Please Talk about Me When I'm Gone

Christmas

(1990)

It's not a dream. It really is going to be a White Christmas, in Virginia.

A miracle, he thinks, sardonically, and then frowns. This was a mistake, he realizes as the snow flings itself at his windshield and the road disappears in a white swirl.

You can't go home again, he thinks, and then smiles in spite of himself. He hasn't been back to his church, or any church, for a while.

Too long for your own good. He can hear his father's tacit displeasure as the car idles diffidently, ready to go wherever he'll take it. The stained glass depiction of the Last Supper, which at one time had inspired such conciliatory thoughts, now seems vaguely portentous as it looms above him in the darkness, like a billboard. The day has come and gone, he understands, when the simple act of attending mass would bestow upon him the ecumenical grace reserved for the very young and the elderly.

He hesitates, still unsure if he wants to enter the church, which will soon be overcrowded with stout believers and casual once-a-year attendees, all seeking to mollify their joys, fears, and guilt, the combination of which forged the enigmatic foundation of their enigmatic faith. Eventually, he opens the door and pauses in the cold corner at the back of the church. Despite his misgivings, he finds he's unprepared for the force of his ambivalence. It's neither relief nor disappointment, simply the lack of resolve. He starts to sit down, but feels oddly unwelcome as he surveys the empty rows of seats, at last understanding the essence of his isolation: as much as he's tried, he is not like his father.

Throughout his childhood he attended mass regularly, and like chores or homework, it eventually became an expected part of his routine. He even served as an altar boy, like his father had done before him-back in the day when it was a real mass, performed in Latin, a fact of which he was often reminded. Even as he grew older, and the novelty began to wear off, the weekly ritual was not without its attendant grace, and he still anticipated the cathartic gratification dispensed upon those who chose to receive the gift of the Eucharist. The passion and pain, creation and salvation in less than an hour, consistently alleviating an unusual burden, as though an otherwise unattainable clemency had been granted.

Closing his eyes, he makes a feeble attempt to pray, but finds he's unable to shake the sudden, disconcerting vision of himself standing on the altar while the congregation kneels before him in their finest clothes, reading the solemn Word of God, written with the intent of keeping them subdued and submissive. Instead of leading the assembly in a reading of the scriptures, he envisions himself speaking out, interrupting them, a Saint Paul in reverse, declaring his anti-conversion. Would the stunned assembly, faces he'd known since childhood, frenzied in a religious fervor, turn on him and curse him, even do violence to him? Would his own father, if he were there, turn his back in disgust, allowing his impudent son to be scorned? Would he even join in, impelled by his faith, or his deeper fear of violating the allegiance of his baptismal vows, which obviated the otherwise impenetrable bonds of family?

He stands up quickly and walks out of the church. The storm has intensified and snow is falling in dark, swirling sheets, making it difficult to see. A fresh blanket of powder covers his car, and the ground glistens as though the earth has merged with the sky to form an unbroken crystal cloud. He steps cautiously, knowing the deceptive display is a mask concealing the slick ice underneath.

As he drives slowly down the mostly deserted road, he's preoccupied by the anxiety that almost overwhelmed him moments before. The feelings, that feeling: he understands he shouldn't have expected any comfort from visiting the church. It's too late for absolution, even if absolution was what he coveted. He has already tasted the fruits of free will and marveled as the world unfurled before him like an uncharted ocean. Yet all the while he sensed that austere, ancient face over his shoulder: in the classroom when his professors lectured, in the library while he immersed himself in a textbook, in the darkness as he explored the freshly discovered wonders of the female body. This distraction: was it the conscience operating, or the healthy heart resisting the lie? Freedom, he has begun to ascertain, comes at the expense of bludgeoning old, failed gods who, in the fullness of their powers successfully kept minds young and blissful. And ignorant. This is the ultimate faith one struggles with: faith in oneself.