The Bishop - a short story written by Berni Albrighton

 

“Lovely service”

“Very moving, Bishop”

“So glad we could attend”

“How wonderful to hear your sermon”

My jaw aches from the smiles and responses.

When they are all gone, I walk back into the coolness of the church.

What is wrong with me today?

I felt doubtful, melancholy. 

Leaning against the heavy carved door, I allow

my fingers to linger on the smoothness of the handle, 

I imagine the hands of countless others whose grasp has left an invisible mark.

I turn, stepping back to admire the rich carved door.

How was such a masterpiece achieved?

Who was the visionary that turned the trunk of a chestnut tree into this?

A tale that depicts leaping deer, rich woodland, a fox with the wisest face.

How can I feel overwhelming disappointment in the face of such workmanship? 

I feel such a fraud.

The choirboys are leaving.

Their whispers echoing around the walls, rebounding off paintings and crucifixes. 

The organist too has departed.

I look around me.

Particles of dust dance in the rays of light.

Like a kaleidoscope, the colours from the stained glass windows glide across the walls.  

All around me, beauty in abundance.

Guilt bears down on me.

In the privacy of my room, I stand, looking at the person reflected in the mirror.

Is that really me?

Is this what I have become?

An obese old man?

They bow to me, kiss my hand.

Address me with such reverence.

And why?

These robes are nothing.

They are merely dressage.

Like life.

Like death. 

I am teetering on the edge of the abyss,

once again searching for a meaning to this life.

I have no answers. 

My faith, momentarily, has abandoned me.