QUESTION FOR FATHER

I

The church is cozily quiet. The vastness of this silence, imprisoned by the Gothic austerity of the walls and columns, tamed by the pitying gazes of the patron saints, gently massages the ears and temples of Father Czarek, kneeling in the second row of oak pews donated by the wealthier families of the parishioners. As a reward, the names of benefactors are carefully engraved on copper plaques.

Father Czarek rests his forearms on the back of a pew in the front row and leans forward in reverent concentration. "Donated by the Jamiołkowski family," he instinctively reads the beautifully calligraphed message. "Let not the left hand know what the right hand is doing," he recalls, as if on cue, Jesus' saying.

He sits more comfortably in the pew, pressing his back against the cool backrest. He looks at his right hand. The blood has cooled, but it hasn't yet dried. Father Czarek is disgusted by his right hand.

II

The bus shakes and bounces over the numerous potholes. The cracked asphalt challenges the tired tires to a duel. Czarek feels like he's about to throw up. Fortunately, the feeling of shame in front of the other passengers helps him swallow his undigested sandwich again and successfully keep it in his stomach. Just don't think about puking, just don't think about it... when I get off the bus, I'll run behind the first tree and... don't fucking think about it, it's not easy to find a place private enough in the city to... you don't want some fucking cop to catch you, you idiot, instead of going to the seminary, you'll end up at the police station! That's what you fucking want!!!

It helps. Bułka stops demanding release, lies calmly at the bottom of his stomach, knowing that he'll never be able to deal with this shame, this powerful shame, the Lord and Master of Czarek's life.

The dull pain in his right hand helps even more. Czarek opens it and sees a wound running down the middle. He felt nothing as he gripped the blade of the penknife he'd used to butter the bread.

An older man in the next row looks curiously at Czarek's blood-soaked hand. There's nothing in his gaze but curiosity. Not a hint of compassion. This makes Czarek, despite the pain, clench his fist again and tuck it into his pants pocket.

Czarek is ashamed of his right hand.

III

Who suffered wounds for us, Jesus Christ, have mercy on us...

Fourth-year cleric Cezary prays intensely. Usually, it's only at the fifth or sixth station that he manages to feel the first shiver of compassion for Jesus on his journey to Golgotha. Before that, the thought invariably comes to him that Christians exaggerate in presenting Jesus' suffering as incomparably horrific. After all, many people died in worse torments, such as St. Andrew Bobola. Before his suffering ended, he was flayed alive by a Cossack saber, salted, and dragged behind a horse on a leash. Or all those people burned alive on Nero's orders. It seems that many holy martyrs surpassed their master in suffering.

Except that he was God.

Could he be?

Certainly.

God, not an extraordinary man? He must be God immediately? After all, many performed similar miracles before and after him...

HE SPOKE TO YOU!!!

Yes, perhaps so, so why do certain thoughts come to mind...? Disgusting, haunting images with Jesus as the main character. Or Mary. Why, when I hear of something terrible, do I feel like I could do it too? The more inhuman these thoughts are, the more they fill me with disgust and unspeakable horror, the more they attract me. No, they don't, they torment me mercilessly, and at the bottom of my tormented soul, I hope that this torment is ultimately a form of perverse pleasure for my masochistic mind. I hope that not evil, but the fear and disgust they provoke, are the target of my tortured conscience.

I hope I'm not a monster.

You who suffered wounds for us, Jesus Christ, have mercy on us...

Cleric Cezary feels a sense of relief, growing with each word he utters. The sense of belonging to a community praying with him and for him gives him a semblance of security, reality, like a breakwater separating him from the roaring waves of fear and the depths of self-hatred roaring in his head, and from... I cannot hate him. He died for me. Now they strip him of his garments, exposing all his intimacy to public view. How will the Jewish women judge it...? Stop! This filth will pass, don't think about it... An organ unused... Jesus, Jesus!!! Your nakedness, like truth, enlightens every person when they come into the world. Just like that, naked and defenseless, enter my mind and judge the Evil that dwells within. May Your crucified nakedness annihilate the filthy orgies of my imaginations! Beloved Savior, judge me finally and tell me if I am a monster or a martyr. If You find me innocent, then I offer You all my suffering for the salvation of the world!

The station "Jesus Nailed to the Cross" is presented symbolically. Jesus' right hand is attached to the crossbar of the cross, known as the "patibulum." Its fingers, especially the thumb, close in a reflex caused by irritation of the most important nerve in the hand. The main lines of the fingertips, barely visible beneath the rushing streams of blood, seem to trace the letter "V," as if, at this most terrible moment of life, when death and nothingness become the only synonyms for the future for the condemned man, a glimpse of a mystery has been revealed, in which the current, tragic situation is only a small element of a whole of salvation.

Cleric Cezary feels an overwhelming desire to kiss Jesus' hand. He surmises that if he now touches the Savior's tortured right hand with his burning forehead, Jesus will ultimately heal his mind. However, he is ashamed. He doesn't break away from the orderly formation of the procession, which, like a biblical snake, is already slithering toward a new station, burying the hopes of cleric Cezary under an avalanche of footsteps on the marble floor of the seminary chapel.

You who suffered wounds for us, Jesus Christ, have mercy on us...

Perhaps next time.

IV

. The showers are located in the vast seminary basement. They consist of a double row of cubicles, once tiled white. The cubicles have no doors, not even screens, so privacy is out of the question. For this reason, many seminarians, unconcerned about the length of their colleague's business, and even less inclined to reveal their own intimate dimensions, come to bathe at the most unusual times of the day, hoping to find no one there, or almost none.

Deacon Cezary chooses a time to go out, namely one-thirty.

Fortunately, his sacrifice pays off. He's alone in the bathhouse. A hot, intense shower massages his neck, shoulders, chest, and stomach. He feels relaxed. His blood begins to flow faster, not missing his penis. While Deacon Cezary's erection grows, his thoughts, as if on cue, focus on a certain alluring cook's assistant. If he met her on the street, she wouldn't even score a five on a scale of one to ten. But now, in his mind, the dishwasher exudes eroticism. She's alluring, wonderfully shaped, eager... a juicy apple just waiting to be sunk into. Deacon Cezary takes his time. The mixture of nostalgia and excitement is more than enough for him. He doesn't want to commit a mortal sin. He won't cross a line. He prefers to change the subject of his thoughts. The cook's assistant crumples, withers, and disappears, giving way to the practiced techniques of theological meditation. Grace builds on nature, which it perfects. The eternal problem of nature's deficit, stricken by sin, incapable of rising on its own from the mud of moral mediocrity. Intervention from heaven is needed. A Better One is needed, one who will restore man's lost dignity. You are incapable of being human, the Better One seems to say, therefore I will become human and make you a man worthy of God's expectations. Oh yes, Lord, one wants to reply, I am no good, increase my worth... the eternal failure. Although the Christian faith is wonderful news about God, the embodiment of goodness and mercy, it leaves no doubt about the value of man. We are children, loved indeed, but underdeveloped. Incapable of satisfying our father on our own, of making him proud of us as human beings. Only the Better Son has accomplished this: the new Adam, the fullness of humanity, the perfection of divinity. And we: disgust and shame. We teeter on the edge of yes and no, though ultimately it's "no" that is our domain, and for "yes" we beg God. Man, until the last moments of his life, is filled with uncertainty, the possibility of betrayal, and is rarely capable of sacrifice in the name of fidelity.

Deacon Cezary recalls a strange dream from the previous night.

In limitless space...

In impenetrable darkness...

He was hanging on a crudely crafted cross, nailed to it by a large nail piercing his left hand. Only his left; his right hung limply at his torso. Deacon Cezary saw himself as if from a distance. His body, swaying on the cross, seemed the quintessence of incompletion, calling for a resolution to its own dilemma. Either one way or the other! Space and time screamed. "Detach yourself from the cross, or hang on it as you must!" "This is the cross of salvation," added another, calm voice. "Sacrifice yourself!"

Deacon Cezary felt his fear growing with each passing second. Deep inside, he longed to share the Master's fate, to participate in his mission, to become a saving event, an episode in the history of salvation. At the same time, however, he became increasingly aware that if he allowed his right hand to be nailed to the cross, he would become utterly helpless. Can I still withdraw, be saved? No, what am I talking about? What am I saving myself from? This is the greatest grace for me! To save the world with my suffering, to be part of the Better One, an extension of the Statement, a saving echo of the Word, a sucker, giving my life, dying in agony, reliant on whatever emerges from the darkness! Once nailed, I will never be free again. I will never make another, perhaps better, decision. I will follow the path to death, beyond which... well, what? Spit it out. You mean: beyond which there is NOTHING? This waiting nail is the measure of my faith. All or nothing. Half-heartedness is pathetic, contemptible, and I am just like that: simply pathetically incomplete...

The warm shower had long since ceased to delight him. Deacon Cezary slowly steps out of the shower. His feet freeze immediately upon contact with the icy bath floor. A sharp pain of cramp pierces one of them. Deacon Cezary sits on the floor and waits for the pain to subside, then slowly, with effort, ignoring the malicious comments of his colleagues who have suddenly arrived.

"I want to be a priest, I want to be a priest, I want to be a priest," his lips whisper. "But can you?" his conscience asks.

I don't know.

"That's good," his Shame replies.

V

Father Cezary had never believed such stories could actually happen. His grandfather died in his arms. He looks, as if through a fog, at Grandpa Marek's corpse and at Grandma Iwona kissing the emaciated cheeks of the deceased.

Father Cezary hadn't believed anything could make him cry, and now he felt warm streams of tears streaming down his cheeks. And he couldn't help it. Or rather, he didn't want to stop himself. For he felt the toxin that had been poisoning his soul seeping out along with his tears. Now he experienced a wonderful lightness, a liberation from the bondage of something that was slowly robbing him of his joy in life; something that stood between him and God, feeding on his faith, hope, and love.

He couldn't feel any grief over Grandpa's death. Besides, no one expected him to. Grandma was calm, almost joyful. "You can tell how a man lived by how he dies," Grandpa used to say, and Newlywed Cezary agreed completely. "As life goes, so goes death," he used to hum a fragment of a song sung by Edyta Geperd. And my grandfather died holy, having confessed and professed his faith. To Him.

He takes the breviary from his coat pocket and begins reciting vespers for the dead. "From the depths I cry to you, O Lord, hear my voice." He doesn't hear her footsteps; only when she kneels before him does the priest break away from reading the psalms. Grandma takes his right hand and draws it to her lips. "Grandma, what are you..." he clumsily objects, confused and ashamed, picking up the fallen breviary from the floor.

"It's the right thing to do," Grandma replies, and kisses the back of his hand again. With the same lips that had just placed the last kiss of love and respect on her deceased husband's cheeks. Now this respect belongs to his grandson, the priest, the mediator between God and humanity, the true Charon who leads people from this world to God, by the power of the Risen Christ.

Father Cezary feels wonderful. He feels he has been the support of his entire family from its beginnings until this very day. Like Moses interceding with God on behalf of the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah, he stands before God beyond time and space and asks for mercy for all his ancestors dwelling in the afterlife. And he knows that God will hear him, for that is why he called him and armed him with His grace. Now I understand the meaning of my life, God. I want to become a sacrifice in atonement for the sins of this world, for my wickedness and infidelities. I'm no longer afraid. Yes, that's what I want.

"Nail her," he says loudly. "Nail her now!"

Grandma looks at him questioningly, with a kind of compassion.

"Nothing, Grandma," he lifts her from her knees. "I love you."

"May Jesus always be with you," the old woman replies quietly.

VI.

Dinner has been going on for a good half hour when Father Cezary arrives at the rectory.

The priest and his friend from the neighboring parish have practically finished. They are discussing something heatedly, opening another bottle of Bols. "This is in your honor," the priest smiles warmly at the newcomer. "It's been a year since you were ordained, man. Come and have a drink with us!"

Father Cezary knows that, in reality, any opportunity for a drink is good for the two priests, but the honor bestowed upon him today, the scorned one, can turn into deep hatred. So he sits down at the table and downs his first glass.

After twenty minutes of heavy drinking, the neighbor has had enough. He staggers up from the lavishly laid table and sits down on a comfortable couch against the wall, on which hangs a large, rather well-made painting of the Merciful Jesus. At the Savior's feet hangs the inscription: 'Jesus, I trust in You.'" The priest, still able to speak, comments maliciously: "I trust he won't throw up on my couch." Then he bursts into drunken laughter.

A moment later he moves closer to Father Cezary, who has not had more than two glasses and does not share his benefactor's good mood.

"Father, I have to tell you something," the priest mumbles, nodding. "I... like you." Father

Cezary is in shock. He doesn't know what to say, how to behave. Disgust compels him to push away the pushy priest, who tries to put his arms around his neck, yet he's afraid of inciting his superior's anger. He's on his first assignment, and the opinion the priest gives him will determine his future priestly life.

Meanwhile, the priest doesn't give up. His huge, plump lips close over the lobe of the victim's right ear. Father Cezary smells the stench emanating from the priest's mouth: a mixture of vodka and the stench of long-unbrushed teeth. He's had enough. With a decisive movement, he breaks away from his attacker, stands up, and pushes him away with all his might.

The priest, who hadn't managed to rise from his chair, falls backward with a crash, striking the back of his head against the radiator ribs, and slumps to the floor. It all lasts a few seconds, but Father Cezary perceives them as if they lasted an eternity. Especially the elderly priest's fall, reminiscent of the clumsy plunge into the ocean of an old whale, whose enormous body momentarily emerged from the depths.

A halo of thick blood forms around the priest's head, seeping lazily from a wound, likely serious. Father Cezary runs to the wounded man and kneels beside him, soaking his cassock in his blood. The priest's eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, his lips moving as if he were whispering something very quickly. Father Cezary slips his right hand under the priest's head, lifts him slightly, and puts his ear to his lips, waiting for a confession of sins. "I...just...just...for a...joke...fuck," the wounded man wheezes and stops breathing. His eyes suddenly go blank, his face frozen in an expression half surprise, half reproach. "You killed me," say the Pastor's misty eyes. "You're a murderer and a coward," add his twisted lips. "

You've always been like this," pronounce Shame and Disgust, which have never truly left.

The Seventh

Church is cozily quiet.

How I, too, long to be quiet within, to hear God's voice at least once in my life. Right now, when I have become Cain, Judas, who wanted to be crucified. I am like this to myself and to the world, but...

Who am I to You...

Father?