In The Name Of The Father (1)

In The Name Of The Father.

By Clifford Oluoch

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EASTER: “All those who resolve to live up to their Christian principles will meet with opposition and persecution. But our life on earth is only ‘a little while’ and our ‘grief will be changed to joy’.”

Fr. Joseph snapped the fully packed black suitcase. His mind was finally made up: he was quitting priesthood and today would mark his last Mass at St. Peter’s Church. He stood up and looked at the purple painted room – courtesy of Sr.Mary – for the last time, his eyes avoiding the blue statue of the Virgin Mary which hang next to the door leading to the private chapel in his room. The priest walked and placed the suitcase next to his desk, cleared off all his earthly belongings. His thoughts then turned to Sr. Mary.

Sr. Mary was a happy woman. She finally had managed, albeit with a lot of fuss and loss of substantial amount of money, to secure a respectable residential place in the serene and heavily forested Bulbul area just before Ngong town. The place was well hidden and there were no nosey neighbours to pry into anybody’s lifestyle. Just the way she wanted it.
Sr. Mary walked with a purpose and she had no problem humming one of her favourite secular songs. She moved to the sacrist to prepare the altar boys and girls for the high mass. It is a duty that she had performed dutifully for the last ten or so years she had been posted to the parish.
“Where is John Paul?” Sr. Mary asked, immediately noticing the absence of the head of the altar children. Sr. Mary could not remember ever seeing John Paul or ‘Pope’ as he was fondly known by his peers, late or absent for any church function.
“We don’t know,” replied ten year old Chichi, the only girl in the group of six altar boys. She seemed sad, her attachment and fondness to ‘Pope’ well known in the church circles.
The church bell pealed loudly, sending a message to all faithful that Mass would be commencing in 5 minutes. Fr. Joseph came in the sacristy in a huff and found his entourage not ready. They all were looking down, their faces long and the silence ominous
“Where is ‘Pope’?” Fr. Joseph asked, looking around to check whether his trusted lieutenant was there.
The pealing of the bell continued. It would only stop when Mass began in five minutes time. And ‘Pope’ was missing.

“I will be late for mass,” John Paul’s patience was running thin with Esther, her girlfriend of almost ten years.
“You are not leaving me alone, Pope,” Esther wailed, holding him by the black shirt that he had chosen to wear on his last day as an altar boy. His bags were all packed, ready to start his journey towards priesthood at St. Thomas Aquinas Seminary on Langata Road.
“Esther, we have gone through this a million times. I am following my vocation to priesthood,” he told her, the grip on his shirt easing a little bit. He moved towards his meager earthly belonging comprising a knapsack and a smaller bag which contained his bible and other religious literature like a catechism, The Faith Explained, Great Sermons of the World amongst others.
“And I am following my vocation to marriage,” answered Esther, her sobbing having subsided. At 20 years old, Esther was a year older than John Paul, though a foot shorter and shades lighter in colour. She was a first year student at the University of Nairobi, studying Sociology. John Paul’s results in the Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education (KCSE) had just come out, averaging an impressive mean grade of A- thus making him one of the top students in the country and earning him a place in the University as a medical student.
The pealing of the bells stopped and John Paul knew that Mass would begin anytime. His residence at Muthurwa estates’ Dallas corner, just next to the newly constructed and extremely noisy open air market of Muthurwa, was a brisk 5 minutes walk from the church. If he left now, he would just make it before the first reading.
The silence from the loud pealing bells seems to have given Esther a final burst of energy. She tried one more last time. “Today is our last day together ‘Pope’. Make it special, please,” she gripped his shirt harder and forcefully moved her lips towards his mouth while at the same time breathing seductively and rubbing her body against his.
John Paul bolted out of Esther’s grip with the forceful words, “I am gone!” He grabbed his bag and walked out of the one bedroom house that he shared with his two siblings – 16 year old brother and 14 year old sister – both of whom were in boarding school under the care of the parish. “Lock the door after you!” John Paul shouted as he sprinted to Church.

“You have to go and start the Mass,” Sr.Mary told Fr. Joseph and his convoy of six altar children, two proclaimers and one seminarian.
“In my eight years as a parish priest, John Paul has never been late,” whispered Fr. Joseph sadly. From the inside of the Church, they could hear the choir already belting on the second verse of the entry hymn.
“Maybe I should send someone to go and look for him,” the priest sadly replied but he had hardly completed his sentence than all the six altar children offered to go and get ‘Pope’. Their hands were raised and they looked at the priest in great anticipation.
It was Sr. Mary who broke the stalemate. “I am sure he will be here in no time. We have to go on with the mass.” Her voice rang with finality and the entourage fell in position and, as per tradition, recited three Hail Marys before the Mass.
Fr. Joseph’s heart sunk. Today’s mass was specially dedicated to John Paul as a send off gift to his first day at the seminary. The choir was already on the third verse of the entry hymn. The youngest altar boy holding the big cross looked behind. Fr. Joseph nodded and the train started their motion which snaked out of the sacristy, passing by the front of the church before making its way into the expansive 25 year old church, built by Missionaries of Paul.

John Paul came sprinting into the sacristy where he found Sr. Mary straightening up the room.
“I am sorry for being late,” John Paul panted as he went straight to one of the cubicles, wore his frock while trying to catch his breath at the same time. He came out sweating.
“Relax and catch your breath,” Sr. Mary admonished John Paul. “You are still sweating.” Sr. Mary disliked John Paul and she hardly hid her feelings towards the teenager whom she found to be too perfect. Worse is that Fr. Joseph adored the young man, always spending more quality time with him than with her.
“How come, of all the days, you chose today to be late for Mass?” Sr. Mary seemed to gloat in John Paul’s discomfort.
“It’s a long story,” John Paul told the Sister as Esther joined the two in the room. And with those words, John Paul ignored Esther’s presence and walked out of the room using the secret door to the altar of the church. It is a route that was hardly used but whose existence was known to all.
The choir had just completed singing The Gloria when John Paul sneaked and joined the other altar children. Their relief was evident from the secret smiles they exchanged. Fr.Joseph was a happy man. He turned and acknowledged John Paul’s presence with a wide smile that spoke volumes.

THE FIRST READING. A READING FROM THE BOOK OF ECCLESIASTICUS VERSE 4 TO 9.
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up! Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

Thanks be to God.

Fr. Joseph looked at the congregation – his family as he fondly referred to them – and almost choked with love for them. The lump in his throat refused to go. They were simple estate folks who truly believed in God, which is where the problem lay for Fr.Joseph: he had long stopped believing in God. He clearly remembered when the sliding had become steep and fast. It was in the confessional, two years back.

*****

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. My last confession was yesterday,” came the voice which Fr.Joseph had no problem placing as Sr.Mary’s, the Convent’s Vice Superior.
“The Lord has blessed you, my daughter,” the priest invoked reverently.
“I have lost my Faith and my vocation is in trouble,” replied Sr. Mary, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“For how long has this been going on?” the priest probed, shocked that there was someone, not very far away, who was going through the same tribulations like him.
“For close to three years now,” Sr. Mary replied, the whisper getting lower as if the walls had ears.
“Pray to Our Lady for guidance. You have come a long way to and you will go a longer way,” Fr. Joseph advised, though he felt his words ringing hollow.
“I want to leave the Order!” Sr.Mary muttered softly, the last words hardly audible to the priest.
There was silence as Fr. Joseph looked across the grill at the woman who had just stolen the words from his mouth. How dare she?
“And go where? Do what?” the priest asked, more to himself than to the nun.
“I want to get married, have my own children and serve God in a different capacity,” she affirmed, this time her voice sounding desperate.
“Pray more about it,” was all the priest could say.
“I have prayed about it and I am now convinced that this is my path. I shall leave in a month’s time,” were her parting words.
When she left the confessional, Fr. Joseph was in turmoil, his heart pounding with excitement and confusion. Maybe his prayers had been answered. Fr. Joseph did not hear the next person confessing his sins.
The following day Sr. Mary was there again in the confession box. This time she skipped the formalities.
“I did not sleep last night,” she told him. “I kept on seeing this beautiful baby boy calling out to me and saying ‘mummy’ over and over again! It was so lovely!” Her voice was musical, love struck by what she did not know.
The priest did not tell her that even he had not slept a wink.
“Father, you know I have seen your unhappiness in the last two years and I think you should also leave,” she spoke as someone who had authority in matters of the heart.
“Who told you that I am unhappy?” Fr. Joseph asked defensively, his voice rising.
“You are not the same fire brand priest that you were when you came here. You look more troubled,” she continued.
“I will pray about it!” he said weakly.

THE RESPONORIAL PSALM IS:
Faithful are the wounds of a friend,
But the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.

Better is open rebuke
Than love that is concealed.
Faithful are the wounds of a friend,
But deceitful are the kisses of an enemy.
RESPONSE

….To be continued.