Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been a long time since my last, honest, confession. I write this knowing that only you, Lord, will see this written admission of my dreadful deed. My shame knows no bounds, and I pray upon your compassion that you may forgive me for both my sins and my cowardice as shown by my anonymous confession. However, in all fairness, who else but you will believe what only we know to be the truth?

I met Sweet-Meat Brown on the morning of the 6th of July, 2005. My family and I were eating breakfast, and the house was filled with the scent of bacon and the cacophonous clatter of argument between my wife and daughter. I, still brooding over the venomous debates regarding homosexuality that took place at the Anglican Consultive Council meeting the previous week, was in no mood for a fight about makeup, and thus left the dispute in the capable hands of my wife.

It had been nearly twenty years since I took Holy Orders and joined the Church of Ireland, and despite years of hard work, I felt as if my life as a man of God was a waste. To my mind, people were the physical manifestation of sin, and nothing I did or said would change that. I felt not unlike Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor. I’d not only lost my faith in both God and man, but had grown angry with God for creating a situation in which his children, predisposed to sin by design, seemed doomed to perpetual failure.

I was staring blankly at my cup of coffee, vaguely wishing for a miracle when, from the ether, a man was catapulted against the ceiling and landed on the floor in front of the ice box. There was no flash of light, no noise, no warning. He was not, then he was. My daughter screamed and ran to the living room, my wife leaped from her chair and grabbed a large knife from the wooden block next to the sink and stood defensively between the intruder and myself. Only I remained seated at the table, due not to a possession on my part of bravery or calm, but, quite like a person being electrified, I was too shocked to move.

For several seconds nobody said anything. The air was thick with silence and tension. Eventually it was my wife, terrified and shaking violently, who spoke.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” she demanded. It had been some time since The Troubles, but this was Northern Ireland and my beautiful and loving wife had once been a member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. She’d spent her law enforcement career in the thick of the violence between the Irish Nationalists and England. Memories like those incurred on the front lines of such a brutal conflict stay with you forever.

Despite her demands for answers, the man simply lay on the floor, a lump of whimpering flesh dazed by his other-worldly journey. It was now that my mind began to emerge from the shock-induced slumber that had caused it to sit idle.

“Margret, do put that away! The man needs help!” I said, moving past my wife’s sturdy frame to help our unexpected visitor.

“There now, you’re alright,” I said as I rolled the man onto his back to get a good look at him. He blinked his eyes a few times and seemed only partially conscious.

“Wh—uuuugg shit that hurt,” he muttered.

He was Black British, or more likely, Black American given his manner of speech. He wore dark blue jeans, a green collared shirt and had a small gold hoop in his right ear. Over the shirt, he wore a tan fisherman’s vest. It had dozens of pockets and loops, all of which were occupied by a dazzling array of electronic devices, all wired neatly together. The wires lead to a small hole in a blue backpack he wore over his shoulders. The man seemed to be in a daze, but physically appeared okay. He wasn’t bleeding and nothing appeared to be broken.

“He’s wired to blow!” my wife shouted when she saw the vest, her years of training kicking in. She grabbed me from my chair and pulled me towards the living room; a mug on the table was jostled and sloshed coffee onto my pant leg.

“Wait,” the man said meekly. His eyelids hung low at half-mast and his movements were slow and labored. “I ain’t got no bomb. This stuff is so they can find me.”

Convinced more by instinct than reason that he wasn’t a suicide bomber, I managed to squirm out of my wife’s protective grip and approached the stranger slowly. The vest and the wires did look alarming, but something told me this man didn’t come here to hurt us. Bomb or no, the fact that he appeared out of thin air made me sufficiently curious to ignore the potential for danger. As I knelt at his side, my pant leg, now soaked with lukewarm coffee, clung stubbornly to my thigh.

“I’m Father Samuel Goodfellow. This is my wife, Margret,” I replied, nodding to my spouse.

“I’m sorry if I scared you. I can’t control it,” he said as he attempted to stand. I helped him to his feet.

“Margret, do put that away,” I said in reference to the large kitchen knife still in her hand. “I’m sure Mr., uh, Mr. …”

“Brown, Sweet-Meat Brown,” he replied.

“Mr. Brown means us no harm.”

“I’m calling the police!” my wife retorted.

“Margret, you’ll do no such thing! Now everyone just settle down!” I shouted, in a rare exercise of husbandly authority.

Margret obeyed, probably less from deference to my wishes than from surprise that I was acting so assertively. For a moment, the only sound was the clock above the kitchen window. After a few ticks, it was Mr. Brown who broke the silence.

“That ain’t necessary Miss. I’m not look’n to hurt nobody. If I can make a phone call I can have someone pick me up in town.”

My daughter poked her head meekly into the kitchen, quiet as a mouse, watching keenly the scene unfold.

“You have friends in Derry?“ I asked, growing immensely curious as to who our strange visitor was.

“Where?” he asked, appearing genuinely confused.

“Derry. You are in the town of Derry in Northern Ireland.”

“Ireland? Shit…well, yeah, sort of. I really just needs a phone.”

I can’t explain it, but for some reason I didn’t want him to go. I knew my wife was correct, I knew it was best to let the man leave, but I just couldn’t. I’d like to say it was simple curiosity, or even the Christian desire to help someone in need, but that would be a lie. I was a man drowning in the mire of dogma and was willing to grab onto anything that might keep me afloat. I needed a miracle, and I got Sweet-Meat Brown.

Ask and ye shall receive.

“Look,” I said, “you’re obviously tired from your, uh, journey. Why not use our telephone to call your friends and stay as our guest until they arrive?”

“Absolutely not!” my wife exclaimed.

“Don’t you have a mobile?” my daughter asked, still keeping a safe distance between herself and Mr. Brown.

“Nah, they tried that, but anything electrified gets all messed up when I get thrown. All this stuff they keep putt’n on me is junk now,” he replied, tugging at his vest. He then turned his attention to me. “Mister, I don’t want to put you out. ‘sides, my friends may not be here for ‘while.”

“You’re obviously not from around here so where will you go? Do you have any British currency?” I asked, ignoring the protests of my better half.

The man sighed. “No… I don’t.”

“Then it’s settled, you may use the phone on the wall there; we’ll go to the living room to give you some privacy,” I said gesturing to the dingy yellow phone mounted on the wall next to light switch. Then, before they had a chance to protest, I shuffled my wife and daughter into the next room. I put my arm around my daughter to comfort her and the three of us seated ourselves around the coffee table.

“Are you daft?” my wife said in a loud whisper, punctuating her imperative with a thumb extended towards the kitchen. “We’ve got to get him out of here and call the police!”

My wife was a Scottish girl of stout heart and body. She had a lovely face framed with a waterfall of brown, curly hair. I loved the way she looked when she was adamant about something, but this was not the time for amorous thoughts. To keep Sweet-Meat from leaving I had to win this fight, which meant that I had to fight dirty.

“This man is in trouble and needs help. Let us be the Good Samaritan who feeds and cares for him.”

My wife’s face hardened considerably.

“Don’t you start quoting Scripture. We don’t know this man from Adam. Think of our daughter!”

“What about her? What if Alice were in a strange place alone and in pain? Wouldn’t you want someone to help her?” I retorted.

My daughter rolled her eyes and my wife grimaced.

“That’s not fair. Of course I would want someone to help Alice, but this isn’t Alice, it’s…it’s…we can’t let him stay, alright? We just can’t. Look at him, he’s hairy at the heel, he is!” my wife stammered.

“It doesn’t matter what he looks like. God put him here for a reason, and he obviously needs help. You of all people should know better than to judge someone based solely on appearance. We walk by faith, not by sight.”

Margret’s face turned scarlet with frustration. After a moment she shook her head and replied, “Look, if you want to endanger your life, fine. I’ve got to get Alice to her football match. We’ll be back in a few hours.”

The issue settled, Alice went upstairs and got ready, and they left a few minutes later, my wife giving me a kiss such that she feared it would be the last. I reassured her as best I could, and not so subtly shuffled them out the door.

By the time they left Mr. Brown had completed his call, and so I returned to the kitchen. I couldn’t help but overhear a few snippets of his conversation. He had used a calling card, and while Margret would be relieved that we wouldn’t be paying the charges, I would’ve gladly spent the money if it meant I could see who he called and where they were.

“My friends say they’ll be here in a couple of hours. Thank you for lettin’ me use your phone and for your hospitality,” he said using measured, laboured language.

“Of course. I’m glad I could help.”

We stood in silence in the kitchen. I looked at my guest and realized how exhausted he looked, physically and otherwise. Whatever was happening to him was certainly taking its toll on his person.

“Well, as we’ve got some time before your friends arrive, perhaps you’d care for some coffee and something to eat?” I said at last.

“If it ain’t too much trouble, I’d really appreciate a glass of water. My stomach is always upset after…”

I waited for him to finish but he never did. He was resisting the urge to talk about whatever was happening to him. The thing is, though, I could tell he wanted to let it out. Years of experience as a priest gave me a keen sense of when people needed to unburden themselves. This was definitely one of those times.

I offered him a seat at the kitchen table, which was still cluttered with plates of half-eaten food, cups of juice, and an upturned box of breakfast cereal, the contents of which were catapulted from the table in the frantic moments that followed Mr. Brown’s arrival. I poured a glass of water and handed it to my guest, then took to sweeping the floor in an effort to clean up some of the cereal mess. All the while I wanted very much to bombard Mr. Brown with questions, but held my tongue. If he felt like I was interrogating him, he would close up and I would get nothing. To get what I wanted, I had to let him come to me.

For the next minute or so, the only sound in the house was of me sweeping. Sweet-Meat drank the water quickly and with enthusiasm, then gingerly relaxed into the chair. My will to keep silent was fast dissolving. My patience, however, was soon rewarded.

“So, um, excuse me for asking, but that was your family, right? I mean, the other two, they was your wife and daughter?”

“Yes, Margret and I have been married for seventeen years.”

“I didn’t know priests could get married,” he said, gesturing at my collar.

“Yes, well that holds true for Catholics, not Anglicans. I am a Priest of the Church of Ireland.”

“Huh… Isn’t that the one that was founded by that dude who killed all his wives?”

“I presume you mean King Henry VIII, and yes, it was. Not the most auspicious beginning for a religion, but sometimes the right thing can be done for the wrong reason,” I chuckled.

Sweet-Meat smiled a crooked sort of smile and nodded in agreement. He seemed to relax a bit.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” I asked graciously.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Thank you.”

My pant leg was still wet and part of me wanted to change clothes, but I didn’t. I suspected he could disappear as readily as he’d appeared, and I didn’t want to chance missing anything that happened. Ignoring the discomfort of cold, wet polyester sticking to my thigh, I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and joined my guest at the table.

I started with benign questions like, “So, I take it this is your first time in Ireland?” and the like. It allowed for a pleasant, non-threatening conversation about things like food, weather, and manners of speech. It was quite difficult for me to maintain my composure during this time. I’m sure in part this was due to the volatile mixture of coffee and adrenalin in my blood, but also due to my desperation. I was certain Sweet-Meat had something I needed and part of me wanted to stand up, grab a knife and shout, Right you bloody American bastard, give me what I want or I’ll run you though!

I’m ashamed to admit my state of mind at that moment, but I cannot deny the truth of it. As the toxic brew of my need and desperation came to a boil, the topic turned once again to religion. This was the second time he brought it up, and he seemed keenly interested in it.

“So do you guys do Baptism, Last Rites, Confession, all that stuff?”

Confession! The word caressed my ears as sweetly as a choir on Christmas. I realized I could use Confession to get what I wanted, and like a shark who sensed blood in the water, I became consumed with determination to get what I was after.

“Yes, we are a Christian Church. In some form, we do all of those things.”

“An’ you can’t tell anyone, right? It’s like, law or somethin’. You can’t tell anyone what I tell you?”

“Yes, that’s correct, I can’t tell anyone. Do you wish to confess?”

“Father…I don’t have long to live. I want you to give me Last Rights.”

“Last Rights?” I repeated stupidly.

“This thing that’s happening to me. It’s going to kill me soon, and I don’t want to meet God as a sinner.”

“Perhaps we should go into the study. I’ve got my kit there,” I said, deciding it best to not mention why the sacrament of Last Rites is not in the Book of Common Prayer.

We stood from the table walked in silence to the study. I closed the doors behind me. I used it for counseling from time to time, so like a psychiatrist, I had two sets of doors for privacy. I gestured for Mr. Brown to sit on the couch, and I took a seat in the wing-backed chair opposite him.

“Why don’t you unburden yourself?” I suggested, nodding towards the blue backpack he wore. My pulse was ringing in my ears and my blood ran hot as a manic, desperate brand of excitement threatened to breach the levee of my outward calm.

“I can’t do that, Father… you guys are called Father, right?”
“Yes, we are referred to as Father.”

“I can’t do that. I’m not s’posed to take it off. For that matter, I’m not s’posed to talk about this to no one, but you’re a priest so I guess that’s okay. I’d like to confess now, if that’s alright.”
“Of course.”

A pained expression crossed his face.

“I don’t know how to begin…” he said, sadly.

“Just start talking. It’ll come out,” I said with my hands joined in my lap, thus preventing them from shaking.

He sighed deeply.

“I’m a street kid, from East St. Louis. That’s in Illinois. It’s a rough place, Father. My friends all became cops or robbers, or dead. I was never that bright, we never had much money and…” he hesitated on this point, ”I’m a fag. I got beat up a lot, ’cause the one thing the cops and the brothers and the beaners could agree on was that fags were punching bags.”

I nodded solemnly, caught completely off guard. It was only by the grace of years of experience hearing confessions that kept my facial features calm and professional.

“The only way I could get by was to whore myself out. There’s a place called Brooklyn nearby, also in Illinois, that’s little more than a few trailers and couple of massage parlors and strip joints. I made money there, at night, when the closet homos would come out. It’s funny, you know? Some of the same guys who would beat the hell out of me would come and pay me to have sex with them,” Sweet-Meat said. His eyes were turning red and was getting short of breath as he reached the zenith of his story.

“So one day, this one day after getting the shit kicked out of me by this guy Tank, I was laying there in the alley and bleeding. I was sitting against the dumpster in a pool of water, it had just rained and the dumpster was leaking this rotten milk smelling stuff, and I was watching the blood drip out of my face in the reflection and I told God I hated him. I told him to fuck himself and that I hated him. When I stood up to leave the alley, I was thrown to Peru.”

“Thrown? Peru? You mean the country?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“I don’t know how else to describe it. It feels like falling, and it only lasts a second, but you’re falling forward. In a weird way, I guess I’m like a bird flying backwards.”

“So is that what you mean by you can’t control it?”

“Yeah. I just walk and then all of a sudden BANG! I’m in another place entirely. This has been going on for months. This stuff on me is from when I landed in a National Guard armory in Alabama. They brought in some scientists who rigged me up with all this. It’s supposed to record everything or some shit. But it doesn’t matter. God hates me and I’m going to die,” he said despondently. He was weeping profusely, so I handed him a tissue box and gave him a moment to blow his nose.

“I don’t wanna die, Father!” he shouted. “I’ve tried tellin’ God I’m sorry, but he doesn’t listen, and sooner or later I’m going to end up in front of a bus or somethin’ and die. Please Father, you’ve got to tell God I’m sorry! Please!” his voiced cracked and he trailed off into uncontrollable sobbing. Drool and tears and mucus all dribbled down his face.

I was completely floored.

“Are you seeking absolution for your homosexual acts, or for cursing God?” I asked after a few moments.

“This all started ’cause I cursed God. As for being a fag, I am what I am. I don’t wanna be a prostitute, but that’s all I got. I’m Sweat-Meat Brown and it’s all I got. I gotta eat!”

It took me a long time to respond. I knew God would not punish a man for being a homosexual. I knew that God would not punish a man so profusely for words spoken in anger after being assaulted by someone named Tank. Life can be viewed as a series of choices, both major and minor. The minor are as numerous as grains of sand on a beach; the major are easily counted by hand. In this moment, my moment, of major importance, I knew what was right, and I didn’t do it.

“I can absolve you only for the sins you recognize as sins. The church, the Anglican church, makes a distinction between being a homosexual and committing a homosexual act. The former is not a sin, the latter is. If you cannot acknowledge the sins you have committed, then I cannot absolve you of them,” I said, hiding behind the canned, church-approved response.

A look of painful helplessness took hold of his expression. It took him a long time to respond.

“Father, if it’s alright, I think I’d like to take a nap now,” he said limply.

“Of course,” I replied coolly, happy to make a quick exit.

I brought him a blanket and left him alone in the study. He mewled like a whelp for a time, then fell into a listless slumber. A few hours later a car arrived to take him away. The men who came to the door wore dark suits and slyly threatened my person if I ever spoke of Mr. Brown to anyone. They left and I never saw him again. When my wife and daughter returned, they wanted to talk, but I was too despondent to fill them in on the details. I kept putting them off on the subject, and eventually they gave up. They never found out what happened that day, nor did I discover what became of Mr. Brown after he was taken away.

It took me a long time to come to terms with what I did. The truth of the matter was that I was myopic in my view of the situation. I was in need, and when Mr. Brown arrived I was certain you had sent him to help me. It never occurred to me that you may have sent Sweet-Meat so I could help him. I misread the signs and was errant in my judgment, yet despite this, I was rewarded. I got my miracle. My faith was restored not by being an instrument of your love and grace, but by consciously denying that love to someone who desperately needed it. How mysterious are your works and the failings of men, that a person must suffer so greatly before I recognize the importance of self-sacrifice to the end of preventing that suffering from occurring in the first place.

I write this as an acknowledgment of my actions, and with the sincere hope that someday I may be forgiven by someone with a greater capacity for love and compassion than I.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.