Post by ritualmadness on Nov 29, 2011 21:10:46 GMT -4
Sal•va•tion
[sal-vey-shuh’n]
Noun[/i]
1. the act of saving or protecting from harm, risk, loss, destruction, etc.
2. the state of being saved or protected from harm, risk, etc.
3. a source, cause, or means of being saved or protected from harm, risk, etc.
4. Theology deliverance from the power and penalty of sin; redemption.
As soon as he stepped through the door he could feel it all flooding back. It was not the déjà vu of an instance of some vague familiarity, more a recognition of a moment repeated over and over in time; a moment without release and without resolution.
The whistle of the wind startled him. He didn’t know why, since it was a sound as familiar to him as the face that presented itself each morning. With no small exertion of his will he pushed the door close, causing the echo of the word within the belly of the church to evaporate. The man breathed deeply through his nostrils and sucked the air right down into his diaphragm, exhaling slowly and noisily. He was not surprised to find his nose filled a musty smell that further excited his memories of this place. It was the intoxicating smell of the familiar, like the comforting smell of the family hearth.
He removed the hood protecting his head from the elements outside to reveal a face cool, weary but imbued with a quiet determination. He stepped forward in the direction of the altar, every step on the stone floor enticing some reminiscence up from the deep of his subconscious. The familiarity of the place, and his comfort with this familiarity surprised him; it excited him; and yet, excitement is the companion of fear, and this was a place the man did fear, since it could not grant him its promise.
His feet moved quickly and evenly, the rest of his senses surveyed the surroundings in the manner of someone used to behaving inconspicuously: the wooden pews that held a congregation of just under 100 and provided them with the seating discomfort that was a form of minor flagellation; the ornate columns and beams adorned with the dancing and ecstatic figures of the heavenly saints; the glow of the candles fighting against the gloom; the sweet yet overwhelming fragrance of incense; the ear-splitting silence that epitomises an empty church.
Reaching the altar the man stopped. Above him towered the crucifix: the mangled and contorted image of the suffering saviour looking down with accusative humility. Nearby rested a childish looking replication of the nativity scene; an odd juxtaposition to the pierced Christ in the man’s mind. Drawn to a series of paintings depicting the Stations of the Cross the man thought to himself how it was impossible for anything whose roots involved such violence to achieve any sort of peace.
A shuffling noise from over his shoulder snapped the man out of his reverie and he turned on his heels to find a dozen feet away the confessional box giving the man a feeling of having been locked on by some traction beam. The man walked toward the booth without care for the sound his steps echoing loudly through the vault. He moved the purple velvet curtain aside and took a seat, poised to repeat this ritual dissection of his broken soul.
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” the man muttered gruffly.
From the other side of the booth’s partition came the question, “How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
“Seven years.”
“And what is the nature of your sin, my son?” asked the priest.
“Metaphysical.”
The partition was pulled back and the man found himself face to face with the priest: a man of excellent complexion who looked to be in his 60s, but was actually in his 80s. Only the eyes conceded weariness of a long life, but still maintained the brightness of a wise and energetic mind.
“John Dionysus. It is so good to see you.”
“And you Father Augustine. You received my telegram?”
“Yes,” smiled the priest, “but I did not think you would come until I heard the door today.”
A silence descended upon the chamber, not the awkward, empty silence of the unacquainted, but the fuller silence that is enjoyed between two individuals at ease with each other in the way only long and loyal friends enjoy. It was Father Augustine who broke the silence.
“So you are to wrestle again?”
“Yes”
“John, this is dangerous road, and you know it. You have travelled this road before, and it is not the road you seek.”
With sharpness, John Dionysus retorted: “And your road, is this the road I should seek?”
Immediately John Dionysus regretted this remark to a man who had shown him nothing but kindness, even though both men led existences completely at odds with one another. However, such was the intimacy between these two men, Father Augustine knew John apologised, even if he did not utter the words “I’m sorry”.
“Why do you persist?” asked Father Augustine.
After a pause that seemed in no way unnatural John Dionysus replied.
“You once told me ‘hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you try to do the right thing then the dawn will come’. Well I have seen the dark. I have been the dark for the past seven years. I’ve been to oblivion and searched the basement of my soul and still those words sing out to me. I’ve realised that what I’ve spent my life doing is avoiding the right thing. I’ve waited and watched my whole life, but I have never acted.”
“And you think that spilling your blood for the gratification of others is the right thing?”
“That, father, was something not even below your saviour.”
Pause.
“I don’t know,” Dionysus started, “if it is the right way, but it is a way. I have never forgotten that night seven years ago when I left Phoenix. But despite my despair a light continued to flicker. I want my vindication: from this spectre that has plagued me my whole life; from myself.
“Well, John Dionysus, you have the appropriate name for this madness you pursue. And how long will it be before your next confession?”
“Father, I’m sure you will be seeing me again soon.”
[sal-vey-shuh’n]
Noun[/i]
1. the act of saving or protecting from harm, risk, loss, destruction, etc.
2. the state of being saved or protected from harm, risk, etc.
3. a source, cause, or means of being saved or protected from harm, risk, etc.
4. Theology deliverance from the power and penalty of sin; redemption.
+ + +
As soon as he stepped through the door he could feel it all flooding back. It was not the déjà vu of an instance of some vague familiarity, more a recognition of a moment repeated over and over in time; a moment without release and without resolution.
The whistle of the wind startled him. He didn’t know why, since it was a sound as familiar to him as the face that presented itself each morning. With no small exertion of his will he pushed the door close, causing the echo of the word within the belly of the church to evaporate. The man breathed deeply through his nostrils and sucked the air right down into his diaphragm, exhaling slowly and noisily. He was not surprised to find his nose filled a musty smell that further excited his memories of this place. It was the intoxicating smell of the familiar, like the comforting smell of the family hearth.
He removed the hood protecting his head from the elements outside to reveal a face cool, weary but imbued with a quiet determination. He stepped forward in the direction of the altar, every step on the stone floor enticing some reminiscence up from the deep of his subconscious. The familiarity of the place, and his comfort with this familiarity surprised him; it excited him; and yet, excitement is the companion of fear, and this was a place the man did fear, since it could not grant him its promise.
His feet moved quickly and evenly, the rest of his senses surveyed the surroundings in the manner of someone used to behaving inconspicuously: the wooden pews that held a congregation of just under 100 and provided them with the seating discomfort that was a form of minor flagellation; the ornate columns and beams adorned with the dancing and ecstatic figures of the heavenly saints; the glow of the candles fighting against the gloom; the sweet yet overwhelming fragrance of incense; the ear-splitting silence that epitomises an empty church.
Reaching the altar the man stopped. Above him towered the crucifix: the mangled and contorted image of the suffering saviour looking down with accusative humility. Nearby rested a childish looking replication of the nativity scene; an odd juxtaposition to the pierced Christ in the man’s mind. Drawn to a series of paintings depicting the Stations of the Cross the man thought to himself how it was impossible for anything whose roots involved such violence to achieve any sort of peace.
A shuffling noise from over his shoulder snapped the man out of his reverie and he turned on his heels to find a dozen feet away the confessional box giving the man a feeling of having been locked on by some traction beam. The man walked toward the booth without care for the sound his steps echoing loudly through the vault. He moved the purple velvet curtain aside and took a seat, poised to repeat this ritual dissection of his broken soul.
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” the man muttered gruffly.
From the other side of the booth’s partition came the question, “How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
“Seven years.”
“And what is the nature of your sin, my son?” asked the priest.
“Metaphysical.”
The partition was pulled back and the man found himself face to face with the priest: a man of excellent complexion who looked to be in his 60s, but was actually in his 80s. Only the eyes conceded weariness of a long life, but still maintained the brightness of a wise and energetic mind.
“John Dionysus. It is so good to see you.”
“And you Father Augustine. You received my telegram?”
“Yes,” smiled the priest, “but I did not think you would come until I heard the door today.”
A silence descended upon the chamber, not the awkward, empty silence of the unacquainted, but the fuller silence that is enjoyed between two individuals at ease with each other in the way only long and loyal friends enjoy. It was Father Augustine who broke the silence.
“So you are to wrestle again?”
“Yes”
“John, this is dangerous road, and you know it. You have travelled this road before, and it is not the road you seek.”
With sharpness, John Dionysus retorted: “And your road, is this the road I should seek?”
Immediately John Dionysus regretted this remark to a man who had shown him nothing but kindness, even though both men led existences completely at odds with one another. However, such was the intimacy between these two men, Father Augustine knew John apologised, even if he did not utter the words “I’m sorry”.
“Why do you persist?” asked Father Augustine.
After a pause that seemed in no way unnatural John Dionysus replied.
“You once told me ‘hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you try to do the right thing then the dawn will come’. Well I have seen the dark. I have been the dark for the past seven years. I’ve been to oblivion and searched the basement of my soul and still those words sing out to me. I’ve realised that what I’ve spent my life doing is avoiding the right thing. I’ve waited and watched my whole life, but I have never acted.”
“And you think that spilling your blood for the gratification of others is the right thing?”
“That, father, was something not even below your saviour.”
Pause.
“I don’t know,” Dionysus started, “if it is the right way, but it is a way. I have never forgotten that night seven years ago when I left Phoenix. But despite my despair a light continued to flicker. I want my vindication: from this spectre that has plagued me my whole life; from myself.
“Well, John Dionysus, you have the appropriate name for this madness you pursue. And how long will it be before your next confession?”
“Father, I’m sure you will be seeing me again soon.”
