2020-03-02 - Man plans, God laughs.

Late afternoon at Saint Mary’s, and the church is empty, for the most part, silent and peaceful, the only sound a soft murmur coming from the confessionals. After a few moments, an elderly gentleman exits the confessional, pausing to look up at the altar and make the sign of the cross before heading towards the doors. The man had entered the church with his head bowed, shoulders slumped, weighed down with a burden he did not know how to carry. But as he exits the church, he stands taller, some of that weight lifted- even a small smile touching his lips.

Once he’s gone, the church falls once more into silence… and within the priest’s booth in the confessional, there is a slight shift. Inside sits Father Oren, the young priest who’s been in town for a little over a month now, taking over many of Father Daniel’s day to day duties, to give the older priest time to rest and handle the bigger issues of the church. Oren is leaning back, face turned up to the blank ceiling of the confessional booth, his hands clenched together on his lap, and a single tear rolls down his cheek.

“... Heavenly Father… thank you for this. For giving me the means to help ease other’s suffering, for blessing me with the opportunity to lighten their burdens and share Your limitless mercy and forgiveness with my fellow sinners.”, he whispers, a soft, fervent prayer directed at the heavens.

There is no answer.

The confessional door opens, and Oren steps out, quietly, meticulously smoothing out his black shirt, adjusting the shining white collar that most easily marks his calling, and looks around. The tears are gone, and his expression is once more that default, gentle warmth that he usually radiates. He glances to the stained glass windows, sees the dwindling light coming through them as day turns into night, and nods to himself.

There’s work to be done.

Oren moves to the front of the church, checking the doors- they’re left unlocked, the church always open and welcoming as long as one of its priests is on duty. He turns to the rack of votive candles near the entrance, most of them extinguished, and he shakes his head. Reaching beneath the rack, he pulls out a box of matches, murmuring a nearly silent prayer of gratitude as he strikes that first match. He looks into the flame, and bites his lip, the flickering light of it illuminating doubts, questions, guidance that he can’t seem to find. He sighs, shaking his head once more to clear it, and touches the dwindling match to the nearest candle. The tiny flame bursts to life, crackling white and orange and… red. There’s a flash there, a memory rising, summoned by the flame.

Red like the sunset on the day that she came to his church, seeking sanctuary from her demons.

Red like the blood streaking down her back as she was caught in a violent Dream, wounds opened on her skin with no visible source. Wounds that miraculously closed as he prayed over them.

Red like the hair she brushed out of her eyes when she looked at him afterwards.

Red like her lips when she whispered her thanks, clung to him in gratitude for the safety he did not know if he could provide.

A flare of red as something inside him reaches out, and he steps back, startled, while all the candles suddenly spring and sputter to life, a dozen small columns of warmth and light summoned as he thinks on that night. Oren gazes at the… miracle?... before him, and looks down at his hands, the charred and extinguished match still held in one. “I don’t understand this, Lord. I don’t understand any of it.”, he murmurs, and then takes a slow breath to steady himself before discarding the used match and putting away the matchbox. He then walks over to the broom closet, getting out the small broom they keep there, and looks around the church once more.

These thoughts… these gifts… they disturb him. Oren’s attention is turned inwards, even as he begins to quietly sweep between the pews. It all disturbs him- but that doesn’t mean it feels wrong. On the contrary- the feeling he had when he first heard the name of this strange little town, the deep, undeniable knowledge that Gray Harbor was where he belonged, where he should go, is still there, as strong as ever, if not stronger. He believes God called him here, and something deep inside him rejoices at knowing he’s where he belongs- but he was not prepared for what awaited him here.

For who awaited him.

Oren sweeps along another row of pews, lost in his swirling thoughts- others come to him for advice, for guidance, for healing and forgiveness. But who can he go to when he needs all those things himself? He has precious few friends in the church, as it is. Oren was always a little too liberal, a little too focused on the social justice aspect of his calling, and less on the pure faith and obedience to the church’s doctrine. It got him into trouble more than once at seminary, but in the end, no one could ever deny that he was a man of God, a man who loved God’s creation and all the people in it deeply, who came to his vocation out of a sincere desire to help, to heal, and to comfort.

Still, it did not change that he was, in so many ways, alone within the church. Alone, and lonely. He could not speak to Father Daniel about this- the older clergyman was known to be far more conservative than him, and he had a bit of… history with this matter that made him less than ideal as a source of guidance. He had no real friends from seminary that he could speak to, no local organizations with fellow priests. He just had himself, and his God… And his God was keeping quiet on the matter.

Oren pauses, looking up at the ceiling of the old church, and sighs. “Lord, I’ve never been one to ask for signs… I just wish... “, he says, softly, “... I just wish that, if you are laughing at me, at least let me hear Your laughter once.” He smiles faintly then, turning back to his sweeping. He had plans, when he came here. He had plans before that, too. He’d found his calling, after a life that always felt a bit too empty. He’d found in his faith something that gave him more than just a purpose, but a focus, a method to put into practice the things he’d believed even before reaffirming his faith and taking his vows. “Man plans, God laughs…”, he murmurs to himself, and chuckles. “I hope You’re laughing, Lord. I hope I can learn to laugh about it someday too.”

As his sweeping takes him closer to the altar, Oren pauses, and looks up at the figure of the Christ there. Priests are called to be like Christ- to show love, mercy, guidance. To speak the truth of the Lord and stand against injustice, as Christ himself did. To love all equally and wholly, as Christ did.

Except…

Oren’s expression turns far away, remembering his studies. Some of the writings, apocryphal and otherwise, remind us that Jesus had a female disciple. Mary Magdalene, who was particularly beloved by Him, understood Him better than anyone, received a special revelation given only to her. The first one to see the risen Christ when He left his grave after the crucifixion. None of the books that made it into the Bible speak of this relationship, and yet, there it is, for those willing to go look. And why? Why was that taken out, or not allowed? Who put together the books, who decided which were true gospels and which were not? Men. Just men, as fallible, as lost, as he himself.

“... did you love her, Lord?”, he whispers, voice quavering as he dares speak his doubts, so close to sacrilege, in this place. “Did she love you?” Oren shuts his eyes, then, turning his face down… and a moment later, sinks to his knees behind the pews. He prays, near-silent murmurs that are more meditation than prayer, seeking inner peace, seeking to silence his whirling thoughts so he can hear God’s voice clearly… and yet, nothing is there. Nothing answers.

He does not doubt God is there, and listening. But the lack of answer is an answer in itself. This is his choice, his path. He was led here, guided to this place, brought to where he needed to be. But whatever came next, it would be his choice.

Oren grits his teeth, eyes still closed. He’s sacrificed so much to be here, and willingly. Happily, even. This, this was, no, is, his calling- isn’t it? He was happy, content, firm in the knowledge that he had found his place. He knew where he belonged, what he needed to do, what his future would be.

Man plans, God laughs.

Oren sighs, and opens his eyes. He knows nothing. Not anymore. Only that coming here shone a light on a part of him he never knew was missing. A part that feels right. How could it be wrong? The Apostle John himself said it best: He who does not love does not know God, because God is love. How could his God, a God of love, ask him to forsake love? It makes no sense. And Oren is no fool- he may have been many things in seminary: an idealist, a firebrand, a liberal, but he was also an intensely dedicated student. He knows full well where the vows of celibacy came from, not from God or even the Bible, but from men, for purposes as much earthly as holy. It is a doctrine, not a commandment, and doctrines can be changed. Is he not called to follow God, to imitate the Christ? Is his faith predicated on God’s love, or on the Catholic church’s doctrines?

Oren stands, slowly, and looks back up to the altar, somehow ending up with more questions than he started with. And yet… his faith does not waver. He expects it to- expects to feel an emptiness inside him, expects to feel his God pull away from him over his doubts and questions, but he doesn’t. Deep inside, he knows, whatever he decides, as long as his choice is made in love, he is true to himself and to his faith.

It’s not an answer, not entirely, but it’s something. It’s comfort. It’s guidance, of a sort. It’s sanctuary in a cold night from the storm raging in his mind and in his heart. Oren smiles, just slightly, and bows his head. “... thank you.”, he whispers, and reaches for the broom to keep sweeping.

There’s still work to be done.