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Bless Me Father By Dawna Tompson August, 2000 e-mail: [email protected] (Story Synopsis) Jim Bowers had longed to serve God since his early childhood. Over the past 22 months he has lived with his friend and mentor, Dr. Curtis Selchrist, at the remote San Paulo Monastery in Northern New Mexico. With his help Jim has attained the pinnacle of insightful meditative prayer. Recently Jim has found that he can no longer enter this meditative state of bliss without being overwhelmed by images of sexual depravity. He is powerless to resist these sexual fantasies that seem so real. So real, in fact, that Jim is no longer certain where reality ends and fantasy begins. Jim is convinced that such impure thoughts could only have been dredged from the mental landscape of a sinner unworthy of the priesthood. Selchrist persuades Jim to perform one last act for him: Confess everything to an anonymous priest at the San Xavier de Sierra mission. Jim spills a tale of lustful and immoral sexual fantasies. His confession, guided by a mysterious priest known only as Pete, awakens Jim to his real role in the priesthood. A role so shrouded in secrecy that only the Supplicant Brothers, members of a quiet monastery in northern New Mexico, know the full extent of it. --------------------------- Chapter I "Bless me Father, for I have sinned, it's been one week since my last confession." Jim recited the line again to himself. He had been rehearsing this familiar opening off and on for most of his trip. Now he knelt inside the confessional trying again to visualize where and how he would proceed after that. He licked his dry lips and looked above his head at the small crucifix. Normally, he could take comfort in gazing at Christ on the cross but it made him uneasy today. He glanced at the red paint depicting the wound to Christ's chest. He thought about his own wound deep inside of him. The heavy dark green curtains were parted just enough to allow a rose colored shaft of light to penetrate his surroundings. The light spilled through the six stained glass windows along the south side of the solid stone church, a small shaft barely squeezing between the curtains of the confessional. It allowed barely enough light to see but provided too much warmth for the small booth. He turned away and examined the rest of his confessional box. It seemed to be an imitation of his own emotional world; tiny and barren. Jim wished a light like that peeking between the curtains could illuminate his own soul. Even a slender beam like that entering the confessional might be enough to allow him to find his way. He had little enough to look at; a kneeler, a crucifix, plain wooden walls, and a screen. The screen was built of two layers. The side he faced had a stylized imprint of Christ achieved, Jim supposed, by some artist drilling small holes through the flimsy plywood. The inner screen seemed to be composed of identical small holes perforating the entire slat. By darting his head back and forth he was able to make out the figure of the priest on the other side. In a moment he knew the inner screen would slide open and he would have to begin. He thought again about leaving. He actually started to get up but then remembered his promise to Dr. Selchrist. Dr. Curtis Selchrist had been his teacher, his mentor, and his closest friend. He was his advisor, priest and, until today, his confessor. He had taken Jim under his wing ever since he had been asked to leave the after his Novitiate at St Augustine's. It seemed so long ago. It didn't matter now, for after this last deed, he would be free of the priesthood. Jim had not wanted confide his reasons for leaving the priesthood to Selchrist. Selchrist had instead urged him to take confession with another priest. He suggested that he go to the mission at San Xavier de Sierra in the southern part of the state. "Just make the trip to this church, it will make all the difference to you." He pleaded. But he had refused to elaborate on why he thought a trip to a small mission church in the Sacramento Mountains, over 250 miles from their isolated monastery, would help him to change his mind. "Why had Selchrist had been so adamant about this trip?" Jim wondered. He seemed so certain it would clear his path back toward the priesthood. He had even loaned him his car and asked him to take a few days to think about this impending decision. "Poor man." Thought Jim, "He's taking my decision hard. Perhaps he's still in denial. He has invested so much in me that he can't let go. He doesn't know what a sinner I am, how unworthy I am to become a priest." Jim once thought he had been worthy of the priesthood. Indeed, it had been a major theme in his entire life of twenty-three years. He had received the calling early. His earliest memory was of kneeling before a crucifix at the side of his bed reciting his prayers with his mother, "Our Father. . . ." Before he was six he had fashioned a surplus from an old robe and had filled an old glass goblet with crackers so that he could distribute communion to his sister. What followed would be a litany of religious activities leading up to the ultimate: entry into a seminary. He had been at various times, an altar boy, a choir member, youth tutor, summer camp counselor, reader, and sub-deacon. At each stage he had tried his best to remain a pure and worthy servant of the Lord. Of course there had been the setback at St Augustine's. But Selchrist had appeared from seemly nowhere to revive his spirits and take him under his wing. It all seemed like such a waste now. It was over. He knew it. God knew it. But Selchrist needed some time to accept it. Maybe he had been unfair to his mentor. After all, Jim had refused to tell him what had motivated him to abort his quest for the priesthood. He was sure Selchrist felt betrayed. They had shared so much, but the reasons for his decision was something he could not share with him. He would not confess his sins to him. Not now, not ever. He would have to trust his confession to the anonymity of an unknown priest in a distant church, just like any other member of the Catholic faith. He had met Dr. Selchrist shortly after his troubles at St. Augustine had climaxed. Curtis had showed up at the campus one day when Jim was reeling from yet another failed class. Dean Ritter had called him to his office for a counseling session. As he walked in his eyes were pulled toward the striking stranger standing next to the dean. He was tall, slender, with short gray hair and a closely cropped goatee that made it difficult to be certain if it was severely trimmed or just beginning to grow from stubble. His gray eyes matched his hair. Jim was immediately impressed. Jim remembered how he had gazed upon him. Their eyes met in a blaze of intensity. They each shared this external manifestation of their inner illumination. An inner light that none of the other students in this seminary had. Indeed, a light shared by few of the men answering God's call. Curtis' voice was kind and he felt at ease in the dean's office, something quite remarkable for Jim, who had been in the dean's office more often than most of his fellow students. At no previous time had his visits with the dean ever felt as comforting. "Dr. Selchrist," the dean offered, " has been kind enough to consider a special program for you Mr. Bowers, one that may fit your needs and develop you better than we can do here at St Augustine's." Jim knew instantly that he would accept whatever was being offered. For one, he needed to rid himself of St. Augustine's. It was clear that he would never be able to achieve the priesthood if he had to endure any more of the rigorous classes at the school. But the more important reason was the man who stood before him. Jim sensed a deep connection to him; a connection based on a shared knowledge of spirituality. "Here was a man" Jim thought, " who knew what devotion to God and was all about." Jim knew this instinctively. Selchrist would be his guide to get him back on track for a life of service to God. He eagerly agreed to the dean's suggestion that he withdraw from St. Augustine's and allow Dr. Selchrist to take him to New Mexico. In a matter of hours he had collected up his personal belongings and threw them into the back seat of Selchrist's old Honda. They began the long car trip westward only minutes after he had completed his official withdrawal from the university. With his academic problems behind him he could pursue a life of devotion, guided, he was certain, by the tall, gray- haired man who sat beside him. One of his fondest memories of those early days together was of the two of them sitting in a roadside rest stop in Missouri just after daybreak. Sitting together on a picnic table the two had drawn themselves together in a meditative bliss. As Jim opened his eyes at the end of his prayer the sun broke through the heavy cloud cover and a single shaft of sunlight bathed the two men in a golden pool of light. The shaft was barely bigger than the picnic table, yet it surrounded and illuminated them perfectly. Jim had taken it as a sign from God that he had made the right choice. For nearly two years Selchrist had guided him along the road to mastering devotion to God. Jim had always enjoyed prayer, especially the inward quiet of an intimate conversation with God. But Selchrist had shown him how much further prayer could be taken. Recently, the two had spent hours together each day in deep meditative breathing exercises, the development of specific mental images, and special techniques to clear his mind of worldly debris so that he could feel at one in God's universe. Jim's connection to God, the universe, and his knowledge of his place in it had been greatly strengthened. It was Curtis Selchrist that he had to thank for it. A few month's ago his prayerful meditations had suddenly changed. They had become a trip into the pit of his twisted sexual desires. Impure thoughts intruded on his conversations with God. Thoughts that were so impure that he could not share them with his mentor and friend. Thoughts that were all the worse because of the enjoyment he felt from them. Yet once he had returned from these twisted devotions he was consumed with guilt. These worldly pleasures had no business within the mental walls of a man devoted to the adoration of God. A man who was worthy of God should not, indeed could not, take pleasure in such decadent thoughts. He had fought this work of the devil. He had prayed for a release from these impurities. He meditated on controlling his sexual urges, reminding himself of the need for celibacy, for purity. He prayed for deliverance. Yet even as he prayed the images had thrust themselves in waves of sexual pleasure over him, invading his body, his mind, and his soul. Yet Selchrist continued to urge him toward higher planes of meditation, oblivious to the images that coursed through Jim's mental landscape. These years of learning had been meant to develop devotion to God, not lurid sexual pleasures. Yet that is what had become of his prayers. He had fallen into the hands of the devil. He had worked hard to achieve great mental control and intense powers of concentration, yet it had been stolen by the devil. Stolen in the most impossibly twisted way. He no longer had a connection to God. He had inadvertently built a single-minded connection to a world of lust and depravity that he could not escape. And it was a world that he enjoyed. It brought him intense pleasure. A pleasure he did not deserve, a pleasure he was certain would lead him directly to hell. He had to quit. He could not stop the images or the pleasure he enjoyed from them. But he would not allow himself to betray God. He was a lost cause, a reprobate, swallowed by his own sexual appetites. He was not worthy to be a priest. The hardest part had been telling him. He knew it had hurt the old priest deeply. After all, Jim had been a special case for him. He had personally tutored him in the art of prayer and meditation at the quiet monastery hidden deep in the forests of northern New Mexico. He had saved Jim's dream of becoming a priest. He had come close. In another five months he was to lie on his face before the Bishop and take his final vows. But in the end, even the venerable Selchrist had failed. Selchrist suggested, no insisted, that Jim travel to San Xavier to take the 'Sacrament of Penance.' He had used the older term for the ritual, not the more accepted term 'Reconciliation.' "It will be in the strictest privacy at a church you have never been to. Perhaps there you will be able to come to terms with whatever has driven you to this wrong choice." He had been specific, "Enter the northeast confessional at San Xavier de Sierra at 3:00 p.m." Why he needed to be here at that specific time was something he could not guess. Selchrist could be a difficult character to understand. Jim had briefly considered that the old man would actually try to make his way into the confessional, but he dismissed this as outrageous. Curtis would never break his confidence in this manner. The trip had been easy, driving down the two-lane state route from the northern mountains to this small church in the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains. At sunup he had breezed through the sleepy village of Abuqui. By eight o'clock he had passed through the rush hour traffic in Santa Fe. He sped across the smooth desert plains in only a few hours, racing southward in the old Honda. Jim's resolve to lead a secular life seemed to become more solid as the miles widened between himself and San Paulo. For the past twenty-two months he had lived at San Paulo high in the pine studded mountains of New Mexico. The isolation of the monastery suited Jim's desire for a contemplative life perfectly. It was built to be apart from the busy secular world and it succeeded superbly. As far as Jim could tell, the place had not changed much in the century since it had first been erected. The monastery was poised off of a narrow county road splitting two national forests. The abbey consisted of a large main building of adobe and several farm buildings and barns. The main building had two floors. On the first floor was a large library filled with religious tomes. There were also a surprising number of esoteric works from Gnostics like Hymenaeus, Philetus and Alexander, works on alchemy by St. Germain, Zosimos of Panopolis, and Ignatius Loyola. There were many volumes related to the ancient works of the Quaballah as well, large leather bound tomes of ancient parchment. At the opposite end of a long hallway was a small chapel where the monks took turns saying daily Mass. The remainder of the main floor contained a dining hall, a 'great' room, which the monks used as a common living room, and a small modern kitchen at the back of the building. The edifice was a strange mixture of old and new. For the most part Jim considered the place as being essentially unchanged from its nineteenth century roots. Only the kitchen had running water. The main building had electric lighting, although many of the monks still used candles to illuminate their rooms at night. A separate bathhouse was located about fifty yards behind the kitchen. An old barn contained a few cars, including Selchrist's Honda and an old John Deere tractor that was used to plow the small bean field that the monks cultivated. This field was the only visible source of income the monks had. They lived simply and needed little. Still, there were contradictions. The library was equipped with three modern office computers. Each was hooked via a high-speed digital network to an Internet service provider in Santa Fe. The kitchen was filled with modern commercial quality appliances. The great room sported a modern sound system capable of rattling the fixtures when booming out a St. Seines organ overture. The top floors contained living quarters for the monks and their visitors. Jim thought there were about fifteen 'cells.' One man rooms with a bed, a small wooden desk, and a basin. An old barn and several smaller buildings surrounded the main building. The entire complex was set a half-mile back from the road and hidden behind a mixture of pine and aspen trees. The rare traveler on the narrow county road would likely be unaware of the complex. Indeed, few of the local residents even knew of it. He lived with Dr. Selchrist and seven other monks of the Supplicant Order. This was an order devoted to quiet meditation and prayer. The only others Jim had seen during his time there were a few visiting priests who somehow had found their way to the hidden abode buildings. Jim had followed the State Route southward then turned east onto the U.S. highway just north of Alamogordo. As he climbed into the rugged Sacramento Mountains the vegetation grew thicker, the dry New Mexico air grew cooler. For most of the day he had been relieved that he would be finally getting this over with. He had left before dawn with his spirits nearly as dark as the scudding winter clouds of the high desert sky. By mid-morning, his spirits had risen as high as the hot sun entering the windshield of the Honda. It would be over by the end of the day, and then he would be free. At least free of the need to guard his thoughts. Free to think whatever came into his head, free from the horror of a double life. Perhaps in time the sexual images would abate, releasing him from the torrid religious implications of his fantasies. Perhaps he could at least change them to something more acceptable, devoid of the religious icons that now populated his world. Then he might at least be able to live with the guilt. He could be an ordinary sinner among ordinary men. He found San Xavier perched between the highway and a deep ravine halfway up the mountain. Inside he found a large stone church, built by Franciscan monks more than one hundred years ago. The quiet and peacefulness he expected was only broken by the occasional rumble of large trucks on the highway using their engines as brakes against the steep incline. It reminded Jim about his own slide into his personal sexual abyss. He walked into the church confessional, just as he was instructed, at exactly 3:00pm. The flicker of light as the holes between the screens alternately aligned and then closed and the slight dragging sound of wood against wood brought Jim back. It was time. Time to start, and he hadn't rehearsed anything past "Bless me Father. . . " ". . . . it has been one week since my last confession." Jim intoned. He paused, wondering how to proceed next. A kindly voice asked of him, "Why is there so much sadness in your voice my son? We are all sinners, yet Christ will always forgive us. You only need to state your offenses to the Lord. That's why you've come isn't it?" "Yes, but this is so difficult. I have been plagued by impure thoughts. Thoughts so out of character, so indescribable, that it will be difficult for me to relate them. "I don't see this as an unusual thing for a young man like yourself. You are young, perhaps a little older than majority by the sound of your voice. You are at the height of your physical urges no?" Said the voice from behind the screen. "But father, this is different. I'm going to be a priest. Was going to be that is. I was to be ordained in the spring." "It sounds as if you are grievously troubled." Said the voice from behind the screen. Impure thoughts so serious as to derail a man's devotion to his religious vocation, this I have not seen before." The last words were mumbled as if to himself more than to Jim. The kindly voice started again. "It is no great sin to have impure thoughts, to be sure it is an affront to God, but never an unforgivable transgression. Celibacy is not to be entered into lightly. Every priest has to fight this demon, but prayer and faith in Christ sees us through these difficult times." He then added more ominously, " But to act . . .this is more serious. You have not taken any overt actions to satisfy these urges?" "Yes. . . , I mean no. . ." Pleaded Jim. "I mean I'm not sure." "Then you must pray." Replied the screen, "Pray to be relieved of these thoughts. Pray for guidance." "But father, it was prayer that lead me to this problem in the first place. Chapter II "Perhaps you'd better explain, young man." Said a somewhat sterner voice from the other side of the wooden slat. "Perhaps you'd better start at the very beginning. I'm interested to know how prayer has led you into sin. In my many years as a priest, I have never seen that happen before." Jim swallowed hard, wondering if he had gone too far. "Wouldn't it be better to just talk in general terms, beg for absolution, and then get out of here as quickly as possible?" A vision of Curtis Selchrist's face crossed his inner eye. He had promised. How could he cheat on this last promise to his old friend? How long this was going to take? How far should he go with this unknown priest behind the curtain? From his voice he sounded elderly. Suppose he startled the old man with his revelations and he threw a fit, cussed him, or worse had a heart attack? Jim smiled at his own resourcefulness in arguing against a true confession. Starting at the beginning would mean at least explaining St. Augustine. Perhaps he'd have to go further back. Jim began slowly, "Well father, perhaps the best beginning is the point when I first discovered prayer. I don't mean the recitation that you learn in confraternity classes, I mean spiritual communion with the Lord, with the Universe, with the 'All There Is.' I must admit that I discovered the joy of prayer at an early age. My mother used to say that she had never seen such a devote boy. When I would attend Mass she would have to awaken me from my conversations with God, actually shake me. I guess those early experiences are what led me to believe that God was calling me to his chosen profession. I've wanted to be a priest since I was a small boy. Prayer has been the cornerstone of my life. I've always been able to achieve a separation from normal waking reality, almost as if God created a special place for me to sit while I spoke with him. Over time the feeling of a separate reality grew. I created great cathedrals to sit in while I spoke with the Lord. It was wonderful for me. My greatest solace was prayer. It was so important to me that I spent much of my waking life in prayer. Eventually, it became quite difficult to reconcile my need for quiet solitude with my more secular obligations. The problem came to a head while I was at St Augustine's." "You attended St. Augustine's?" Asked the priest, perhaps wondering how a boy who had gained entry to that premier East Coast seminary had ended up in a small church on an Indian reservation high in the desert mountains. "Please, you must tell me what happened." Jim heard a rustling that sounded as if the priest had slid forward in his chair, his voice grew louder as he moved his face closer to the screen, "How did you come to this place?" "I never would have guessed how difficult it would be at St. Augustine's." Jim began. "I suppose you know that all of the assignments are personalized. I had my own guidance counselor who assigned and reviewed all of my work with the professors. In high school I had been a pretty good student. But here, well, it seemed from the start as though I had an unlucky break or that I had been singled out. Almost as if I was destined to fail. Every assignment was so difficult. We weren't supposed to discuss our personal assignments with each other, but you know that it's impossible for students not to talk about their work. My fellow students were getting by writing papers on the changes in Church Dogma resulting from the Counsel of Nice, or the development of the modern Papacy, while I was relegated to projects that even veteran researchers would be wary of. One of my first assignments was to decode and interpret the 'Pretiossissme Donum.' It took me weeks to find a copy. My God, some of it hadn't even been translated from the original ancient Latin! Of course I failed miserably. And so it continued. Each assignment more difficult than the preceding one. Each demand heightened my awareness of what I lacked. Each time I failed. The failures drove me to doubt if this were the right path for me. Perhaps I was not cut out to be a priest; perhaps I was only good at prayerful meditation with the Lord. Eventually, I found myself flunking nearly all my classes. I felt as if they were trying to drive me away from the priesthood. I wondered if that was possible, I mean, the church is so short of clergy, why would it seek to intentionally drive me away? I didn't lack for devotion. Why was it so important for them to humiliate me? Why did a priest need academic accomplishments anyway? I was certain it was just my own personal failings. I took solace in my conversations with Jesus, asking him for help. I reread the Book of Job several times, wondering if I was being tested by God to see if I was really worthy to be one of his servants. After almost three years of this I could stand it no longer. I was about to drop out. I didn't want to but I couldn't see how I could continue. I thought of suicide. I was hopeless. My greatest aspirations were being crushed by a seemingly calculated plan to bring me down. Why did they treat me this way? After some more thought and prayer I knew that suicide would be a not be the answer. I could not commit such a mortal sin without damning my soul for eternity. Perhaps I could to find another way to serve the Lord, something that utilized my natural inclination better. But what? Luckily, I was saved by a priest. He showed up at the dean's office one day and literally rescued me from St. Augustine's. I quit the place within hours and we took off together. I've been at San Paulo up north with him ever since, almost two years now." Jim considered this a pretty good beginning. He was starting to trust the unseen man on the other side of the screen. He seemed genuinely interested. "But," He wondered half aloud, "is he ready for the rest?" "And you have been able to remain celibate all this time?" Asked the screen. "Yes, father, I am celibate, . . . I think. I mean I have done nothing overt to break my vow. " Answered Jim. "But my boy, you have not taken vows yet, you are not yet bound by Church dogma to remain celibate. You seem confused. Perhaps you will need to take time off and experience some level of sexual exploration. Now I'm not suggesting that it would be proper for you to engage in sexual activities outside of marriage, but there are other ways that the Church would not consider to be a great sin. . . .." He searched for words. ". . . Perhaps something along these lines is necessary for you to make up you mind." The old man was fairly laboring to give Jim some leeway without telling him to violate any commandments. "No, father, I made a personal vow of celibacy when I was fifteen. Almost as soon as I knew what it meant. I have never been with a woman, and I've always tried to keep my thoughts pure. I was successful until recently." "Please go on, I am interested in how these doubts manifested themselves. How could simple impure thoughts, which are to be expected from a healthy man such as yourself, how could they stop so completely your goal of becoming a priest?" "These are not simple thoughts Father, in fact what I'm going to relate may be difficult for you to grasp, but I ask you to listen without judgement, at least until the end. My mentor, I'll call him Father 'C', took me to San Paulo. As you know it is in a rather out of the way place in the high country up north, many miles from the nearest city. Father 'C' and I lived with the Supplicant Brothers. Perhaps you have heard of Monsignor Menaul, the founder of their order?" "I have heard of him." Replied the voice. "He is the great mystical priest. I've heard his name in connection with the Supplicant Brothers. You have met him?" "Oh no. Father 'C' often speaks of him in the present tense but he's surely been dead a long time. I think he was born in the 1840's and formed the Supplicant Brothers around the turn of the century. I have listened to a great number of stories about him from Father 'C'. He was a great man of God. Quite a mystic I'm told. If others knew of his greatness I'm sure he would be a candidate for canonization." Jim continued from where he had been interrupted. "It was a quiet life of contemplation. Father 'C' kept me further isolated even from the small community of monks and devotees that stayed on the grounds. He said that there would be time for interacting with the rest of the brothers once my training was complete. For almost two years I lived a life of devotion to God. Each day Father 'C' would ask me to the chapel, or out among the rocks and hills. We would sit and he would teach me how to pray. I must admit, I thought I knew how to converse with God, but Father 'C' showed me how much I had to learn. Proper breathing, exercises to focus the mind, passages to read from St. Germain, Bernard of Treviso, Francis Bacon, and others. We were together for those months almost exclusively. Everyday was spent in reading, writing, physical and mental exercise, and of course meditation directed toward the Almighty. We built up a bond of friendship, love, and trust. He is my friend and my mentor. Perhaps I should be confessing the sin of having caused him great harm by the disappointment I instilled in him?" "We can discuss that later." Came back a quick reply. " Perhaps that is less of a sin than you think." Said the low voice cryptically. Jim had surprised himself at his candor with this old priest. He was beginning to open up to him, although he was uncertain what was motivating him to do so. "Perhaps he will be accepting enough to listen to me about these dark images." Thought Jim. He seemed mature and though his words had been plain they suggested a great intellect behind the simple phrases. He wondered how such a man had come to such to a far away place as San Xavier. "Toward the end I was able to place myself in a trance, deep and far away from the physical world, and communicate with the Universe, with God, and his messengers. I was ecstatic. I was what Father 'C' referred to as an 'adept,' an apprentice of God. I felt I was manifesting my destiny. I was happy, and I was ready to take my place as a servant of God. Father 'C' had already spoken with the Bishop about setting a date for my vows. I could almost picture myself prostrate before the Bishop reciting them, it would be the culmination of my lifetime dream. I looked forward spending the rest of my life devoted to the adoration of God. I could see myself living out my years at San Paulo, spending each day in quite meditative prayer. Father 'C' had shown me a way out of my desperation, out of my worry, out of the academic and secular life, and into the hands of God. For that I will be ever grateful, even if I ultimately failed him. The weight of the failure can only be placed on my shoulders, not his. He has done everything in his power to help me. It is not his fault!" "I'm sure Father 'C' is a fine man of God" Calmed the priest. "Please continue." Jim took a deep breath through his nostrils, exhaled slowly through his mouth, and began again. "About three months ago Father 'C' took me on a guided imagery exercise. He had deemed me ready to advance to a new level of contemplation. It was a simple exercise, one of relaxing and going within myself. I was able to follow his instructions easily. To be honest, it was far simpler than many of the exercises he had previously put me through. Then something really strange happened. I opened my eyes as he commanded and found myself somewhere else. In an entirely different land. Instinctively, I knew I was in a different time. I supposed that it was a Mediterranean country in the first century. It was before the crucifixion. Now Father, I'm not talking about a dream or even a realistic fantasy, this was as real as everyday life. I could reach out and touch the limestone walls, feel their coolness, feel dirt floor of the hut under my sandals, smell the dung from the donkeys outside the door, hear the muffled voices in the next room and the clatter of pottery. I had traveled backward in time! I was wrapped in a fine white cloth. A cloth I sensed that was of a much finer grade and softer than the fabric worn by most others in this place and time. It wasn't like a dream in another sense. In a dream, no matter how vivid, one doesn't question how you got there. You deal with dream images, no matter how fleeting, as if they had always existed. But here, I could remember my flow of consciousness from moment to moment, from the New Mexico high desert to this strange country. This was real. I had been instantly transformed from my normal conscious awareness to this place. I had been sitting on a rock in the New Mexico desert with Curtis, er. . . I mean Father 'C' and in a moment I was in a different place and time. I knew this had to be a mystical creation, and yet it was real. I was transported fully and completely backward in time to the first century." "You say that you were on a rock with your mentor, . . . Father who?" Questioned the old priest. "I guess it would be alright to tell you that his name is Curtis." Replied Jim. "How did he assist you? In what way did he guide you to this place?" Jim was uncertain at what this old priest was after. He wanted to confess his sins, and yet the old man wanted to talk about his prayer techniques. "Why?" Jim continued. "It began pretty normally, breathing and relaxation. Except that before we started he had me do a ritual. There are some movements and incantations. But I'd rather talk about that right now. Now this is where it gets really weird. I had carried all of my mental senses to this place. My thought processes and rational skills seemed intact. But there was no evidence of the physical me, Jim Bowers. I had a physical form, but my senses seemed distorted. I was not myself. Not physically anyway. I felt lighter than my usual self. My hands were small and slender, like those of a woman. I looked for a mirror or glass, but there were none in those days. I lifted the white robe and saw the tops of two unfamiliar delicate feet standing in sandals with leather laces wrapped around slender white ankles. I turned to a shiny metal vase on the shelf but could not make out anything beyond a white blur. I lifted my hand to my head and found a covering made of red cloth held in place by a beaded cincture. My face was smooth and creamy, oiled perhaps, and heavily scented. Feathers of various colors adorned this headdress as well as my sleeve. I wondered where I was, how did I come to this place? What happened? Then an older woman, dressed in clothes that were similar to mine walked in. She Spoke to me, 'Mary, the carpenter is here, he has asked for you.' Her voice was quite matter of fact. I heard my own reply in a strange and soft voice. 'The elder or the son?' My God, I suddenly realized where I was. I was a woman, a prostitute! This was a house of ill repute. I had a 'customer.' You cannot imagine the mixture of feelings I experienced in that instant. I was shamed; shamed to think my own conscience had led me here. I was curious, 'What manner of place was this?' I was scared, 'How can this place seem so real?' Then I paused to consider that Father 'C' had led me here. I trusted him. I decided to go on. I must confess Father, that I also felt something else. I have never been so near to a woman before. I mean not one like this Mary woman. Her youth and vitality felt strange and wonderful. She was earthy. I knew she delighted in the pleasures of the flesh. I wanted to share that sense of aliveness that she felt. Here I was nearer to this woman of the flesh than any man has a right to be. It wasn't even nearness in the normal sense. I was this woman! I looked through her eyes. I heard through her ears. I felt her sensuous skin rubbing softly against her fine clothes. It was stimulating. I was excited. I confess that it was more than a desire to please my mentor. I had a wanton desire for matters of the flesh. The flesh of this young woman. I possessed her in a way that was unnatural and exciting. I wanted to continue this fantastic creation of my mind to see what pleasures it afforded me! Oh I sinned; it was my great failing, that was the very moment of my undoing. If I had only resisted! I should have resisted the challenge of the flesh. But I was weak. This was this very moment that started me on the path of moral destruction!" Jim paused to wipe a tear from his eye. Now that he started he knew he would have to tell all. It had been welling up all these months and it had to be told. But to confess out loud the moral turpitude that he willfully experienced was almost more than he could stand. Bad enough he had to live with these thoughts alone. This was going to be more difficult than he imagined. "Please, I must hear this from your mouth, you must complete this. I must hear the words from your mouth." The old priest fairly commanded. "I cannot trust a secondhand description!" His words made no sense to Jim. What was this talk of secondhand descriptions? Perhaps he had misjudged the priest. Maybe he was taking perverse delight in this story? But he was too distraught to think further about what the priest was saying. "Please", Jim heard his mind command, "do not try to project your own guilt onto others. Stick to the confession." He took another deep breath. He drew on his ability to control his mind by controlling his breathing. Control that Curtis had so patiently taught him. Once he felt ready he continued: "A man was asking for me! In spite of my fear I found myself walking toward the front room. It was small but comfortable, covered in carpets and sheepskins, lit by oil lamps. A sheepskin dyed a bright shade of red hung over the doorway. There was the smell of Rosemary and Frankenscence burning in a copper pot in the corner. In the room were four men and another woman dressed like me. Each man had squatted down in the fashion of those who are accustomed to life without furniture, even though I could see a couch formed from straw and woven carpets in the corner. Two of the men played lots with a square piece of wood marked with unfamiliar characters. On the floor between them were a few gold coins and shiny stones. Another man sat near the woman. "Did you know this man?" Jim's confessor inquired. "Which? The one with the woman? No. I didn't know him at all. I don't think any of them looked familiar." Jim replied as honestly as he could. "Did you get a good look at his face? Would you recognize him again?" He seemed to bore in on the irrelevant, at least it seemed so to Jim. "Yeah, I guess so. He was a strange guy. I didn't like what he was doing. He appeared to be placing his hand up the robes of the only other woman in the room. She shrieked, not with fear, but with pleasure, or perhaps it was the ersatz pleasure of a woman paid to entertain, I couldn't be certain. Her shrill laughter filled the room as it mixed with his heavier nasal grunts. His other hand moved methodically under his own coarse robe. I forced my eyes away. I couldn't continue to watch that spectacle. I turned to the sad looking man squatting alone near the entry. Like the others, he was dressed in a simple coarse brown tunic. He was barefoot. He was bearded like the others. His features were plain except for his eyes. They attracted me to him. They were filled with sadness or grief. He had removed his simple headdress. His hair stood askew and disheveled, with what appeared to be small chips of wood tangled his dark hair. When I stepped up I had the impression that there was a glimmer of golden light about his head. A soft warm light, forming a halo-like shimmer around his head and shoulders spilling on his unkempt hair. At the time I convinced myself that the light came from the lamp on the wall directly behind him. But now I'm not so sure. His presence put me at ease. I lost my fear and found myself being pulled into his warm circle. I wanted to share my time with him. 'Forgive me Sister Magdalene.' He used my superlative name instead of the familiar. 'I don't wish to be here, but I have no recourse. I need relief. My son has a high regard for you. He speaks. . . uhm, spoke highly of you in the past. When we were still speaking to one another. You are the only woman I trust to help me. Please. You know that my wife can't . . .I mean that we cannot. . .' I nodded. He had no need to explain this to me, but I let him go on. 'It is what a man needs. Do not the rabbis agree with me? This is natural, no? Do not the animals in the wild couple freely, and yet God smiles on them? And what about the men that do not have the problem I have? They can sleep with their wives. God graces them with natural pleasures. Is it not for a poor man of wood to seek simple pleasure? It is forbidden for a man to spill his seed on the ground. I have heard this command spoken in the temple. What else can I do?' 'You have chosen wisely Josef.' I consoled. 'You are regarded by all in the village as a holy man, the husband of the most wonderful woman in the land. But, I know of the problems you speak of. It is true you are poor. You cannot sleep with your wife. Your only son has rejected your way of life. But God does not seek to withhold all of life's pleasures. If God wished it to be so, I would not be here would I? This place would not be here. Would it? He will not be displeased by this visit, I am sure. You need feel no shame in coming here. Please, recline with me. Allow me to wash your feet. I will feed you.' Then I turned to a young girl of about fourteen who appeared in the opening in the back of the room. I commanded, 'Salohma! Bring me a jug of water and a bowl so that we can wash this man's feet. And bring me some dates and wine. Quickly!' His eyes had changed. Whatever troubled him seemed to be temporarily pushed aside. He took my hand, hesitantly at first. I felt his rough hands against my smooth delicate fingers. Oh, What a feeling! His warmth washed over me and seemed to enter into my heart. He was so kind, so simple, so unassuming. I could not refuse pleasure to him. I didn't want to. I wanted to feel his touch. I needed to let him wrap his arms around me. For me to wrap my own self around him. He seemed to relax as he knelt at the fabric draped over the wooden bench that served as a table. I poured the cool water out of the jug and slowly washed his feet. I already felt a womanly sense of accomplishment. I knew that my reason to be here was to give pleasure to the men of the village. Women must be of service. That is the expectation I felt from the other men in the room. I didn't disagree. Women were meant to serve men. What better way to serve than to insure that the men of the village were comfortable so that they would want to continue to provide for us? This is how life worked. But this man was different. He did not demand pleasure but asked for it. He didn't expect me to respond, and yet I did. He made me want to please him, not because I was a woman of service, but because we were two humans. How could I not nurture this simple man who eyes were so kind? More than the others he needed my help. There's no sin in me feeling that way about him was there?" Jim hesitated here, waiting to see if the man behind the screen would give him some sort of sign, some indication of just how far he should go in this confession. He knew what he wanted now, to get the entire thing off his chest, to tell all in detail. Yet, he was still uncertain how to take this old priest. "Hmmmm. Please continue." Jim laughed silently at the old man's words. He recognized this artifact of counseling, "Let the patient know that you've heard him but give no indication of judgement." He was beginning to trust the old man. "Father, I must tell the rest of this, but I fear I cannot be delicate about it. You realize the position I was in, the woman I was? You can see where this leads." Jim started. "Go on with your narrative." It was an odd choice of wording. He had not used the word 'story', or 'fantasy', or any other pejorative word. What was he getting at? "Does he actually believe what I'm telling him?" Jim wondered. "I led this man Josef to a smaller room at the back of this building. It was sparsely furnished with something like a cot, an oil lamp, and rugs or heavy fabric on the floor and walls. I knew what she was about to do. It was not as if I had no control. I was Mary but I was also Jim. I still had my own conscience and awareness. I could have stopped. I could have said no. I could have tried to transport myself back into my own body. But I did not. I was weak. I wanted this man. I wanted to feel him inside of me. I was swallowed by desires of the flesh. I slipped his tunic over his head and unraveled the cloth wrapping at his waist. He was already aroused, demonstrating plainly what I could not. But I was as aroused as he was. I opened my robes to reveal large dark breasts, freshly oiled with a mixture of scented palm and olive oil. He buried his face into them immediately. I was delighted. I played my hands over his thick back, throwing my head back as his soft kisses advanced up my chest to my neck. I felt his manhood at my entrance. It was hard, throbbing, and ready to advance into me. He easily slipped inside. For a moment I forgot about Jim, about Curtis' guided imagery, about anything other than this man. I was Mary the sinner giving and receiving pleasure from him. In a minute I was flat on my back, his throbbing tool inside of me, sliding in and out in a periodic thrust that was building in intensity. 'Oh Josef!' I cried, 'Please let it go, I need it deep inside of me! I longed for him. I dug my fingernails into his skin, I squeezed my legs harder around his muscular thighs, allowing him to penetrate to the very bottom of my womanhood as the skin of our bodies rubbed together in splendid harmony, exciting every nerve ending where his body touched mine. I felt a glow. A light that grew up from within. I pressed my breasts against his hard, firm chest and found myself moving in rhythm to his jabbing motions. My intensity built in concert with his, both of us caught up in an act that was more than just physical. He had penetrated more than just my body. It seemed as if he had entered my mind, my emotions, and my soul. We were coupled together in every way a man and a woman could be. My breathing came in short spurts, in time with his heaving chest. I began to lose awareness of anything other than his huge tool and the flesh I had wrapped around it. My whole world shrunk. It was as if the center of my awareness had moved from my head and was now sitting on the top of his penis, riding up and down his pulsating piston. His semen surged out and seemed to bore a hole right through the pinprick of bright light that was my conscious self. What I sensed as 'me' seemed to clamp and surround him emotionally and physically. It was a release for me. I had never felt such physical joy. The throbbing of my climax had shut out my world, indeed my very existence. It wasn't two people each having an orgasm. It was a conjoining of our conscious existence. I felt his orgasm as much as mine, and it served to enhance mine. He felt my physical sensations and that enhanced his. The result was an explosion of sensation, light, music, and smells. My conscious world had shrunk to embrace only our joint orgasm. I felt as if I had merged physically and spiritually with him. It was my first sexual experience, and it was wonderful! He collapsed in a heap above me weeping softly. It had been as intense for him as it was for me. I felt the warmth of his hard body against my supple breasts and flat abdomen. I could still feel him inside of me, small throbs slipping in intensity to almost nothing as his seed filled me. I never felt so warm, useful and needed. 'Oh Mary, I love you so much, I'm so sorry.' He pleaded. He had called my name, but I knew it was not me he had been talking to. He was far away, with someone else. I simply stroked the back of his head until he fell asleep. I never knew that a human could take such spiritual pleasure in the ways of the flesh. I had promised myself never to partake in carnal activities. Yet here I was experiencing the very thing I had sworn against, not as a man, but as a woman. I felt her feelings, but they were mine, and they were beautiful, can you understand?" "Why did you see this as a sin? What you described to me seems a wonderful fulfillment of the human spirit. This should not trouble you young man." Said the priest. "But for a man to desire another man? This goes against the teaching of the Church." Stated Jim incredulously. "May I call you Jim? You have said yourself that you embodied a woman, a woman of flesh who rightfully desires a man. It's true that the church teaches that the union between unmarried partners is a sin. But, you said that this took place a long time ago. Clearly it was the custom of the times. It was accepted. You said yourself that this was the role of this woman in the village. It appears that even the holy men of the time understood the needs of the men in the village. You performed an act of kindness to a troubled man, how can this be a serious transgression of our Lord's wishes? And in any case, this was just a fantasy, a vision, a figment of your imagination wasn't it?" "Was it?" Jim thought. He was certain he detected a hint of sarcasm or irony in the man's voice. It was almost as if he was trying to goad him to deny that this was real. Why would he probe this? It was not a fantasy, it was as real as his perceptions now in this confessional. "No it was real. As real as I sense this time and place. This was not fantasy. If I sinned, then it was not a sin of thought, but a sin of deed." Strangely, this seemed to satisfy the old man. The old priest's voice was so kind and full of understanding. Jim felt like a sham. Sure the way he had described it, it had been a wonderful fulfillment. It was the kind of pleasure God must have planned between a man and a woman. It had been good and Jim saw it that way. But he alone knew what lurid other sins he had committed. "This priest will not look be able to look so kindly on my other transgressions." Jim thought. "Father, there is much more. I have additional sins that are far more troubling than this one. Sins I fear that you nor anyone can ever forgive." Chapter III Jim felt faint. He was breathing heavy and had partly collapsed on the kneeler, his body held erect only because it was jammed into the corner of the confessional. The curtains parted and a hand reached out for him. It was attached to a tall man dressed in shirtsleeves with a stole around his neck. The sunlight against his back prevented Jim from seeing his face immediately. "Perhaps we should take a little break. I don't want to broach your anonymity if that's what you desire, but it's hot and stuffy in this confessional. Why don't we walk outside and talk. You can relax and we can start to unravel this mystery. They have a nice garden just outside the church. Come on." Said the priest. Jim was uncomfortable. He knew that there was still a long way to go and he needed a break. But if he walked away from the confessional he was unsure if he would be able to come back. He was just as uncertain about continuing once he met this priest face to face. He was already exhausted. Once he looked into his eyes he might not have the strength to go on. It had been difficult enough talking to a screen. How would he do talking face to face? Slowly he straightened up. He reached out to the firm hand and found himself easily pulled to his feet. The curtains parted and he found himself bathed in rose colored light from the late afternoon sun streaming through the stained glass windows along the walls of the church. He turned to look at his confessor. He returned the look, locking eyes with Jim and gripping his hand. "Just call me Pete for now. I'm so glad to meet you Jim." "Jim's sense of uneasiness vanished. He stood in front of a tall man, perhaps sixty years old. He was trim, strong, and had a solid face. His gray hair was cut in a way that reminded him of his friend Curtis. He was remarkably free of the signs of aging. Jim was uncertain of why he left the impression he might be so old. Perhaps the look of wisdom in his eyes. They reminded him a little of Josef's eyes, only less sad. Knowledge, wisdom, understanding, but not sadness. Jim's confidence rebounded. Pete talked casually as they crossed the aisle and exited the side door of the church into the late afternoon sun. "San Xavier de Sierra is a wonderful church, don't you think? Did you know that Spanish missionaries built it in the early 1700's? This part of the country is so full of history, especially church history. There was the rebellion at Yselta, Coronado, Don Juan de Onate's forced conversions of the Indians, even the mythical Seven Cities of Gold were purported to be here in the Southwest. They did exist. But not exactly in the way that Coronado thought." They walked along a stone path around the side of the church and turned to face the western sky. Jim had listened carelessly to what Pete was saying, he was just glad to have a break. He was sure it would be over too soon. "Look at those two doves in the Pinion trees." Pete pointed. Did you know that the locals think that doves are a symbol, a sign of good fortune? Perhaps God is smiling on us and has blessed us with the symbol. "I always think of doves as a symbol of peace." Replied Jim. You do want to be at peace don't you Jim?" Countered Pete, his head nodding as if to urge Jim to agree. "More than anything Father." Jim replied. "I want to be at peace with myself." "Then that's exactly what we will work on. Come over here and sit on this rock wall. We'll watch the sun set and then get back to work." Watching a New Mexico sunset was something Jim had never take for granted. He really never appreciated the beauty of the sun against the clouds when he lived back east. Jim was certain that New Mexico sunsets were the most beautiful in the world. It must have been the high clear atmosphere, the altitude, and the wide open sky that all contributed to the spectacular feeling. Today's would be better than most. The blue winter clouds were already starting to take on the orange tint of the setting sun. It was almost as if a fire had started inside them. The church, perched on the side of the mountain, afforded a wonderful vista of the valley laid out below them. The valley was now in shadows even as the pale oranges and reds from the sun peaked in the streaked clouds across the open western sky. Between the clouds and the horizon was a patch of blue sky. "Do you see that sky there?" Jim pointed, "That's kind of how I picture my experience. I wasn't in the clouds, but I wasn't on the ground either, I was somewhere in between. It was real, but not the reality that I associate with everyday experience. It was as if I had entered a space between dreams and reality, squeezed in between them." "And you think that Curtis lead you there? Do you suppose it could have been intentional?" "No, never, why would he do such a thing? I'm certain that he wanted me to get closer to God, to help me pray, not to experience the pleasures of the flesh. I'm certain that it was my own sinful mind that led me to that place." Jim was adamant and defensive. Perhaps a little too much so. For truthfully, Jim had to admit that he had wondered the same thing himself, especially after these hallucinations continued. "Did you ever confide to Curtis what had happened?" Pete looked directly at Jim. Jim paused for a second, looking directly back into his eyes. "No, when I first came back I was still in a state of bliss. At first I wasn't even aware that I had come back to the present. I woke up laying on the rock I had been sitting on with Curtis. He was nowhere around. I was so drained that I couldn't even get up. When he returned he seemed satisfied that I had accomplished the task at hand. By that time I was too embarrassed to say anything." "Did Curtis continue to guide you?" Queried Pete. "Well, yes. We continued to work together. Many times before he had led me into a blissful state of communication with 'All That Is'. These were wonderful moments. But the effect of this sexual experience seemed to pull me away from pure thoughts such as that. After that no matter what he did to lead me down the right path, I seemed always to end up going wrong." "Tell me about the next experience that disturbed you. Did Curtis take you on this trip too?" Pete commanded. "No, not exactly, he had asked me if I remembered the ritual. I said that I had and he asked me to meditate on the need to be of service to the priesthood before I attempted the ritual by myself. This I did, but the results were even more bizarre. Instead of waking up in a different place, this time reality seemed to melt before my very eyes. It was as if the here and now were made of wax and a new reality existed just behind it. The present simply melted away exposing a modern scene far away from the New Mexico desert. This time I was in a church. Somehow I knew things about my place and information about the people in it in the same manner that you know about people in dreams. I don't mean to suggest that this was a dream. It was real." Jim paused. "No, no of course not, I see exactly what you mean, it was as if a higher consciousness had set the stage so to speak?" Suggested Pete. "Yes, that's a perfect way of putting it. It was as if I was an actor in a play. I knew the story, at least up to the point that I entered the stage, but then I was on my own. There was no director, no script, the stage was real, and I was the character I was playing, not just pretending to be. This time I was standing at the altar of a church. It was the present, or at least had taken place within a few months of the my present time. I think it was St Louis, or at least it seemed to me to be that city." "Are you familiar with St Louis?" Coaxed Pete. He was intently listening to each word muttered by Jim. The light was failing now and it was hard for the two men to see each other. But it was clear to Jim that Pete was concentrating not only on his words but the manner in which he was speaking. He was intently focussed on him. "No, that's the strange thing. We drove through St. Louis on the way out here, but other than that I had no familiarity with it the city, and certainly not with this church. But maybe it was because of Father Tom, he's from St Louis." "Who is Father Tom?" Inquired Pete. "Oh, he is a guest at San Paulo and the main character in this drama. That's what bothered me so much about this event. Here was a man I knew, or at least I was acquainted with, entering my hallucination. Now this is the part that is unsettling for me to relate. I was a woman again. I was much different than last time. In fact I was a nun. I was dressed in a blue habit. I had on a plain dark blue skirt, a plain white blouse, and a matching blue jacket. Around my neck I wore a large silver cross. A gray veil fell about my hair with stiff sides that curled around and covered my ears. I guessed that I was about fifty, maybe fifty-five, years old. I was far from beautiful. I was quite full figured. In fact, it wouldn't be unfair to describe me as plump. Maybe even fat. Everything about me was plain. I was engaged in folding the altar cloth after a late Saturday mass. Apparently the evening services had been over for some time. I was alone in a church. From the look of it, I was in a modern suburban church. Wide aisles, white walls, large stained glass windows, two statues each mounted on a pedestal jutting from the front wall. There was one on each side of the altar. The one on the right was the Virgin Mary, and on the left St. Joseph. I remember thinking that it wasn't a very good likeness of him. 'Too clean and refined for a carpenter.' I thought. I turned when I heard the solid wooden doors at the back of the church slam shut. A man in his late fifties was pulling the door and working the keys. I recognized him as Father Tom, the priest who was visiting us at San Paulo. For this drama he was apparently the pastor of this church. He stood with his back to me for a while, fiddling with a bunch of keys until the door was locked. I guess he was having a little trouble, although I was pleased because it afforded me time to take a look around at my new surroundings. I glanced at the darkened stained glass windows and was surprised to see the outlines of strange symbols. I would have expected the glass tiles to have formed pictures of saints or something of the sort, or perhaps an abstract design. I knew these symbols from somewhere. They looked somewhat like alphabetic characters, but it wasn't anything from modern texts. There was one that resembles a scripted 'V', but with an additional curl inside the two intersecting lines. Still another was a horizontal bar with a curving 'S' shape inscribed below it. Another looked like a Capital 'I' inside of a circle. I could recognize only one, the circle with a cross on the bottom denoting the symbol for the female. It was an odd place for such a symbol. Aside from this, the rest of the church looked mundane and familiar, like any other of the dozens of Catholic churches I've attended. I turned my attention to Father Tom. I wondered what had caused me to dream or conjure him. I mean I hardly knew the man, he'd been at our place only for a few days and I had hardly spoken with him. In this apparition he appeared as real and complete as when I normally encountered him, which was mostly at vespers and at the supper table. Still, this was the first time I had really looked at his appearance. He was rather short and a little round. But even at this distance, across the length of the church, there was something I could sense that I liked about him. Perhaps it was his posture. He was a heavy man, but he carried himself erect. His posture spoke to me of a confident man, one who I sensed the woman I was now could be attracted to. He had on plain black slacks with a plaid dress shirt. His rear was wide and round and I supposed that even as a young man he must have been quite heavy. His hair was mostly white, only small streaks of dark brown peppered his head. He turned, satisfied that the door was secure and slowly made his way up the main aisle. His face was unremarkable too. The effects of age had not been kind to his jowls, which hung down and seemed to merge with the fat around his neck. His nose was rather long and appeared to emerge from somewhere above his eyebrows. He walked slowly, yet his steps were strong. His walk mimicked the gait of a much younger man. He was almost light on his feet. As he approached the altar I could see that his light blue eyes were kind and gentle and I felt a surge of affection for him. His eyes, locked on me, seemed to return the same emotion. He detoured around the pulpit to a row of light switches arrayed on the wall. Eight large chandeliers that hung from the wooden beams in the ceiling blinked out row by row. A wave of darkness rolled into the church. It began in the back and slowly made its way forward with each flick of his wrist. In a moment I was standing at the altar with only a single spotlight illuminating the altar and forming a yellow puddle of warmth in this darkened cavern. In the middle of this pool was the altar with me standing beside it. 'Sister Mary Beth.' Said a voice from the darkness just outside of my little circle of light. 'Are you almost through?' 'Yes father, I heard myself reply.' My voice seemed higher pitched than it should have bee