Deuteronomy 1:21
Wednesday, 7th November: Seb was breaking all the rules now. Going to Trish Hartnett's baby pink house all by himself.
He was past needing the old rules. He was treading water spiritually, marking time, assimilating new realities. He had discussed things with the monseigneur and the older priest had talked with the bishop. As a consequence he was no longer required to celebrate communion. But the bishop had decreed that in other respects his parish duties were to continue unabated. Even had the bishop decided otherwise, Trish Hartnett was a friend as well as a parishioner. He could not refuse her cry for help. Her phone call had been desperate.
He'd rung the bell but the door was open, on the latch, so he'd just walked in when no one came. He called her name.
She called back then. "In here Seb."
He found Trish. She didn't look good. She was curled in the corner of a cream colored leather couch in the sun room.
The sun room looked over the garden and was lined with windows as it should be, floor to ceiling but for a yard and a half of brickwork rising from the dull red of the tiles that marched across the floor; tiles hid in part by thick cream carpet spread like a lawn out on which sat cane tables, chairs and sofas with olive colored cushions on which to rest your bones. Then there were the houseplants. A big ficus dominated one corner; a succulent creeper, bright red flowered, drowned out the other. Between these in clumps and clusters on pot stands and tables ranged little baby cyclamen and white summer jasmine to great flowering cacti in cascades and splashes of green, rust red and pink.
Trish was cocooned in a zip-up bathrobe, a toweling affair. Her feet were up on the sofa and she had little pink rabbit slippers on, like a child might wear. Her shock of auburn hair was lank and wet from the shower, without so much as a towel to bind it. Her eyes were red from crying. She was smoking a cigarette. She didn't get up.
Seb noticed the cigarette. He'd never seen Trish smoke but he didn't comment. Instead he said, "Shall I fetch you a coffee?"
Trish looked up and smiled despite herself. "You won't know what to do," she said. But he said he would and she let him so he rummaged around in the kitchen and made the coffee and brought her some. He told her he'd added some good old maize whisky, Jim Beam. He thought the bourbon would help. She didn't say anything, just took the coffee. They sat there a while in silence. Seb knew when to be quiet. He sipped his coffee and waited. She lit another cigarette and smoked it through before she spoke. Then she said, "Seb?"
"Yes."
"Am I damned?"
"No one's damned Trish. God doesn't work that way."
"I don't want to go another day feeling like I do so I'm telling you exactly what's on my mind."
Seb nodded. "Go ahead."
"What about Judas? He was damned."
"Perhaps. On the other hand there's a non canonical Gospel of Judas in which he's painted as Jesus' favored disciple who was only doing as he was told by an omniscient Christ."
Trish screwed up her nose, her skepticism apparent. "So that's predestination. The church believes in predestination?"
"Whether Judas had a choice or not is a question that has exercised worthier minds than mine. He will meet his maker on judgement day along with the rest of us. Until when, according to the doctrine of the church, he sleeps, waiting the last trump. I don't know. But I do know that it's a grave sin to call anyone a lost soul."
He paused, looking closely at Trish. She seemed calmer. He continued. "As regards predestination, the church believes in predestination in the sense that God knows the future. Not in the sense that you have no choice in the matter. You determine that future."
"Sounds convoluted to me." Trish lit another cigarette and kept it in her mouth whilst she spoke, making her pretty face somehow slovenly thought Seb. But he understood - or thought he did. She needed to degrade herself. It was like that with people sometimes.
"Not so convoluted really. We have a transcendent God. We are an immanent people."
"Sorry Seb. That's convoluted where I come from. There is destiny. Fate if you prefer. We don't necessarily determine our futures. You just have to look at horoscopes and stuff. Some people are without hope."
Seb shook his head. "Astrology is forbidden to us as Christians. Perhaps because it can so easily be used to generate fear. Some say it is as bad as witchcraft - and it's more prevalent."
"Explain," said Trish, curious despite herself.
"Witchcraft in its best form is just magic. The use of the other's belief and trust for healing. There's a fine line between that and Christ's use of the Spirit of God to heal. The primitive shamans were often the only healer available to the tribe. Are they then always evil? But astrology is more dangerous. Astrology is fundamentally flawed. It is based on the premise that there are forces that deny us freewill, that determine our future in some degree. Astronomy is an act of denial of the supreme divine gift that is free will. Without true free will there is no purpose to life. All is futile. This one diamond we mustn't chip away at."
"That's all very fine. I don't know about free will." Trish screwed up her eyes. "All I know is I'm damned whatever you say - in this life and the next."
"I doubt that Trish, I really do."
"You think? The police believe I murdered Bob."
"Did you?"
"No."
"And I believe you."
Trish looked up at him then and twin tears tracked down her face. "But there's other stuff I've done."
And she told him then.
And he listened.
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