“It’s taken me sixty-seven years to realize that hurting someone because I’ve been hurt by them doesn’t work.”
The priest leaned his elbows on the podium like he was addressing a locker room full of football players rather than a congregation dressed in their Sunday best.
“Trust me,” he said, “I’ve tried all the workarounds. From convincing myself that I was simply giving the person a taste of their own medicine to the ever-popular quoting a verse out of scripture to justify my actions, nothing ever worked. Sure,” he continued, cutting the air in front of him with his hand, “it temporarily relieved my conscience—but only temporarily.”
Father Truman slowly made eye contact with each section of the church. I followed his gaze toward the choir loft where kids Jack’s age sat beside the Phantom of the Opera-type pipe organ. The organist was hidden, which made it even more Phantom-like. My focus turned to the domed ceiling in the cathedral. Oak trim offset the cream-colored dome that was sprinkled with blue- and gold-painted stars. It was like looking straight into heaven, or at least what I imagined heaven looked like.
“Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus” was etched along the base of the ceiling. No matter how many times we went to mass, I always translated the Latin into English: “Holy, holy, holy.”
“The temptation to act on how we feel is, well, tempting.” Father Truman smiled and turned his attention to the pews opposite us.
Stained glass windows with images of haloed saints and the blessed virgin filled the wall. The glass art of Mary holding baby Jesus on a cloud with angels beneath them made me sad. One glance toward the altar with its wooden crucifix told how that story ended.
If Mary couldn’t save her son, what hope was there for other sons and their moms?
Hope. That was my problem. I still clung to the little bit of hope I had left.
I looked past Mary and baby Jesus toward the sunlight that poured through them, providing a glimpse outside.
“When we give in to temptation, the enemy wins.”
The enemy? My attention returned to Father Truman.
“God uses us in ways that don’t always feel positive and we don’t always understand.”
What the fuck?
“Often it’s not for us to understand. When people we love, and even those we don’t, hurt us, Jesus calls us to love our enemies.” Father Truman seemed to be lost in his rhetoric. “But that’s not very easy to do, is it?”
Try impossible.
“I know that often the number one emotion ruling my heart, besides my deep, deep love for Gladys Hadley’s blueberry buckle,” he said with a chuckle, “and Phil Newman’s smoked ribs.”
The congregation laughed with him and so did I.
“But the emotion that tends to consume me and rule my thoughts is resentment, followed closely by his cousin anger. When I’ve been hurt by someone, my refusal to forgive that person is often caused by a resentment that’s blocking my heart.”
This guy’s on fire.
I quickly glanced down our pew. My mom looked like she was sleeping with her eyes open. Branson picked at his nails—or what was left of them. Carson was texting. The only family member actually listening to Father Truman’s sermon was Jack, who rested his small hand on my knee. For a family that practically took up an entire pew while others stood, only two of us, me and little Jack, were engaged in what was happening.
Sonuva— I stopped myself before finishing the thought and almost laughed. Isn’t that how resentment starts?
“The hard truth is this: when we lash out at others, regardless of what they did, we injure our souls.” Father Truman gripped the side of the podium. “What saves the soul is mercy. God the Father is merciful. Are you? When people have hurt you, are you merciful?”
My thoughts ricocheted in my head like a racquetball pinging back and forth between my conscious and subconscious with no place to land. Suddenly Jack’s hand gripped my knee, which unbeknownst to me had begun to bounce.
“It’s okay, Aaron,” he whispered.
But my leg was as busy as my mind trying to adjust to Father Truman’s sudden off-topic message. Mercy? The guy should’ve stuck with resentment and anger. Mercy was as misplaced as a nun at a bachelor party. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
Ambushed. I felt ambushed.
And that pissed me off. It’s why I didn’t go to mass. I didn’t need some pedophile preaching to me about mercy. Where’s God’s mercy for my mom? What’s up with that shit? Mercy, my ass.
“The fastest route to mercy is through prayer. Pray for the one who hurts you,” Father Truman said.
Praying for someone who hurt me wasn’t new, but it wasn’t practical.
“When you pray for the person who hurt you, it changes lives,” Father Truman continued.
I shook my head. Nope. It just reminds me how pissed off I actually am.
“When you can’t forgive someone, pray for them. When you pray, the desire for revenge lessens. Nothing good happens when revenge is driving you. This I know.”
I was about to grab my jacket and Jack’s hand when something in Father Truman’s voice made me pause.
“There was someone who had hurt me terribly as a young man. It was a pain that nearly splintered me off from God. I nursed that grudge the way an alcoholic finds comfort in a bottle. In a perverse way, the more I thought about this individual, the more powerful I thought I became.” His gray hair remained stationary while his head swayed from side to side. “But I wasn’t powerful. That was the enemy’s lie. The enemy fed me that lie, and I ate it up because I didn’t want to be the victim. I was willing to do anything so I’d never have to feel victimized again.”
My leg stopped bouncing and my thoughts slowed down.
“And in that enemy-fueled thought process, I began to believe that making that individual pay for what they had done to me was just.”
It is just.
“Anytime we want someone to pay for what they’ve done, we lose. Revenge is the fuel that sparks war; it’s the rust that erodes families and breaks apart neighborhoods. Revenge is the bitterness that corrodes your soul. The only way we win against the enemy of darkness is through prayer. We must always pray for our enemies. Good can fight evil through the power of prayer.” Father Truman bowed his head before returning to his seat on the dais.
The enemy of darkness.
My leg didn’t bounce and my mind settled down as his sermon sank in. I was lost in my thoughts when Jack patted my knee. I glanced at his finger that pointed toward Branson, who was smiling like he had just won the lottery.
“What?” I mouthed silently.
He passed his phone toward me. Snapchat was on the screen. I enlarged the picture of some girl, who looked like she was sitting against a goalpost, with paint on her face and a sign around her neck. She looked bald, or maybe she was an albino. There wasn’t much hair there to know.
The Snapchat message posted below the picture read THOT, which I knew was slang for “That Ho Over There.”
I shrugged and leaned over Jack. “So?” I mouthed back. “Who is she?”
Branson grinned, leaned across Carson, and whispered, “That’s the sorority girl from the Albany campus. You know, the one who was so mean.” A burst of laughter flew out of Branson, who quickly checked himself before whispering toward me, “That’s karma. That’s what happens when you make an enemy out of the wrong person.”
“Did you do that?” I mouthed when I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. During high school, Branson experienced more than one fugue state, which was like a blackout for people with schizoaffective. During those episodes, Trevor commanded Branson’s thoughts and actions. At the time, Branson didn’t realize that Trevor only existed in his mind. During one, Branson came to in the boys’ restroom in our high school with bloody knuckles. Another time he came out of a fugue state on the side of the road in a stolen car with no memory of what led up to either event.
I wouldn’t wish a fugue state on anyone. Nothing good happens. The only thing they were good for was to realize the person experiencing them was on the cusp of a complete psychotic break from reality.
Branson glanced at his phone and stifled a laugh. “I wish.”
When I didn’t smile, he shook his head. “No way. It wasn’t me, bro. That’s messed up,” he said a bit too loudly.
Messed up was exactly what Trevor did with Branson’s life when he was in command.
Who the fuck knows? Some girl was bound to a goalpost if for no other reason than some sick revenge.
That made me think about Father Truman’s message. I leaned against the pew and tried to wrap my brain around his logic. I knew it was his job or vocation or whatever to help save our souls, but something about his message was off.
Harboring resentment or exacting revenge may corrode the soul, but praying for someone in hopes they wouldn’t harm me again was like aiming an empty gun at an armed robber. Pointless.
Father Truman was right about one thing—someone always got hurt. But it wasn’t going to be me.