Father Hood
by Jake Eaton

He presented before the confessional, opposite me, and abided by the script, “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been ___ since my last confession…”

You know the concept, of course.

He wasn’t a local of mine and I could tell by his quiver and tone he was truly living with the burden of guilt. The fact he traveled out so far to see me supported my inquiry he wasn’t just spewing some ‘let me into heaven’ malarkey. I have a reliable sense for detecting these things. I trust you’d know.

He went on about how it was an extremely dark era of his life, he was battling clinical depression, drinking excessively with over and under the counter drugs. He attempted suicide because the guilt was so demonizingly haunting. I could tell from his poor complexion, he’d been kept up consecutive nights on end, not eating, storing himself away from the sunlight and general public.

I had my own things to worry about. My church was in the midst of some financial pain. I worried for my locals and where they would go to once the banks had seized our building.

…Ah, so you know of me. Yes, that was me who pitched in a donation to the city zoo when they were going to euthanize about a fourth of their animals when their budget went under. When the Elementary school was scarce on transportation, that was me who gave them more buses. The annual donations to Red Cross, me as well.

I guess, now, I should have been looking after my church rather than such matters, but perhaps this would be why my believers seem to be leaving me slowly, but noticeably, in numbers. Sunday mornings get smaller and smaller by the week. My echo at the altar becomes more phonetic but less are hearing it. Our faith is dying at the hands of finance.

Which is why I’ve come to you, fellow Father.

I couldn‘t tell you where this man came from but that is irrelevant anyway. I must carefully nurture the truth to avoid incriminating those who have all ready been reprimanded. I trust you’d understand. But this man talked. He spilled his soul all over God’s floor and sincerely begged, for forgiveness, mercy, penance, anything. Once he was finished, I did what we all do, assigned him ten Hail Marys and fed him the blessed sacrament.

I’ve always wondered if one of these days, one of my confessors would get too caught up in the heat of the moment, the grief, the despair and try to choke to death on the communion wafer.

I’ve always wondered if it’s even possible to choke on it at all.

I watched this man pray. It’s always something when you look at a confessor for the first time upon leaving this booth. They always seem to stand in a new kind of light to you. The minute they enter your church, you try to size them up, guessing what they might have done. Sometimes you’re swerved a little, sometimes you’re spot on, sometimes you’re completely taken aghast. You could see yourself becoming social acquaintances with them. Hitting sports bars at night. Attending NASCAR events. Admiring each other‘s wives sideways, under the table, at dinner parties. Ordinary people stuff on days where religion takes a breather. Don’t play coy, Father, you do it too.

But that re-entry, from the booth, they’re re-introduced and all of that is gone. You couldn’t associate with such a heathen. That’s the newly dark light this man was kneeling in before me. His expensive haircut gleaming under my large cross. I knew he was wealthy when he walked in. His sharkskin suit. His shades. Why else would you wear shades inside of a church? But now I am stalling. This man left my church as I followed him outside. He was driving a Rolls Royce. I took down his plate numbers, Father.

Then, I waited.

I didn’t do it right away for the risk of heavily incriminating myself. These people don’t just talk about these things with anyone and everyone. Their lists of confidants are a great minimum. I had a private investigator run the plates for me. I found out who this man was, where he lives, his occupation, annual income, everything.

Seven or eight months later, I sent for those ten Hail Marys.

Ten thousand dollars. His absolution, which he was good for. I sent who I call my “other altar boys” to make the collection. He wouldn’t recognize or link them to me at all. His donation kept our church alive. I hate to sound like I’m trying to justify, but it is our mission to exercise the love and power of the Lord. That was my only intent behind this.

I had to sit in silence and listen to this man describe in colorful detail what he did. This creature speaking humanized English. He wasn’t the first or last. I’ve gotten a variety of sinners in my many years, as I’m sure you have, but I’m not just talking about infidelity, thievery, tax fraud…I mean the people who have come to me, admitting to child abuse, incest, bestiality, rape…We’re forced to sit through and listen to these monsters express their guilt, shame, deepest inner-hauntings, and when they’re finished we feed them a cracker and promise them they’ll be o.k. on God’s behalf? How do we know that? What in us accepts that as good enough? What if God is ashamed of us for that?

This man was the first, which is why I started this confession with him, but he wasn’t the last. More sinners on his level came to me and I gave them their Hail Marys. Hail Marys that rescued zoo animals from death, gave children transportation to and from school, fed the homeless, aided ill citizens of the lower class, kept a church standing. I have never pocketed a cent for the sake of my own benefit or treasure.

Do you think Robin Hood went to hell? Would you condone Robin Hood burning in hell?

And some of the things our own kind have done, from priests using donation money for sports cars and beach houses to molesting children. Who forgives them for that and how? I truly can’t convince myself there is any kind of atonement for some of these things, not even from the Lord. And yes, I’ve collected Hail Marys from some of them too.

So I’ve come to you, Father, out of…I’m not quite sure really. Guilt? Yes and no. Being what I am, I believe it’s only right to confess. I trust you believe that. But I don’t believe I can say I’m sorry. I feel sorry, but can’t bring myself to say it, not even here in the Lord’s home. I can’t apologize for helping the Lord’s home and the unfortunate…and I’m sorry for that. And this all here is invalid, anyway, because I can’t even promise I will stop. Unless I win the lottery and strike rich with a confessor to murder, but in this economy that would hardly constitute as retirement.

Do you really think I’ll burn for this, Father? Do you think all those others won’t, just because they’ve said they were sorry? You can pronounce me. You can give me penance. Assign me all the Hail Marys in the world. It won’t change me. It won’t change the dastardly things people will tell me. Charge me Hail Marys. I’ll gladly pay. The sin trade does not take a day off. Clients will come to me by the day and meanwhile, there is an elderly home that could use some financial aid. The corner at 35th and East Broadway needs a new traffic light.

But sin is moving in closer and closer to me. My clients are becoming more local. People are starting to know. Slowly, my believers are leaving me. Sunday mornings get smaller and smaller by the week. My echo at the altar becomes more phonetic, but less are hearing it. Our faith is dying at the hands of finance.

You’re going to feed me that wafer next. Do you think if I try, I’ll choke on it?