Stronger Than Lions - 28. Mea Maxima Culpa

I’m not sure what was worse—the nausea and throbbing migraine from the hangover, or the previous night's events flashing back unevenly, like mismatched slides projected from my grandfather’s 1970s Kodak Carousel.

The world was a wave and I was its trough.

My mother had named me Stephen after a Stefanus who voted to make the world friendlier.

She had named me Stephen after a Steve who fought and died to make the world freer.

She had named me Stephen after a Steven who did not exist but who was written to make the world kinder.

I had failed them all.

My heart and brain, so recently in rapprochement, were now waging a cold war. They had dropped dirty bombs not on each other but on other people, and the fallout was guilt—enough guilt to make me get up and shower and get dressed and confess to a God I no longer believed in.

St Jude’s was just a few blocks from my house. I skulked into the church half an hour before the scheduled morning Mass. I did not erupt into flames, but my head still hurt. An old nun knelt at one of the back pews, halfway through a rosary. The organist was practicing a Bach passacaglia and I could hear the choir warming up in the balcony.

I hurried into the open confessional and closed the door.

I crossed myself, feeling like an idiot.

‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been a while since my last confession.’

‘What plagues you, my son?’ It was not a standard response as far as I could recall. The accent was South African, not Irish, so it was not Father Quimby.

‘When you are ready, I am listening,' the voice continued: it was very old, and very deep.

‘I have betrayed someone I love, Father,’ I began. ‘I don’t even know why I am here. I probably don't even believe in God any more. I've doubted it all for while now.’

‘Yet you chose to come here. There is no evil in doubting or questioning, and the Lord gives us free will. How have you betrayed this person?’

Here was the lance to the abscess I was hoping for. I unbosomed my adolescence to him: Chris, my overreaction, the drunken romp with Veronica. Not content with my own sins, I followed with a philippic against the scandals in the church and railed against the bully that God had become to me.

I waited for the rain above us to turn into holy napalm, melt through the church’s tin roof, and drench me in eternal hellfire.

Instead I heard the priest adjust his collar, and deliver a very weary and very Xhosa ‘Yoh.’

‘Father?’

’I think you know the Church’s view’s on relations outside of marriage. Do I need to ago into details?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Good, because I don’t want to either. Something tells me I can leave that to your own conscience.’

I frowned.

‘If I had a rand for every teenager who came to me plagued by their hormones,’ he continued, ‘I would be a very rich man. But I am just an old man, and my calling forbids me the experience of the flesh.’

‘Father?’ I kept waiting for the admonition against what I was, against what Chris and I were, and what we had done.

The priest cleared his throat. ‘We are told that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, as if bad intentions are somehow better. There is a difference between being reckless and being malevolent. You say you love this young man, yes?’

Ah yes, here it was.

‘Yes, Father.’

‘The Church… quite explicitly… does not condone physical relations between people of the same sex, but I must point out it is silent on love. Even romantic love. I hope you know of David and Jonathan?’

‘Yes, father. Best friends.’

‘Best friends at the very least. Catholics are not officially supposed to read the King James Version of the Bible, and therefore I know it well and have read it several times. It paints those two as quite the pair. I always thought the particular way it says... how does the text go... “and the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David”… it sounds like something out of Shakespeare or Keats... quite beautiful.’

‘So you’re saying, Father, I’m allowed to love him, but that I cannot…’

I sensed him hold out his hand. ’Let me finish. King David had many faults. But it appears Jonathan was not one of them.'

‘What are you saying, Father?’

‘I am limited in my official functions—so I am not here to condone the obvious. I don't think you acted with evil intentions. I am, frankly, more concerned that you let alcohol take the better of you, which was irresponsible. Now tell me… does this young man return your love?’

I ground my teeth. ’Yes, Father.’

He was silent for a while. ‘If I cannot officially condone, then I am not going to condemn either. I’m diverging from dogma, Caleb, so do not quote me.’

Startled to hear my name, I reached for the curtain that separated priest from confessor and drew it back. I stared into the eyes of the man who laid had my mother to rest.

‘Not many people draw back the curtain these days,’ he observed.

‘Father Alfred,' I stammered, 'how… how did you know…’

‘How would I not recognise the voice of one of my dearest friends' son?’

The old grizzly had driven a thousand kilometres from the Eastern Cape to co-officiate my mother’s funeral with Dominee Steyn from the Gereformeerde Kerk. My mother had met Father Alfred Mxenga as a young journalist, following his involvement in activism and literacy in rural communities. Father Mxenga’s beard was even greyer now and he looked like one of the Old Testament prophets, as realised by Michelangelo.

‘I thought you were retired,’ I said, fidgeting.

‘I was, but I’ve been bored and when one of my colleagues had a knee replacement I thought I’d satisfy my lifelong curiosity about what affluent suburban parishes are like. It’s been…depressingly illuminating. I was hoping to see you some time, though I can understand why you may not have felt comfortable in a church lately.’

‘I don’t know what to say, Father.’

I had last remembered him reciting the In Paradisum during the procession out of the church as I helped carry my mother's coffin with my father and uncle and the other pallbearers. The choir had just sung Fauré's setting of the same text—something she had expressly asked for.

‘A remarkable woman, Susanna,' he said. 'Not easy marrying into Catholicism when you come from a staunch Protestant background. We had a lot of conversations about politics when the old regime was at its most vicious. I didn’t really know any Afrikaner liberals before I met her. She certainly fought for what she believed in. And she loved her family more than anything, I know that. How are you, after all this, young man? I'm sorry that I did not make more of an effort to keep in touch.’

I took a deep, deep breath.

‘I miss her so much. I want to believe that she’s… that she’s still…’

‘That she is still somewhere? Of course we all do.’

‘But there’s no proof, Father.’

‘No. No proof at all. That is what faith is, my son. Did you still believe in God when she died?’

‘I think that’s when I stopped believing in him. I had believed in him so much while she was ill, hoping that…’

The old priest was silent for a while and nodded. ’Sometimes people need space. And if you think about it, son, there is nothing out there but space.’

‘Father, I don’t understand. I was expecting, I don’t know, retribution.’

Father Mxenga gave a hollow laugh. ‘Caleb. Jesus did not turn anyone away. Nor should we forget the random people who offered the Lord himself help in his anguish. Do you know the story of Veronica?’

I shuddered. ‘Veronica?!’

‘You let slip the girl’s name,' he said with a little smile. 'It is not mentioned in the Gospels but, legend has it there was a widow, called Veronica, who reached out of the crowd and gave Jesus her veil to wipe his brow as He made His way to the Crucifixion. It’s said the cloth became a holy relic as it miraculously bore an imprint His face.’

‘That sounds very… Catholic.’

His eyes brightened a little. ’What strikes me is not so much the miracle as the small, touching gesture. She did what she thought she could to ease his suffering.’

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘It’s one of the Stations of the Cross isn’t it?’

‘The sixth one.’

‘I guess this isn’t really a bog-standard confession any more.’

‘That it isn’t. But this happens more often than you think. So, young man. I must ask, and you must roll your eyes. Have you been using drugs?’

‘No. I smoke, but I’m trying to quit. And as you know I’ve been silly with wine.’

I was getting impatient. ‘What are you going to do with me?’

‘Caleb. This is not a trial in a courtroom. Whatever I say only has bearing in as much as you believe in it. If you wish to receive the sacrament you must say the Act of Contrition.’

‘I’m confused, Father.’

‘You’ve come here, regretting some indiscretions. You question your faith, and you are angry with the Church, and with God, assuming he even exists.’

‘I said so earlier,’ I muttered, getting irritated with the old Yoda.

‘I’m not saying that to take you to task. I can put you at ease with one thing, all the scandals in the Church disgust me. I am nearly eighty and cannot sit here and lecture you about morality because you fell in love with another… another man when all these horrors have been perpetrated by my own colleagues. On children. I’ve had a crisis of faith myself.’

‘Father?’

‘I refused to celebrate or even go to Mass, thinking this would solve things. I became bitter. Then one morning I was walking from the seminary to the little café where I always get a coffee and the paper. A prostitute ran into the road to stop the traffic, so a blind old man could pass. You could say I found God speaking to me. And I thought, here is the love of God. Love where you least expect it. Caleb. You understand morality, from the contrite way you speak about betraying this person you love. So I urge you to resolve this matter—I urge you to speak to him.’

My fists, balled throughout this oration, had relaxed. ‘I could say the prayer,’ I muttered, ‘but I don’t know if it will mean anything.’

‘I see. Did you pray at your mother’s funeral?’

‘Yes,’ I said defensively. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Why do you think you prayed?’

‘For her. For something, somewhere to listen. Or maybe I did it out of respect. For hope, maybe.’

‘And those are beautiful, valid reasons. You don’t have to stop praying just because God doesn’t exist.’

‘You’re sounding heretical, Father.’

‘My twenty-something self takes that as a tremendous compliment,’ he said with a sly grin. 'Now. Confession has its set formula, and I have my role. You can choose to leave this just a simple conversation. Either way this is only between you and me, and also the Lord, assuming you believe He exists.’

Before I could think clearly, the Latin spewed forth as it had in the hospital:

Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum,

eaque detestor, quia peccando…

‘Impressive Latin,’ Father Mxenga said. ‘Probably drilled into you by an old battle-axe in a wimple. The words are actually printed and laminated in front of you in English but perhaps it’s easier to say it in a dead tongue. But it will do. And for penance… I ask you to read Psalm 139.’

I pouted. ‘What, no Hail Marys, no Our Fathers?’

‘It was your mother’s favourite Psalm. Read it in Afrikaans, perhaps, I am told that it works particularly well in it. Find the translation she would have used as a child.’

'I will, Father.'

He smiled, and proceeded to absolve me.

‘One more thing, Caleb,’ he said, as I reached for the door.

‘Yes Father?’

‘Your mother was very proud of your name. So remember what was said to Cain.’

My mother’s handwriting swam before my eyes.

‘Timshel?’ I ventured.

‘You know your heritage well.’

‘Father, how do you remember all this?’

‘I baptised you, Caleb. You were given fine names and I know how much your mother loved books. Go forth and be good, young man.’