William Bernhardt - Criminal intent

"Uh-huh."

"What does this have to do with God, anyway?"

"Have you read Victor Hugo?"

"On occasion."

"Les Miserables?"

"Long time ago. Why?"

"Do you remember what the priest says to Jean Valjean? After he rescues him from the police by pretending that he gave Jean the candlesticks he actually stole? After he tells Jean his life now belongs to God, so act accordingly? And Jean doesn't know what to do. How to go about it."

"I'm lousy with quotes. What does he say?"

Father Beale smiled. " 'To love another person is to see the face of God.' "

The Gospel According to Daniel This will be the final entry in this heretical gospel, this renegade account of a priest whose life was turned upside down for reasons he couldn't begin to understand. I've recorded it all, every word, thought, and deed. And I tried to tell it true, although I'm sure that at times, to paraphrase Emily Dickinson once more, I told it slant. I don't know that I revealed any great secrets, any startling insights. And I don't know what use this will be to my attorney, or to anyone else. But I was asked to prepare it, and I did. It is what it is.

I don't know what will happen next. Perhaps my attorney will succeed and I will be released. Perhaps he will fail and I will be executed. Or perhaps he will only manage to have my sentence reduced to life imprisonment and I will spend the rest of my days behind these cold walls. That, I think, would be the worst result of all, and yet I cannot deny that it is possible that is God's will. I have seen much work that needs to be done since I came to this horrible place. Many souls in need of salvation. Many hearts in anguish, without hope. This is not the future I would've chosen for myself, but if this is God's plan, then so be it.

Anne Frank still believed there was good in the world, even when her short life was at its darkest moment. And so must I. I have already had so much more than she, that if it is time for the quality of my life to be drastically altered, then I must accept that with grace. But I am still amazed, even in this dire place, at the tiny acts of kindness I see everywhere. The brief moments of consideration, of unselfishness, even in the grimmest of circumstances. Sharing food. Reading letters for those who cannot. Comforting the lost and forgotten. I know there is evil in the world, true palpable evil, in men, women-even in something as seemingly innocent as a young girl. But I also know there is great good. Perhaps its rarity is what makes it so special-and what ultimately gives us our greatest indication of the divine nature of the human spirit.

I still have my faith. And while I don't think retaining that is any great act of courage, it is a comfort to me. I can sleep nights, sometimes, with the knowledge that regardless of what horrors I am forced to undergo-it is for a reason. I do believe that. I must believe that. Because if it were not so-life at this point would simply not be worth living. And I want to go on living. I want to believe. And so I shall. The homily was finished, the anthem had been sung, and the new interim priest, Father Doner, had chanted and sung through the Sanctus and the Lord's Prayer and the Agnus Dei. Soon it would be time for the choir to rise and take communion; they were always among the first to go, so they could be back in the choir loft singing while the congregation took theirs.

Ben wished his choir robe had pockets, but it didn't. They wore big bulky Anglican-looking things, white shifts on a dark, full-length, bulky, hot and heavy gown-with no pockets. Who designed these, anyway? Probably some monk five hundred years ago, and people have irrationally been copying it ever since, even though it's bulky, hot, heavy… et cetera. And had no pockets.

He had tried to concentrate on the homily, but his mind was elsewhere. In the courtroom, replaying his every move, wondering if he could've done something differently. Better. In the jailhouse, trying to bring comfort to the man who had brought so much to him, knowing that he had failed him. And at the juvenile detention center, burrowing into the minds of two young girls, trying to understand what to him was simply unknowable. It was too much for his puny brain. It was, as Father Beale would say, greater than him.

Is that why people turned to God? Ben wondered. When all was said and done, was it just the desire to make sense of it all, or to believe that someone, somewhere could make sense of it? He couldn't say, but if that was it, he could sympathize.

But could he believe? That was the sticking point. He had seen too much, had known too intimately all the bad, the crooked, the grimy, the depraved, the flat-out evil that lurked in the world. He had seen the worst of everyone-even a beloved priest. And yet, it seemed clear to Ben now that Father Beale's flaws did not make him a fraud-they made him a man. And humanity, with all its imperfections, was still capable of achieving greatness. And occasionally did.

The time had come. All around him, the rest of the choir rose to its feet, and before he really understood when or why, Ben rose also. He followed them as they filed down the nave and knelt with them at the altar rail.

"The body of Christ," Father Doner said as he passed Ben the wafer. And Ben took it and ate it.

Did he believe? It was too hard a question to answer. But I want to believe, he thought, as he brought the silver chalice to his lips and sipped the wine. I want to believe. And for now, that's enough.