Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Another glance through the sacristy door shows a full church. Pews always swell for this service. Friends and family are in town for the holidays, and the solemn candlelight service may be the one time a year some step foot in a holy place like this.
I have a duty to them and the Lord to feed their spirits, regardless of how restless my own is.
I breathe in.
I breathe out.
I allow a moment of stillness to empty myself.
How quickly I’ve forgotten the lessons of surrender.
I bow my head.
Not my will but thine.
And then I step through the door out onto the altar. The glow of candles cast long shadows against the aged, wooden walls.
The congregation rises, their faces lifted in expectation. I meet their gaze, one by one, anchoring myself in the ritual and the sacred duty that has defined me for so long.
Not my will but thine.
I begin the service, my voice steady even as my heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. The words are muscle memory now—prayers etched so deeply, surely they’re in the marrow of my bones by now.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”
The congregation responds, their voices a chorus that rises and falls like waves against the shore.
I deliver the readings, my voice echoing in the vast space. Scripture is a connection to faithful people throughout time and space. I close my eyes as I recite familiar words about peace and hope like well-worn grooves worn by tongues throughout the centuries.
This is all so much bigger than me, than us, here in this church that is just one tiny node among millions all over the globe celebrating hope and peace tonight. It’s called peace that surpasses all understanding.
So maybe it’s all right if I don’t understand how it will all work out.
Maybe it’s all right if, for once, for fucking once, I let go of my iron control.
Over and over, I glimpse that control is an illusion. But over and over, I clamber to grasp even tighter for the reins.
As if the dark thing inside me will ever be tamed.
I’m a fool.
It’s right that I put an end to this pious farce.
My impulse to run as far from my father might have been the right one, but I had no right to throw myself into a holy vocation that would make me a leader for anyone to follow.
I’ve learned nothing.
I ought to have been paying penance, not putting on white robes and standing up front with all eyes on me.
I was such an egotistical fool not to see the difference.
Agnes is in the front pew, and as always, her mouth presses into the disapproving line that seems permanently etched into her face. Like she’s been judging priests and finding them lacking since the Reformation.
She’s always seen right through me, hasn’t she?
Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, rosary beads slipping between her fingers with practiced devotion.
I feel a rush of affection for her. For all of them.
They’re imperfectly living lives of frail faith. Most people who step foot in a church eventually learn to get good at pretending, but how could I shepherd them when I’m the biggest pretender of all?
So, as I move into the sermon, one of the last I know I’ll ever give, I try to say something honest for once.
“You’ve all been so kind to me in my few years serving you. I’ve been a foolish young man stumbling around trying to find my way, pretending I could offer any wisdom when the decades you all have on me humble me. Sometimes I feel like nothing at all.”
I swallow hard and look down, my careful notes blurring in front of my eyes. I’m supposed to offer wisdom, guidance—a glimpse of something divine. Laughable, considering how obscure everything has seemed of late.
All I can speak about is what I do know.
“Tonight is a night celebrating hope born into the world. I imagine it’s hope that’s brought most of us to church in the first place. Either that or your grandma dragged you along.”
Some chuckles come from the crowd.
I look from face to face in my congregation, abandoning my notes. “We’ve all faced struggles in our life. Dark times when it felt like there was no way out. I know I have. And when I was at my most desperate and hopeless, pleading to what felt like an unkind universe for help, it felt like something answered back.”
Heads nod. I’m not the only one who’s experienced this. Of course, I’m not.
“Hope returned, just when all was lost. A hand was extended. A kind word offered. Or we might find that light within ourselves from a well we thought was exhausted to help us through for just one more day. And then one more after that. And then another.”