The priest prays, he drops to his knees and prays for all. But none pray for him. But he thinks that is all fine, that he is doing the work of his lord. He is on his knees when the door opens. A man walks in; dirty and covered in rags as he is. His eyes full of fever and tears for somebody he does not know. It is a sad appearance; but yet he speaks clearly.
'Father. I have come forth to give my confession. May you listen to me I will bless you, may you deny me I will damn you. It is for my sake I come to talk, to rely on my lord who art in heaven to listen, with you as proxy. I beg of you. Please listen to my confession.'
The priest rises from his knees, standing on level with the man and looking at nowhere but his eyes.
'I shall listen my son. I shall listen of all your sin, of your grievance against myself and the church which has prevented you from being before me until today. I praise you as the son, the son of my father, as we all are. His creations to be given unto him when our use to his will has expired. I shall give unto you the feeling, the feeling of forgiveness and grace. Grace upon the word of the lord.'
The man seemed relieved. Hidden under his disguise was an expression of sinister nature, one that the priest could not see as true. This was not because the priest was naïve, but because of his desire to look for only the good in all; only the purposes for the poor.
'Thank you father.'
'Come child, please take with me to the booth. I shall listen to you there.'
The priest looked at the man with compassion, something he did not recieve in return. The pair walked slowly over to the confession booth, the bleak wood of it standing against the white walls of the church interior. As they took their spots, a heavy sigh could be heard.
'Father… I thank you for your listening. I speak to you of your lord's will. He has forsaken me for I have forsaken him. I find myself in fever and no miracle to cure.'
The priest looked at the expanse of wooden wall separating himself and this poor soul. He wondered what kind of fever could drive a man so full of sin to face himself. It was the hardest option for those all out of good ones. To face oneself was the scariest of scares, it left one with a feeling of emptiness; like that person had never once been themself. In stead of this feeling, they desperately look for a new self, or a way to connect their old self.
'Please… tell me my son. What have you done to make you so far from the sky? I would like to know. Not just for your sake and for your forgiveness, but for my own selfish interest, my own expanse of ignorant research into the one belief I find in myself. I find myself questioning: is the world truly created in God's image? I know this is sinful of me to rebel in thought against my lord, my creator, my father… but,' the priest paused; thinking to himself, 'is it really? Is it sin? Human nature under God is capable of independent thought, so why should I not be able to question this?'
A long silence followed the monologue of the confused priest. It was only broken by the soft voice of the man.
'I don't know… father. But I think that we should accept our own thoughts. Accept it as not a rebellion against the lord. I admit to him that I have gone too far in my exploration of it, but I do not think it was with bad intention I began. I love myself, but I also am enraged with it. I find refuge in the fact I can build a new self, but in the eyes of others… I shall never be the same.'
The priest had tears in his eyes. It was as if a thought so profound had come to him. Possibly not emotional to any other, but to a man looking for solutions, it was enough. He thought to himself of the irony. The irony that a man drenched in the stench of blood, debauchery, and sin could provide the answer to his question.
'Father… I am not a good man.'
The priest sat there, the tears drying in his eyes. He had forgotten why he was there. The sole purpose of listening to the man's poor grievance, his confession, had left him, only to come back.
'My son… maybe you are. But that is not for me to decide. It is up to the lord—'
The priest was suddenly interrupted.
'But does he! Does he have the authority to judge me?! Ah… I… don't know who I am.'
This statement left the priest with a strange feeling. A smile drew itself on his face, at behest of his own emotion. It was him reveling in the fact his belief had been right. It was only God that could truly judge in his mind. In the middle of this, the man wept quietly, quietly enough to just be heard through the wall.
'Father. I hope that you shall be judged, along with me. I say to you my last confession. My sin has not been realized, but it is destined.'
'Yes my son, I hope I shall see you there, at the gate. To let me see how you truly look.'
The church opened the next day. It's doors still cracked from the visitor last night. The people who came saw only one thing, a pool of color, so beautiful and ugly at the same time. It was a cruel painting, painted by the artist, draped in white robes, next to a crying man, with a smile on his face, and a hole in his heart. It being filled only by the love for a concept, one hidden behind a shining gate, the gate that never existed.
The secret of all that is holy.