1. Reverence

The Gospel According To Father Michael

"God is a concept by which we measure our pain." John Lennon

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Bethany Clyde is sitting in the front pew when I walk into the church. She looks up, hearing my footsteps. The corners of her mouth twitch, and then they are still again. She used to give me that same polite, nervous smile when she was a little girl, sitting between her parents during Sunday service. Difficult to believe that the twelve-year old I remember and this young woman are the same person.

"Hello, Father." Her eyes stay on me as I approach the pew. She sidles to her right, and I sit down next to her.

"What's the matter, Beth?" I ask. "You look troubled." She gives me that brief tentative smile again.

"I wouldn't say troubled exactly, Father, just... thoughtful."

"And what, pray tell, are you thoughtful about?"

She is silent for a moment, and her brow creases slightly.

"I keep having such strange dreams," she says finally. "About Mary."

"Right," I say, perplexed. "Our Lady."

Bethany laughs, but it is so abrupt and shortlived that it comes out like a bark.

"No, Father," she looks at me out of the corner of her eye. "The other Mary."

"Oh..." I am infinitely more perplexed. "You're talking about Mary Magdalene?"

She nods, staring straight ahead.

"In my dreams," she says, "it's like I'm her. I'm walking down the street, and people are whispering things about me, they're looking at me like I'm nothing..." Her voice falters. "That's what it was like for her, wasn't it? Everybody looked down on her."

"I suppose," I say. "But I would imagine these dreams are much more about your own insecurities than they are about Mary Magdalene."

"That's not all though," she sounds choked. "In these dreams, when everyone is against me... I'll turn around, and I'll see Him."

"Him..." My eyes widen. "You don't mean..."

"Yes," Bethany finally turns to look at me, wide-eyed. "I see Jesus." All I can do is look at her, stunned.

"Do you think it's a sin, Father," her bottom lip shakes, "to dream about Him in that way?" The moment she says it, she crosses herself and fearfully looks up. I'm speechless. Of all the things I'd expected her to say, that was most definitely not one of them. The shock must be visible in my face because Bethany's expression turns to one of hopelessness and she bows her head, hands cupped, covering her face.

I feel lost. Put me in a confessional box with liars and cheats, and I know exactly what to do - but with this, I'm nowhere near as sure. I hear a quiet sob and am suddenly aware of how close together we are sitting.

"In these dreams," I say hesitantly, "what exactly..." I hope desperately that it is question enough, I really don't want to have to say it. Part of me wants her not to answer me, but another part feels compelled to know.

"You want to know what happens?" Bethany's voice is muffled behind her hands; she looks out at me from between her fingers, the way a child would, and I'm reminded of the little girl I used to see sitting between her parents on Sundays. Unable to stop myself, I nod.

"Well..." She clears her throat nervously. Her hands now sit in her lap, clasped together as if in prayer. "Like I said, everyone is looking at me, whispering, and I turn around and He is standing there. And he holds his arms out, and I go to him, and He makes me feel so safe... because isn't that what He does? And I look up into His face, into His beautiful eyes, and He'll kiss me."

I feel like Bethany's gaze is burning into me.

"And it's the most passionate thing I've ever experienced," she says, "and it makes me feel like I'm on fire, you know?" She glances at the dog collar and I can see that I don't have to tell her no, I don't really know. I look at Bethany's hands, now palm to palm in her lap, and then look down at my own.

"And it's different sometimes." I swear I see her blush a little.

"Sometimes, He'll be up on the cross," she's looking at me again, her unblinking stare boring into my own, "and He'll be bleeding, and covered in sweat and filth, and He's in so much pain..."

She leans forward and lowers her voice.

"And I reach up, and I pull his rags down..."

My breathing is becoming increasingly shallow.

"And then I'll touch Him."

I feel Bethany's hand on my own, but I daren't look down. The tip of her tongue darts out and moistens her lips, and I feel a low, desperate swelling. Why can't I look away from her wide, misty grey eyes?

"Bless me, Father," I feel a second hand, this time between my legs, "for I have sinned..."

Something inside me gives, and my lips rush forward to meet hers. It's like electric shock - my skin becomes charged as Bethany's grip tightens and she leans into me. Her tongue slides into my mouth, and my chest constricts. I pull away, hot with lust and shame. How could I let this happen? Bethany doesn't take her eyes off me. A single tear falls from her left eye and lies, glistening, on her cheek. Holding her face with both hands, I lean forward and kiss the tear, its hot salt burning my tongue. Bethany's pale skin seems to take on a soft glow, almost as if she's swallowed the moon and it's shining from inside her. I kiss her forehead, then both of her eyes, then both of her cheeks, and finally her lips. She wraps her fingers around my collar and pulls me closer. How is this happening, that I am sinning in the house of God and yet I'm not being struck down?

Bethany turns and lies back on the pew, and I lean over her, burying my face in her soft, scented hair. She guides my hand to the buttons on the front of her shirt, and the fine cotton soon parts and falls away. Bethany's bare skin shivers under my hesitant touch, and I silently vow to treat her like the virgin I know she stopped being a long time ago.