A Time To Die

 

There’s a righteous violence in me, a holy murder.

 

            “Let us pray.”

 

Everyone has a perfect death, a right ending to their life. And in each face, I see it – the way a person should expire.  

 

            “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

 

For some it’s the blue gasping of asphyxiation, the greedy gulp of drowning, or the warm bloodletting of a cutting blade. It would be wrong to devise a murder; rather, I allow homicidal images to appear like the face of a choir boy floating up from baptismal waters. 

 

            “Turn to page 276 and let us sing ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’”

 

I survey my congregation and imagine some of them in snapshots of crime scenes; Mr. Moeller’s throat pig slit, Ms. Thigpen poisoned, Dr. Schundler’s face shot off. These mental Polaroids are prayers.

 

I prefer communion mornings, all those faces tilted, throats exposed. Wafer swallowing. Wine sipping. I envisage my sheep’s slaughter best in close proximity. 

 

            “The body of Christ broken for you.”

 

            “The blood of Christ shed for you”

 

Today’s homily is from John 19, the crucifixion. Relishing the retelling of hammering nails, piercing sword, and the agonizing death of the son of God I emphasize phrases like “lamb to the slaughter.” My passion paints a picture that has the blue haired old ladies weeping and the spit shined boys cringing at being nailed naked. 

 

            “It is finished.”

 

I shake the hands of each parishioner as they leave. Piously receiving compliments on the morning message, I imagine their murder.

 

            “God be with you.”

 

            “And also with you.”

 

Monday morning in my walnut walled office, Ms. Gruber informs me that hospital visits for the week have doubled. “And attendance is down by one third,” she adds. “There’s simply too much work for one man to do, Father.”

 

I turn and look into Mrs. Gruber’s melon face, “There is no greater love than a man lay down his life for his friends.” Gazing at her halved cantaloupe countenance I wait for a revelation of her fatality.

 

And it comes. 

 

Pulling into the hospital parking lot I say a quick prayer.

 

            “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...” 

 

“Good to see you again, Father” chirrups the male nurse at the front counter. 

 

“I’m here for Ms. Bender?”

 

“She’ll appreciate the visit. Room 437.”

 

“God bless you, son.”

 

Sleeping, Ms. Bender is pressed into the bed by a single sheet. Thin skin and veined, her arms rest at her sides. She is frail and fading but the light above her bed halos her face saint-like.

 

Gently, I lift her lolling head with my left hand and withdraw the pillow. I kiss her on the forehead.

 

Then, I smother her.      

 

There is a moment of clenching in her hands, but she passes peacefully. I wipe white sputum from the corner of her mouth, place the pillow beneath her dead head, and walk out of the room to the familiar alert of a life support system going haywire.

 

            “Come unto me all ye who are weary and I will give you rest.”

 

I don’t turn to watch the nurses rush a crash cart into Ms. Bender’s room; I do stop to get a bag of Doritos from the vending machine in the waiting room.

 

            “I am the bread of life.”

 

Driving back to the church I marvel that most people believe their days eternal, all evidence to the contrary. I suppose it’s in our nature to entertain hope that somehow a miracle will always save us. This is why God sent me – to teach his children that all things must end.

 

            “To everything there is a season: a time to live and a time to die.”

 

In the moment I park my car, everything happens. Two police cars screech around the corner gravel sliding in front of me. One police car rushes up behind. Six doors fly open. Guns are ready-aiming. There is a bullhorn.

 

“Hands! Show us your hands. Now!”

 

I lift my hands.

 

“Get out of the car.”

 

“Get out of the car.”

 

In that moment I understand that God has rendered me powerless. And the miracle is to be that there will be no miracle. I am not spared this knowledge and yet, I welcome it.

 

Looking in the rearview mirror I see my own perfect death, my final act of mercy. 

 

            “Thanks be to God.”

 

Lifting my hands, I step out of the car. 

 

“Take six steps back and lay down.”

 

I step forward.

 

“STOP!”

 

I step forward again.

 

“One more step and I’ll shoot.”

 

I smile. And take one more step forward.

 

            “Amen.”

Reviews

[Helen Woodward]

This is disturbing Eric, though your point is well taken. I sometimes wonder where you get this train of thought, it is mesmerising! Thoroughly irreligious and entertaining at the same time. This could be the basis for a great movie. People love to see priests doing things unholy and you have created such a character. At first your reader is feeling good, but slowly with great timing he does an unexpected turn around that has the power to shock! Death is inevitable, but I am a big believer in the fact that it should not be 'helped' along.
You have always shown wonderful stoy telling ability...nothing has changed there my friend.
Cheers,

Helen.

[Greg Stitz]

Wow, I have a twin. Just kidding. This is a disturbing piece of work, but it has been told well and is quite entertaining.. The image of the priest and his faith in his work is mind boggiling, due that all priests are suppose to be holy. Great work.

[J.A.Thompson]

excellent read. i am disturbed, yet greatly entertained. as another said, this could be the basis for a great movie. this story has excellent flow, and the priest believing his unholy acts are pious is extremely intriguing. He in full accepting his own death as holy was the final touch to his impeccable, yet odd character. the religious lines in italics through the story really put that final touch that separates a good story from a great one.

good job.

[W.k.kortas]

Since the collection-plate was down so substantially, I'm guessing there was a Bishop waiting to finish the job if the boys in the black-and-whites didn't get it done. The greatest strength of the piece is it's voice--pitch-perfect and consistent from start to finish. Well-paced and well-executed vignette.

[DaDiva]

This was very creepy, but I liked it. Very well written and it had a very nice flow.

[Emily B]

A brilliant character. I wonder if he was always so entranced with death. Was he that strange child that terrorized the neighbor cats until they yielded paws up? I wonder if it is the Power of the thing. Does he feel like he is in control, does he feel God-like? I can almost see this man, in his impeccably pressed clothes. And his ultra white shirt. And there's something about that handshake. That's a significant detail. But there should be something about that . . . maybe as he steps forward to face the cops he smiles and holdsout his hand as if to shake

oh, maybe it's not that attendance is down, instead there has been a general decline in the numbers of the members of the congregation, it's a slight difference but telling

[Lexy]

Excellently written... I like how you have the religious things, the things from Church in italics. They added a nice effect.

"I did stop to get Doritos from the vending machine in the waiting room.
[i] I am the bread of life [/i]"

That is probably one of the best lines I have read...
Great job.
Even if it's kind of creepy-the Father going around thinking of people's death.