“Would God ever forgive me?” ginger-haired Ruth begs, a tone of hope detectable in her trembling voice. With a heart rusted with sin and hardened with guilt, she has sought refuge in the house of forgiveness, i.e., the most glorious church in the state.
As Father Kelly hears the question, the second hand on his decade-old, 2012-model Sky-Dwellers Rolex moves to IX. Time moves slowly in the cramped space of the confessional, which reeks of rotten wood. The first thing he should do next time he raises a sizable donation is order a new confessional for His Church, perhaps one made of Cedar and Pine. Until then, he will endure the discomfort. After all, the half-Irish, half-German pastor didn’t devote most of the 54 years of his life to the church just to gain comfort. Once a young teen with long, blond hair, full of passion and love, he is now partly bald, having lost a hair for each hour that he has served in His Church. Despite this, Father Kelly has no regrets. He is here to help people and serve God. And God knows he has served Him well. If only more people were appreciative of his sacrifice too.
Father Kelly leans in, and the silver cross necklace that rests on his black Wool-Cashmere clergy jacket dangles from his neck. Through the latticed opening that divides his compartment from that of the confessor, he catches a glimpse of Ruth. Her red hairs are soon to be outnumbered by the gray ones. Tears streak down her wrinkled face, revealing the sincerity of her repentance. Her soul is now in the hands of Father Kelly, whether or not to absolve her of her sins and most importantly to free her of her guilt.
Would God ever forgive her? Leaning back to his seat, Father Kelly takes a deep breath before responding. “Well—”
“You don’t need God’s forgiveness,” a mysterious voice that fills up the whole church interrupts Father Kelly.
His teeth clench when he recognizes the voice of the devil.
“You’re the one who should forgive God. Come. Come, my victim friends. Come join me outside, and let’s forgive God for…”—The assertive voice dissolves into a pitiful sob—”…for what He has done to us.”
How dare they bring their blasphemy into the place of worship, the house of God? There was a time, not so long ago, that the church could light a fire into the ass of these agents of Satan. A literal fire. But, times sure have changed—for better or worse. This is the era of diplomacy and patience. Father Kelly hears himself panting through his nose. Taking a deep breath, he tries to suppress his anger and wrap up with his routine by absolving Ruth of all her sins in a few seconds.
With a voice that carries the generosity of his spirit, he kindly responds, “Of course He—”
Ruth steps out of the booth.
Disappointed and puzzled, Father Kelly draws the curtain open.
Ruth joins the flock of churchgoers who are going out of the church, walking like mindless zombies hypnotized by the devil’s voice.
“Damn,” Father spits. His barely-contained anger reaches a boiling point, turning into an uncontainable blaze. “Jesus, you Black son of a bitch,” he barks, and pulling himself up by the curtain, he storms out of the confession booth. Leaving the curtain partly torn down, he shoves his way through the crowd to outside the church, where the devil’s voice emanates from.
As Father Kelly leaves the church, he pushes through the congregation gathered in the churchyard. His assistant, 22-year-old Otto, is already at the front, watching Black Jesus with passion and curiosity.
Black Jesus was a nickname coined by Father Kelly not to mistake him with Jesus Christ, who was certainly not Black—as proven by the many portraits hung in the church.
Once one of the few Black parishioners of the church, walking the straight line of righteousness, a few years ago Black Jesus took a left turn and ever since has become increasingly distant from His Church. Until now that he has gone too far, crossed the line to the devil’s side, shamelessly and openly rebelling against Father Kelly and his church His Church.
Black Jesus stands with open arms on a blue open-top trash can across the sidewalk, his feet resting on the rim. His new, untrimmed beard makes him look more like an orthodox Jew, or a Muslim, but definitely no longer a good, God-fearing Christian. Traces of multiple fresh burns mar his face and hands. Half of his beard and part of his hair also appear burnt as if he’s returned from a vacation in Hell, where the devil has taught him all his tricks. With tears streaming down his face, he screams the words in such agony as if they might come from deep inside him. He portrays a convincing mental patient. The devil has apparently taught him acting too—among other dark arts.
Enraged and irritated, Father Kelly growls, “That crosses every line of decency,” and prays for God’s intervention to save his church from this madman on the trash can.
Black Jesus’ feet shake.
Father Kelly smiles.
Black Jesus is quite unstable and might fall into the garbage bin any second now. It just needs a little push.
Stroking his chin, Father Kelly contemplates whether he should finish God’s job on His behalf. The more Black Jesus talks, the madder Father Kelly gets. He is like a barrel of gunpowder that only needs a small spark to fire off and unleash himself on Black Jesus.
“Pray no more, my children,” Black Jesus says. “Time to answer God’s prayers. Time to forgive. Let’s forgive Him for the pain and agony that we are born into.”
That’s it, Father Kelly thinks, marching toward Black Jesus with clenched fists when a dark shadow casts itself on him. His face is a foot away from the gold chain that rests on the chest of the man blocking his way. Father Kelly slowly looks up.
That is Paul, a former altar boy, a longtime friend of Jesus, now standing by his side. He has grown tall and strong, his childhood cute face hardened with a frozen expression of vengeance. The playful kitty has grown to a predatory leopard, evolved to tear flesh. Standing tall with crossed arms, Paul nonchalantly chews gum while shooting menacing glares down at Father Kelly.
His eyes locked on Paul, Father Kelly backs into Otto.
“Sorry, Father,” Otto says.
With his heart pounding fast, Father Kelly turns back and looks at Otto.
Clueless Otto, still clinging on to the naive innocence of his teenage years, looks back as if he has not felt the storm that is about to reshape the religious landscape of the city.
In his head, Father Kelly counts to ten to regain his temper. He stops at six. He swallows, and clearing his throat to make sure his voice will not tremble. “We need to do something about this son of a bitch.”
“But he’s harmless,” Otto says while pointing to Black Jesus.
As Father Kelly turns to face Black Jesus, his gaze falls instead on Paul’s extended hand, who is flipping him off. That middle finger is going to hurt somebody real bad, sooner or later. This is just the beginning, Father Kelly thinks and he turns back to Otto. “Yeah, at first, when they’re only a few. Harmless and even kind of cute. But the harm starts when the cult grows big. And this asshole is set to grow enormous.”
“You want me to call the sheriff?”
“No, that wouldn’t do,” Father Kelly replies, stroking his chin.
“So Imam Zahid again?”
“We need to do something worse. Something much, much worse.”
With his eyes narrowed, Otto stands on his toes while leaning in, his ear now near Father Kelly’s mouth.
“Call his mom,” Father Kelly whispers the secret plan, and pushing the crowd around, goes back inside his church.
Otto is left there with a puzzled look on his face. “His mother!” he mutters.