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Father Giancarlo Fontana
I saw her when she arrived for Sunday Mass, with the baby in her arms as usual. I knew that she and Lukás were having difficulties, but, until that week, these had all seemed merely the sort of misunderstandings that all couples have, and since both of them radiated goodness, I hoped that, sooner or later, they would resolve their differences.
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She asked if I could talk to Lukás, who never came to church, perhaps because he didn't believe in God or perhaps because he preferred to spend his sunday mornings with his son. I agreed to do so, as long as he came of his own accord. Just when Athena was about to ask him this favor, the major crisis occured, and he left her and Viorel.
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She continued attending church on Sundays, but always went straight back home afterwards. She had no one now whom with to leave her son, who cried lustily throughout mass, disturbing everyone else's concentration. On one of the rare occasions we could speak, she said that she was working for a bank, had rented an apartment, and that I needn't worry about her. Viorel's father(she never mentioned her husband's name now) was fulfilling his financial obligations.
Then came that faithful sunday.
I learned what happened during the week- one of the parishioners told me. I spent several nights praying for an angel to bring me inspiration and tell me whether I should keep my commitment to the church or to flesh-and-blood men and women. When no angel appeared, I contacted my superior, and he said the only reason the church has survived is because it's always been rigid about dogma, and if it started making exceptions, we'd be back in the middle ages. I knew exactly what was going to happen. I thought of phoning Athena, but she hadn't given me her new number.
That morning, my hands were trembling as I lifted up the host and blessed the bread. I spoke the words that had come down to me through a thousand-year-old tradition, using the power passed on from generation to generation by the apostles. But then my thoughts turned to that young woman with her child in her arms, a kind of Virgin Mary, the miracle of motherhood and love made manifest in abandonment and solitude, and who had just joined the lines as she always did, and was slowly approaching in order to take communion.
I think most of the congregation knew what was happening. And they were all watching me, waiting for my reaction. I saw myself being surrounded by the just, by sinners, by Pharisees, by members of the Sanhedrin, by apostles and disciples and people with good intentions and bad.
Athena stood before me and repeated the usual gesture: she closed her eyes and opened her mouth to recieve the Body of Christ.
The Body of Christ remained in my hands.
She opened her eyes, unable to understand what was going on.
"We'll talk later," I whispered.
But she didn't move.
"There are people behind you in the queue. We'll talk later."
"What's going on?" she asked, and everyone in the line could hear her question.
"We'll talk later."
"Why won't you give me communion? Can't you see you're humiliating me in front of everyone? Haven't I been through enough already?"
"Athena, the Church forbids divorced people from recieving the sacrament. You signed your divorce papers this week. We'll talk later," I said again.
When she didn't move, I beckoned the person behind her to come forward. I continued giving communion until the last parishioner had recieved it. And it was then, just before I turned to the altar, that I heard that voice.
It was no longer the voice of the girl who sang her worship of the Virgin Mary, who talked about her plans, who was so moved when she shared with me what she'd learned about the lives of the saints, and who almost wept when she spoke to me about her marital problems. It was the voice of a wounded, humiliated animal, its heart full of loathing.
"A Curse on this place!" said the voice. "A curse on all those who never listened to the words of Christ and who have transformed his message into a stone building. For Christ said: 'Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Well, I'm heavy laden, and they won't let me come to Him. Today I've learned that the Church has changed those words to read: "Come unto me all ye who follow our rules, and let the heavy laden go hang!"
I heard one of the women in the front row of pews telling her to be quiet. But I wanted to hear. I needed to hear. I turned to her, my head bowed- it was all I could do.
"I swear that I will never set foot into a church again. Once more, I've been abandoned by a family, and this time it has nothing to do with financial difficulties of with the immaturity of those who marry too young. A curse on all those who slam the door in the face of a mother and her child! You're just like the people who refused to take in the Holy Family, like those who denied Christ when he most needed a friend!"
With that, she turned and left in tears, her baby in her arms. I finished the service, gave the final blessing and went straight to the sacristy- that sunday, there would be no mingling with the faithful, no pointless conversations. That sunday, I was faced with a philosphical dilemma: I had chosen to respect the institution rather than the words on which that institution was based.
I know now what happened to Athena(she was murdered), and I wonder: Did it all start there, or was it already in her soul? I think of the many Athenas and Lukáses in the world who are divorced and because of that can no longer recieve the sacrament of the Eucharist; all they can do is contemplate the suffering, crucified Christ and listen to His words, words that are not always in accord with the laws of the Vatican. In a few cases, these people leave the church, but the majority continue coming to mass on Sundays, because that's what they're used to, even though they know that the miracle of the transmutation of the bread and the wine into the flesh and the blood of the Lord is forbidden to them.
I like to imagine that, when she left the church, Athena met Jesus. Weeping and confused, she would have thrown herself into his arms, asking him to explain why she was being excluded just because of a piece of paper she'd signed, something of no importance on the spiritual plane, and which was of interest only to registry offices and the tax man.
And looking at Athena, Jesus might have replied:
"My Child, I've been excluded too. It's a very long time since they've allowed me in there."
I, owner of this blog, in no way claim ownership to this beautiful piece of text above.
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