The Final Testament of the Holy Bible Part 9

One of my paris.h.i.+oners came to my office and told me someone was having a seizure in the restroom. It was the third or fourth time that this exact situation had come up, someone telling me about a seizing man in the restroom, except whenever I went to check, the restroom was empty. Despite this, I immediately went to the restroom to check again, concerned for the individual's safety, if in fact there was an individual. We had had an elderly paris.h.i.+oner die of a heart attack in our lobby a year or so before, and he was there, alone and on the floor, for at least two hours before someone found him. Though I believed that a church would, in some ways, be an almost ideal place to pa.s.s on, I did not want another death on the premises. The first one had brought the diocese a fairly significant amount of unwanted negative publicity, and had generated a storm of paperwork. Given all of the controversies of the past years, and my love for the church and desire to protect it, I hurried to see if it could be avoided again, or if I could be of any aid to the man who was sick.

I entered the restroom, the men's restroom, and saw a man standing at the sink, was.h.i.+ng his hands. I immediately thought he was Jesus Christ. I gasped and I was frozen and I could not speak. He had longish black hair, a short black beard, and alabaster white skin. He was extremely thin, wearing ragged clothes that hung off his body, and he was covered in scars. And he was glowing. Literally glowing. The restroom has no windows, as is proper for a rest-room, and only one ceiling light, and I would swear on a Bible, or anything else I hold or held dear, that the walls were illuminated, and that he was glowing.

He looked at me in the mirror and smiled. He continued to wash his hands, very slowly and deliberately, very peacefully, if it is somehow even possible to wash your hands in a peaceful manner. I can only imagine what I must have looked like, standing before the Son of G.o.d, a man I had wors.h.i.+pped every day of my life, a man I had spent countless hours praying to meet. I couldn't move, and he just stared at me in the mirror. When he was done was.h.i.+ng his hands, he turned and walked towards me. He put his arms around me, and I whispered My Lord into his ear. He held me for a moment and kissed me on the cheek and turned and walked out of the bathroom.

I stayed in the restroom for several minutes, standing exactly where I was when he left me. I was trying to reconcile what I had just experienced, which was, I believed, then and now, that I had been in the presence of Jesus Christ, the Son of G.o.d, the Messiah, the Savior, the earthly embodiment of the Lord G.o.d. He had smiled at me, and held me, and kissed me. He had placed himself within the sphere of my life, and my church, and my wors.h.i.+p. I thought about how many people on earth could say that they had had this profound experience, or could say that they had been literally touched by the Lord? Though billions and billions had prayed for it, and continued to pray for it every day, Christ had not appeared, or had not made his appearance known, for over two thousand years. It was a miracle. The greatest miracle. He had returned to save us and redeem us. He had come back to bring about the glory of the End Days. There are no words for what I felt at that moment, knowing what I knew, or what words there are, are inadequate. If forced to try to characterize it, I would describe a feeling of great peace, humility, and serenity, a deep sense of hope for both myself and for humanity. A feeling of enormous satisfaction in that all I believed in had been validated. And to be completely honest, there was something electric in it, something ecstatic, something I had felt only once or twice in my life, but never so strongly. It was something that scared me because it felt like I could lose control of it. And loss of control is always the source of fear. It is also, however, always the source of change.

After leaving the restroom, I went about the rest of my day. I met with one or two paris.h.i.+oners during my office hours, older women who attended ma.s.s most mornings and whose husbands had pa.s.sed away. I went to a local hospital, where I pray for patients two days a week. I had a simple dinner in my quarters, which are in the rectory behind my church. I prayed to and thanked G.o.d for blessing me with his Son's presence. I read the Bible, focusing on the book of Matthew, where the Second Coming is addressed in some detail. I prayed again and tried to sleep, but was unable to do so. So I stayed up, thinking about my life and how I had arrived at that moment, praying to a G.o.d I had met earlier in the day.

My childhood was, to say the least, troubled and difficult. My parents were Russian immigrants who had escaped from the Soviet Union in the '50s. Neither had believed in the Communist system, and both had dreamed of a life of freedom in America. In many ways, this is why they fell in love, or it was, in some way, one of the primary reasons they ended up together, for never in my life did I ever see any real love exchanged between them. Their fathers both fought in and died in World War II. My mother's father was taken prisoner near Raseiniai and died in a German POW camp, and my father's father froze to death outside of Leningrad. Their mothers both worked in factories near Daugavpils, and both were brutalized by German occupiers in the early stages of the war. My mother's mother had a child by a German as a result of a rape, and my father's mother was branded a sympathizer as a result of being forced to work as a prost.i.tute servicing German soldiers. After the war, they were shunned by their neighbors and constantly hara.s.sed by the KGB. They were often taken in and held for indeterminate amounts of time at local prisons, and were denied the same rights as others who had suffered during the war. Also, because of this situation, neither of my parents was allowed to attend a decent school, or had a chance to become anything more than a basic service worker. They held jobs as cleaning people at a tank factory, where they met, and six months later they fled to Finland, initially leaving with four other workers from the factory. Though neither would ever discuss what happened during the actual escape, I know that all four of the other people they left with died during it. Once I heard mention that my father was somehow responsible for their deaths. I also know that they learned that as a result of their escape, their remaining family members were rounded up and sent to a gulag in Siberia.

Once in Finland, they went to the U.S. Emba.s.sy and asked for asylum. Because they had worked in a tank factory, the U.S. government believed that they might have valuable intelligence and flew them to a military base in Germany, where they were debriefed. Aside from knowing how to sweep and mop floors, neither of them knew anything. They were, however, given residency and sent to Detroit, and given jobs similar to the ones they had held in Russia, though this time in an auto-parts factory. They married, more because they knew no one else and had become dependent on each other, and I was born, though during my birth there were complications that prevented my mother from being able to have any other children, which she reminded me of almost daily for the rest of her life. They brought me home and continued on with their sad lives. They worked at the factory, and when they were home they drank and fought. My father beat my mother, and when I was relatively young, two or three, he started beating me. We both learned to leave him alone and not speak in his presence, though that made little difference. As I got older, the beatings got worse. At different times, both my mother and I had our noses broken, our arms broken, our ribs broken, and our teeth knocked out. The neighbors knew what was going on, but none called the authorities. It was a different time, and that was thought of as the correct way to handle such a situation. People at school knew I was from a troubled home and they spurned me. I had no friends, and no teachers who cared about me or believed I would ever do anything with my life. When I was sixteen, my father went over the edge. He saw my mother talking to a neighbor, a man, and believed she was having an affair. When she came home, he beat her with a wrench, and when I tried to stop him he beat me. When I woke up in a hospital room six days later, I learned he had beaten my mother to death, and had hung himself in his jail cell after being arrested for murder. To be completely honest, I wasn't upset at all. I felt bad that they had lived such miserable lives, but I felt relieved that their lives were finally over. My only concern was what I would do, or how I would take care of myself. I had no other family, and I was entirely alone. Soon, though, I learned I was not. A Catholic priest came to see me and told me he had spent several hours a day praying at my bedside. My parents were both atheists, and I knew nothing of G.o.d. I did, however, feel that this man was kind and pure and interested in helping me. He gave me a Bible and started talking to me about G.o.d, and about Jesus Christ and the manner in which he gave his life for the sins of man, and about the power of prayer. I was in the hospital for several weeks, and over the course of that time he indoctrinated me into the ways and beliefs of the Roman Catholic Church, and I became a Christian. He was the first person to ever pay attention to me, and show me love, and I came to love him in the manner I believe many sons love their fathers. When I finished high school, I entered the seminary and began training for my life as a priest. When I finished, I took my vows and entered the priesthood, believing I would devote my life to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and to what I believed was the one true church. I believed I had found my true home, and that I had found my true family, and that what I was doing was the work of G.o.d, based on his word.

As I lay in my bed, reflecting on my life and praying, I eventually fell asleep, though not for long. I woke at five the next morning and prayed the Liturgy of the Hours from my Breviary, as I do most mornings. After praying, I would normally write the homily for the morning ma.s.s, but I was feeling G.o.d so powerfully, and feeling so strong in my faith, that I decided not to write anything and say whatever I was feeling in the moment. I was very excited to celebrate ma.s.s, which I do on most days, and which can be something of a grind, especially on days when the church is empty. On that particular day, I knew it wouldn't matter if there were any wors.h.i.+ppers or not. I didn't believe I'd be celebrating with anyone but G.o.d himself, who had blessed me so profoundly the day before, and I believed that none of the church's problems were relevant anymore, and that we were about to enter the greatest era in our long, distinguished history, an era when we would be proven righteous, and our glory would be confirmed by the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. The dwindling numbers of church members, and the aging of the remaining members.h.i.+p, would no longer matter. The controversies related to our policies towards women and h.o.m.os.e.xuals would cease to be. People would stop blaming us for the spread of AIDS in developing countries because of our stance on the use of condoms. And the never-ending scandals caused by the s.e.xual abuse of children would end. We would be righteous.

I got dressed and left my quarters and walked to the church. I prepared the service with the deacon and the two altar servers and walked towards the altar to begin the introductory rites. I looked out into the church, and I saw four people, three elderly women and one elderly man, and the man appeared to be both homeless and asleep. Although this was typical of a morning ma.s.s, normally it would have disappointed me. This morning, though, it did not at all, for I knew at least three of these people were here to wors.h.i.+p, and that at some point soon, along with the rest of G.o.d's true followers, we would all be in Heaven together. I began the service, and greeted them by saying In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, and my voice sounded pure and strong and true. When the people answered amen, I felt chills down my spine, and I thought yes, my Lord, amen, yes, my Lord Almighty, amen.

Normally, and according to tradition, during the Liturgy of the Word, I would read one pa.s.sage from the Old Testament and one from the New Testament, but on that day I read two pa.s.sages from the same book of the New Testament, Matthew 24:4244,42 Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. 43 But understand this: if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into. 44 Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour, and Matthew 25:3134, 31 When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. 32 All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, 33 and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. 34 Then the king will say to those at his right hand, "Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world." n.o.body noticed my indiscretion, not even the deacon, so I kept going, believing that G.o.d had endorsed my choices, and that he understood I was trying to alert people that his Son had arrived. The rest of the service was simple and beautiful, and as is the case sometimes with the things we do in life, whether they are part of our life's work, or simple tasks, or recreational events, everything felt right, and it was easy, and the time, which could sometimes pa.s.s slowly, seemed to speed up and move more quickly. After the ma.s.s, when I would normally go to my office and return mail and deal with administrative tasks, I decided to go for a walk through the neighborhood.

The church was in the Midtown area of Manhattan, on the west side of the island, in a neighborhood referred to as h.e.l.l's Kitchen. Directly to the east was Times Square, which, when I first started at the church, in the late '80s, after working first at a church in Newark, New Jersey, was a cesspool of sin, filled with p.o.r.nography parlors, the streets teeming with prost.i.tutes, drugs for sale on every corner. In the '90s, it was cleaned up by the mayor, a man I believed to be a fine, moral, righteous Catholic, a man who was holy without being part of the clergy, a man who was a warrior in the name of G.o.d and G.o.d's values. h.e.l.l's Kitchen, which had been an extension of Times Square, and a receptacle for the residual overflow of sin emanating from it, benefited greatly from the changes that the mayor imposed on the Square. Where it had once deserved its name, it became a neighborhood filled with actors, musicians, and young professionals who liked the idea of living near their offices in Midtown, and filled with restaurants and cafes and theaters that served them and provided them with venues. When I first started working there, I loved taking walks. While many of the neighborhood's residents were not Christians, or were lapsed Christians of some denomination, my clerical collar and position at the church commanded a certain respect. Shopkeepers were kind to me, and often went out of their way to help me. Policemen greeted me, and I often stopped and chatted with them. Mothers and their children would smile and wave to me. Even the prost.i.tutes and drug dealers would greet me, saying things like h.e.l.lo, Father, how's the Big Man doing today? My walks made me feel good about myself, and about my choice to devote my life to G.o.d and service. I was proud to be a Catholic priest, and proud of my church.

Over the years, though, all of that had changed. My collar, for many, had become a symbol of shame and outrage. The press that resulted from the s.e.xual abuse scandals had permanently altered the image of the church, and regardless of our individual positions on the issues, or our individual involvement in any of them, they had permanently altered how people viewed the men who served it. Inside the church, the most obvious effect was the number of paris.h.i.+oners who stopped attending our services. Outside the church, on my walks, I became something of a pariah. Shopkeepers were openly hostile towards me, and would sometimes ask me not to shop in their stores. Policemen looked at me in suspicious ways. Mothers and their children went out of their way to avoid me. I often heard people yell pervert or child molester after I had pa.s.sed them. Once I was attacked and beaten. As I lay on the ground, being kicked and punched, I heard my attackers slurring me and slurring the church. I decided not to report them. And on more than one occasion, the doors of the church were spraypainted with epithets. I scrubbed them off myself.

All of this was heartbreaking for me. I had entered the priesthood in order to serve G.o.d, serve society, and do my part to make the world a better place. I had done everything in my power to live a life devoid of sin, and when I had sinned, I had confessed it and atoned for it. To know that, because of the actions of others, deplorable unforgivable actions, my life and work had been debased and tarnished was very difficult. It got to the point where I rarely left the church, and often when I did, I went out in civilian clothing so that I would not be identified as a Catholic priest. It was a nightmare. And not just for me, but for many of us in the church, or at least those of us who believed that some of the indiscretions had actually occurred. For those who didn't, and there were many, including Pope John Paul II and Pope Benedict XVI, there was no shame, just denial, confusion, defiance, and rage.

There was no nightmare, though, not on that day, that day after I had met the Messiah, the Son of G.o.d, Jesus Christ himself. There was only excitement and pride and tremendous optimism. I went out without an agenda, in my finest clothing, wearing my collar. The dirty looks I received did not bother me. The remarks I heard meant nothing. The way I saw parents hold their children's hands a little tighter when I pa.s.sed was meaningless. I walked for three hours, and saw the glory of G.o.d everywhere, in everything. The city had never been so beautiful, despite the trash and squalor and desperation I saw, despite the fact that most of what went on in the city was done for the glory of money. I knew that soon everything would change. That soon, everything would be done for the glory of the Son, and of his Father, the Lord Almighty.

For the next several days, I followed the same routine. I would take care of my duties at the church, and celebrate ma.s.s, and in my spare time I would walk. During every service, regardless of the number of wors.h.i.+ppers, I would scan the pews, hoping to see him again. With every step I took during my walks, I was filled with antic.i.p.ation, and with every corner turned, I thought he might appear. I stared at the restroom door, and sometimes went into the restroom, hoping I would find him again. I knew it was only a matter of time. Jesus Christ would not appear in my life once and vanish. I knew in my heart that he would be back.

I saw him the next week during Sunday morning ma.s.s. The church was about half full. I was performing Communion, and the paris.h.i.+oners from the middle pews were at the rail. I glanced up and he was there, sitting alone, dressed in rags. It was a dreary New York day, cold and wet, and there was no sun coming through the church windows. There was, however, light coming from him, and light around him, in the same way you see light surrounding Christ in cla.s.sical depictions of him. I froze for a moment, and smiled, and was immediately flooded with a deep sense of love, and forgot that I was in the middle of ma.s.s, until the paris.h.i.+oner asked me if I was okay. I looked down and said yes and continued with the Communion, though I wanted to stop, stop everything, and tell everyone in attendance that G.o.d was literally in the room with us, that the Messiah had arrived, that all our prayers had been answered. As the service came to a close, I saw him stand and leave. Part of me was crushed, but a larger part of me told myself to trust G.o.d's plan, because I believed G.o.d would take care of me, take care of all of his people, and that all of what was happening was happening for a reason.

He was back again the next morning. And two mornings after that. And then he was gone for a week, and then reappeared again on a morning when there was no one else in attendance. Each time I saw him, I felt the same overwhelming sense of love. I felt the same ecstasy and electricity. The same peace. And each time I saw him, he stood and left just before the end of the service. And each time I believed he would be back, that it was part of G.o.d's plan, and that it would unfold before me as it was meant to be.

He came again during a Sunday ma.s.s. And this time, he didn't leave. As the rest of the paris.h.i.+oners left the church and I stood at the door and said goodbye to them, he stayed in the pew, unmoving, staring straight ahead, the light still emanating from him. I was not the only person to notice him. A number of people approached him, all of them clearly feeling something similar to what I felt, as I saw them kneel before him, at which point he would motion for them to stand or sit next to him. As each of them left him, I saw him hug them in the same manner he hugged me the day we first met, and I saw them change, physically change, as if something had been taken from them, something sad or unpleasant, something tormenting, something that had prevented them from living or feeling or believing in the manner in which they wanted to. It was striking and beautiful, watching the touch of one man immediately change someone, watching whatever their burdens were lift and vanish. It was something that only G.o.d, or the Son of G.o.d, could possibly have the power to do.

When everyone had left, and the church was empty but for the two of us, I walked towards him. He was still sitting, silent and unmoving, and with every step I felt my heart beat faster and harder, and my hands started shaking. I stopped at the pew, and he turned and looked towards me. I spoke.

My Lord.

He smiled.

My name is Ben.

I kneeled before him.

Please get up.

The Bible says let us kneel before the Lord, our maker.

And I say no man should kneel before another.

I didn't move, couldn't move. I closed my eyes and held my hands in prayer in front of my chest. I heard him move and felt his presence come towards me. When I opened my eyes, he was kneeling in front of me, his face inches from my face. He spoke.

You like this?

He smiled at me.

You think it's required?

I spoke.

I am not G.o.d.

He spoke.

No man is G.o.d.

Are you not the Son?

Do you believe?

Yes.

He smiled again.

Sit with me.

He stood up. I couldn't move. He moved back to where he had been and sat down. I looked at him, but still couldn't move. He smiled.

Come, Father. Sit with me.

I stood slowly. My legs were shaking and my hands were shaking and I was both thrilled beyond description and absolutely terrified. I took three steps towards him and sat down. He smiled again and turned away, looking towards the altar of the church, above which was a statue of Christ hanging on a cross. I had a million questions for him, a million things I wanted to say, but I couldn't speak. I just stared at him, and he was beautiful, and he was G.o.d. I thought of Psalm 34:5, They looked unto him, and were lightened: and their faces were not ashamed. I don't know how long we stayed that way, it might have been five minutes, and it might have been thirty, but once again, seeing him made me believe that my life's work had been worth it, that my commitment to G.o.d and the church had been worthwhile, and right, and just, and that G.o.d's light and glory would soon flood the world. He turned to me, and spoke.

You going to say anything?

I don't know where to begin, my Lord.

He laughed.

You look up there...

He motioned towards the altar, towards the crucifix hanging above it.

And you look at that piece of dead wood, beautifully carved, and beautifully painted, but still just a piece of dead wood, and you think it represents someone, and you think that someone is me.

Yes.

I'm not him.

You are.

I am not.

Is this a test?

No.

I know that G.o.d tests our faith every day, that being tested is part of faith.

G.o.d does no such thing.

And I believe this is exactly the type of test I would expect from him.

He laughed at me.

And I want to pa.s.s the test. I want to prove myself worthy of whatever G.o.d has in store for me.

G.o.d doesn't know you exist, and doesn't care about you.

I don't believe you.

So be it, but it is true.

How do you know?

Because G.o.d speaks to me.

Literally speaks to you?

Not with some silly voice, as it happens in the Bible.

Then how?

How doesn't matter. What does.

And what is that?

That this is all a fraud. This church, every church. That the world's religions are bankrupt and meaningless. That the world itself is bankrupt. That it's all going to end.

As has been foretold.

I know every word of every holy book ever written. None of them foretell what is coming.

Revelations does.

Revelations is a stone age science fiction story.

If that's so, who are you?

Who do you think I am?

Despite what you say, I believe you are Christ reborn.

I'm a final chance.

You're here to redeem us and forgive us.

There will be no redemption, and no forgiveness.

You're here to resurrect the dead, redeem the living.

I'm here to warn humanity that it is going to destroy itself in the name of greed and religion. That there is no G.o.d to save any of us. There is no Devil to take us to h.e.l.l. That man's only enemy is himself, and only chance is himself.

You're here to bring about the Kingdom of G.o.d on earth, and to show that the Catholic Church represents the one true faith.

Your perverted church has done more than any other to bring this about.

If you feel that way, why are you here?

I've been going to churches, synagogues, and mosques, trying to understand why people still believe, despite the fact that what is said in these places is ridiculous.

It's because G.o.d is real, and people know it.

It's because they're scared of death, and want to disbelieve it.

The promise of eternal life is G.o.d's greatest gift.

The promise of eternal life makes people forsake the life they're given.

Wors.h.i.+p makes one's life better.

Love and laughter and f.u.c.king make one's life better. Wors.h.i.+p is just the pa.s.sing of time.

I stared at him, and he smiled at me. And even though I disagreed with everything he had said, or wanted to disagree with it, his overwhelming physical presence, and the undeniable and una.s.sailable feeling that he was divine, and that, despite his denials, he was the Son of G.o.d, made his words penetrate to the core of my being, and the core of my faith. He spoke again.

Stare at your cross.

I looked away and towards the crucifix hanging above the altar. It was a realistic depiction of Christ. Both the cross itself and Christ on top of it were carved out of wood from an olive tree. The nails could be seen through the hands and the ankles, and the look on Christ's face was one of peace, calm, and serenity. A crown of thorns could be seen on his head, and his eyes were open. Christ himself was painted in what I would call a realistic manner, giving one the sense that it was a close representation of what the real Christ must have looked like during the Crucifixion. I had seen it a countless number of times, and had stood beneath it while celebrating ma.s.s for many years. I had prayed to it, asked it for advice, begged it for help, and sought it out in times of strife and sorrow. And while it was, to me, a representation of the Holy Trinity and the Catholic Church, I would be less than honest if I said that it held my attention the way the man next to me did, or if its presence had the same power his presence had. After two or three minutes, during which the only sound I heard was the two of us breathing, he put his hand on my thigh. I felt an immediate, and extremely powerful, rush, unlike anything I'd felt in my life, something that was in my blood, my bones, my heart, and my soul, something that literally took my breath away. And as I turned towards him, he stood and leaned over to me and gently kissed me on the cheek, holding his lips on my cheek. I closed my eyes, and I felt myself become erect, a sensation I was not entirely comfortable with and had always resisted with the fear that it would lead towards sin, but that felt wonderful, absolutely and stunningly wonderful. He held his lips against my cheek for a moment, and then ran them slowly towards my ear, where he whispered.

Life, not death, is the great mystery you must confront.

And he stood and he walked away.

Needless to say, I was stunned, and unable to move or think, and I stayed in the pew, in a heightened state, my heart pounding, my face burning, my skin tingling, and my p.e.n.i.s erect, for a long time. When the physical sensations faded, I started thinking about what had happened, and felt a deep sense of conflict and confusion. While I had never felt so good before in my life, or felt love so powerfully, both physically and emotionally, everything I knew, and had been taught, and thought I believed, told me that what had just happened was wrong, terribly wrong, at best a sin and a transgression of my duties and responsibilities as a priest, and at worst blasphemy, heresy, and something that could result in my spending eternity burning in the fires of h.e.l.l. In my wors.h.i.+p, I had never actually conceived, in a real way, what it might be like to stand in Christ's presence, to hear his voice, to speak with him, and to have him touch me, to feel his love flowing through and affecting every cell in my body and every aspect of my soul. My thinking had always been abstracted, about what it would mean to meet Christ, but not what it would feel like to meet him. And while I could not reconcile all of his words and actions with those of the Savior, or what at the time I believed might be the words and actions of the Savior, the feelings I had felt when he spoke, and sat with me, and touched me, and kissed me, and was left with after his departure, felt very pure to me, and very true to what I now believe Christ must have made his believers feel. It was, more than anything, an overwhelming and very profound sense of love, innocent, unconditional, deep, and true. And it was after feeling it that, for the first time in my life, I truly knew what it meant to be close to G.o.d. Not the Catholic G.o.d, or the Jewish G.o.d, or the Muslim G.o.d, or any other G.o.d, but the true G.o.d. The G.o.d that is life, and the G.o.d that is love.

When I could, which was at least an hour later, and probably longer, I stood and left the church. I asked the deacon to handle my remaining responsibilities, and I went to my quarters in the rectory, where I kneeled before a small crucifix on my wall and tried to pray. I wanted to say a prayer of examination and contrition, which is something I said most evenings before I went to sleep, in which I examined my thoughts and actions and asked the Lord to make me a better person, and a better priest. As I stared at the crucifix, I kept thinking about what Ben had said, about the cross being nothing but a piece of dead wood, and I kept thinking of the feeling of his hand, and his lips, and the difference between what Ben made me feel and what the crucifix made me feel. I recited the traditional prayer of contrition, O my G.o.d, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of h.e.l.l; but most of all because they offend you, my G.o.d, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life, amen, but I did not feel any better, or any different. I kept trying, and tried to put more spirit into the prayer, but nothing changed, so I started praying, and speaking, directly to the Almighty Father, telling him about the conflicts I was having, telling him about the potential sins I had committed, and begging for his forgiveness. Nothing changed, and if anything, the fact that prayer was not helping me made me think more about Ben and what he had made me feel.

Whenever I was in crisis, or felt lost or confused, or needed earthly guidance, I reached out to the man who had brought me to Christ, and to the church, a man I considered my father here on earth, who had loved me more than my biological father, and who had brought me to the Holy Father. He had excelled in the priesthood because of his devotion and piety, and had become an archbishop of the diocese in Michigan where I grew up. I felt like I needed him that day, and though Sunday is obviously a busy day for a Catholic bishop, and normally I would never expect him to take time from that day, G.o.d's day, and a day when his diocese needed his leaders.h.i.+p, I believed I truly required his counsel. It took two hours to get him on the phone, during which I only grew more confused and upset. When I heard his voice, and heard him tell me that he would always be there for me in my time of need, I felt better. I proceeded to tell him the entire story, from the moment I first saw Ben in the bathroom until the moment he left me sitting alone in the pew, and I included all my personal thoughts and emotions. When I finished, he told me that he was happy that I had reached out to him, and that my mortal soul was at great risk. The first issue he addressed was the church, and my feelings regarding some of its recent scandals. He said that while priests were human, and thus vulnerable to the same temptations as any human, the s.e.xual abuse scandals were, in large part, a creation of the media, which was controlled by the Devil. He said that many of the allegations were invented as part of a smear campaign, and that the church protected the priests because they had done nothing except serve G.o.d, the church, and their parishes. He said that the campaign against the church was designed to destroy it, and was similar in conception to the Holocaust. And though the church did know of some transgressions, it had always handled them appropriately, and had done everything in its power to protect priests from unfounded accusations. He said he also believed that a large part of the campaign had to do with depleting the church's wealth through frivolous lawsuits, and he believed that if something truly bad had been happening, G.o.d would have stopped it. G.o.d, he said, always looked after the interests of the one true universal church. G.o.d, he said, would not have allowed anything so perverted to exist within it. He reminded me that he believed G.o.d chose each of the priests who became ordained within the Roman Catholic Church, and that G.o.d did not make mistakes.