Losing My Religion

Evil comes in many forms. It’s clever, deceptive. It disguises itself. When I was a priest, every time I stood at the pulpit to deliver a message, I would look out at the congregation and wonder who the wolves in sheep’s clothing were. It could have been anyone. It could have been the little old lady with the passive-aggressive temperament, the rich man who believed he had been blessed more than the others, the young lady who had wrapped her social identity around her faith, or the poor man who needed financial help to support his family. None of that is evil, but what secrets did they hide. They confessed their minor trespasses to me in the privacy of the booth, but I couldn’t help wondering what darker secrets they held behind their polite pleasantries and forced smiles. Those confessions waited for their death beds during last rites where they hoped to be absolved at the last second. That’s when I truly got to see my parishioners for who they truly were.

The worst confession I ever received came from a man named Simon Ackers. Simon and I were the same age. You wouldn’t have been able to tell by looking at us with the shape he was in when I walked into his room to deliver last rites. He was rail thin, his yellowed skin hanging from his toothpick-like bones like a sail without wind. His once prominent blue eyes were dull and gray, yellowed, sunken into deep purple sockets. Strands of thin, uncut gray hair hung from the top of his partially bald head. In the low light of the nightlight by his bed, he looked like a monster. I had no idea. With a boney finger, he pointed to a chair in the corner. He motioned for me to bring it with me and sit beside him. I knew then that it was going to be a long confession.

Outwardly, Simon appeared to be the perfect Christian. He served as a deacon. He volunteered to assist with the youth ministry. He sang in the choir. He presented himself and his family fashionably. He was well versed in scripture. He was charitable with his time, always assisting other parishioners who were in need. He had a respectable job as a parole officer where he helped integrate former criminals back into society. He also worked part-time for a non-profit organization that removed battered women and their children from abusive homes. Who would have thought he had time for anything else. Inwardly, Simon was drunk on power, consumed by greed, and sexually immoral, finding gratification with children of both sexes. He was a heartless man who put on a façade for the sake of a reputation he hid behind. He used his leverage as a parole officer to manipulate parolees into kidnapping children for him. He and two other people in the state ran a kidnapping ring. They sold preteens on the black market to sex traffickers and slave dealers all over the world.

“The three of us would get together at the warehouse where we kept and photographed the kids. Some of the kids were to be sold as virgins. We never touched those. The ones where it didn’t matter, we would let them out of their cages and have our way with them, boy or girl, it didn’t matter. It was exciting that they feared us so much. The power and control we had over them was exhilarating. We abused it, making them do unspeakable things,” he told me as he began to get into detail. I stopped him short, not wanting to hear it.

A hot flash consumed me. I knew that acting out in rage could lead to sin, but for a moment it felt like rage was controlling me. I lunged from my chair for his pillow with every intention of pressing it to his face and suffocating him, but I caught myself. Snapping back to reality, I turned my back on him and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to absorb the information he just presented me. He had twelve parolees turning in one child a month over thirty years. That was over forty-three hundred children who were sexually abused or enslaved just because of him. The horror and disparity those children must have endured, the abuse, the psychological damage. Ugh, and their families. What ran through their minds? What were they feeling not knowing where their children were? All because of this man. This man who deceived the people who loved and trusted him his whole life. This man doesn’t deserve absolution. He doesn’t get to wait until the last second to say, whoops, sorry. He knew what he was doing. He knew it was wrong.

Then he spoke. “It’s not your place to judge, father. I have confessed my sins. It is time for you to absolve me. I feel my time is running short.”

I turned to him and removed my color. “I am a man of faith, but I am no longer a man of the church! You are not absolved! I pray the Lord judges you harshly for your sins since you got away with them in life! May you become the devil’s plaything! May the suffering of every child you sold be brought down on you in the fiery pits of hell!”

His wife barged in, demanding to know what all the yelling was about. Furiously, I repeated his confession, no longer being a man of the cloth. I didn’t care if such a man’s privacy was violated. I didn’t care if he repented. It was too late. Too late for him to change his ways. It had been far too long since he had profited from his evil ways for a true confession. It was too close to his death. I wanted his memory tarnished. She stood and stared at him as I uttered each and every word. Her face turned pale as I spoke. When I finished, she left the room in a stupor, not sure what to do. She never expected a thing. He deceived us all.

He spat and cursed from his bed. He tried to get up, pulling at his wires and tubes. I threw my collar on the ground and walked out. On my way out of their home, I left my bible on their sofa. After my experience with Simon, I stopped going to church. I can’t say I lost my faith in God, but I had lost my faith in the Christian community. My experience with Simon was the last straw after listening to so many confessions that never led to repentance. I found myself more comfortable around people who wore their sins on their sleeve and struggled with them, wanting to be better people. I now work as a licensed counselor, helping those people live more fulfilling lives.

Simon died the next evening. His wife never bothered to call for another priest to absolve him. I hope he gets what he deserves.