This is just drabble, nothing to be taken seriously. I wrote it because I was angry.



I see you, wrapped in that warm blanket of security- the robes of an order we both know well.

Perhaps, you know it too well.

Father, have you sinned?

On the edge of the inferno, a soul will wait an eternity to reach that heaven. Catholics call this limbo purgatory, but Protestants call it Judgment.

Father, do you believe in forgiveness?

I believe in absolution.

I believe when the water was run across my skin, the sin that haunted each vein drained into that bath and your hand absorbed small remnants of these sins to be. So many sinners live in the creases of your hands, Father.

So many beg for the freedom you have.

The freedom to bear and never cast away…

Father, do you even hear me?

Across the grate of confessionals, it is rumored that you hear. It is rumored that the small shield of metal is like the soft waters of baptism. Sin is washed away by them. If that were true, though, the rivers would be polluted by the refuse of ruined lives. The confessional is but a harem of sin.

You are but the gatekeeper.

I always thought Saint Peter held the keys.

Then again, we are both not Catholic. You are Methodist; I am simply living. Your breath is humid in the mid December air and the nativity is being played by parishioners before you. You watch, enraptured (but rapture escapes you), and I watch you curiously.

Do you feel my eyes upon you?

Do you feel my fear of you?

A shudder of apprehension shakes the air and you glance, but you never see; for seeing involves sight and you have none Father. Your eyes are blank, deep sockets. Your human orbs sacrificed to the light of God, burned to dust by the Light of God.

For, we are made from dust and to dust we must return.

Father, where is your faith?

Is it hidden in the folds of your robes?

Is it buried in the crease of your collar?

Or is it seared in that smile on your lips?

Lips that have lied and have loved and have lusted- in humanity, Father, lays your faith. In the iniquity you had intended to shed. In the sin for which many men have bled. In the hopes that you had entertained and by which you were misled.

You love God, yes?

Does He love you?

Does He know you?


I know the answer.

It's always yes.

You selfish, corrupted soul; to think some Greater Being will bother to know you; to think some Greater Being will bother to love you. A hand on my shoulder and you say it's a shame I was late to be Mary, but isn't she wonderful?

Yes, she is really amazing.


Who is she to me?

Baby Jesus, plastic and shiny and hard, is caressed by hands that have held many lovers. The angels circled around some human painted only by sin and the pain of a life.

Who is she to God?

And I'll see you every Sunday. You will be dressed in your robes and your collar and your damned, pathetic smile.

How lovely?

How god-damned lovely?

You preach to me the word of God, word written by man; perhaps even invented by man. You tell us how the future is bright. You tell us how life is good. They listen and there I am twisting in physical pain because thou shall not lie means nothing to you for, if it meant anything, you would be mute.

But Father, you'd rather be blind.

Because the answer to: Father, have you sinned?

Will always be: yes.