Orgy of Souls

14

Samuel wondered when exactly his childhood died. When was that precise moment? When did he lose—without mourning—his ability to look about creation with a sense of awe and mystery? To have his soul astonished and eyes light up with glee because the world was rife with the amazing and unexpected? To be able to believe in miracles? That was what he longed for—to truly encounter the miraculous.

Samuel, for all of his talk about community, led a solitary existence. The sheets of his bed were pulled taut with a meticulous crispness. A chair rested under a free-standing light; he hated reading in bed because the words slurred together in a pool of slush as he drifted to sleep. A television set faced the chair on the opposite side of the room, but he had long ago lost the remote and never thought it worth the effort to cross the room to turn it on. To call it a life would be to infuse his world with color and vibrance often found wanting. No, he chose his gray, contemplative way, a monk’s solitude as if balancing some scales only he saw. Making up for Samson’s life. Foolishness, he knew. God didn’t work that way—leave Karma to the Buddhists.

“O God, by the life, death and resurrection of Your only begotten Son, You purchased for us the rewards of eternal life; grant, we beseech You, that while meditating on these mysteries…we may imitate what they contain and obtain what they promise. Through the same Christ our Lord. Amen.”

This morning, the walk from his chambers to the main vestibule proved especially long. The days of gothic architecture were a thing of the past, but Samuel couldn’t help but feel nostalgic for the shadows and arches that stretched within cavernous cathedrals. A call to glory made terrifying, he thought. Our Lady of Mount Carmel, though quite cavernous, was bright and cheery. A fountain spurted mildly in the lobby beneath a statue of Mary. The lights were too brilliant and somehow off-putting. He knew before he took his seat in the confessional that he would regret getting up this morning.

“I did it again, Sammy.”

“Samson?”

“I met a woman at the club. She was so lost, so alone. After we made love she told me all about how she’d grown up without a father, how her mother had only been fifteen when she gave birth to her so she’d been raised mostly by her grandmother. She told me about getting pregnant herself when she was fourteen and having an abortion and how it still plagues her when she thinks about how old her child would have been if it had been born. She cries every year on what would have been her child’s birthday. She was young and didn’t know anything about life and she’d been taken advantage of by a much older man. That’s when she stopped believing in God. I guess the guy was very active in the church and no one believed her when she told them that he was the father of her child. Her grandmother slapped her for it. Still, with all the animosity she had built up inside her toward the church and God, she had the hardest time signing the contract when it came down to it. She even cried after she signed it.”

“You’ve got to stop this, Samson. You need to think about your own soul for a minute.”

“I’ve known that I was going to hell for a long time, Samuel. I’ve broken commandments God hadn’t thought about giving us. There’s no hope for me.”

“I know that you think you’ve wasted your life, but look at all you’ve accomplished, how successful and famous you are.”

“If I die it won’t matter. The world won’t stop spinning.”

“It will matter to me. Don’t you care if you live or die? Is your life that bad? That…empty?” Samuel touched the screen that separated them in the confines of the booth.

“I care, Bro. Believe me, I care. But I also care about you.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing or why, but intentions don’t count. Caring doesn’t count. How you live is what counts. Did you really think you’re life’s purpose was to protect me?”

“You’re all I’ve got, Samuel. All we have is each other.”

“Then why take the one decent thing in your life and strip it of all meaning? Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve stood for…this goes against all of it. You have so much anger inside you. You define yourself by your mind and your body; you trust yourself too much, have too much faith in who you are. You’ve gotten by on your looks and your charm and it’s pretty much gotten you everything you wanted out of life, but you are still hurting. You use sex to cover your pain and self-loathing, to be a balm on the emptiness of your life. I think that’s how you see God: He’s just another irresponsible father who refuses to follow through on His responsibilities.”

“Well, isn’t He? How many times have you prayed to Him to cure you? How many times did we pray for Dad not to beat us? How many children are praying right now while they starve or die of diseases or neglect or abuse? Isn’t God just like our father who art on earth? Hasn’t he ignored us the exact same goddamned way? But then Dad didn’t ignore you did he? He only ignored me. He loved you.”

“See? Things always come back to Dad.”

“Fuck Dad! If he doesn’t love me then I don’t love him either. I’m over all that childhood shit. I’m talking about you and me.”

“I know. You have all of this distrust and anger and then God has the nerve to take away your best friend.”

“That’s right. That’s exactly what He’s fucking doing. God doesn’t give a fuck about either one of us. He didn’t stop you from getting sick and He hasn’t stopped me from…”

“From what?”

“Nothing. It’s too late for me.”

“Jesus forgives, Samson. He forgives us all. I don’t believe in pat answers to difficult questions. I wrestle with my faith every day. But, this isn’t about me, it’s about you. It’s always been about you. Your needs. Your redemption.”

“I don’t want His forgiveness. Not for me anyway. He should be asking for my forgiveness. I just want Him to stop punishing you for my sins.”

“Is that what you think? You think this is all happening to me just to punish you?”

“I’ve got to go, Sammy.”

“Is that what you think?”

The door to the confessional opened and Samson rose to leave.

“I love you, Bro.”

“Wait! What about your penance?”

“Save it. There is no penance for me.”

The door to the confessional closed. Minutes later, it opened again and the next parishioner shuffled in.

“Bless me father for I have sinned…”

Haven’t we all. Samuel thought as tears welled up in his eyes. Haven’t we all.