An impatient rustling rose from the pews and broke into his musing. How long had his mind been wandering? He stared down at the homily printed on the pages in front of him. He had to rely on the pages now, following along the text with his forefinger, tracing his progress so that should he have a lapse of recall, all he had to do was glance down to reclaim his place. At one time, he could recall pages of a text without stumbling once or needing this crutch. Now he was no longer confident of his ability to recite the sentences and phrases, words he had labored over for syntax and precise meaning. He knew his satisfaction in the results was prideful, but he had always felt he owed this to the congregation, unlike Father Burns, who had not the gift for language and who dispatched his homilies in a manner one could, uncharitably he knew, call perfunctory. A second round of rustling from the pews, more pronounced now, flowed forward from the congregation. He adjusted his glasses, glanced down at the paper, slid his left hand under the scapular, as if seeking warmth in spite of the heat, and began.
“As many of you know—” He swallowed against a mouth suddenly dry and tried again. “As many of you know, one of our celebrated neighbors, the artist Will Light, has been selected to paint the art for the new cathedral, a series of paintings that will depict a gathering of saints.” He ran his tongue over lips turned dry and paused to take a sip from the glass of water on the lectern’s shelf, and then he inhaled deeply to shake off the faint light-headedness. “For this enterprise, the artist is following in the tradition of religious art that dates back for centuries. Like many of the masters, painters such as Caravaggio and Michelangelo and Rembrandt, he has decided to use as models for the saints the ordinary people of his town. Of our town.” Another swallow of water. He slipped his hand from beneath the chasuble and grasped the side of the pulpit to steady himself. Perhaps he should have asked Father Burns to lead the Mass. Too late for that now.
“I know this decision has made some of us uncomfortable, even unhappy. After all, we might say, who among us is worthy of representing a saint?” He lifted his eyes from the text, unable to resist a quick glance toward the third row of pews where Lena MacDougall sat in her customary aisle seat, overseeing all. It took him several moments to regain his place in the text.
“We might ask: Who is a saint? What is a saint? It seems we ought to be able to give a simple answer. A holy person, we might answer. A pure being who practices the virtues of Christ to a heroic degree. One who has forsaken earthly pleasure in service to God. A martyr who has sacrificed all for his faith and in His name. And yet, these simple answers lead us to a sanitized version of sainthood that weakens our understanding of how grace works in the world.”
He chanced another glance at Lena, who sat, mouth tight, disapproval an unnamed force of physics that radiated off her like smoke. Momentarily he lost focus. To calm himself, he took another drink, but the water was now tepid, and one swallow made him queasy. He soldiered on. “Among the legions of the saints, among the devout and pure of heart were crooks and thieves, con men and cutthroats, harlots and atheists. The thief Saint Dismas. The gambler Saint Camillus. Or the beggar Saint Benedict Joseph Labre. Or Saint Vladimir, the rapist. Thinking about these men as saints, we can feel uncomfortable, just as we might avert our eyes when we pass a homeless person on the street caught in the grip of poverty. Or alcohol. Or drugs. Why? Why does this person give rise to extreme reactions? Perhaps because we recognize the humanity in him, and so we are not let off the hook; perhaps she is a saint in disguise. We are then asked to release our judgments and accept the knowledge that there is no such thing as an unforgivable sin.”
Unforgivable sin. He recalled a conversation with his confessor at the seminary. “How do we forgive?” he had asked the older priest. “Is there anything that cannot be forgiven?”
The old man had looked at him, a searching gaze as if to discover the question behind these questions. “To understand forgiveness,” he had said, “it is first necessary to forgive ourselves.”
Another rustling from the pews. He looked up at the congregation, thought he saw Will Light sitting toward the back, but the faces blurred and he was unsure. What would the artist think to know that the sketches he had been working on for weeks had inspired the homily this morning? He blinked again to clear his vision, relieved to be nearing the end of the text. “There are many pious people who believe themselves to be saints who are not,” he read, “and many who believe themselves to be impious who are not.” Lena snorted, a sound loud enough to rise to where Father Gervase stood. He carried on. “Simply put, the saints are us, all of us, in our full and flawed humanity. All it takes—” Another wave of nausea took him, and in spite of the heat, he was chilled. He thought again that he should have asked Father Burns to lead the service. He glanced toward the side door he used to enter the sanctuary in what now seemed like years ago and wondered if he should leave, but the distance to the door was daunting. He tightened his hold on the pulpit. His vision blurred, as if his eyes were filmed with oil. Off to his right, the candle flames wavered and shimmered. Where was he? “All it takes,” he continued, “to convert a sinner to a saint is desire. Desire to do good, to be better, to try harder, to be open to grace.” Now all he wanted to do was finish the Mass. He had completely lost his place on the page and tried to recall the last line. He closed his eyes and concentrated, willing the words to come. There was a rustling from the pews, not of impatience, but of concern, as if as one they were leaning forward in their seats, leaning toward their priest, sensing something had gone wrong. Something about a journey. Yes, a journey. And then it came flowing back. He remembered each word. “Our spiritual journey,” he started. He stopped, inhaled deeply like a runner seeing the finish line. “Our spiritual journey is—or ought to be—a deepening realization of the possibility of sainthood in all of us.”
Again Lena snorted, and that sound of her displeasure was the last thing he remembered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Two hours into the trip to Maine, I remembered the portfolio I’d brought home from the wharf studio the previous afternoon.
I had set it on the hall table earlier that morning, and I definitely recalled seeing it next to my overnight bag, but had I picked it up and carried it out to the car? This I could not remember. Well, if I’d forgotten, it was too late to turn back now. It was already past one, and Sophie expected me around noon. I’d started out later than planned and hadn’t thought about the crush of weekenders heading north, and so crossing over the state line from Massachusetts I’d been caught in traffic. I considered stopping to find a pay phone so I could give her a call. If I could even find a pay phone. One of these days I’d have to cave to the inevitable and get a cell phone. Welcome to the twenty-first century.
I’d been nervous all morning, and being late only added to my anxiety. My last conversation with Sophie had been easy, her voice relaxed and warm, and when we’d planned the weekend—not a day trip, we’d agreed, but an entire weekend—I’d felt an awakening to possibilities, but now I wondered if I had misread everything. The possibilities, the tender hope that we could begin again seemed just that, a hope and one too easily dashed. How did one begin again? Was it possible? Or had too much damage been done? Had we already crossed that line? There was so much I didn’t know, but this I knew: I missed her and wanted her back. I wanted a return to our lives where there was no need for “space” and the unspoken threat that such a need gave rise to. The truth is, I loved her still.