03-20-2022, 01:37 PM
(This post was last modified: 03-20-2022, 11:13 PM by Gabriel Richards.)
[CW: internalized homophobia, self-punishing attitude and suggestion of self-mortifying practices]
Gabriel nodded in the dark. As he had expected, Father Brennan was the compassionate and understanding kind. And for a moment, he felt a little more at ease. It didn't last long, for his confessor asked on, and Gabriel was once again schoolboy back the minor seminary, tiptoeing around an uncomfortable sin during his weekly confession and the priest wasn't having it.
He felt hot and flustered. "I... yes, father... I was just about to tell you," he said, perhaps a little defensively.
"I eh..." But this time he wasn't tiptoeing around it because of embarrassment and a reluctance to share what felt so private, although shame was part of it now. More than shame, it was overwhelm and disorientation. He didn't know how to express it or where to start. It wasn't just Crane. It was everything. Everything was falling apart. He had thought he had built it all up again during his retreat. It was a house from which all joy had left, yes, a lonely place to inhabit, but at least this one was built on rock rather than sand. But everything was coming apart again, and the second time was worse. How could he ever say everything that needed to be said, when he didn't even understand what was going on anymore?
Perhaps father Brennan would tell him what he himself did not dare to fully consider, though the doubts whispered to him at night, just before he fell asleep or when he woke up in the middle of the night, quietly at first but louder and louder each night: that maybe he had taken the wrong path altogether. That perhaps he had never had a true vocation in the first place, and that this vanity and pride, his need to be seen and be important, had clouded his discernment. That he should never have become a priest. That he was unworthy, and no fast or discipline could replace the burning coal that the Lord seemed to deny his lips.
He was quiet for a long time while the full despair clouded his side of the confessional. Small movements and unsteady breathing, the occasional clearing of his throat and small noises like a syllable that died on his lips, indicated that he was about the speak, all that time, only he didn't. Until at last: "Everything's come falling apart, father." His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. He could feel hot tears running down his face. He hadn't wanted them to fall. He hadn't thought they would. But the full weight of his silent struggles seemed to press on him in that moment and opening his mouth was like breaking under it at last.
"I've given in to the sin of despair. I seem to doubt everything. I have doubted the love and mercy of God and God's power to save me. But it's not been God that's been unfaithful, father, I know it. I was wrong to doubt. It's me that has been closed to God's love... I've been unworthy of my vocation, father. I've struggled with lust, and I've not fought it as hard as I should have. I - God have mercy - I've had lustful thoughts and feelings towards a man in this parish. A good man. He was under my spiritual care. He opened himself to me so freely, and I betrayed his trust and betrayed my office by preying on my own flock. That's why I went on a retreat and Father Kemble replaced me. I mortified my flesh and prayed. I remembered why I became a priest. I learned to control my mind and spirit, my flesh. I thought I was a better man. I had killed what was evil in me. My lust. My disobedient spirit. My pride...
"But my spirit has revolted since, father. Against Father Kemble. Against you. And I have doubted the meaning of my religious service. My heart has been cold to those in my care. I have not loved when I should. And then this man... He came to the presbytery, father. I had no reason to invite him in, but I did. I hugged him, held him close, when I knew what it would do to me. More importantly, I knew what it would do to him. But I did not stop myself. I did, in the end... I have stayed away from him since and I have tried to mortify the flesh, until I would regain my former disposition. Only I didn't. I have had improper thoughts of this man, father, and touched myself inappropriately..." he was ashamed to name the number, it had always been the most embarrassing part, but he knew it belonged to a full confession, despite never demanding it when he had been on the other side. ...eleven times since, father." He felt dizzy for the humiliation. "I have lost control. And it seems the more I hate myself for it and try to gain control over my flesh, the deeper I fall..."
His folded hands were pressing against the wooden separation between them, his forehead was pressed against his wrists, as he cried. "God have mercy."
Gabriel nodded in the dark. As he had expected, Father Brennan was the compassionate and understanding kind. And for a moment, he felt a little more at ease. It didn't last long, for his confessor asked on, and Gabriel was once again schoolboy back the minor seminary, tiptoeing around an uncomfortable sin during his weekly confession and the priest wasn't having it.
He felt hot and flustered. "I... yes, father... I was just about to tell you," he said, perhaps a little defensively.
"I eh..." But this time he wasn't tiptoeing around it because of embarrassment and a reluctance to share what felt so private, although shame was part of it now. More than shame, it was overwhelm and disorientation. He didn't know how to express it or where to start. It wasn't just Crane. It was everything. Everything was falling apart. He had thought he had built it all up again during his retreat. It was a house from which all joy had left, yes, a lonely place to inhabit, but at least this one was built on rock rather than sand. But everything was coming apart again, and the second time was worse. How could he ever say everything that needed to be said, when he didn't even understand what was going on anymore?
Perhaps father Brennan would tell him what he himself did not dare to fully consider, though the doubts whispered to him at night, just before he fell asleep or when he woke up in the middle of the night, quietly at first but louder and louder each night: that maybe he had taken the wrong path altogether. That perhaps he had never had a true vocation in the first place, and that this vanity and pride, his need to be seen and be important, had clouded his discernment. That he should never have become a priest. That he was unworthy, and no fast or discipline could replace the burning coal that the Lord seemed to deny his lips.
He was quiet for a long time while the full despair clouded his side of the confessional. Small movements and unsteady breathing, the occasional clearing of his throat and small noises like a syllable that died on his lips, indicated that he was about the speak, all that time, only he didn't. Until at last: "Everything's come falling apart, father." His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. He could feel hot tears running down his face. He hadn't wanted them to fall. He hadn't thought they would. But the full weight of his silent struggles seemed to press on him in that moment and opening his mouth was like breaking under it at last.
"I've given in to the sin of despair. I seem to doubt everything. I have doubted the love and mercy of God and God's power to save me. But it's not been God that's been unfaithful, father, I know it. I was wrong to doubt. It's me that has been closed to God's love... I've been unworthy of my vocation, father. I've struggled with lust, and I've not fought it as hard as I should have. I - God have mercy - I've had lustful thoughts and feelings towards a man in this parish. A good man. He was under my spiritual care. He opened himself to me so freely, and I betrayed his trust and betrayed my office by preying on my own flock. That's why I went on a retreat and Father Kemble replaced me. I mortified my flesh and prayed. I remembered why I became a priest. I learned to control my mind and spirit, my flesh. I thought I was a better man. I had killed what was evil in me. My lust. My disobedient spirit. My pride...
"But my spirit has revolted since, father. Against Father Kemble. Against you. And I have doubted the meaning of my religious service. My heart has been cold to those in my care. I have not loved when I should. And then this man... He came to the presbytery, father. I had no reason to invite him in, but I did. I hugged him, held him close, when I knew what it would do to me. More importantly, I knew what it would do to him. But I did not stop myself. I did, in the end... I have stayed away from him since and I have tried to mortify the flesh, until I would regain my former disposition. Only I didn't. I have had improper thoughts of this man, father, and touched myself inappropriately..." he was ashamed to name the number, it had always been the most embarrassing part, but he knew it belonged to a full confession, despite never demanding it when he had been on the other side. ...eleven times since, father." He felt dizzy for the humiliation. "I have lost control. And it seems the more I hate myself for it and try to gain control over my flesh, the deeper I fall..."
His folded hands were pressing against the wooden separation between them, his forehead was pressed against his wrists, as he cried. "God have mercy."
