Chapter 1 - The First Sunday

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Dale sat staring at the blank screen. He did not know what to type. So many thoughts. So much had happened and yet, so little. He looked over again at the Bible lying open on his desk. The words glared back at him. “You shall not kill.” They were directed at him. He felt them grip him by the shoulders against his will and speak directly to him. “You, Dale, you shall not kill.”

It was getting late. That obnoxious grandfather clock, the one he hated, had just announced in its stentorian manner that it was 2:30. He had to sleep. What was he going to say in the morning? He never winged it when he was preaching. Maybe a men’s meeting when the schedule was full to bursting, but not Sunday morning. He knew he didn’t have the goods to pull it off.

He also was not one for a “to heck with it” attitude. So he tore at the keyboard with a manic determination that he dug up from who knows where. Within forty-five minutes he had a manuscript. Not the best work that he had ever done, but it was passable. He hoped that Fran and Johnny would notice that it wasn’t his finest oration. He hoped they would let him know, Fran with her motherly smile that somehow communicated both pride and unmet expectations (“How does she do that?” Dale had thought at least a dozen times.) and Johnny with his tongue-in-cheek digs, “Could’ve stayed home and listened to that Baptist fella on the TV.”

Dale loved it. He appreciated the kind words from the congregation that invariably came every Sunday, the “thank you’s,” the “good jobs,” the “nicely done’s.” But he craved those rare, honest words of critique, both good and bad. He reveled in the words of his favorite parishoners.

The Davises almost always got him. They understood where he was coming from. They liked his humor. They resonated with his interpretations. They bought into his applications (most of the time). When he was off his game at least one of them would let him know in the most constructive way. He never walked away from those chats depressed, but rather elated and empowered. He was doing a good job and, thank God, he could do better. They saw him as he was, for better and for worse.

But not as much since it happened. Though by no means a recluse, Dale had withdrawn from much of his usual routine in his most recent parish. These people did not know any different so no one objected. People sympathized. They claimed to understand. The Davises were not much for thoughtless clichés but even they were at a loss. Dale was involuntarily launched into a deep that none of his friends, here or at his last church, had navigated before him. And so he read, thought, prayed, watched TV, went on long walks and drove around for hours on end.

Father Rabia crossed the hall from his study to the bedroom. He walked over the tan carpet that was like the one she had picked out in their old house, past the Monet print that he had picked out for her on her 32 birthday and flashed back to when he first carried her through a doorway like this one on their first night in their first house together. He leaned on the dresser for a moment and looked at the tree shadow on the wall from the streetlight outside. He remembered lying in bed embracing her and staring at similar shadows in another bedroom as the wind outside stirred a different tree.

Dale decided Classical might help him sleep, so he put on some Vivaldi. He undressed and got under the sheets. Was it his imagination, or could he smell her lotion on the pillowcase? He knew he could lie there all night remembering the feels, sounds and smells of his wife. He allowed the lines to get blurry and he was soon unconscious.

On his right side his first sight was the 6:15 on the clock radio. He always beat his alarm on Sunday. Without thinking he sat up quickly and with his best Clooney impersonation exclaimed, “Mah Hair!” This reference to Monica’s favorite movie was the unofficial ritual that began a day filled with rituals. It never failed to elicit a good-natured response from her. Sundays, while their favorite days of each month, were exhausting for both of them. Good to start them off light-heartedly. The line from “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” served this purpose admirably.

As soon as Dale said it he realized his mistake. There was no one on the other side of the bed to hear him. He was alone.
He knelt down, said the Gloria Patri, crossed himself, rose and went to the bathroom. He was usually a machine on the Lord’s Day. He felt the gears begin to turn. He was gaining a little momentum. By the time he was dressed he would be on autopilot. That’s how Sunday’s were now.

A bull went rushing full speed down a steep hill. The sod ripped in large chunks as ever ounce of strength was employed to one end. The bull saw the target and bore down on it. Gravity, will and instinct all coalesced to bring the bull careening into the man standing at the foot of the hill, laughing, cursing and crying. The man disintegrated and Dale realized he was daydreaming. The autopilot needed a little adjustment.

The worship was typical for St. Barnabas Episcopal. The choir sounded good, except for Mrs. Stone. She had been at St. Barn longer than anyone. Her voice had the distinctive warble of an elderly person’s vocal chords after they have lost much of their elasticity. Man, did she warble. It never looked like she was enjoying herself in the choir loft. She seemed to be going at it out of a sense of duty. Sometimes Mrs. Stone was an effective mirror. Sometimes she was a pain in the ass. Dale loved Mrs. Stone.

The prayers and readings were attended to with the same spectrum of attention as usual. There were the die-hards who made even Dale a little nervous. Their devotion seemed almost thoughtless at times. Tom “Thumb” Tell was their leader. He never missed a meeting. He insisted on calling Dale "Father Rabia," even away from formal settings. Dale never objected; he sensed it was important to Tom and made him feel more comfortable. The irony of a man who assented to being called Tom Thumb being so doggedly formal in his personal interactions was not lost on Dale.

The moderates were Dale’s favorites. He knew he probably was not supposed to have favorites. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but think of some of the characters in the Bible: Peter, David, Abraham. They seemed to get special from the Almighty. Fran and Johnny were the most notable members of the “Mod Squad.” Dale only uttered this moniker in private settings. He did not want to alienate any of his parishioners.

Dale relentlessly fought to give a flip about the guys and gals who occupied the fringes of St. Barn, the “Leisure Suits.” They came and went as they pleased. They treated the church as a commodity, a movie theater, a snack bar. Fie on them all! Fie! Fie! Fie!

Pause. Take a deep breath. Chill out for a minute. They’re not devils. Give them their space. Most of them will never change. Be nice. Pray with them in their crises. Visit them when they’re in the hospital. Baptize their babies. Marry their children. Bury their dead. Say “hello” to them as they rush out of the sanctuary after the service, off to another week of rat race consumerism, ignoring God and the Church until they grit their teeth for another 90-minute visit next week. Don’t be bitter.

Those were his bad moments. In his better moments Father Rabia genuinely loved the people who took their religion as a leisure activity. He wanted the best for them. He wanted them to be happy. He did not want them to sell themselves short.

The sermon surprised him a bit. He had gone over it a few times before the service. He wondered if anyone in the congregation noticed the few times he paused as he delivered the homily. It was subtle, but there were those precious few who were quite perceptive and might notice. Fran and Johnny would let him know.

Had he written this sermon? He knew that he had, but it had been late. He was tired. A lot had been on his mind. All the memories. Moni.

The Eucharist brought a welcome relief from the uneasiness of the homily. Dale could not always explain why he took such solace in the celebration of the sacrament. He knew the theological reasons. He could put his finger on his emotional responses many Sundays. Sometimes he had no idea why it worked for him. There was almost never a Sunday when the Eucharist was not a source of some blessing to him: refuge, joy, solace, victory, memory, revelation, presence, communion.

He knew that it was not that way for everyone. There were many things about the faith that were not this way for him; private prayer was one of them. He loved to pray with his people, less so when he was alone. He had taken pleasure in regularly praying with Monica. They carved out time most days to gather together for this holy exercise. Holy things were expected to be his life. That’s why he became a priest. He liked it that way.

As the various members of the congregation knelt at the rail, Dale felt almost transported, almost. He and his curate, Ralph Moore, offered them the elements in turn. Transcendence was intermittent everywhere else. The altar was where God’s otherness was always apparent.

After the benediction the people made their way either to the parking lot or to the fellowship hall for coffee and doughnuts. The number of folks who hung around had fluctuated during his tenure at St. Barn though the number had steadily and consistently risen for about five straight months. Father Rabia’s interest in this time ebbed and flowed, but his presence there was expected.

Johnny did not say anything about the sermon. Fran hugged him. They chatted about the changing weather and their shared interest in college basketball. Fran was reading Henri Nouwen’s most recent book. Johnny was not much of a reader but listened raptly as Fran recounted what she was reading, which she faithfully did. Johnny tended to ply Dale with questions about whatever theological issues might be on his mind. Both Fran and Johnny were thinkers. Dale felt like he was wearing his favorite sweatpants when he was around the Davises.

Father Rabia locked the church doors and turned to walk to his car. “Moni,” he whispered. Dale’s eyes teared. He sat down on the curb and stared at the cracks in the cement under him. The sun was just warm enough that sweat began to trickle down his back. He could feel his neck getting warmer as the tears dropped to the ground and the sweat moistened his undershirt. Damn this pain.

On the ride home Dale stopped at a mini mart, changed clothes and picked up a Diet Coke, a bottle of water and a granola bar. No Sunday lunch. He would take a walk at the local nature trail and sleep the rest of the afternoon. This was another one of his Sunday rituals.

While the trail could be crowded after church on Sundays, Dale had found an area that was tangled enough to discourage most people from entering it. He would try and get his heart rate up on the way up and back. He would spend some time at the top unwinding from the morning’s activities. Sometimes he would bring his iPod and listen to Van Morrison or Norah Jones. Most of the time he listened to the birds or the wind in the trees or the silence.

Back at home Dale took a long shower. It was now about disharmony with the past. Break things up a little here, a little there, not anything drastic. Sometimes it was ok to get into the old rhythms. Sometimes it wasn’t. Long Sunday afternoons were one of the times that it wasn’t.

It was nice and cool in the bedroom. Dale set the alarm, settled in between the sheets and was out inside a minute. He would sleep. The question was whether or not he would rest.

The sun was setting. The leaves of the tree on top of the hill were bright red. A breeze rustled through them. The bull stirred.
On the way to the evening prayer meeting Dale stopped by Henry’s apartment. Henry was an old friend. Henry did not believe in Jesus. Dale was Henry’s friend. This was another Sunday ritual.

Henry made a point of being at his apartment on Sunday nights around 6pm. Dale would usually stop by for about 40 minutes. They would talk. They would laugh, sometimes about nothing in particular. Sometimes they reminisced about high school. Henry was not much for ritual but he was lonely and they had history.

The die-hards and some of the Mod Squad were at evening prayer. Fran and Johnny were usually there but not tonight. They probably got held up while visiting Fran’s mother. Dale was not one to object to consistent family rituals, especially on Sunday.

After the meeting, Dale had one of his typical exchanges.

“Father Rabia, do you have a moment?”
“Yes, Tom, what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering what you thought of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s latest book on the doctrine of Christ’s resurrection.”
“I’ve never read anything by (?).”
“Really?” Tom asked surprised.
“Yes, Tom. If I remember right, we’ve talked about the Archbishop. I’ve never read anything by him. I’ve only read a few articles about him. Is his new book worth reading?” Dale knew that Tom had at least thumbed through it already. He was more on top of all things Anglican than most of the priests Dale knew, including himself.
“Yes, Father, it is quite good. Would you care to borrow my copy? I’ve finished it. I can bring it Wednesday.”
“That’s alright. I noticed it at Borders. I might look over it sometime. I usually get over there at least once a week.” (Break up the routine).
“OK, Father. Just checking.”
“I appreciate it, Tom.”

Dale usually spent some time sitting in the sanctuary on Sunday nights after the church cleared out. He liked to be quiet, think about the services, pray for his people and miss his wife. This was a ritual that he almost never missed. Occasionally he would go over to Fran and Johnny’s for a snack. Even on these evenings he sometimes went back to the church. The spell rarely was broken. He would sit quietly for about an hour, lock up and then go home.

Blockbuster was open. Dale stopped in looking for a flick Henry recommended. It was supposed to be some kind of philosophical jaunt. As usual, the clerk had no idea what Dale was talking about. Dale did not know any of the actors, the director, title or plot. Henry said it didn’t really have a plot. That wasn’t much help.

Somehow Dale was able to locate it. He remembered it was animated in an unusual manner, animation over live action. “Waking Life” was on the shelf in the drama section.

It’s nice that people don’t drive around screaming over PA systems. Nevertheless, that was Dale’s favorite scene in the movie. It was a nice temporary contrast to everyday life. There were moments when Dale felt like driving around screaming. Not at anyone in particular, just screaming, “Don’t you care? Don’t you realize she is gone and will never come back? Can anyone hear me? Ruaaahhh!”

Before bed, Dale decided to sit on the back porch for a while with a glass of wine. He lit a few candles. He settled into the semi-comfortable rocking chair he and Moni had bought together. It was one of a pair. He looked to his right at the empty, motionless, silent rocker and sighed. Rituals.

Sometimes the Sunday evening rocking helped ease him into sleep. Sometimes it woke him up. He had a love/hate relationship with the rocking. The rhythmic nature of it could lull him into sedation or settle his mind into focused thought. He wanted the former tonight. He got the latter. He thought of the Ramones song that had the opposite effect of its title.

“Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go.
I wanna be sedated.
Nothing to do, nowhere to go, oh.
I wanna be sedated.

Just get me to the airport; put me on a plane.
Hurry, hurry, hurry, before I go insane.
I can't control my fingers; I can't control my brain.
Oh, no, oh, oh, oooohhhhh.

Ba-ba-baba, baba-ba-baba, I wanna be sedated.”

He didn’t know whether to try and direct his thoughts or to let his mind wander. He knew where his mind would go if he did not guide it elsewhere. Moni. Whether ritually or spontaneously, that was his mind’s default position.

He did not weep tonight. Sometimes he did. Sometimes his eyes were dry. Grief was like that, unpredictable, cruel, stabbing, warm.

He decided to give his mind room to roam tonight. If he was going to be here for a while, he would not seek for control. Was it for better or worse? He didn’t care.

He noticed something growing down in the depths of his psyche. It did not look familiar to him, yet it was not wholly unfamiliar, either. It was not a friend but neither was it a foe. It simply was. It was present and appeared to have taken root. Tonight Dale did not care to attempt to root out anything. He would let it grow and keep tabs on it.

The sky was grey overhead. It was drizzling. The wind was slight but active enough to work its way through Dale’s flannel shirt. He shivered, then turned his collar up. He was walking on the crest of a hill. The terrain reminded him of the farm country southwest of Philadelphia. One foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right, left.

He was not marching. He was walking slowly but intentionally. He was going somewhere but did not know where. He felt something pulling him toward itself. What was this force? He was not scared; he was simply concerned that he was being pulled by something he could not see. He could resist if he wanted. He didn’t.

There was no sun overhead. He could see no houses, barns, fences or other signs of civilization. Where was he? What was he doing here? Was he meeting someone? He did not feel disoriented, simply curious.

He felt at home walking in this solitude. He was aware that there was no one else present, yet he did feel a presence. Was it God? Moni? His own subconscious? He was not sure. He continued walking.

This hill seemed to go on for quite a ways. There were small valleys on either side of him with corresponding hills rising opposite his own ridge. There was similarity but not monotony. He saw a lone tree in the distance, yet still no signs of people.

Suddenly lightning struck near the tree. It did not hit the tree; it simply struck the ground next to it. He decided to make his way to the tree, though it seemed like it might take him a while to get there.

As Dale made his way toward the tree curiosity began to overwhelm him. A pressure built in his chest. He wanted to run but decided to keep to his slow pace. He was going to fully experience this growing excitement. He had not felt like this in a long time. The only intense feelings he felt anymore were all associated with loss. He wanted to try and savor this. It was a welcome respite from the numbness that was usually only interspersed with the sharp pains of grief.

He walked on in this way for what seemed like an hour. He felt like he should be arriving at the tree in the next few steps, but it seemed to inch away from him the longer he walked. What was going on?

He finally seemed to be drawing closer to the tree and the spot where the lightning made contact with the ground. Dale’s curiosity turned to dread. It fell on him like the lead blanket the dentist puts over your chest when you are being x-rayed. It was dragging him down and pushing him away. He had walked for so long to get to the tree. He now wanted to flee.

He turned around and saw a bull about a hundred yards behind him coming along the same ridge he had walked over for so long. His desire to get away from the tree was greater than his fear of the bull. In fact, he did not fear the bull at all. It was magnificent. It moved with a strength that was intimidating. Its eyes met Dale’s. There was never a hesitation in the bull’s step. He continued advancing toward the tree, neither faster nor slower. Dale was somewhere between the bull and the tree. The irresistible force and the immovable object began to crowd him. He didn’t like it.

Dale found himself drowning in indecision. The curiosity and dread choked him as they competed to rule his mind. As the bull drew nearer he was no longer interested in what it might look like up close. He turned right, then left. On both sides of him were valleys. They looked much steeper now. There were rocks thrusting out of the ground, beckoning to him to throw himself down the incline and smash himself upon their sides like a ship tossed upon the unwelcoming rocks of a dangerous shoreline.

Dale gathered his strength and threw himself down the right hand side of the crest of the hill. He knew the bull would not give chase. The massive animal did not even seem to notice Dale’s evasion. He was now careening down the side of the hill. The rocks were rushing up at him. He knew before he reached the bottom his brains would paint the side of at least one of those rocks. He did not want to die. He turned end over end, sailed in the air and a rock that stood at least six feet out of the ground filled his field of vision. He gasped and braced himself.

Dale’s eyes opened and he saw the white of his ceiling, not the grey of the sky or the brownish-green of the grass or the ash and white flecked surface of the rock or the red of his blood on it. His sheets were wet. His brow was beaded with sweat. He was in his own bed, in his own room, in his own house. He was not on some unknown hillside, in some unknown valley or plastered on the side of some unknown boulder.

He took a deep breath and sat up. His neck was tense. He was not rested at all. It was Monday morning.