I once knew a priest

I once knew a priest.

I remember when my mother told me that I would have to go to mass for two years to be confirmed. I instantly started complaining, to which I received a blunt response: “You will go.”

With this, the conversation was settled and as usual, no debate arose. So, a few weeks later I found myself at the doors of the church. It was not a church like the others, large and solemn, in fact, if you did not pay attention you would pass it by. Small and rectangular, that church was swallowed up between two large buildings. As decoration, a couple of paintings here, pictures there, otherwise, nothing differentiated it from any ordinary building. I walked down the long hallway that led to the room at the back. Voices could be heard through the half-open door.

I pushed the door and entered a small room with a long table that occupied the center and a large part of the space. The eyes of those present were directed to the door. I sat down as quickly as possible and looked around the room. A huge bookshelf full of books occupied the wall opposite me. A picture of Christ hung above the door. He had a sad expression on his face and when you looked at him he seemed to give you an incriminating look, as if he noticed my sorrow and my lack of desire to be there.

No one spoke. Then the priest came in. He was wearing a black suit. He sat down and instantly the smell of tobacco filled the small room. He was around sixty, and wrinkles appeared on his face, giving his features the mark of someone who has lived and the wisdom that only comes with the passing of years. His voice, affected by the countless cigarettes that rest at the bottom of his lungs, was deep and echoed throughout the room. However, the most interesting thing about this man was his gaze. A gaze that penetrated you and left you rooted to the spot. You felt like he could see inside you and know everything just by looking. And so it was, he always seemed to know what you were thinking. He stood up, and we all followed suit. Then he began to recite the prayer: “Come Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful...” Meanwhile, I observed the members of the group. At that time there were only five of us. And none of those present knew very well what to expect from all this, so we just listened while the priest asked a question that is still engraved in my mind to this day.

“All of you here today have a mother, a father, friends… Or not?” He turned to a boy who was sitting to my right. “This Saturday Millwall played against Sunderland, incredible, the game. I imagine you called your friends to go see it.”

The boy nodded.

“Good. Do you have a girlfriend?”

He nodded again.

“Then I imagine you've also met her this week.”

Once again, the boy nodded again.

“So, from what I understand, you have a mother, a father, friends and a girlfriend and despite all that, why do you still feel alone?”

Now he turned to the rest of us, examining us one by one.

“Because you may have had the day of your life, but then you get home and when you’re lying in bed there’s always that fucking loneliness that doesn’t let you sleep.

Because loneliness is terrible, but it’s also an aspect of our dependency. Why can’t I live alone? Why can’t I be alone?

There’s always something missing, always. If it’s not the girlfriend it’s the mother, if it’s not the mother it’s football and if it’s not football it’s the motorcycle, because we can even reach the best moment of our life, when we feel most complete but we get home and in the silence something jumps out there that says “Something’s missing.” And we don’t know what, and we can’t even sleep well, after a wonderful day.

Do you realize? The other day a woman came to see me. She told me that she was at home with her children and her husband watching TV. Then she asked: “Does anyone want some toast?” No one answered, so she asked one more time. They were so engrossed in the TV that they didn’t even turn their heads. So she went into the kitchen, made herself two pieces of toast, and when she came back into the living room and the plate hit the table, everyone went to get one. The woman said to them: “I’ve asked twice if anyone wanted some toast and you haven’t answered me. These are mine, I went to make them and they are for me.” They immediately began to tell her that she was selfish, that she only thought about herself… And the woman came to me and asked: And me? Who makes me toast?

Do you realize?

“Why do we feel that loneliness, that helplessness of always wanting more? Why can’t we be satisfied with what we already have? The heart is capricious, we will never be able to satisfy its needs. That’s why it’s so difficult to be happy. That day I left the church and went to the port to observe the ships resting on the water. A huge cruise ship was anchored parallel to the port. It came from the United States. It had begun to get dark when I sat down on the bench, facing the thousand windows of the ship, small illuminated squares. Small figures danced back and forth and I wondered if they also felt the same thing that kept me awake at night. Sitting on the bench, soaked to the bone, I couldn't stop thinking about what I had witnessed that day in that church. A group of total strangers, united by the same reason. What? I don't know. This group had absolutely nothing in common, yet they were all looking for the same thing. Answers. Answers to things we still can't understand, answers that only experience can give us, sometimes not even that. I remembered the question he asked me that first day in church. What is the true meaning of life? At that moment I didn't know what to answer him. Surely, if he asked me that in forty years, I wouldn't know even then, but I will certainly have a better idea than I do now. That was three years ago and I still go to this day.

I once knew a priest. He was going to be a doctor. He left everything and started teaching religion in poor schools. I once met a priest whose sacrifice has changed the lives of many, including my own.