A Matter of Time (17 page)

“You have amazing strength of will! You would die
before giving me what I want.” He smiled. “But your body’s survival instinct is just as strong. Each time I blow air into
you, you recover. So we will go on with this exercise all night, if necessary.”

It was not necessary. After seven more dunkings, the man in the tub nodded, and the man outside the tub removed the tube.

When the former had told the latter what he wanted to know, the man outside the tub pushed his head under and held it there,
till the air exploded, the eyes bugged, the body spasmed, and a string of tiny bubbles exited the corner of his mouth.

20
  
  
give… and forgive

Three hours later Brother Bartholomew was awake again. He got up and went to the chair. In the margin of the legal pad on
the clipboard, he made a note of the time: 4:30. Two hours before it would start getting light out.

He said the Our Father, and listened inwardly. God (if it was God) came right to the point.

There is still unforgiveness in your heart
.

I am not aware of any, wrote Bartholomew. I’ve forgiven everyone who ever did anything to me. Mentally put it all on the altar
during Mass. Also went to those I could, and wrote the others.

And you’ve forgotten what they did?

I certainly don’t dwell on it.

Have you forgotten?

Pretty much.

But not the way you want me to forget the sins for which you’ve sincerely repented
.

I see what you mean. He thought a moment, then added:

There
are
times when I imagine what will happen to them after they die and go through that tunnel towards the
light—you. I imagine you reviewing the movie of their life with them. Each time they need to reflect on the hurt they did,
intentionally or unintentionally, you’ll hit the pause button. Pause, pause, pause—I imagine them growing so revulsed at what
they did—who they
are
—they start vomiting uncontrollably….

He paused, and wrote:

That doesn’t sound much like forgiveness, does it.

No
.

What should I do?

Write down everything grievous that has ever been done to you
.

He did. When he finally came to the end, it was getting light out.

Of all those who’d wronged him, the worst was the master sergeant in charge of the division’s corpsmen in Viet Nam. The man
had absolute power, and it had corrupted him absolutely.

Bartholomew—Lance Corporal Doane, back then—had not been afraid of him. So the sergeant had singled him out and broken him,
reducing him to tears—and had almost convinced him that he’d done it all for Doane’s soul’s sake.

God spoke to his heart.

I want you to forgive them all. By name
.

He did.

I want you to pray for each one by name, seeing each face, every day
.

Bartholomew felt the resistance rising up in him. I can’t, Father.

Can’t? Or won’t?

Don’t want to. Why?

Why do you think?

Because—my prayers might make their day for that moment a little brighter. So—I still haven’t forgiven them.

Not if you don’t want their temporal suffering alleviated
.

All right, Father, I surrender. I’ll pray for them, individually, every day.

Even the master sergeant?

Even him.

Good
.

Bartholomew yawned, got up and stretched, and looked in the little fridge to see if there was enough milk for cereal. There
was. Then he remembered he was going to Mass at the Cathedral that morning, and decided to wait until afterward.

He was about to get dressed and go outside to greet the day, when God spoke again to his heart.

Come back to the chair, my son. We are not finished
.

Sorry, Father, I thought we were.

I want you to go back through your life and write down every incident where you did grievous harm to someone else, and why
.

I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to remember.

If the memory has faded, ask me to refresh it for you
.

Bartholomew started with Novice Nicholas, then Brother Ambrose, and his mother, and Laurel, and then incidents from his schooldays
and childhood. As promised, God brought to mind details long forgotten.

When at last he could recall no more, he told God:

I detest the person who has emerged from these acts. I am sick at my soul to see who I truly am in the depths of my being,
save for your grace.

Good. I want you to remember who you are, in your
unredeemed nature—if necessary, refer to these pages—any time you are tempted to think more highly of yourself than you ought,
or to hold someone else in unforgiveness
.

Bartholomew groaned aloud, flinging the pad away from him.

Go take a shower, said God to his heart, you need one. And hurry; you don’t want to keep Father Francis waiting
.

As soon as they were seated on the bus, Bartholomew told the old priest of what had happened to him in the past 24 hours—all
of it, leaving nothing out. “It feels like it’s been a week!” he concluded.

Father Francis just nodded and smiled. “You’re having a good retreat, Bartholomew.” He chuckled. “Finally.”

“So now what?”

The old priest smiled, as he gazed out the window of the bus. “Build on the foundation you’ve laid. Stay close to God. And
when you go home, ask Him to give you renewed love for Novice Nicholas and all your brothers.”

Bartholomew turned to him. “Will that be—soon?”

Father Francis laughed. “A lot sooner today than yesterday!”

They watched a flock of people in shorts and T-shirts, running along the side of the road for some good cause.

“God will tell you when it’s time to leave. I shouldn’t think it will be that long now.” He looked at the younger man. “And
when you do, it will be with a heavy heart.”

Bartholomew nodded. “I know. I can’t believe it, but I’ve grown fond of the cottage.”

The old priest had one more surprise for him. As they
were walking up the hill to the Cathedral, he said, “I want you to take this afternoon off, starting as soon as the Mass
has ended. Just drift, wherever you sense God’s Spirit leading. Don’t leave Hamilton until the three o’clock ferry.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here’s some money for lunch and the ferry.” He gave him $30. “Let Him
guide you. Practice His presence.” He smiled. “The two of you spend the afternoon together.”

They had reached the Cathedral’s main door. “Remember,” murmured the old priest, “
Vaya con Dios
.” And with that he entered, leaving Bartholomew nonplussed.

21
  
  
flawed paradise

In the high pulpit, the bishop in his red vestments paused before commencing his sermon. To Bartholomew, looking up at him,
he was an imposing figure, like Orson Welles in “Moby Dick,” playing a Puritan minister/ship captain, casting a weather eye
over his flock of whaling families.

Had he ever met a bishop? He seemed to recall a retired one years ago, a friend of Father Francis, as this one was.

But the man in the pulpit was far from retired. Black, mid-fifties, heavyset—Bartholomew smiled;
pontifical
fit perfectly. But not pompous. For all his gentle, self-deprecating wit, this bishop imbued the office with immense dignity
and a quiet, deep spirituality.

“No man is an island, unto himself,” he began. “John Donne wrote that four centuries ago, in one of his best sermons. It fits
this one, since we are an island people. Some English adventurers around Donne’s time came here accidentally. But they came
back on purpose. They’d found paradise—or as close as they were likely to get on this side of the veil. And perhaps the other.”

The bishop smiled at the ripple of laughter. “But my
friends, it is a flawed paradise. Happily God seems to have drawn a curtain over the flaws, so our visitors are unaware of
them. But we who live here are all too aware of them. And the principal one is drugs.”

People nodded. “What are they doing to us? We’re an island family—a large one, but family, nonetheless. We used to trust one
another. But there’s only one way to support a drug habit.” He shook his head. “Members of the family are now stealing from
other members, doing things that were unthinkable when I was a boy. And the victim of this national tragedy is Trust.”

More heads were nodding. “We’re beginning to distrust one another, to become apprehensive. And to start withdrawing from one
another.” He paused. “Race is becoming more of an issue between us.”

He let that sink in, then smiled. “But God has an answer.
He
is the answer!” He spread his arms to the congregation. “Look around, my friends, and see our great strength: half of us
are white, half black. That’s not integration. That’s unity. Family unity.”

He caught the eye of some of the children in the congregation. “You know what? God doesn’t care what color paper the present
is wrapped in. He wants to see what’s
inside
.” As the children giggled, he turned to their parents. “What color is it in your heart? Is it light? Or is there darkness
there? That’s the only color He’s interested in.”

Again he paused. “My friends, we are strong because God’s Spirit has drawn us together. Given us caring concern for one another.
Made us a church family. It’s the unholy spirit who would divide us, instill fear, plant seeds of distrust.”

He smiled. “He can’t get away with that in here. But
we need to keep our love for one another on the front burner. And sometimes that’s going to cost.”

It grew quite still in the cathedral. “Sometimes we wonder if we would die for our faith, as the martyrs were required to.
‘Of course!’ we say. But we won’t know till that moment comes.” He sighed and smiled. “I pray for all of us, it will never
come.”

He grew solemn. “But there’s another kind of death. Death to pride. Death to self. Death to preoccupation with the approval
of others.” He looked from one to another. “Friends, God may require one of these lesser deaths of you, if you are to remain
true to your faith.”

He put his hands on the lectern and smiled. He was finished. “And so, friends, in the words of John Donne, ask not for whom
the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.”

The Mass was ended, and Father Francis went to join the others in the fellowship hall for coffee, and to pay his respects
to the bishop and the canon. Bartholomew elected not to accompany him, preferring to linger in the now-empty cathedral. Its
walls, bathed in sunlight from the southern clerestory windows, exuded soft, golden warmth.

For a long time he sat there, enjoying the stillness and the peace. Gradually he became aware that he was not alone. There
was a young man at the back of the nave, staring at a notice on the bulletin board. He was not a walk-in; Bartholomew vaguely
remembered him being there during the service. Nice-looking kid—17 or 18, thin as a rail, blond hair long but combed, coat
and tie.