By “Rudolph Leo Dunstan, III”
From the bulletin for The Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Jul 14, 2024)
The Eschatological Adventures of Eager Louis, Part 1: The First of the Last Things
Note: Fr. David is away for his STL studies. This fictional first installment (more to come?) was mysteriously shared with the Editor in his absence.
That day began like any other. But that day was to end early for Eager Louis. Though circumstances of his demise were highly ironic, they would not be commented upon at his funeral. It would have been considered to be in poor taste. Such a grisly death was not to be laughed at. Especially when it concerned the pastor.
In retrospect, Heaven provided Fr. Eager Louis with several warnings that his Hour was approaching. Providence has a way of gently preparing us even for the most jarring of moments. The young pastor had experienced uncommon recollection in his morning prayer (“A sign that I am finally turning the corner!” he wistfully thought to himself on leaving the chapel). And during his Mass he found himself praying the Confiteor with more than ordinary compunction. (“Great sinner that I am!” he piously reasoned).
The beginning of the end came when, heading out of the church to the office, he noticed a light bulb had burned out at the top of one of the stairways. As a result, the entryway was noticeably dimmer. So much did this bother him that he even tried, on the spot, to remove the burnt out bulb. But the chandelier in which it hung was just out of his reach, though he stood on his tiptoes at the top landing. Moreover, the position of the fixture was such that there was no way to place a ladder to reach it; it was suspended over the basement level landing.
Alas, Fr. Louis did not walk away seeing sour grapes, or with the thought of delegating this to his maintenance staff. As he went about his work, the priest kept returning to the chandelier in his mind, pondering how he might reach the bulb. Changing light bulbs were something of a guilty pleasure for him, though innocent enough. And the devil knew it well.
By evening, Fr. Louis had almost forgotten about the problem. Yet on returning to the church to say his vespers, he recalled the whole affair instantly. And where the replacement bulbs were kept. And of possible ways of reaching that blessed fixture. Paging through his breviary, the poor priest struggled to keep his mind on heavenly things. A solution was coming into focus. “It came in prayer, did it not?” he reasoned with himself. “Ergo of heavenly inspiration?”
Quite the contrary, unfortunately. In any case, as soon as he finished his evening prayer, Fr. Louis rushed to grab a spare bulb and a wooden cube that the sacristan kept hidden for God knew what. He positioned the box on one of the top-most stairs, as close to the light fixture as possible. Standing on the box and leaning over the bannister, with one hand holding onto the railing, the pastor strained to reach the latch on the casing to the ancient light fixture, behind which lay the offending bulb. With some difficulty, but with great satisfaction, he managed to turn it counterclockwise, opening the glass luna. Accumulated dust and dead flies fell twenty feet to the landing below; another premonition. Oblivious, Father used a “Pik-Stik” to clumsily unscrew the old bulb, giddy with excitement.
Then, disaster. On the last turn, the bulb dropped from its horizontal socket. Somewhat startled, Fr. Louis reflexively reached to catch it, relaxing his grip on the Pik-Stik in the process. Instinctively, he released the railing so as to bring his other hand to the rescue. He realized the fatal error straightaway. But too late! In the resulting imbalance, the wooden cube (which now began to reveal its geometric imperfections) rotated under his feet. Before he could retake the rail, the curate was staring headlong at the landing below, feet now closer to the light fixture than his hands. If he screamed, no one in the air-conditioned adoration chapel reported hearing it.
Two months prior, he would have probably only suffered some fractures and bruising. However, two months prior, Fr. Louis had announced that the parish garden’s life-sized statue of St. Paul, complete with his trademark sword held vertically in his hand, was inappropriate for public display. It suggested violence, he said, while in fact St. Paul proclaimed a Gospel of peace. Whatever the merits of his theology, the pastor prevailed. Lacking more specific instructions, the obedient maintenance staff had removed the statue to the untrafficked basement level of the entryway stairwell. Directly under the chandelier, to be precise.
St. Paul says somewhere that the sword he wields is sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing between soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart. Parishioners were confronted with a grisly illustration of this word when they arrived for Mass the next morning. And the fatal intentions of their late pastor were discerned easily enough: for in the right hand, his mortal remains still clutched the burnt-out light bulb, a fitting symbol of the dim idea that brought an end to his mortal life, and a swift beginning to this illuminating tale.
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