Don't Forget to Write

Sinners Repent

On our way to a New Year's Eve celebration, Bruno stopped in front of that gloomy church with the dim orange lanterns that sat across the street from the pub. "You want to stop in?" he asked.

"Uhh... Not really, why?"

"Say a prayer for your dad, or something."

"Not particularly."

"Alright, well I'm going in if you want to join me. I try to go to church on holidays and around last day of the year, just to say a prayer and maybe make up for a year filled with sin."

"Sure, man. But no matter how many Hail Mary's ya say, God is sending you straight to Hell with the rest of us."

The door closed behind us, suddenly shutting out the sounds of tires on wet asphalt, beeping horns, howling gusts of wind, people chattering, subways rolling. There was silence, warmth, and the familiar musky scent that only an old church could have. Bruno dipped his hand in the holy water at the entrance and made a sign of the cross. I did the same. We shimmied into a pew. He kneeled and lowered his head down to his hands while I sat and looked around at the stained-glass windows, each one depicting a different angel. At the front of the church an altar sat on a tall platform with white drapes hung all around it. Behind the altar stood a thirty-foot-tall crucifix, with a gruesomely detailed image of Jesus nailed to it. I felt sorry for him, even from a nonreligious standpoint. From the perspective of viewing Jesus as a man, and not God. He was a man who did good, preached wisdom, and tried to better the world. In return not only did he have to die a tragic death (as most great men do) but he had to relive it in almost every artist's rendition of him, in every building where they worship him, around the necks of his most devoted followers. There was no escaping the torture he suffered in the end, even two thousand years later.

After a couple of minutes, Bruno lifted his head and made a sign of the cross. He gestured for me to follow him as we walked up the side of the church to a table with red and white candles. He dropped a dollar bill into the donation box, lit a match, then lit a red candle. "That's for your father."