hours, fighting his own self-judgments, his internal biting ridicule of all he is and has done.

  St. Patrick’s! As a kid he marched before this place in St. Vincent’s Drum and Bugle Corps. He came here with his dad as a special treat and privilege just to hear Mass. Always, he’s been impressed by the majesty of this House of God—the overwhelming presence in stone of He Who Judges Us All.

  Judgment. Truly, he has never felt God’s love here, only His wrath. Here, into the pit of his country—Gotham, the Big Apple—that wild headache of the restless heart of mankind, Jared has come once again to confess. He hadn’t intended to come here. Certainly, he had wanted to visit New York but it hadn’t consciously occurred to him to go back to St. Pat’s.

  “Bless me, Father . . .”

  No, I can’t do that!

  But he must—confess, that is. For his is a confessing faith. Confessing his unworthiness to even kneel before God and seek His justice. No, not justice—mercy! The State has rendered justice, it is for God to be merciful. Although he’s never sought mercy from his God before, now he craves it. He whispers, “I confess that I stood up and proclaimed your Word. No, no! I confess—I have claimed that I am your Word! Isn’t this pride, Almighty Father? I stood as a prophet and claimed that breaking their law proclaims your Grace. Isn’t this arrogance, delusion, conceit—even worse, idolizing myself?” Bitter whispers, lip-bitten utterances.

  Yet another soulful, insistent voice urges him, “Resist!” It repeats, echoing, Resist! Resist!

  Jared sits back, not registering the austere discomfort of the pew, and surveys the church, straining to see the flickering sanctuary lamp that indicates God’s presence. No, I won’t say “Father.” I can’t go back to that narrow, male religion. Never! I won’t whimper in front of these arrogant, death-blackened priests.

  He buries his face in his hands. Why am I so afraid? Why do I shudder, sitting here?

  Jared sighs and kneels again, holds his back ramrod straight, his eyes locked on God’s altar, that slab of atonement.

  Growing up, Jared always envisioned himself as a priest. So it was a surprise to everyone when he left the monastery after his novitiate year. But it wasn’t so much that he rejected the path of priesthood as that he couldn’t live with priests—they were the problem. After college when he went to study theology in graduate school, it was another attempt to be faithful to his priestly instincts, what he’s always felt was without doubt his calling—his soul’s task. Karma, man . . . karma!

  At this moment Jared feels like a wayward priest, one of those so often decried by the Novice Master as drunks, apostates, womanizers. All his failings with Char, Bruiser and Dikbar are wrapped around his self-doubt about the “holiness” of his sacrifice of draft files on the altar of the draft board. That’s how he sees it. Yet, he realizes that his may be the most peculiar explanation for doing draft raids ever concocted!

  Who else was charged up to commit “sociopolitical sacramental acts”? Other activists, even other Catholic Radicals, thought he was an odd bird. Unlike the others, Jared is driven by the uneven passion that grips those who seemingly throw away their lives, who give up the world in obedience to the specter behind the queer word God.

  Jared is still on a priestly mission, seeking to fulfill a spiritual, sacred duty: to destroy all false gods and thereby to be a witness to the power of his God, His peacemaking power—“Peace that surpasseth understanding.” Blessed are the peacemakers.

  What troubles him here in St. Patrick’s is the other hand of God—the hand that lies heavy upon him, the one that sends a cold shiver of doubt through the body of a newly ordained priest. Although he has assessed that his act of raiding draft boards bestowed the priestly ordination upon him, there is no celebration in this because he judges the raids a misfire, his sacrifice unacceptable. He’s heartbroken, devastated by his failure to do God’s will. Have I really failed? he soulfully pleads. Agonized, he waits for a sign. God, is even this expectation a condemning evidence of my pride? His insides twist in anguish, he feels he’s being gnawed on.

  Jesus, oh sweet Jesus, have I trod in thy footsteps? Have my years been in your service as I’ve told myself? Have I been righteous? Have I been a servant of servants? Thoughts jam and ram his skull, each gaining cunning entrance to torment his mind, all wailing and screeching so that his head throbs near explosion.

  For uncounted moments Jared hangs heavy in the pew. Perspiration beads his brow. His legs feel leaden. A cool chill raises the hair on his nape—ethereal fingers tap him, probe to find an entrance into his soul. God have mercy on me!

  He can’t move, can’t stand and walk out of the pew. Anger, fear, pride, seething rage paralyze him. In despair he confronts his only choice—he must surrender and submit. With a last desperate prayer he feverishly whispers, “Oh Mary, Mother of God, help me! Give your son strength! Take me under your guidance, and please—oh please!—make me worthy as you were worthy to receive God’s love.”

  With these words cleansing his mind from irresolution, Jared pushes himself upright and without hesitation strides over to and enters the Black Box.

  “Bless me”—he does not say Father—“for I have sinned. It has been . . . it’s been quite some time, about five years since I’ve confessed.”

  The figure shadowed by the screen doesn’t move or speak. Jared continues as trained, actually lets slip a Father.

  “Father, I’m having a difficult time examining my conscience. I’m confused over my own feelings and self judgments.” Lip-licking pause. “See, I’m about to go to prison.”

  The shadow moves closer to the screen, but Jared can neither hear him speak nor breathe.

  “I’ve been sentenced to five years . . . for destroying draft files . . . in defiance of the Selective Service. But I did this because I believe in peace, because I want this insane war to stop.”

  A sharp question shoots through, it smolders with irritation. “Are you a priest?”

  Jared hesitates briefly. “No.”

  As if checking off a prepared list, the confessor continues his line of questioning. “Have you ever been ordained?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been in Orders?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been in the seminary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Back in the minor Sem, with the Franciscans. I left from the Novitiate.”

  “What is your job?”

  “Job?...Well, I became a lay theologian—you know, with Vatican Two and all. I got a master’s from the University of—”

  The confessor interrupts, doggedly pursuing his path of inquiry. “Did you teach?”

  “Sure. For several years on the college level and—”

  “Ever preach?”

  “Okay. Yes.”

  The interrogation stops abruptly. Jared waits in silence for a moment. It irritates him that the two of them have fallen into the “I’m the priest, you’re the layperson, I’m in charge” routine. But before he can express his pique, the priest resumes.

  “You have assumed the role of preaching and teaching within Mother Church. That is a serious obligation. Clearly, your lapse in receiving the Sacrament of Penance indicates a greater lapse in your obedience to the Church—is this not true?”

  With rising anger Jared mentally indicts himself. T
rapped! Why have I let myself get trapped again? He wants to snarl, “Father, I don’t know how to talk with you. I feel bitter toward the Church—filled with venom toward priests like you who gloat with judgments about the sinfulness of their fellow Christians. I came here because I don’t even know if I believe in sin anymore. Not to be grilled!” But something deep within restrains him, as if a firm hand were placed on his shoulder. His muscles are tense, ready to flee, but he’s unable to push himself away. He came here having waged a fight against his own better judgment, and now the fight begins anew. Who is this priest? What do I care about what he says? How can he possibly understand me? How dare he judge me?

  Again, the confessor’s voice struts through the grate, now unblushingly confident of itself. “You accept your obligation as a theologian, of that I’m sure. I’m also sure you have succumbed, through your exposure to advanced studies, to the temptation that damned Martin Luther and his unfortunate disciples—that of private interpretation of Scripture.”

  The priest doesn’t pause to solicit Jared’s comments. He moves steadily forward, so accustomed to deference to his authority that he assumes Jared is arrested—and humbled—by the mere sound of his voice.

  “I am well versed in the sloppy theology of those who consider civil disobedience a call from God. I’m extremely pleased that the Lord has sent you to me today because I know well the place where you are going.” A hint of nostalgia seeps into his condescending tone. “I was a prison chaplain as a young priest . . . Those were truly blessed days for, as you will find, prison is filled with wayward sheep and one can truly be the Good Shepherd.”

  Jared is quietly choking, feeling strangled by the tone even more than the content.

  “Shut up!” he growls. The confessor’s voice halts. “You—you are everything I was supposed to be. You—” a slight pause, “you stupid fucking asshole!”

  With that, Jared lurches to his feet, swats the curtain aside and exits the confessional. He doesn’t stop to genuflect or touch the lip of the holy water font or hail the sanctuary light as a beacon of His Presence or pause to savor the eternal odor of incense. Furious, he strides out of the cathedral, marching with an acute awareness of what he is shedding. It is done, he proclaims to all the protesting voices within. Out loud, shouting to the distant reaches of the cathedral, “It is done, now and forever. Amen!”

  Jared plunges out of the church—an observer might think he’d been thrown out—from its darkness into the moldy light of Gotham.

  Jared propels himself five blocks before he realizes he’s going full steam ahead in the wrong direction. He pivots abruptly to reverse and at the first opportunity turns left. Hands in pockets, eyes counting the concrete lines of the sidewalk, only the weight of his primary purpose for visiting New York gradually begins to slow him down. Prepare! Prepare! warns the sentry within.

  Prepare! For Jared has actually come to New York to see his Uncle Sam. Funny he’s called that. In fact his Uncle Maurice took the name Eugene when he joined the Franciscans but Jared has never called him Uncle Maurice nor Uncle Eugene. He was Friar Eugene before Jared even knew he had been Maurice and—a bit stuffy most thought—he insisted on being called Friar, never Uncle. Now just a couple of years ago, he ups and leaves the Order and joins the Jesuits, takes the name Samuel. Calling him “Uncle Sam”—especially during these war years!—feels just a shade too weird. But Jared doesn’t want to deal with that on this trip.

  Knock, knock. Uncle Sam opens the door and waves him in as if Jared were a daily visitor. “Jared, my beloved nephew. God bless you!” is said as he strokes the air with a priestly sign of the cross. Jared, half-resisting, blesses himself in response.

  The two sit down in large over-stuffed chairs and begin to chat as if they had just returned from lunch and were picking up an earlier conversation. A glass and a bottle of spring water are chair-side. Both men easily settle in.

  “My son, God is Love. Rest assured that you have come at the right time. You are meant to be here. God’s grace will enfold you even at the moments of your greatest despair and self-doubt. Please unburden yourself.”

  “Unburden myself?” Jared snaps at the bait, engages, locks onto him with the same blistering energy he had the last time, almost three years ago. “Me unburden me? How about God unburdening Himself! How about Him? You tell me why He’s taken war and evil onto His back and walked the earth with it?”

  The poison in Jared’s convictions causes the blood to drain from Uncle Sam’s face. “My son, seek to know the unfathomable ways of God. His Son became flesh both as a light and as a stumbling block. In Jesus, the glory of God has shone forth, as has evil’s many black hearts. My son, my brother, be steadfast in these times. Trust that all you have seen in bounteous light will reveal itself even more greatly in numinous darkness.”

  Jared says nothing. What is there to say?

  “My son, my brother, are you afraid to trust?”

  “Afraid?” The question slowly strangles itself in Jared’s throat. He repeats, “Afraid . . . to trust?” He pauses, pours himself a glass of water and starts to respond but then doesn’t. He’s so pissed he can’t move!

  Jared strains to pull himself together but his only desire is to abandon this place. End it all with a sacramental sign of Fuck you! slinking from his erect finger. Just like at St. Patrick’s, all his past, even his familial past must be damned!

  Uncle Sam rises, tugs at parts of his attire, shifts and pulls at his trouser belt through his robe. He’s employing the repertoire of deft, minuscule moves that must be mastered by those who wear flocking drapery over trousers. Primped, he sits back down, rocks a bit this way, a bit that, like a mother hen settling in her nest, spreading her feathers and her heat over her brood.

  “My son, my brother, during the darkness at the beginning of our Atomic Age, I was a newly ordained chaplain at a convent in Japan. I was quite young and filled with an ardor for the conversion of the unbaptized. My years of work found me debating ceaselessly with brothers of different faiths. Often I spent long hours reading through the testaments and scriptures of alien religions. I labored to understand the Buddhists, the Confucians, the Jains. I was sent there mainly to clear up a health problem, and now to my shock I was confronting my first intellectual defeat. Sadly, I was forbidden, for matters of health, to pursue academic studies.”

  Uncle Sam takes a sip of water, draws it out, putting some time between his words.

  “Truthfully, I was driven by the kindness and compassion of my pagan brothers to question the roots of my own belief. I was so cast astray that all I could do was request to be brought home, to be returned to the Mother House of my Order. To return and to die. Verily,” his voice breaks, “verily, I sought but to die.” A pause . . . quiet breathing, intense eyes.

  “Before I could get the letter sent, American pilots dropped the Bomb. I, out of hundreds of thousands, was spared any pain or hurt—not the slightest wound on my body although the streets next to mine were burned to the ground, although fellow priests and nuns were scorched to death in my backyard. I was too staggered in those hours to ask myself any questions. I did not pry into why God had spared me. My days were filled with walking the streets and healing people. I attest, my son, my brother, God chose me to heal.”

  Oddly, Jared is aware that a faint odor of chrysanthemum scents the room.

  “In the midst of that blinding light of man’s self-discovery I plodded the streets, dispelling the darkness it instilled into people’s minds and hearts. My tongue took on the power to touch people’s souls, people who spoke a language I had never mastered. My hands were vehicles for healing wounds that no medicine could soothe. My whole body became a reservoir of grace, a lake of peacefulness and trust for hundreds whose sense of life had been shattered by the blazing fireball of human light. Why did this happen? Why did a feeble cleric with an ignorant mind become such a chosen vessel? Why was I able to finally reach out and bring a true light to those I had consider
ed pagans?”

  Uncle Sam pauses in such a manner that Jared knows that he has asked himself these questions a thousand times.

  “No, my son, my brother, it is not because of anything within me myself. No, I became the vessel of light because I had opened myself to the darkness of God. I had opened myself in ways that I had not understood. I could be with these people because I’d been filled with the darkness, not the light of their beliefs.”

  Uncle Sam’s story sends goose bumps up Jared’s arms and down his back. But a big wearied So what? echoes in Jared’s mind.

  Uncle Sam pushes himself up from his chair with the difficulty and grunts of a fat man lifting himself out of a pit. Wordlessly, the priest takes his most valued gift—the crucifix presented to him by a group of hibakusha, survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki—loops it from his neck and presses it into Jared’s hand. “It is the presence of Him salvaged from the wreckage of a melted Buddha by a craftsman whose creative light the Bomb could not extinguish.”

  Jared cradles the twist of metal. Uncle Sam blesses it, speaks the word, “Hibakusha.” At once Jared is taken aback by its lightness—it is thin, something that can be worn under a shirt, next to one’s heart. Curiously, he also feels a leaden dread, conjuring a memory of a presence that he had felt as he knelt before the Novitiate’s replica of Grunewald’s The Crucifixion—a presence that sends a teeth-chattering chill into his every bone.

  Strange—as he holds the cross and dimly hears Uncle Sam talk more fully about the hibakusha it mesmerizes him, draws him into itself.

  Whang! Whang! The jailhouse cell gate automatically slides and slams shut, Whang! Whang! Whang! Five times, his being the first in the row of five. Somewhere an unseen hand guides the massive lever that closes the row of cages one by one at each evening’s Lights Out. Jared is back Inside, back in County for a brief stay before he’s escorted to prison.

  He turns over onto his right side, savoring the remembrance of his visit with Uncle Sam. As this blessed twilight fugue vanishes, there is a residue of stinging regret. Why couldn’t I ask him? What would he have said to me if I had told him about Bruiser and Dikbar, about Char and Aaren? How would he have understood Burston? Would he have urged me to go to Canada like the others? Questions and more questions that sting, then as now. Non-answers that reach all the way from St. Patrick’s, some fifteen hundred miles away, right into his cell.

  My first night. Five years! I must accept this, I must . . . He kisses the hibakusha. He prays—prayers which mercifully calm him like a bedtime narcotic. The bitter reality of his new life as a convict slowly starts to ebb. Here at the end of his first day back Inside, here in a darkened cell in the Hennepin County Jail, Jared abandons himself, softly crying in his abandonment, “My God, my God, why have I forsaken you?”

  It is an abandonment to the trust of a god he questions exists.