Find out why so many are reading
The priest reverently held up the wafer in his outstretched arms, his sleeves slipping down slightly as he
held them over his head for all to see. The crowd obediently bowed in veneration, allowing the presence of
the transubstantiated Bread of Life to calm their minds and their souls.
The priest was performing a routine ceremony that had been carried out for nearly two thousand years,
bringing peace to those that wished for it, resolve for those that required it.
Today’s crowd was about two hundred in number. All whose lives somehow made time for this weekly
ritual that had been part of their upbringing, part of their coming-of-age into adulthood, and a deep, deep
part of how they related to the world around them. The building they were in had been constructed in the
early nineteenth century and had undergone several renovations. The large multicolored stained glass
windows, purposely facing west to allow the light from the setting sun to fractionate into its various
wavelengths through an image of the Blessed Junipero Serra, had been replaced twenty years prior.
The different colors naturally bathed the parishioners, allowing them to imagine, if only for a short time,
that the difficulties of their world could be left outside as they gazed upon the Lord of Hosts, the King of
Kings.
However, as in most Catholic churches, the object most sought after by the eyes of the faithful—more so
than the quietly bubbling baptismal in the rear of the church or the large pillars surrounding the church,
which bore the stations of the cross—was the crucifix itself. Central to the faith, the God Who Had
Become Man, nailed to the cross, to suffer the sins of man so that they might enjoy the everlasting love of
God. Suspended up high, directly above the tabernacle behind which the priest was standing, the large
cross bore the suffering body of the savior of millions. That which had been a symbol of a torturous form
of punishment, which had been feared by countless members of societies of old as a horrible instrument of
oppression, was now looked upon with a deep sense of wonder, of peace, and, for those who allowed
themselves a particular courage of reflection, a deep sense of gratitude.
Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word, and I shall be healed.
All repeated the words of the priest, automatically, without thought. The sacred utterance that had been
repeated by countless peoples in countless languages, some of which are no longer spoken.
Malcolm breathed deeply, slowly raising his head back up, careful not to disturb those around him. His
hands still clasped, resting on the back of the pew in front of him, but not far over the edge as to risk
offense. He sat in his normal spot, midway back from the front, on the right side. He patiently waited for
his turn to stand and shuffle with the rest of the loyal flock to receive the Body of Christ. He took another
breath, slowly in, slowly out.
He gazed up at the large crucifix. Wondering. Imagining. What would that be like? How could one man
bear so much pain? Was it really worth it?
Was I really worth it?
What Malcolm didn’t realize, was that this would be the last time that he would be able to gaze upon the
icon of the Risen Christ with innocent eyes, an innocent heart, and wonder.
For soon, Malcolm would see, would feel, would know the exact measure of agony it would extract from
unwilling souls.
Many others would feel as well.
For Malcolm was about to quietly slink forward toward the transubstantiated Body of Christ, with a soul
free from mortal sin, for the last time.
George Hutton’s Zapotec.
