Last Rites

The man pushed open the door to St. Philips church, leaving cool outside evening and entering the narthex of the church. This entry marked his 19405th and last catholic church on a long list of active congregations.

Timing alone had always been a chore, but not brutal. The man had planned carefully over a lifetime to attend as many masses as possible. Some masses weren’t even in English, although foreign tongues were not an issue for him. In one productive week, he heard 14 different languages. He spoke and understood many, including Latin used in the traditional Tridentene masses.

Nevertheless, he kept a very distinct ritual of his own when attending the mass. The priest and congregation have their rituals, and he had his.

He arrived early, always trying to be the first one. Inevitably, there is always at least one parishioner there; sometimes kneeling in prayer, sometimes sitting and getting ready to start their rosary. More often than not, they are elderly, like a call back to times when the flocks were larger.

He took his place in the next to last row. Sometimes off to the side, sometimes closer to the middle depending on the multitude of architectural designs he has seen.

Then he waited, absorbing in the faint smells of oak pews, well worn daily readings, and even the glue on the offering envelopes. His sense of smell was clearly extraordinary, which didn’t help out the headache that immediately began has the lingering smell of incense reached his nostrils.

As people shuffle in and make their way to their seats, he hears all the details. The scuffing of their shoe as they bow, the clatter of their keys on the pew, the sniffling of noses and the forced coughs to prevent one from occurring during the service. More importantly, he listens to their prayers and conversations.

Some of it is just idle conversation and gossip with their fellow parishioners.

“How is Jake doing in college?”, “Did you hear Nancy moving in with Ricky?”, “I haven’t seen Dolores here in a while”, “what a pretty dress that is!”

Other words overheard, and with more interest, were the snippets of prayers and pleas, always said with more reverence and quieter than gossip.

And of course, no matter how crowded or sparsely populated the congregation was, there always seemed to be that one guy who felt the need to sit directly in front of him. Maybe it was herd mentality of sitting close to another person, but they always ended up obstructing the view of the altar. It was no matter to him; there was no need to see the ritual again.

The service started. Stand up, sit down, kneel. Recite the words, read the responses. He remains silent with his head looking forward, eyebrow raised towards the altar. The pain was bearable, but hit him hard, worsening his headache.

During the first scripture reading, he notices a young woman a few pews over to the right. She is looking at her phone and her watch. She is clearly distracted by her college friends ready to head out for the night. He looks at her and thinks how much more fun a night out would be than a boring old service. She must have agreed, as she quickly gathered her purse and slid out of the pew and slinked away quietly to the side exit.

Another song and another reading came along, with more standing. He noticed a middle-aged landscaper wearing dusty jeans and a slightly dirty T-shirt who was a little behind on when to sit and stand. “Wow,” the man thought, looking at the worker, “remember the days when wearing that to church would be sacrilegious?” he thought. Again, timing was perfect for the man to bow out and walk out the back door, lowering his head as to not obstruct the view.

His own ritual of watching and reading the weak in the congregation was over. He did not stay for the collection, or what they called holy communion. He had the world to give, but no reason to partake of any sacraments.

As he started to rise, the long-haired man who had been blocking his view turned around, looked him dead in the eye, and whispered.

“You’ve been to over 20,000 of these masses, and yet, no trumpeting your accomplishment, and no announcements of all the people you’ve touched. Where is your legendary pride?”

Lucifer smiled, “My pride, carpenter, is that two of your flock left before they could receive you. The last thing I would want to do is to boast of all the churches I’ve been to. I don’t want to inspire anyone. Well, at least not that way.”

Jesus smiled. “You’ve always overestimated your power and underestimated my children. That girl? She was leaving here to prevent a friend from going through with an abortion. That landscaper? He’s on his way to pick up his mother to go to the hospital, as shie is quite ill. He takes her care very responsibly.”

Lucifer stared at him, “So what’s next Son of God, are you going to have your little lambs throw me in the font and see if I melt away before their eyes? Maybe they would like to see up close what happens when they try and put their hands on me.”

“Theatrics are yours, not mine. But if you stay around until after communion, they will be happy to have Saint Michael escort you out. Just like every time you have managed to overstay your welcome. You’ll be gone from here without so much as a ripple on the surface of the holy water.”

“Send all the saints and angels you want. I don’t care what your prophecies say, I will win. I might not have gotten those two souls further away from you tonight, but I will. Those, and all the people which think they are out there to help. Their actions are worthless.” His headache was now up to an angry throb of pain.

Jesus laughed, “Now there’s that pride and boasting that you love to show! But it is empty words, it is all lies. Leave My house.”

Without a word, the devil left St. Philips and disappeared into the night.