Do you believe in evil?
Do you?
What is it exactly… evil?
It’s an itch, a distraction, a solemn persistence at self-distraction.
Don’t believe me? You will.
I love to make fun of theologians. So many forget the battle while concentrating on the tactics of warfare. I suppose that makes no sense, but to a few, a bell might have sounded in their clogged heads.
Just so you know, I’m nobody. I’m the kid who kept quiet in the Mass because in spirit I was out in the green fields, sunshine and clear waterways. I was no trouble to my parents because chores on the farm meant open fields, the sounds of lowing cattle and the chatter of birds, squirrels and red fox. As a young girl, I understood the idyllic quality of my life and the freedom I inherited because of the busy lifestyle of my parents.
A stranger introduced himself, remained a stranger, and language became symbols of my own definitions. The nuance of language, even body language, became a conversation unto myself. Now my father’s hug good-night is perfunctory. My mother’s attempt at packing my lunch an obligation and the time spent resented. My school friend’s laughter, forced and the young priest that the bishop sent out into the wilderness of Iowa farmers; his tone of voice pitches to a higher tone when addressing me.
“She looks right through you.”
“She’s quiet all the time, listening. I had a dream last night that she hid in my closet listening to me dream.”
The language of the earth gurgles low. The clear skies, the running water now dark under the high cumulous clouds tinted bright white yet edged out into silver-gray against the ever-disappearing bright blue sky of summer amalgamates into symbolic warnings. Thunder trembles the earth while the busy ponder a moment and look about themselves puzzled.
I work hard, study more, excel in all the duties of my age and am left alone, so the stranger came.
Did he tap on my second-storey bedroom window, this stranger? Did he sit upon the top branches of the elm tree? Did he stand within my shadow? Did he follow me down the brightly lit halls of my school? Yes. But he stayed in the parking lot of the small church I attended. Every other Saturday during confession he waited outside the doors and every Sunday at Mass his shadow darkened parts of the stained-glass windows. There were times I thought the storms of Sunday would tailspin into a tornado of destruction, for the winds howled and the sun danced and spun while the young priest trembled through the Mass.
Who was he, this stain of pride, bite of greed, emerald jewel of envy, bile of wrath, itch of lust, satisfaction of gluttony and sleep of sloth? He was the shudder of the sexual satisfaction of one and the greedy lure of those who crept out of the shadows of curiosity to see what I had become.
But what is evil? The whisper in your ear that I’m fine and nothing need be done.
Photo by Manuel Meurisse on Unsplash