Bastien appeared from the small alcove behind the pulpit then, his eyes traveling over the small crowd until they locked with mine. He cleared his throat, nodded once, and then began to read from the scripture.
Twenty minutes into Mass and I still couldn’t discern why Bastien had thought I’d find it so interesting. It wasn’t until he tied the teaching together with his homily that my blood began to bubble and burn beneath my skin.
“Rebels play an important part in our history,” he began. “For example, this church. Right on this very soil, one son of God decided to go against tradition, to eschew dogma, in order to be on the right side of history. Some of you may know that St. Michael’s, leading up to and during the Civil War, was a stop on the Underground Railroad for dozens and dozens of former enslaved men, women, and children. Many of them went on to bigger cities like New York or Detroit, some even as far as Montreal, but for one brief moment, they were comforted with open arms and love right here. Many of you also know I was born in a country with revolution woven into its history, and my ancestors fled or fought persecution in their homelands. Some of them fought to colonize other nations, while others fought colonial oppression. Some days, I can’t help but take a step back and wonder what side of history I would find myself on if my circumstances had been different. What would be my belief if I were born German in Germany in 1930? Or Italian in a Rome ruled by Mussolini? We all hope that, by the strength of our own moral fortitude, we would make the right decision. But what exactly constitutes right? Genocide is evil incarnate on earth, but what of God’s morality and judgment in a situation with murkier underpinnings?”
I shifted in my seat, the wooden pew biting into my back and causing ants to crawl through my bloodstream.
Or was that his words causing the discomfort?
My head began a slow pound, splashes of light filtering through the elegant stained-glass windows like an awful strobe light out of my worst nightmare.
I did my best to tune him out, thinking about the application I’d dropped off this morning and of the three jobs I’d applied to that I most wanted, but his voice… That gravelly cadence pulled me back into his web, wrapping me up in his silky words.
“Love”—his voice deepened—“is the purest of all emotions.” His voice rattled me right between my thighs. “God doesn’t sit in judgment of us—not now, not ever—so long as we live with love in our hearts, the purest of all intentions. Sometimes it’s impossible to determine the greater moral good for all from afar. We can only look within and know the nature of our own true hearts to discern what is right and wrong. This is a moral contract you’ve already made with God, but also with yourself. Why are brave souls able to stand on the right side of history when the tidal wave beats them back again and again? Because true knowing of self is true knowing of God. They are one and the same.”
Bastien’s dark gaze brushed up to the highest peak of the ceiling, where I imagined Christ hung from the iron cross atop the steeple, piercing the heavens. Tears pricked my eyes as I watched him standing all alone, the center of an entire universe of hope, surrounded by a halo of love.
My skin began to itch, tiny pricks of lightning jolting my legs, urging me to run because all of this was too much pressure.
I’d come to St. Michael’s to escape a disaster of my own making, only to walk myself into an even bigger one.
My vision faded to dark with the realization, heart sinking as my fingers bit into the pew, tears scorching my eyelids.
“It is only when,” Bastien continued from the pulpit, “we walk through the dark night of the soul and face every fear, that we can we truly begin to know ourselves enough to stand strong in our beliefs.”
I sucked in a breath, clutching at the flesh of my thighs to prevent myself from standing.
To run to him or away, I wasn’t even sure myself.
If we’d been alone, no one there to watch us love, maybe then I would have found out. But instead, I was chained.
Chained to the possibility of us.
Anchored to the pain of holding what didn’t belong to me.
Writhing with the agony of letting it go.
“Are you okay?” Lucy whispered at my side.
Bastien’s gaze hung heavy on mine across the pews, jaw working back and forth before I murmured, “I’ll never be the same again, Luce.” I shook my head, tears spiked with helpless rage streaking my cheeks. “Never again.”
