Firsts among servants (Vatican City) [Closed]

[Patricus I]

Philip needed to read nothing. Delving into his prodigious memory, Patricus I recited the passages with barely a blink of an eye. Even as the passages rolled from his melodic tongue, the mind was working, assimilating all that was consumed these last few minutes into a formation of definitive opinion.

The struggle that Father Regus described was not against flesh and blood or the obvious monsters and creations of bygone men. The fight was against the rulers of cosmic powers. A spirit of evil to be unleashed from heavenly realms: men who wielded power of gods. From somewhere hidden in the depths of his soul, Philip shivered. Did he believe in God? Did it matter? Did he believe in the passages of John?

He fell quiet, answer dissipating to nothingness.

The Jesuit Father wanted to continue the alliance. Patricus I would not disagree. In turn, it was not the past that his thoughts fixated upon. The future and all of its unknown widened before him. When next he spoke, his voice was rigid with containment, a barricade between the present and the emotional past.

”A dark secret is shared among priests, Father Regus. When a sinner confesses their sins to us, we do not care what it is they said. It is boring and quite forgetful,” he said. The tone of his voice reflected this truth. A Jesuit priest, while experienced in the sacrament of confession, would only on rare occasion sit as the reconciliatory figure. If that Jesuit was the Regus of the Atharim, he was very unlikely to do so, unless the Atharim were not pictured as painted these last few minutes.

”I’ve listened to many. I have absolved thousands, maybe millions of sins. I forget them all – except one.”

Yet the practice of reconciliation for a priest was quite a powerful thing. Therein was the dark secret. It wasn’t the sin that was memorable, it wasn’t the sorrow or regret upon which the sinner bared their souls that the priest was moved. It was the power of forgiveness that flowed through them. Reminding the worst of humanity that even they are loved and the hope that was inspired in the believer was what carried the priest’s burdens. Philip spared no shred of lies as he disclosed these truths to Armande. It was known among them all even if he alone had the strength to say aloud what others barely allowed themselves to think.

”She knelt beyond the screen, and I could hear the sniffles of one who was crying. It wasn’t unusual. She didn’t say anything for a while, and in such instances, I break the silence with a few words. ”My child, may God compel you to speak the truth.” or something along those lines, I said.

She falls silent and says, “I am not Catholic, and I don’t know what to do.” Her voice was soft, feminine, and young. I guessed her to be maybe eighteen years old, of lower-education and socioeconomic status. She smelled unclean, and in that moment, I wondered if she was homeless.

It was not common but neither was it the first time I’d encountered a protestant or atheist seeking forgiveness. I said something pithy and insightful to encourage her comfort with confessing.

I follow with a simple: “What is your sin?”
Without hesitation, she responds "I set a house on fire.”

I ask her what she means, but she only says that she doesn’t want to do it again, and that she needs help. I was an old and long-lived priest by then. I’ve heard the inner workings of the basest, cruelest, most vengeful acts that a human can perform. Regardless of sin, forgiveness is the same in the eyes of Christ and myself whom acts in His place. I am neither one to judge, but I know a mortal sin when I hear it.

I stand up to break anonymity and confront the girl, but she runs by in a blur so fast, the air rustled past my cheek. There exists no acceptable views of her on the security cameras. No way to know who she was. So I forget her.

Months later, the same sniffling slips into the seat, the same aroma of the streets follows. Not uncommon in Baltimore, but my memory is piqued. My suspicion was confirmed when next she spoke. I intend to give her no chance to run this time, but my curiosity must be sated.

“What is your sin?” I say.
"I set a person on fire,” she responds.

An arsonist I think to myself, and a strange new feeling twists in my gut. I ask her what that means, but she only says she doesn’t want to do it again, but now she can’t stop herself. I stopped her before she could run, grabbing at her sleeve. She stops just long enough to look me in the eye. She wasn’t what I had imagined.

She was dark-skinned and wore her hair twisted in frazzled rows. Her clothes were mis-sized, worn and dirty, and the malodourous scent was all the stronger face to face. She was short and quite thin. Frail and homeless as I assumed, and younger than I originally thought. Fifteen at the most. A sheen of sweat slicked her cheeks and her eyes were red from tears and pain. We stand there looking at one another in silence, but she ran again.

I became obsessed after that. I searched for weeks, calling all the shelters and missions in the area, sharing descriptions with those I thought may encounter her. I finally take to the streets myself.” Others warned of the dangers, and Philip wasn’t delusional. His vows did not protect him. Worse, he was not ignorant of the allegations laid before the church. Revenge was a powerful motivator, but Philip believed in Christ, not the Church. He had to seek her out.

”The encampment where I finally found someone who recognized the girl I described was quite large, carrying on for more than a mile beneath the interstate. As soon as I asked about fires, their faces blanked white, and I knew I was close. Then I saw a shadow emerge from a tent. She turned just in time to see me approach, and she knew exactly who I was.

We stared at each other as we had the last time. She swallowed nervously, and that pit in my stomach returned. She began to run, and I ordered her to wait. She was fast, and I was not an athlete.

I don’t know how it happened, but in the next moment, a fire caught my hem. It wasn’t hard to put out. I heard a scream. People began to run. In the chaos, I saw the girl drop. I darted through their panic, and when I knelt at her side, she was already dead.”

Patricus stared forward in silence. To this day her ghost popped up at the worst times. I set a person on fire. It was very frustrating.

He exhaled and sought the gaze of the Regus, declaration at the ready. ”The Lord Omnipotent alone should have such power. The Abomination of Desolation stands in the Holy Place where it ought not. Idolatrous worship is a keen and guile sin. Contemptuous designations for man elevating themselves above God.  Shíqqûç shômem,” he said. The Hebrew phrase referenced the Abomination of Desolation. Scholars debated its interpretation, but the consensus identified idolatrous worship of emblems, altars, and statues. On that scholars agreed completely, and it was such a practice that led to the destruction of the temple of Jerusalem. Eventually, a final destruction awaited. Abaddon’s destruction. The Jews tended to avoid identifying the deities of pagan worship by name, but St. Mark may as well have penned the semitic equivalents of the Greek Zeus and Jupiter in his letters.

His declaration was clear, and finally, and looked to the remaining soup stagnant in the bowl. “In penance, I fasted for a month after she died,” he said, remembering taking her punishment upon himself in her absence. Finally, he pushed the spoon aside, done.