“Are you finished?”
“Yes, Bishop.”
“What makes you think about this man?”
I looked down at my folded hands, then raised my head to face the bishop. “He hadn’t been inside a church for twenty-five years. And when he came to confession earlier, he admitted to something that he can’t forgive himself for. Not even after seven years. He was so distraught after he confessed what he’d done, he ran out of the confessional and vomited in the hallway trying to get to the bathroom. No one’s ever reacted like that.”
The bishop looked at me long enough to make me nervous. Then he asked, “Father, why do you think having a person on your mind is a sin if that person is obviously in turmoil?”
I knew why but couldn’t bring myself to confess all my real thoughts. I’d given the bishop what I felt I could. “I just felt so sorry for him,” I said and then shrugged. “I wanted to help him.”
“Which is normal, my son.” The bishop sighed, then said, “For your penance you’re to read about St. Dymphna, the patron saint of those suffering from mental and emotional stress and guilt. Ask her to guide you in your journey with this man. Hopefully, he’ll return. Did you want to say anything else in the confessional before we talk?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“Go in peace, Father.”
“Amen.”
After making the sign of the cross, I met the bishop outside the confessional. “Bishop, would you like to talk in the rectory? If I remember correctly, you enjoy Irish coffee.”
The bishop’s eyes twinkled. “With an extra shot of the Irish?”
“For sure,” I said on a chuckle.
On the walk to the rectory, we chatted about trivial things… the congregation, and what the LA Dodgers had to do to change their lackluster season. Although, that was mostly the bishop weighing in on suggestions, since I didn’t follow any sport.
Once inside the rectory, I made him comfortable in the living room. I handed him the remote control to the TV incase he wanted to watch anything while I went into the kitchen and made two Irish coffees. I liked Bishop Sanchez. He wasn’t pompous about his status in the Church, the kind of religious leader that in my early days I wanted to emulate.
But something had changed in me. I liked to blame my parents for being overbearing in pushing me to become ordained. But if I was honest with myself, I’d more than just went along with entering the seminary. I believed that as a priest I’d make a difference in the people’s lives that were part of the community. But all I performed were mundane daily tasks, with an occasional crisis that I talked a couple through or a spouse who’d lost their partner. Until Ethan walked into my church, my only socializing was at The Ring. But more than the socializing, I wanted to fall in love. I wanted to have a partner that I could spoil, a person at my side at every turn in our lives. A man to make love to. God, what was I doing? The bishop was in the other room.
Shooing away all thoughts sexual, I added the finishing touches to the coffees and put them on a serving tray along with a plate of homemade lemon wafers one of the parishioners made. When I walked into the living room, the bishop seemed to be snoozing in the overstuffed armchair. I set the refreshments on the coffee table and then softly said, “Bishop…”
His eyes darted open and he laughed upon seeing me. “You’d think that I was an old man,” he said, still snorting “I’m only fifty-seven. I hope I have years to go yet.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said, chortling along with him. I handed the bishop his coffee and tapped the glass lightly with my own, then took a sip.
“Mmm, good.” He took another sip and patted his protruding belly. “Thank you, Jude. I won’t even dwell on the number of calories I’m consuming.”
“Good, because you should try a wafer. One of the women in the parish, Mrs. Holland, is a retired teacher who has a flair for baking. She brings over samples whenever she tries a new recipe.”
The bishop dunked one and then ate half of it in a single bite. “Delicious, especially with the taste of whiskey.”
“May I ask you a personal question, Bishop?”
He smiled warmly at me. “Let’s consider my showing up a friendly visit. So, call me Alex.” He snickered. “I hardly hear my first name anymore unless I’m with my parents or siblings.”
The bishop’s offer reminded me of when I’d given Ethan permission to use my first name instead of calling me Father Jude. “Thank you, Alex.”
“Now, ask away while I munch and drink,” he said happily.
I straightened in the twin armchair and shifted to face him. I pulled at a loose thread on the worn fabric. “It’s you, Alex. You’re so at home in your own body. The few times we’ve spoken, either in or out of the confessional, you’ve always given me a new perspective on how to view a matter. You’ve never dumped your own opinion but rather you offer advice from a good place and leave the options open for me to choose. There’s never any judgment. Instead, you visit a struggling priest and accept having Irish coffee and lemon wafers with him.” I had to stop to take a deep breath and clear my throat from the building emotion. “How do you achieve the softness? And yet, still be a strong religious leader?”
The bishop wiped his mouth with a napkin and then set his cup aside. He put his hand over the pectoral cross, which hung on a thick silver chain over his chest. “I don’t have to tell you the meaning of this cross.”
“No,” I said. It was a symbol of the bishop’s role as a shepherd of the Church, denoting his commitment to the faith and his flock.
“A shepherd has to be firm in order to keep the sheep together and moving forward, both as part of a group and individually. If the shepherd is good at his job, he never uses force. He uses the crook to nudge sheep in the right direction. With the hook on the end of the staff, he’s able to snag a sheep’s leg or neck to guide or restrain them if necessary. But always without the intention of harm. As a defense, the shepherd uses the crook to fend off predators.”
