Whoever sees us from the outside has no idea of our tastes, of our pleasures, of the moments in which we live in the world. We have been charged to hate and condemn scandal but at the same time to be scandal ourselves. The world can never love us for what we are and what we represent, and we’re supposed to feel blessed when we’re despised and persecuted. What the world doesn’t understand and cannot accept is that we’re happy. That’s the scandal, and it’s one more reason to detest us. Our happiness is the object of derision, of contempt, and in the best-case scenario we’re seen as poor, deluded folks who are to be pitied.
I remember the anger I felt on the evening after my ordination, when I was walking along Broome Street, proud of my new habit, and I heard a boy say to his friend, “I’ve never seen a sky pilot so young.” I could barely restrain myself from assailing him and explaining what that habit meant and who was inside it, and then I thought that we’re sheep in the midst of wolves, that’s what we were told, and all this was vanity: I took the insult and offered it up to the Lord and to his crown of thorns.
How I’d like to have again, in this moment, the strength I had that evening; how I’d like to have it when I kiss, when I caress, when I penetrate, when I love. How I’d like to understand why the Lord wanted to create us out of mud, knowing that not even his breath of life would make us pure.
And how I’d like to understand why many of the most emotional, most thrilling moments carry the germs of sin, uncontrolled passion, and violence.
How I miss Andrew, with his fearless wisdom like a little boy’s. And how I miss Father John, who seemed never to have been young. I miss our discussions about recognizing God in our weakness. We would talk late into the night, and he never failed to say to me, “There are things I don’t altogether understand myself, Abram, but I bow my head.” I always bow my head, Father John, even when I’m continuing to betray this meek Redeemer to whom I’ve dedicated my life. Even when I grow angry with him, who got nailed to a wooden cross for me.
I very much miss those shared moments, when the world disappeared and the only truth was to be found in that shabby, badly furnished parish room; even the neon light seemed warm.
One day—shortly before the end of my seminary studies—we talked at length about the violence inside us, which is only the most visible aspect of our natural wickedness, which keeps us earthbound, incapable of soaring. I was never able to accept that, which may be another reason why I became a priest. I continue, however, to tell myself that I can’t accept reality, and I can’t understand the ultimate meaning, the authentic essence of humanity, which I nonetheless love viscerally.
By way of reply, Father John invited me to watch a boxing match with him. It was being broadcast on television from the heart of Africa. “The fight of the century,” he said, his eyes filled with passion. It seemed strange to me that a priest would follow boxing, but Father John admitted that not only did he follow it, he loved it with all his might.
“Yes, my son, it’s a brutal sport but genuine, and the most ancient and natural of them all. Saint Paul even mentions it when he writes to the Corinthians,” he added, and I vaguely remembered the verse.