Doing his best to mask his pain, Jacob settled gently into a wooden chair in the dimly lit Sacristy, sitting across from Father Packard, who removed his braided stocking cap and set it on another chair. Oats fell from Jacob's dirty clothes onto the red carpet underfoot. A picture on the wall caught Jacob's eye, one with Father Packard standing next to a man in what appeared to be a clown suit.
"Is that you, Father?"
"Yes, it is," Father Packard admitted, turning toward the photo with fondness.
"That's a serious clown there," said Jacob. "What's he holding? A staff?"
Father Packard's brow sunk and he inspected Jacob with incredulity. "That's not a circus. It's me standing next to one of the Swiss Guards."
"Swiss Guards, huh. A trapeze act? Or what do they do? Drive little cars?"
"They guard the Pope. That's me at the Vatican."
"Dressed like that? Around the Pope?" asked Jacob, forgetting his shoulder for a moment, fascinated by the foppish garb. "For real?" This Papal fact was almost as unbelievable to Jacob as when he misheard the name "Boniface VII", replacing the "i" with "er" in his mind, causing him to titter with laughter during most of his Confirmation ceremony.
"Yes. For real," said the priest, with a serious face, but then laughing and shaking his head, thinking about where the diocese had stationed him for his first flock. This would get a laugh when he spoke to his friends from the seminary. "Let's discuss what you're here for, Jacob. Do you have something to tell me?"
"Let's see," he said, reverting to his usual confession routine. "I swore a few times, and, I cheated on a test in school. Didn't want to, but needed to pass the test to play football."
"I know that's not why you're here."
"Why am I here, Father?"
"You tell me, Jacob."
"Why we're here? How would I know that? I thought you would know that," said Jacob, restless in his chair, adjusting for the pain, trying not to gasp. "I don't know why we're here any more than why cats like to fall asleep in machinery. I just hope it's not the same answer to both questions."
"Fine, Jacob. Why are we here? We're here to love one another and serve the Lord. And now let me re-phrase what I'm getting at. Can you tell me why your Dad rushed you here? And I know you deflect serious questions with humor. You tend to be slippery, like mercury, when seriousness comes around. And that's fine – it makes you fun, but usually there are underlying reasons for acting in such a way. One of them is insecurity. Another reason is low self-esteem. Please look at me, focus here," said Father Packard, connecting his attention to Jacob's. "Don't dodge the issue. I know that something happened. I have a feeling it's important."
Jacob sighed and tried to stifle the pain in his shoulder and chest. The gaze from the priest became intolerable to face after thirty seconds. No smirk could budge Father Packard, no raising and dropping of the eyebrows. The man was not open for humor, paralyzing Jacob's usual tactic. A master of the staring contest, this Packard. Jacob capitulated and turned his eyes away. On the wall, next to the trapeze performer, a crucifix hung on the wall. The downcast head of Jesus leaned in Jacob's direction. As an altar boy, Jacob had spent many Sundays in the Sacristy, but never noticed the crucifix. Most of the time in the room he had spent snooping in drawers, eating communion wafers as snacks, tasting the wine to be used that day in the Mass, dressing in the priests vestments and blessing small objects. He had usually served Mass with Ethan. Many times, Ethan had scolded Jacob for sacrilege during his pre-Mass curiosities. From a cupboard, behind where the priest sat now, Jacob once stole an entire box of incense, just for the smell, so he could burn it at parties. In a drawer at home, he kept his borrowed Psalter, which could now be considered stolen given the length of time in his possession.
Father Packard said nothing. Waited, Jacob thought, like he was waiting for the next pie at the bakery. Jacob's sense of humor faltered under the priest's gaze. He could not look at the priest, and letting his head droop hurt his collarbone, so he looked up instead, fixating on the crucifix.
"What's this about your brother's girlfriend?"
The angle of the crucifix seemed to lean toward Jacob. The silence of the waiting priest, the pain in his body, the question lingering, all things coupling, until Jacob could not help but consider his actions of the day. Exhausted and defeated, a sense of remorse overcame Jacob when he thought of what he had said to Ethan, what he had done to his own brother, who had even saved his life once, and so often covered for his sundry sins.
"I made a mistake," Jacob started, still focused on the cross. "And I'll do it again, because I can't help myself." To Jacob's surprise, a lump entered his throat and he coughed to clear it. "I messed up," he started but had to stop and adjust his shoulder, roll his neck, wince. No football. No wrestling. Neither of those things mattered so much as amending with his brother.
The priest leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "Go on."
"You know in country songs," Jacob said, warbling, "they talk about burning bridges." He continued, telling the truth for once, unfolding the day's events, until a tear ran down his cheek and he could say no more, and the priest put his hand on Jacob's hair and spoke the words of absolution with resolve, with finality, from the power vested in him, and Jacob suffered, for once. The great game of life was paused in a timeout.
When he left the Sacristy, Jacob knelt in the front pew of the church, to begin his prayerful homework assigned by Father Packard. He did not glance at Ethan, who still sat stolid in the rear pew. Jacob rested his forehead onto his folded hands and grimaced in pain, with a real sorrow, as real as he had known, a new sensation of contriteness knocked loose with the snap of his clavicle.
Ray whispered, "Ethan, your turn."
"I'm not going."
"I know it wasn't your fault, but go talk, talk to someone who knows how to pray. I don't know how."
"It sickens me," said Ethan, watching Jacob. "Look at him. Free of his sins now, for telling another lie to the priest."
"I know. I know, but go on. Go on now," said Ray, allowing gentleness into his voice. "It's all we can do now, Ethan."
"This is ridiculous," said Ethan, getting up and walking down the aisle, toward the altar, and into the room where the priest waited in his chair.
Movement in the church basement sounded through the carpeted floor of the priest's sanctuary, the sound of pumpkins dropping as Josh and his children moved about. In no mood for confessing, Ethan only thought of Jacob's sins, and the many times he himself had aided and abetted the boy who cried wolf - only to become the victim of him. Unable to sit, Ethan stood by the chair until Father Packard asked him to sit.
"I don't think I can."
"I understand what happened," said Father Packard.
"No," said Ethan. "You've only heard one of Jacob's tales that he spins for whoever happens to be his audience."
"He told me about Tara. And what he said to you."
"I'm sure he left out the one thing."
"What would that be?"
"The truth. He has a phobia for it."
The priest asked Ethan to sit again, but he declined, moving to the window to peer out a small section of transparency in the stained glass window showing the scene of Jesus teaching the elders at the moment when Mary interrupted. Father Packard said, "I believe that Jacob understands now, that he has sinned against you."
"No, Father, he doesn't," said Ethan, turning toward the priest. "He's tricked you, trust me."
"You must search for forgiveness, but in the meantime, he…"
"Forgiveness?" said Ethan, with a laugh. "And did you grant it to him? Said some words to make it all go away?"
Father Packard leaned back in his seat. "I understand you are upset."
"Like nothing happened. Like magic." Ethan touched his thumb to his fingers and blew on his hand, extending his fingers with a puff of air. "All better now, isn't it? And now he c
an go out and do it again tomorrow. Or tonight, he will be back at it. But at least his place in heaven is preserved, until he kills someone. But lucky for him, even with blood on his hands, he'll be able to come back and bow his head for two minutes and find God's lasting grace."
"Not a tone to take in this room," said Father Packard, quietly. "Yes, your brother wronged you, that is clear. Your brother, he came here to be forgiven, and you must come to forgive. Perhaps not now, not today, but someday."
On the counter, a corked bottle of wine rested against the back wall, near an empty dish used to carry Holy Water to the priest after the blessing of the host. Ethan picked up the bottle and held it in his hand. "Is this bottle blessed? Do you bless the entire bottle, or just the container during the Mass."
"Just what is used during Mass," said the priest, watching Ethan and not the bottle.
"So this is not the blood of Christ then?"
"No, it's not. Please put that down."
"But on Sunday, a portion of this will be on stage out there," said Ethan, pointing to the altar outside the door, "and you will read some words and move your hands around, and then and only then, it will become the blood of Christ. Is that how it works?"
"Not in those terms."
"But that's the basic idea. That we eat the body and drink the blood – literally, the body, the blood, in some symbolic act."
"It's not symbolic. It is the body and the blood."
"Of course," said Ethan. "How could I forget? Not symbolic. It's real."
Father Packard stood up. "I don't think now is the time for your confession. Like your father, you need to come back when your agitation over the day's events has been curbed."
"No, I think this is the time," said Ethan, gently setting the bottle back onto the counter before the priest could grab it from him. "This is the time. I have questions."
"Don't let the wrongs done against you today cloud your judgment. Or your faith. Even if you dislike me, which I sense among you and your father, don't let me or my personality be the deterrent of remaining faithful in the Church. I am one man, not the Church. Too often I meet young people who have chosen to disbelieve because of something bad that happened to them, or because of a sermon that they did not enjoy. But theirs is not a true faith. You must rise above it. And you are a smart person – turn to Job and Jesus and read those words when the world has turned on you."
Ethan ignored the priest's reading suggestion. "What Jacob did does not make me question my faith. Rest assured, Father, bad cards in life will not cause loss of faith, not for me. Bad luck, I don't blame God for that."
"I am relieved to hear that," said Father Packard, shifting his hands, hoping to escort Ethan out of the room, sensing irrationality, not penance. "Let's get together on Sunday…"
"What does make me question my faith is simple things."
"Are you certain now is the time?"
Ethan nodded and sat in the chair for a moment, but then stood again, going back to the wine bottle. "If the Transubstantiation were symbolic, then I could stand it, maybe. Maybe then. But to call it blood and flesh, literally, when anyone can taste a dry wafer and sour wine – I am reminded of the Emperor's New Clothes for admitting what all can see with their eyes but won't admit."
"There is more to faith than Transubstantiation," said Father Packard.
"Yes, I know. It's not just the wine," said Ethan, growing bold, freeing the ruminations that kept him awake at night after studying biology, history, or any course, since the funnel of his thoughts returned to fundamental questions. "As a child in school, you are taught to think critically, not just in school, but for all aspects of life – on the farm, in math class, sports, even in English and Social Studies. Even in crossing the street – believe what you can see, what's there. But one part of your mind must stay reserved, like it's in a museum. Where criticism cannot enter. And that is for the miracles. How can I solve a math problem in school on Friday and rack my brain for the answer, and on Sunday be told that a Virgin gave birth, that a dead man rose from the dead, and that the Universe was created in six days a few thousand years ago?"
The priest did not answer but let Ethan go on.
"The ideas cannot live together, Father. Not for me. Not anymore."
"You want proof, just as the man who asked Jesus to come down from the cross – so that he could believe."
"Yes."
"In that case, your father understands faith better than you do."
"In what way?"
"He understands it absolutely. You understand it relatively. I actually admire your father, when he's not cursing in the parking lot."
"You mean he accepts without question. But he doesn't understand how speciation occurs, how beaks of birds came to differ, how life can be so varied. He doesn't know how plate tectonics pushed slowly apart, a fingernail's length per year, forcing adaptations over long periods of time. How systems overlap, how much time and how many generations of life have passed. Ice ages, meteors, adaptations, extinctions, natural selection, cell processes, DNA damage and repair, the vast and complex systems that underpin everything that we see. And once I've learned of all these things, how am I supposed to read in wonder about the six days and not be reminded of Mother Goose?"
Father Packard said, "May I tell you something?"
"Please, Father," said Ethan, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning against the counter.
"Since science seems to be on your mind, did you know that much of the world's astronomy research is funded by the Church? And since evolution in particular seems to be a topic, would you believe that Rome agrees with evolution?"
"How?" In disbelief, Ethan raised his hands to chest height. "How can they?" He moved to the radiator near the stained glass window, shocked at the idea. He looked back. "How can they possibly allow for it?"
"Because evolution fits," said Father Packard. "There is still the creation of the Universe, as well as the moment when mankind evolved."
Ethan stared at Father Packard's eyes. He had never stared at a priest before, always looking away like a dog at its owner. "I don't know what to make of that. You mean…what are you saying? That Adam and Eve…still happened?"
"There is a place for both science and religion. There is room. There is not a struggle between them, but a synergy, toward the same truth."
"No," said Ethan, shaking his head, "it's another set of clothing that isn't there. It just means the six days story is being mutated. Evolved itself. To fit the findings. To fit the facts as they come forward – and it will continue to evolve each year, as it must, since surely the Pope cannot come out and say that 'Yes!'", Ethan lifted the bottle again, "'This is just normal wine you are drinking, you fools.'"
"Again with the wine," said Father Packard, unmoving in his seat. "What does the wine have to do with science? The wine has to do with faith."
Not listening, Ethan swirled the bottle and watched the red liquid spin inside. "So you're saying there are two central points yet, or three. Day one, God created the universe, possibly multiple universes, and matter, perhaps antimatter. Day two, formation of galaxies and solar systems." He swirled some more. "Trilobytes, the Cambrian explosion…and man – not from dust anymore – but a retooled ape, anointed as Adam." Ethan snorted. "And somewhere along the way, he created religion, for convenience. And don't forget the invention of language to explain away scriptural differences, where in one case the tombstone was rolled back without cause, in another, an earthquake rolled it. Where in one Gospel the rocks split and the veil is torn, but in another the sun gets blotted out. In one he says It is finished and in another he cries out Why have you forsaken me. Which was it then? Was he forsaken or not forsaken? Was the veil of the temple torn, or wasn't it?"
"It's both."
"No. It's whatever you want it to be. And whoever wants to interpret it, can do so according to his biases and claim to know G
od."
Father Packard smiled. "I would like to discuss your concerns in greater length. Smarter men than you and I, Ethan, have considered the questions you have, debating doctrine, inspecting the nuances of the different Gospels. But trivializing it says more about you than any doctrine. I would be willing to go over your questions, even find references for you to read. It's good that you read deeply into your Bible."
"And Paul. How can your most central points come from someone other than Jesus himself?"
"It was revealed to him," Father Packard said. "It is not like how the scientist discovers the radio wave or a process within the cell. The Word is given to the Prophet."
Ethan shrugged. "Crazy people claim the same thing, right in Minneapolis, right now on the street corners."
"It's not as simple as you think. Volumes have been written arguing these subjects, for two thousand years," said the priest, pausing to make sure he could speak further without interruption. "Do you think others before you haven't inspected these ideas to their finest depth, traced all words in the scripture to scrape for meaning? Your questions are not new. Especially at your age. But you will find answers to all of these questions if you only look for them."
"I once thought the Bible had fallen from the sky, but it was written by men."
"Who were inspired by God."
"Yet they didn't know what a rainbow was. Or pi. Or stars. They didn't know much of anything. Nothing was revealed to them. They made things up. Only through modern science has anything been revealed."
"What does pi, or the makeup of stars, have to do with spirituality?" asked Father Packard. "You are talking about measurable things, not what lies beyond our grasp, no matter how far our reach. Faith comes from the heart, not the mind."
"But our reach keeps extending," Ethan said sharply, "and it makes it obvious that the stories are…just stories. If the Edomites had written the book, I imagine that they would have been the chosen people."
"You may see far with science, Ethan," said the priest, crossing his legs, "but you will never see all the way. Not by reason alone. You can't. Even if you look your whole life."
"No," said Ethan, "but I can't continue to look for answers where I'm finding none."
"You will find your faith, Ethan," Father Packard pursed his lips when he was interrupted again.
"I've lost it." Ethan set the bottle down hard on the counter and walked to the door. "And I'm sorry for losing God, but there's nothing to be done about it now. I didn't plan it, and I wish I could, I wish I could put the genie back in the bottle. But it's not possible now. It's too late. Now it's all a mess for me. Goodbye, Father."
Ethan stormed down the aisle of the church to the back row once again. Ray stood up from his pew and walked in to see Father Packard. Peering into the Sacristy, he entered quietly, as if a lion awaited, setting a foot on the plush carpet, worried about the cleanliness of his boots. Confessions usually took place in another room with Father Dimer, not the private area of the priest that smelled of incense. The room had always been a secret to Ray.
"I've calmed down," Ray said, letting his hands hang flat at his sides. "But I don't need to sit. I know you need to get back outside."
"I have time, Ray."
"Another time, Father. I wanted them to see you."
"I'm concerned about your son."
"Jacob has his problems, but we'll work on it."
"Not Jacob," said the priest.
"Ethan? Nothing wrong with that one, it's the other one."
"You had better talk to him."
"About what?"
"About his faith."
Ray leaned back and saw Jacob praying in the front pew, while Ethan stood in the back of the church ready to leave. "I'll talk to him."
"Are you sure you don't want to sit?"
"No," said Ray. "I can tell you from here what you already know. I'm an impatient ass. Plus the usual, those bodies in the war that still haunt me. That about covers it. See you at Mass."
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