St. Angelus - it's Christmas and I'm a priest about to break my vows for Victoria Woods

I light a candle and watch the flame flutter in the red glass votive cup.

I haven’t lived yet, not really, and already the dream is dying—St. Angelus is dying, and nobody cares. The diocese will close the doors and board the windows—put a fence about it and demolish it—or worse, sell it to a developer who’ll turn it into a restaurant, as they did to St. Dunstan’s last year.

In the darkened church I’m praying again for guidance—not for some divine intervention regarding the parish, but wisdom regarding my own vocation.

I no longer feel called to be a priest.

The Angelus bells peal softly.

Within the hour, there’ll be a small gathering of people for Vespers—the mere thought causes my heart to leap—not for the evening liturgy as such, but because I know Victoria Woods will attend.

I won’t be able to talk to her though—I’ll hear confessions for an hour afterwards—but still, I’ll be able see her, and that will be enough.

Immediately, the guilt begins and I pray and ask forgiveness, knowing full well I’ll have the same thoughts tomorrow night and all the nights after that, until I’m transferred or she leaves—but the thought of never seeing her again is too painful to even contemplate.

And so, I also ask forgiveness for that, and my whole life for that matter.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned…”

My stomach flips when I hear the soft voice and see dimly through the grate her lovely profile.

“It’s been a week since my last confession. These are my sins.”

I feel like Hamlet watching Ophelia pray.

Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remember’d.

I grimace inwardly. She should pray for me.

“I’ve committed a very grave sin, Father. I’ve entertained desires toward a man who is promised to someone else.”

“I see.”

I should ask for details, but can’t, since I suspect that other man is me.

“Have you acted upon these desires—enticed this man in any way or offered an invitation to sin?”

She casts her eyes low and whispers, “No, Father.”

“Then, you must pray and ask the Lord to help you overcome temptation and, of course, you must avoid the near occasions of sin in the future.”

“Yes, Father.”

“For your penance, pray The Lord’s Prayer, and now, make a good act of contrition.”

I listen to her pray in the singsong voice the nuns must have taught her.

O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins, because of Your just punishments, but most of all because they offend You, my God, who are
all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen.

I describe the sign of the cross over her with my right hand while sighing, Ego te absolvo.

Silently, I add my own caveat, so far as my power allows and your needs require.

As I watch her leave, I slide the grate and whisper another prayer, O Lord, forgive me.

It’s Christmastime—five days before Christmas and the church is decked with festive wreaths, potted poinsettias and a manger in the nave. Behind the manger, several dark fir trees stretch up toward the heavens, and near the top of one tree, gleams a star.

I watch the excited faces of children and feel a pang of loneliness as I recall my aspirations as a twenty-year old seminarian. Back then I had no idea how desolate the celibate life could be. But now I know.

“You’re fully apprised,” old Bishop Wierton often reminds me.

And yet, I also know the celibate life is not for me.

The hardest part is the night watches when I lie awake staring at Victoria Woods’ lovely face shining back at me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying by sheer will power to banish the lovely apparition that haunts me even now—in the sacristy of St. Angelus—in the very precincts of God.

My efforts are futile though—you can exorcize demons, but you can’t cast out the flesh.

My ruminations are interrupted by the shrill, nearly hysterical voice of Abigail Hoyt, the church organist.

“Oh Father, thank God I found you. It was horrible—just horrible.”

She’s shaking and her face is pale. “I’m in need of absolution—I’m damned for sure.”

I grab her by both shoulders and stare directly into her eyes. “Calm down, Abigail, and tell me what happened.”

“I saw the devil himself lurking in the shadows of the belfry. As long as I live, I’ll never forget those red eyes piercing through me.”

Angelo, the custodian is patiently waiting behind her. He catches my eye and gives his shoulders a shrug.

“Did you see anything, Angelo?”

“I went up there, Father—checked out the room where the ringers wait and even went up the iron steps to the steeple top—but there was nothing. Nada.”

He spits out the last word like an expletive and glares at Abigail, suspecting her somehow of undermining his custodial care of the premises.

“I know what I saw, Father—it was horrid. I could barely breathe, inhaling those sulfurous fumes.”

Angelo rolls his eyes, but Abigail won’t be cowed. “Celia Duncan saw it too last week and Betty Rose.”

“Batty Betty?” Angelo scoffs. “She has bats in her belfry.”

“Enough! Please, let’s all be charitable. Remember love is patient and kind.”

“Amen,” Abigail whispers. Angelo lowers his gaze, suitably chastened.

“I’ll sprinkle some holy water up there later and pray a blessing.”

Angelo nods and retreats back into the shadows of the sanctuary.

“Thank you, Father.” Abigail has a distinct look of relief on her face.

I touch her elbow as she’s walking away and whisper in her ear, “I’ll see you at Vespers tonight, Abigail—and by the way, you don’t need absolution. Many saints have seen demons—and some have even been oppressed by them. It doesn’t reflect a lack of sanctity—often, the opposite. Your light may have troubled them.”

“Bless you, Father—you truly are a saint.”

I smile ruefully as she continues on her way.

I spend a few minutes in the belfry after lunch, tidying up, sweeping the floors and then, sprinkling some holy water and praying a blessing over the church grounds, and especially the people.

I go through the motions but I know the truth—you bless people, not things. And I say a special prayer for Victoria when I spy her from the bell tower, coming home with Christmas presents.

Again, I stifle a pang of loneliness.

But I’m no sooner back in the sanctuary when I’m accosted by Peter Murphy, the local solicitor.

“So, Father, have you heard the news? —It’s all over town. The Clarion is running a feature and St. Angelus is front page news.”

“What’s the article about, Peter?”

“Well, it appears that packages and gifts of money have started appearing on various parishioners’ doorsteps, courtesy of St. Angelus. The whole town’s talking about it—calling it a Christmas miracle.”

“Hmm…maybe the spirit of St. Nicholas is alive and well,” I smile.

Peter frowns, “That may well be true, but people are talking about a different spirit—apparently the same one haunting your belfry.”

I groan audibly.

“I know, I know,” he tries to console me. “But something has to be done. The gossip mills are working overtime.”

“I’m not sure what’s causing such a stir, but I’ll look into it.”

“It’s a familiar story, Father—trouble in Paradise. The Old Serpent is up to his tricks—and at Christmas, no less.”

He tips his hat and heads out the door. And for a few moments as the door stands ajar, a gust of wind carries a flurry of snowflakes whirling into the vestibule.

The expected snow has arrived. It will be a white Christmas as the weatherman promised, but hopefully, also a peaceful season full of light, and without darkness.

I see her again at Vespers—a dark shawl subduing her lovely blonde tresses, though they still make the darkness bright.

Thankfully tonight, she doesn’t seek confession, but I still have to struggle with my disappointment, and berate myself for my obsession.

I stay behind to extinguish votive candles and secure the church for the night.

The moment I switch off the last sanctuary light, I sense a presence near the belfry. The hair on my arms stands up and my scalp tingles with irrational fear.

I strain to peer into the darkness, but can see nothing. I’m frozen to the spot and can scarcely breathe. Suddenly, there’s a great crash and I let out an involuntary cry.

“I’m sorry, Father—didn’t mean to scare you. I often seem to slam doors.”

“Angelo—is that you?”

A low laughter reverberates in the darkness. “I’m not the custodian, Father. I’m Oliver Morton, late of this parish.”

“I don’t understand. How did you get in here?”

“I’m always here—it’s my second home.”

Great—just great! A homeless man squatting in the belfry.

“You can’t camp out here—if you’re homeless we have a shelter on Main Street that’s equipped to look after your needs.”

The figure in darkness chuckles softly. “I’m not homeless either, Father—as I told you, I’m Oliver Morton, late of this parish—in other words, I’m dead.”

A wave of icy terror sweeps over me and I begin trembling.

“You have no need to fear me. I mean you no harm.”

It takes me a few attempts before I can manage to make a sound. “Wha-what are you doing haunting a church? —Surely you know this is a sacrilege.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he says drolly, coming out of the shadows, and sitting down at the end of a pew. “I just happen to like spending time here, and since they tore down my house to make way for a restaurant, I decided to stay here.”

Realization dawns on me. “You’re the former owner of Morton House—the Victorian manse on the corner.”

“The manse that was, I’m afraid. It’s now Barbarians—a suitable name for a tacky eatery.”

I feel myself going lightheaded. “I can’t believe this is happening—it goes against all my theology.”

“Sorry, my friend, but you should be used to that by now—I see the way you stare at a certain young lady. You’re one of the most conflicted men I know.”

My knees turn to water and give out, but before I can sink to the floor, a chair from the usher’s table slides under me and supports my weight.

“There, there—we can’t have you suffering a slipped disk just before Christmas.”

“How—how did you do that?” I sputter.

“Simple. I’m a ghost.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want you to confess and absolve me. Do that, and I’ll be gone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re dead. The scripture says it’s appointed unto man to die once, and then the judgment.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Well then, how do you explain the fact I’m still here?”

“I have no explanation for that,” I moan.

“Exactly! So, go ahead and confess me and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

“Yes, but you also told me you have no explanation for why I’m still here. Obviously, God has allowed me to persist on this plane, so I have unfinished business.”

“And what business is that?”

“I amassed a sizeable fortune but died before I could bequeath it to charity. I had no living relatives and meant to do something good with my wealth.”

“So now, why don’t you just walk into a bank and sign it all over to charity? You have no problem making your will known to me.”

“Ah, but that’s the problem, Father. I didn’t trust banks—not since they failed during The Great Depression. I hid my money in caches all over town and have been using an angel to deliver gifts and cash donations for me.”

“An angel?”

“Yes, a messenger. Well actually, Angelo—your custodian. I appeared to him and made him an offer he couldn’t resist. I’m afraid I scared him half to death though. Hence, my need to confess my sin.”

“So, you think giving your money away will atone for your sins?”

“No—not at all. I just want to do something useful with it—but now, I’ve committed a sin by blackmailing poor Angelo into helping me.”

“Why don’t you just donate your money to the church—save St. Angelus from being torn down, or worse—turned into a restaurant?”

“A restaurant? That would be a horrid outcome. Yes, of course, I will help the church—but if I do, will you help me?”

I weigh the cost of giving a dead man absolution, but in the end, decide to do so as a charity to the living—and no, I’m still not sure of the theology.

I used to think I was a man of principles—now I think I’m just a man.

It’s funny how life changes you—circumstances bend you, or maybe you realize all the time it was you who was bending trying to fit a template that wouldn’t bend for you.

The vows you swear at twenty, don’t serve you well at thirty, and in the end you grudgingly conclude, you shouldn’t swear vows at all.

I don’t know where this leaves me—maybe bewildered, definitely enchanted, and perhaps a little in awe.

As for the details of what transpired, I suppose looking back it wasn’t really unexpected at all. In a way it was Fate, or God’s sovereign design—at the very least, His permissive will.

Oliver Morton went to his deserved rest a happy man. St. Angelus was saved from the wrecking ball or worse, being at the mercy of Barbarians.

I resigned as pastor, although Bishop Wierton considered my departure a temporary retirement.

He shook my hand and reminded me. “You’re a priest forever, Tom, according to Hebrews 7.”

He also offered to marry me to Victoria Woods.

“I see it more as an annunciation, than a renunciation,” he told me.

And that Christmas was the whitest, brightest feast the town had ever known, and it was all because of a repentant ghost and two lost souls finding love.