The people were frightened. He saw it in their eyes. They needed comfort. “In today's gospel, we heard of Thomas’s doubt. He needed proof that the Lord had risen. We are preparing to celebrate the Ascension of Jesus into heaven. We will celebrate his glory in all its accouterments as He is lifted up. Like Thomas, Jesus Himself had doubted for that one moment in the garden, of what he was doing. Was it right? He followed the path laid before him and was rewarded by his Father in heaven. We should remember that in our own lives.”
People stopped fidgeting, were in fact paying more attention to his sermon than the priest was used to. McMillan knew why, knew they feared the past days' events. He understood that the worse thing a priest could do at this moment was to feed those fears. His sermon seemed to be heading of its own accord in that direction, however. Scanning his notes, he skipped the next few points.
“Our jobs seem pointless; perhaps the children were loud this morning, wanting more syrup on their pancakes.” He paused and smiled. The usual chuckles from the parents did not come. “Why do we do this... this everyday routine of life? Because it is God's will that we provide for our children. That we live our days not in one new adventure after another, but in normalcy, in the day-to-day victories that, as a whole, make a solid spiritual life.”
Normalcy . The key to calming the waters. The people were visibly calming. The soft look of contented listening crossed their faces. Boredom, perhaps. He hadn't been a priest all these years without accepting the inevitability of parishioner inattention. But he would rather they be bored than afraid. They should not be afraid. Not in church.
He continued, “Saint Malachy, in his days, wondered many of the same things.”
He would give them what they need, what they crave. Slow things down. Keep things simple. Do not let them become afraid, as he was afraid. “Many of the other saints and martyrs would turn to God and ask why....”
* * *
Some in the crowd talked loudly amongst themselves. Frightened sounds, angry words drifting over the people’s heads. Nick knew he’d lose control soon if he didn't keep talking.
The young priest stepped back onto the altar so everyone could see him raise his arms. The crowd silenced, save the sobbing of the older children - many of whom obviously understood what he was telling them.
They were going to die.
“I'm not trying to be a sensationalist,” Nick said, lowering his arms. “I'm not trying to scare you. I'm not trying to be a prophet like these other people, though they most truly are.” He put his hands flat against his chest. “What I am is your priest, the one you turn to, to learn the teachings of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the laws of Moses and the psalms of David. I took an oath,” he swallowed, pushed on, tears now falling down his face though he tried to keep any emotion from his words, lest it stop his sermon. Not this time. Not this one. “I swore to God that I would devote my life to His people. He brings you all before me. I swore to be unwavering in my devotion, to serve as the light which so many of you need to find God.
“How horrible if, when faced with something of this magnitude, I turned away from you, sinned against you by covering the truth. God has given us such strong and vivid signs.
“Even without taking anything else into consideration - think of the rain. Of the storm which appeared from nowhere. Think of its nature, raining over every land and leaving the seas at peace.
“It was a wake up call, my bothers and sisters. God is shouting from heaven for us to listen. He hates the sin and corruption, the violence and self-servicing materialism of the world. He's tired of being ignored, of being written off as an old-fashioned, old age concept. He's as real and tangible as you or I. More so, even. And He demands that we stop looking away, and look at Him! Even so, even with our apathy and ignorance and rebellion, He loves us and wants to give us as much time to give ourselves to Him as possible. The thief in the night is coming, my beloved ones, and the Lord is shouting for us to wake up and prepare!”
* * *
Now and then someone shoved Jack aside if the preacher wandered too close. One burly man in a Red Sox jacket grabbed him by the collar of his long coat. Michael pushed his way easily through the crowd, but before he reached the skirmish, a police officer grabbed the man and pulled him away.
The cop looked familiar. Perhaps he’d been here before, listening to Jack’s sermon instead of catching bad guys. Maybe the cop knew there would be no more criminals in a short while.
“Okay, friend,” he said to the man in the jacket, “get going.” As soon as he was released, the man muttered the usual curses about the “loony” needing to be locked up. With a cop in his path, he stuffed his hands into his jacket and walked away.
Mitch Leary turned around to offer Jack advice on avoiding collisions with people, but the preacher was heading off in the opposite direction, spouting his nearly unintelligible sermon to the growing crowd. The policeman didn't think Jack recognized him anymore. Not that it bothered him. The crowd bothered him. Before the bizarre storm the preacher had garnered more news coverage than followers. Now, he estimated three hundred people milled about Christopher Columbus Park, many under the pretense of touring Boston’s Long Wharf. Some looked amused. Some angry. Everyone, in their own way, afraid.
Al l of this emotion gave Leary a growing sense of dread. Across the way, Sullivan caught his eye. The officer had been assigned to the corner of Atlantic Avenue by the hotel. Mitch gave a quick nod, meaning things were still okay. Rany Washington, a stunning young woman who'd come on the force only three months earlier, kept her place further down, between the crowd and the pathway leading to Commercial Wharf. She was gazing at Jack, her attention to the scene admirable. Mitch hoped that her focus was more on the crowd than the preacher's words. There were times when he wasn’t so sure.
“Time to pray,” Jack said, his voice a scratchy, pained sound. “Father!” He raised his arms to the sky. His skinny wrists poked out from the sleeves of the long coat, the cast all but hanging from his right. “Forgive these people! Forgive me! Lead us unto your salvation!”
* * *
Nick stopped for a moment, lost in his own swirling thoughts, confused about where to go next. He closed his eyes, tried not to picture himself the bedraggled street preacher he imagined he must sound like to some. He was their shepherd, had to be, now more than ever before.
He opened his eyes and began to whispered, “For our own –”
“You're insane!” A tall, bald man abruptly stood, then realized what he'd done. He hesitated, face was red and blotchy with anger and embarrassment. The man added quietly, “You're all insane.” He pushed past the people in his pew, shoved past more at the back of the church and left. A few others stood, though with less of a display, and led their children out of the church.
Nick knew he had to ignore them, though all he wanted was to run down and beg each of them to stay and listen.
“Whether you choose to believe what they're telling us or what I'm saying today, that's your choice. Whether you walk up the ramp in June and board one of these ships, or join me here in the church to celebrate Mass, you need to believe. You need to take hold of your heart and soul. Look closely at what and who you are, in the eyes of the world and in the eyes of God.” His own words suddenly registered. It was the truth, once he accepted without question standing here before his flock. Whether they were his own words or that of the Spirit did not matter. They were Truth. He would not join Margaret’s crew, even if there were any spaces remaining after the past couple of days. His place was here, with these people. Nick had to serve them for what time he had left on this Earth.