Galatians 3:28

****Discussions of prejudice and violence*****

The man stood in the open doors of the church. The afternoon sun poured around him like gold, casting his face in shadow. A cold wind blew in with him, swirling my robes and calling the yellow dog of fear to snarl and growl. 

Nothing good would come of this visit.

“Father Lewin,” he spoke in a deep voice, “there has been an incident. Please come with me.”

 I stared at my summoner, his eyes hooded and dark. I had never seen him before, but it could only be one person. Tall, his wide shoulders filled out his clergy shirt. He stood as a man-shaped hole of darkness against the light.  

Will my secret sin finally be laid bare? I almost felt relieved, a chance to put down the heavy burden I had grown so weary of. But I want to continue, here I can serve my God and help so many who are struggling in this Parish. 

I whispered my silent prayer again, to be forgiven for my terrible past, even though I shouldn't be, couldn't be what I am, a Catholic Priest. 

I walked with this man through the church and back to the Monsignor’s residence in silence. The multi-colored light from the stained-glass windows created beautiful patterns of color on the floor and pews. The soaring ceiling let me know God was above me, protecting me, and I knew I needed it.   

 I knew of this man, recognized the danger his presence here meant. Charles-Henri Sanson worked for Bishop O’Malley, as a special liaison to confront the evil of sexual abuse that had infected the Diocese, and the entire Catholic Church. He had searched out and exposed dozens of priests, men who had performed sinful acts with children, and then had been hidden by the Church for decades. And today, he asked to see me.

Walking slowly through the archway between the church and the rectory I tried to focus on my upcoming homily for Sunday, on the Scripture, Galatians 3:28 and its relevance in our turbulent world, but my body, my enemy, betrayed me once again. Sparks of anxiety ripped down my back, and my legs faltered. I reached out to balance myself, pressing my hand against the hard walls. Sweat pricked at my neck and dripped down my cassock. 

 I held my secret, my innermost self in a thin glass bowl, balanced carefully inside of me. All was fine as long as the bowl stayed solid and upright, the contents hidden from the world. However, at the slightest crack, the horror of who I actually was would be exposed, and all would be lost.  

The Monsignor didn’t deign to stand when we walked in, instead we were greeted by the smell of mold and dust in the dark room. 

A huge man, he wore all black, the white of his clerical collar buried by the folds of his loose skin. Under a bald head, thick cracks coursed through his heavy face; his frown formed a perfect upside down ‘u’. Doughy and wet jowls pulled down his eyelids exposing half moons of red below yellow, jaundiced eyes. Heavy upholstered furniture surrounded a dark wood desk where he sat, like a pale mushroom growing on a fallen log.      

After a moment, his soft fleshy hand waved at Charles who began to speak.

“A boy who attends the high school next door, Samuel, fell at lunch. He broke an arm, had some internal bleeding, and a black eye. He claims he just tripped, but cell phone video we obtained from other students shows he was beaten. Potentially because he was wearing a dress. Samuel refused to identify the boys.” 

Charles spoke in a monotone, as if reciting sports scores, or an attendance list from some long ago event.

My stomach twisted, I touched my arm, my eye. Samuel must be in such pain.

“He refused medical attention, but when he began throwing up blood, an ambulance was called and took him to hospital. There they discovered many more, older bruises and burn marks, along with fractures not seen by medical professionals, not set properly.”

Charles’ eyes narrowed into thin slits of anger. I understood, I too felt the anger at all of those who had hurt my friend Samuel.  

“When they asked his father about these injuries, he said they were accidents from football. He then made an accusation. A priest had exposed himself, and engaged in, improper, acts with his boy. The father said that the priest was you.”

The “you” rang like a bell, echoing in the room. I now understood Charles’ rage was directed at me.

My jaw dropped, I looked at Charles , then at the Monsignor, but his hateful eyes only accused me as well. 

“They beat him?” I asked, my lips shaking at this unfolding horror. “Is he OK, is he safe?”

 My thoughts flipped to his bright eyes and beautiful smile when he spoke about his favorite songs, or the latest fashion magazines he came to my small office to read, his head so close to the pictures I worried he would fall in. “Samuel’s a troubled child, he didn't fit in with the othe children. My office was a safe place for him. He always came in with some new bruise, or burn.”

I looked up at Charles.

“From playing football he said. I don’t know much about sports, but I don’t know how you could get cigarette burns playing football.”

“Father Lewin.” Monsignor spoke, his deep baritone rumbled around the small room as if he was on the podium preaching to his flock. “These are serious charges from a parent of a student at the school. “He has been seen regularly in your office. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

I cleared my throat and looked at the man in black who had fetched me. Monsignor followed my eyes.

“I did not touch Samuel, nor any other boy, and I did not expose myself-”

“-It’s your word against his. Charles interrupted, leaning forward. “His father wants to press charges.” I turned, my mouth open at the audacity.

Charles held out his hand, and began counting out the evidence one finger at a time. “You were with him alone. You were seen by Samuel’s father coming out of your office with Samuel. Other children corroborate this. Do you deny it?” Charles turned his hand to point at me, snarling.

“Yes he was with me. But no I never touched him. We were discussing… “

The words caught in my throat. I shut my mouth and looked down, rubbing the thin knuckles on the back of my hand. I had to speak with care.

“I was trying to touch him, to reach him, but spiritually.” I finally said. “To let Samuel know that his feelings were OK. That God still loved him even if he didn’t fit what his father wanted him to be, what society wanted him to be. Don’t you see, we had a connection! We discussed the problems he had with the other kids at school. He was being bullied and was afraid. I understood that - I was bullied too.”

My face burned red as I told these men about my weak and pathetic youth.      I realized I had exposed myself to Samuel, for what is more intimate than letting him see my secret shame, who I really was?  

“We talked about his fears, but his dreams too. What he wanted to be, how he wanted to share his talents with the world.”

Charles had his arms folded now, and his head tilted away from me. 

“We talked, only! I never- exposed myself.” I spit the words out.

“Why do you think he said these things if they aren't true? “

“I don't know.” I said, confused. ”Did Samuel say this, or was it from his father?” 

“Did you report these other injuries? Bring your concerns up to his father?” Monsignor said. “We are supposed to protect these children!” Eyes blazing, he slammed his hand on the desk. 

“I believe," I swallowed once before looking up at the Monsignor, "that his father caused the injuries. Because Samuel was not enough of a boy his father tried to toughen him up.”

I looked between the two men in the room, dark wood paneling squeezing in, along with their skeptical expressions. 

I understood Samuel because I was once the same. I had spent years in those wooden pews, staring at the iconography in my Church, their eyes following me everywhere.

I didn’t understand how I fit in when my desires were called sinful, my thoughts abominations. To drive out Satan, I tried all the therapies, but like any strong medicine each had terrible, devastating side effects.

The sanctioned counselors tried to talk and reason the impure thoughts out of me. When that didn’t work, more extreme measures were taken, with clubs and rubber mallets. 

I tried the unsanctioned therapies too, and looked for salvation at the bottom of bottles, and at the end of pipes. I had done terrible, immoral sins, and understood the true cost of living up to society’s expectations.  

Finally, I learned to lie, to start over again in a new city with a new persona, a new story about who I was. Another sin to add to my collection. But my lie allowed me to become accepted, to live my dream of getting to know and love God every day, preaching the Good Word as a Priest. I have a gift of connection, and I can use my experience to help others. Until Samuel touched me deep inside and I shared too much, let him in too close. 

 “Have you met Samuel? I turned to the Monsignor. “ He’s such a sweet, innocent boy. But his interests are outside of sports, or rough play. He prefers fashion, music and dancing. He makes his own clothes. Did you know that? He shops at thrift stores, adds patches, makes alterations. He makes money sewing prom dresses for some of the girls-”

“This is not relevant.” Charles’ hands flew out, cutting me off. “What is relevant is you, Father, have been accused of assaulting a 13 year old boy who you say yourself is effeminate. You were alone with this boy for over an hour last Sunday. What do you say to this?”

“I was alone with him.” I nod. Remembering his tears, his narrow bare shoulders as he undressed, then holding him after. 

“It’s impossible.” I say finally. 

“How’s it -impossible?” Charles leaned in, his large frame towering over me. I smelled his anger, a tang of sweat and sulphur. 

“Because I’m a priest!” I shouted, my voice cracking into a higher pitch as I lost control.

“I was trying to help Samuel, that poor boy doesn't know who he is! He's trying, but he has terrible role models. He has a father who beats him, and me,” I gestured to myself, “a priest who wears a dress.” I offered a weak smile. 

Charles looked at me, then at the Monsignor. He folded his arms, shaking his head. 

“No, you need something better than that. We’re going to have to bring in the police. There have been too many cases where the Church has covered up crimes, covered up abominations. We need to cooperate fully."

Charles looked over with disgust.

“You can prove your innocence to the police.” 

I dropped my mouth open, looking at the Monsignor, and then back at Charles.

“I can’t go through that, I’ll never work with children again! Even the taint of an accusation will destroy me. You have to listen to me.” I stepped up to Charles, put a hand on his arm.

“You have to believe me! I made a mistake, I encouraged Samuel to wear women’s clothes, to dress and act how he felt inside. I know now this was wrong. Samuel has been punished for it, and now I have too.”

Hot tears rolled down my cheeks, my hands shook. 

“His father is just looking to protect himself! I would never expose myself to a boy. It’s impossible!”

Charles stepped toward me. “You keep saying this is 'impossible.'” 

I felt his attention on me, my body. My short thin hair, soft cheeks and narrow shoulders were betraying me again.

 “Why is this impossible, Father?”

The Monsignor wouldn’t meet my eyes. My worst fear had materialized in this man who had come to smash through my last defenses to look inside me. And it was my own fault. I tried to help a boy, and it came back to ruin me.

I felt the weight of my secret double on my shoulders, pulling me down into reality. 

 This was the end. I imagined a hole opening in the thick carpet, then I could fall through and disappear into it. Or if I could explode, to be destroyed in a bright, red blast of light. Just to not exist! 

My shame, my secret was being revealed and I would never live it down. The room spun around me, a violent swirl of color. I had to choose, my life, or Samuels?

“If I can show you, how this accusation is impossible-” I closed my eyes, praying for the strength to sacrifice myself.

“Will you protect Samuel from his father, save him from the terror he lives under?”

I began to unclasp the cassock, my long fingers slowly unbuttoning the heavy cloak. I shrugged off the clothing. I stood only in a thin T-shirt and white underwear.

I recited the scripture, Galatians 3:28 that connected me to this church, where I had finally found salvation.

“There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

I took off the last of my clothes and tried to stand straight, but I couldn't. I slumped down, my legs twisting one behind the other as I dropped my shoulder to protect myself.

Their gaze, their attention slashed at me like whips. I felt their unspoken horror at my body. My arms, no longer under my control, wrapped themselves around my own shoulders. I touched my smooth hairless skin underneath my palms and felt disgust all over again. How can they look at me, how can they see who I am and not vomit.

“It’s impossible because I am not a man.”

"Please, for the boy,” I said, and the fire inside of me flared bright, exploding my life with the truth.