Travesties in Lyme-Regis

A bright yellow sun winked its eye over the hills in the East. "Sunday morning, in the life of 2073," typed Father Jimmy Savvalas in his soon-to-be-read sermon, at church today. He felt like a seminarian, procrastinating his sermons 'til the day before, if not the day of. Times were tough of late, however, for the region of Dorset, town of Lyme Regis, and soon, for the whole country of England. Father Jimmy turned his television off. Click. The only thing fun he did these days was watch movies, trying 

to get his mind off the riots.

A convert to Catholicism, sixty-six year old Dimitrios Savvalas(Jimmy for short), missed life in Greece. The family and friendships of his home country, memories, the hot summers and clear blue waters coalesced, swimming in his mind. He'd accepted an offer by the Diocese to serve in the city of Lyme Regis, at St. Raphael's cathedral. It was clear to him he'd impressed many high-profile Catholics with his flawless English, kind demeanor, and above all, his knowledge of the Gospels. The mayor and High Sherriff of Dorset attended services.

The floors creaked like his bones when he got up from his typewriter. He walked across the living room. He brushed aside the window curtain, and with a handful of birdseeds whispered, "Come, sinless creatures," as the morning crows ate out of an already open palm. When there weren't any seeds left he admired the bay

of Lyme Regis, looking at the freezing water and comparing it with the life he had in Greece. An opposite life, perhaps, a Mobius strip of reality. He felt his failing mood whenever he thought of the recent riots.

In the summer past, Ken BurnCraggley, Highest Sherriff of Dorset, in an attempt to strengthen his fascist party, raised taxes on all immigrant households. These minorities either moved out of England or responded by attacking parliamentary buildings, merchant stores, with lethal weapons and pipe bombs. The region of Dorset had become fiercely unpredictable, and people had become sensitive and wildly divided. BurnCraggley had an election coming up soon.

Today, on the feast day of the Immaculate Conception, Father Jimmy had a plan. To him it was a day of reckoning and redemption.

Six O'clock. The clock ticked closer to the event. The priest went into the kitchen to make tea. His arthritis flared up around his knuckles as he lit the stove. Fire heated up tea, while anger heated up the priest. He remembered the events leading up to today. News about Mr. BurnCraggley and another man, mayor Fred Smith

had come to him on a crisp November day.

Christopher Smith, the mayor's son, had come to him with the news. The boy wanted to be as discreet as possible. He had revealed the news at the confession box. 

"Father Jimmy, my father's administration is accepting bribes! The government is skewing the votes!" The priest laughed at this, coming from a youngling with an obvious interest in his political upbringing.

"Christopher, tell me about life. How's Oxford? Meeting any friends? Any cute girls?" 

"Listen! Last night a group of men I KNOW are mobsters came over to the house! My father communed with them for an hour!" Father Jimmy laughed again.

"Christopher, your father's mayor. He also is of my most consistent every Sunday. Is this-"

"He's skewing the High Sherriff's reelection." The priest sighed.

"Yes, my son, I know that Ken BurnCraggley has caused the riots, and you obviously don't like him. What party do you lean towards? It seems to me you are a Liberal. Sometimes politics can be controversial. Don't they teach you that in your classes? You have dreams of public office. If you want to follow in your father's footsteps someday, this, is basic news."

"It's not right!" The boy cried, loud enough to echo throughout the church. "BurnCraggley's a racist!" 

"Chris, this is a confession, is this what you came here to tell me? What about you?" The boy slammed open the confession box door and stormed out of the church. Father Jimmy Savvalas knew his next step. That same day the priest called the Bishop of Dorset telling him about the possible shadiness of BurnCraggley's

next election.

"Dimitri," the bishop lamented. Everybody knows how Ken BurnCraggley and mayor Fred Smith are. They're confident, they rub people the wrong way."

"I know they are cheating," father Jimmy said.

"Dimitri, they come to church. They donate huge amounts. Think about it, if you were to bother them in any way do you think you'd still have a job at St. Raphael's? No. They would find your replacement." The Bishop was audibly stressed on the other line. "Please, don't bring this up again. Maybe call me after the election

then we will talk. God bless."

In the following weeks Father Jimmy Savvalas walked the shore of the Lyme Regis Bay, pensive. The dilemma clouded all of his thoughts. At the same time merchant shops and restaurants continued to be vandalized by angry immigrant gangs. The priest thought, "If Ken BurnCraggley isn't rigging his election, his decisions in parliament are destructive, nonetheless. He needs to be ousted." He covered his face from English winter flurries and began his walk to his apartment. When he returned, it took him twenty minutes to ascend the stairs to the fifth floor. 

The 66 year old priest went into his bathroom. He looked at himself through the mirror. He saw deep lines and sunken black eye-bags. He unconsciously touched the mirror. "When did I get so old?" He whispered. This same moment it occurred to him that he was running out of time, and as parish priest, he needed to do

something big. Something impressive to the Lord.

The phone in the living room rang. The floors creaked under his weak, unbalanced footsteps. He picked up the phone on its last ring. It was Mrs. Swansea.

Expecting the lady to complain about everything and nothing at the same time, this church-goer was a widow with a gargantuan victim's complex. He braced himself.

"Mrs. Swansea!! Can I help you? How's your back? How's your cat? Is your canary still sick?"

"It's about Fred. Mayor Fred Smith." she said.

"Yes, I've heard a lot about him of late, Mrs. Swansea, but you know how politicians can be-"

"PooPoo! I've had enough of this shit!" She said.

"What happened my good friend?" 

"Last night, as I left the Stop-N-Shop, I saw the mayor walking down the street. He walked up to a homeless man sitting, and spat. SPAT on his head!" Father Jimmy felt heat behind his jaw.

"What do you want me to do about it!" He interrupted, losing breath.

"You are voting for him and that scumbag BurnCraggley, aren't you father?-" She asked.

"No I'm not voting for them that's not the point!"

"They're going to win and everyone will suffer!" In a moment of rage Father Jimmy blurted out the dilemma boiling beneath his conscious.

"It's dangerous to stand up to them!! It's dangerous to the church!" He slammed the phone down in its cradle, plopped himself on the couch and slept.

The day finally came when this priest made his stand. 

"Sunday morning in the year 2073. December 8th, Feast Day of the Immaculate Conception," Jimmy Savvalas began. As predicted mayor Fred Smith and High Sherriff Ken BurnCraggley were present. They were both sitting in the first pew, nearest than others, to God. The church was packed.

"When we think of this day, we think of Jesus." The church was hot, quiet, and smelled of incense, sweat, cologne, and human corruption. 

"We think of Jesus and His mother Mary, perfect examples of humility," Father Savvalas continued. The money tray slowly made its round about the parishioners. At one point it found itself within the hands of Ken BurnCraggley. In an almost movie-like and dramatic fashion, he took a white envelope out of his suit pocket, placing it in the tray of money. The priest's microphone bleated uncomfortably, began to make noises.

"When I look at this society, I don't see one iota of humility by anyone." The priest pointed toward the first pews.

"Especially from Mayor Smith, and High Sherriff BurnCraggley!" The two politicians' faces burned red with embarrassment and anger. They were stunned. 

"You two are forbidden from St. Raphael's until you pay for your corruption!" The two men began to leave, when Father Savvalas did one more thing.

"Wait," he said.

What happened next went into local lore. The priest limped down from the altar, holding a censor. He got within an arms reach of Ken BurnCraggley.

"This is what I think of you," He said. 

The priest plucked the white envelope full of money from the tray, and placed it into the burning censor. Incense, coal, and money smoldered together into a swirling fire. The parishioners gasped, and the tension between holy things and unholy was dissolved, at least until next Sunday.