Father Luke’s Journey into Darkness. Nancy Carol James

      Jumping, he twisted his shoulder as if to deflect a blow. Looking around, he was relieved to see Hannah sitting in the back pew. Her long dark-blonde hair reached almost to her elbows and her face shone with alert energy. Her green eyes pierced into his.

      His immediate response of “Fine” stopped mid-course. He looked and saw her bright eyes meeting his, waiting in hope for a real encounter. Breathing slowly, he walked past rows of empty pews where generations of worshipers had prayed. The souls of the faithful! Yet in spite of the soft red light glowing in the sanctuary, it seemed to be empty of love and faith. Now the consecrated church sanctuary seemed filthy, like a cluttered movie theater with littered sticky spilled soft drinks and empty popcorn bags. What are we watching here? Jesus on the cross looking for an encounter. Turning and waiting, for what?

      Her voice penetrated his thoughts again. “What’s going on here?”

      The back doors were open; the already-lit red-flaming candles on the altar created an eerie glow. The white walls were broken by the stations of the cross exhibited in colorful stained glass windows.

      Sighing, he sat next to her on the nineteenth-century brown church pews. “You know also?”

      “Yes. The church is dying. There are signs everywhere.”

      Father Luke looked straight ahead, then a quote popped into his mind: “Our house is desolate.”

      In the echoing, empty church, he asked, “What do you see?”

      “Crisis everywhere. No one talks. Ministries fail. Who can miss seeing that the church is struggling?”

      The flaming candles on the altar sputtered and Luke leaned forward to hold his head in his hands. The sound of screeching tires outside broke the silence.

      Softly, he began, “Our church computers had some problems. So I called in the tech guy from the diocese.” The priest sat, shivering. Why am I cold all the time now? Then he leaned closer to Hannah, looking for any sort of enlightenment. “The man said, “Someone’s going to X-rated sites and they are leaving bugs on the computers.””

      Hannah’s face turned to stone but she did not answer. The old building creaked.

      Why am I telling this to her, Luke wondered. Then he knew the answer. Words rose out of the depths of his heart. I’m desperate. For the first time in my life, I feel utterly lost. And who can I trust?

      He had attended the diocesan meetings for years. The bishop had his group of favorites and I’m not one of them. They thought he was irrelevant to take all of this devotion seriously. Yet that is why I am here. They taunted, “Take your place,” like it was a performance.

      “And they are trying to get rid of you, aren’t they, Father?”

      “I don’t know but it sounds like you do.” He paused. “I have been here for ten years.”

      “I can see it. I think one of the other priests is behind it.”

      Hannah continued, “Some boy keeps calling the voice mail. He screams, “The water’s running! Please stop!””

      Father Luke paused.

      Hannah said very softly, “I think a criminal is on the loose here.”

      He nodded. “Watch and wait. Waiting is difficult but answers will come to us.”

      Then they heard footsteps coming up the side stairs. How long had this person been here? Had he heard? Or was it a spirit? Then the door swung open. His hair looking askew, Father Peter walked in, with an immense grin on his face. “I am so full of thanksgiving. I just came in to pray.”

      Quickly Hannah and Luke looked at each other. Luke sank back: could it be thanksgiving for over-hearing Luke confide in a woman about his personal fears?

      Luke stood and briefly turning to Hannah said, “Will you stay for the mass and have a cup of tea after?”

      She smiled, but quickly declined. “Not tonight. I’ll see you on Saturday at our luncheon for the homeless.” With a slight emphasis on the first word, she ended, “Wait for me then, Father.”

      Later at the Saturday evening mass, dressed in his purple chasuble, Luke looked out at the usual suspects. These churches in Washington, DC changed membership with every change in the president’s administration. Yet tonight he saw a few that he recognized. The lovely woman Annette in the elegant hat. The officer, General Knight, who had taken responsibility for the parish records. And then, Luke saw him. That tall Vatican priest Leo, loaned now to the diocese, sitting in the back of his St. Charles parish.

      The liturgy continued. Luke placed his hand over the bread. “He said the blessing, broke the bread, gave it to his disciples.” Then Luke held the host high. “Take this all of you and eat of it for this is my body, which will be given up for you.” Then hands shaking, he took the chalice, “Take this all of you and drink from it for this is the chalice of my blood, the blood of the new and eternal covenant, which will be poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sin. Do this in memory of me.”

      And then as Luke reached for the chalice, his hand hit it. As if in slow motion, he watched the gold chalice fall to its side and the wine splashed out in a circle of spreading blood swarming all over the pure white linen. Fiery red holiness crying out “Holy! Holy! Holy!” Or maybe, Luke thought, this blood announces, the end of innocence.

      Following the service, Luke stood outside the main door greeting the waiting line of parishioners. Leo walked up and with complete eye contact announced himself. “You know I’m working for Bishop Cahill,” Leo said, enunciating each word. This seemed as effective to Luke as starting a new Inquisition and he stared in return.

      Leo continued, “I work in all the churches now. We are starting several new confirmation classes and hope to restructure the diocesan confirmation program. We want to keep the young confirmands active and involved.” He walked rapidly away without acknowledging Luke’s startled eyes.

      The ghost’s warning had struck home.

      Jerry continued his solitary journey. Why would Ignatius use wolves as a symbol? Jerry thought of everything he knew about them. They lived in packs and they were incredibly committed one to another. To be part of the pack was to have a family and belong. To be part of the pack was to experience a shared structure of relationships that endured. To be part of the pack was to have the benefit of knowing that they look out for each other.

      Jerry stared out his window. “Maybe that is what I want.” He smiled. “I want what wolves have. A pack bringing strength, comfort, and adventure. I want to run and be part of the pack.”

      Early the next morning, Luke heard a soft knock on his personal door. His shiny black hair attractively combed, an alert Father Jerry stood there.

      “Can we talk, Luke?”

      All of Luke’s usual excuses flooded into his mind but then he pushed them aside. He slowly opened the door. “Come in. Please?”

      Jerry’s face softened. He said, “Yes.” Then he lifted up his arm to show Luke a white bag he carefully bore. “My cinnamon rolls, Luke. I know you like them. I also made my St. Bruno cream.”

      Luke stared. One of Jerry’s specialties, this rare concoction consisted of a pudding made from sugar, eggs, and cream, then laced with strong coffee, becoming truly an adult delight. He heard echoing through his mind phrases from Jerry: “The eleventh-century Saint Bruno knew the rigors of monastic life and made this life sweeter with the goodness of custard.” Luke poured the hot dessert-like beverage. “Please, Jerry, do sit by the window. I have had this room forever and the morning sun is delightful.”

      After Jerry offered the rolls on china plates, Luke found himself actually enjoying this. Could this be why they had those required group interactions? “Maybe we could do pizza next time,” he said.

      Then Jerry