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Beautiful architecture, yes. Gothic, with elegant pointed arches, pearly stone, and a beautiful light on a simple altar without a cross. Impressive for its high ceilings and the light of the setting sun tinting the walls an orange, almost red color. But that was all she felt there–no divine presence, no spiritual revelation. She didn't even know what she was waiting for.
At least it was beautiful and quiet.
There was no one else there. Perhaps not even God.
This wasn't even close to the first solution she had tried to fix her life: alcohol, sex, therapy, meditation, reconnecting with her family, disconnecting from her family, sports, a healthy lifestyle where you get up at six in the morning to do yoga and drink unbearable juices that taste like grass… but the emptiness she felt inside seemed to have become a part of her. What did she have to lose by trying with the Church? If it didn't work, there were always other religions. Or drugs. Whichever came first.
Suddenly, the barely effective silence vanished, because the sound of tools began hammering something, as if someone were working in a carpentry shop. Although she wasn't expecting anything in particular, this wasn't the peace she had envisioned.
Minutes later, a man came out of the side door. He walked briskly, searching for something while dusting his hands against his trousers. It took him a few seconds to see her.
“Oh, heavens! Excuse me. There's usually no one here at this hour on Wednesdays… I didn't mean to interrupt your prayers. I promise I won't make any more noise today.” The man was dressed in black with a clerical collar and rolled-up sleeves, and his voice was soft and pleasant.
“Don't worry, I didn't come to pray.”
“A tourist? It’s a beautiful church, and it’ll be even more beautiful when I finish what I have planned to do… if I don’t lose a finger along the way.”
The woman smiled back. “No, I… let’s just say I’ve come to value my faith.”
His expression softened and the man walked toward her. “Are you Catholic?”
“No. Or not at the moment, if that ever happens.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t really know how this works, or even if it’s for me.”
The man responded with a pleasant smile. He was young, his eyes were large and dark gray, and they seemed honest and gentle.
“This is a place of worship, but also of contemplation and solace. You don’t need to know what you’re looking for to be welcome here.”
His words resonated within her, dispelling any lingering doubts she had about being there. The man continued: “Some stay for prayer, some stay for the silence, and some stay because they’ve finally found a place that doesn’t ask them to explain themselves.” His voice softened slightly, becoming even gentler and more inviting. “You don’t have to do anything at all. Just being here is enough.” He nodded with a smile. “Do you mind if I sit here with you?”
“Please, go ahead.”
The young man sat beside her on the pew, facing the altar with his hands resting casually on his lap. His posture was informal, the biggest antithesis of imposing she could imagine.
“I'm Father Jud. What’s your name?”
“Mary.”
“How appropriate.”
She chuckled. “Tell me about it.”
“So… what brings you here, Mary?”
She settled into the pew, sinking slightly into the creaking wood, and crossed her arms casually. She didn't like how formal and pretended his question had sounded, but she answered anyway.
“… Purpose, I suppose. Isn't that what we all seek?”
The man smiled.
“In our own way, I guess so.” He gazed thoughtfully at the altar. “Although I'm afraid this place doesn't simply provide one. I like to think that these walls offer the peace necessary for each person to find it for themselves.”
She looked at him from head to toe. “You have already found yours, I imagine.”
The man chuckled softly with an innocent, almost childlike expression. Then he looked around the small church that surrounded them. It was lovingly and meticulously maintained, and felt warm and welcoming.
“Yes, now I can say that.” He paused. “Although that has been something recent in my life; it hasn't always been this way.”
“To dedicate your life to praising and spreading the word of God? Is that your purpose? If so, I don’t think it will work for me...”
Something about her assumption seemed to amuse him.
“No, it’s not that.”
The girl cocked her head. “It doesn’t seem very appropriate of you to say that, Father.”
The man laughed. Wood splinters clung to his calloused hands, staining white his perfectly black trousers.
“I want to help people, that’s my purpose. To show them that they are seen, whether or not they believe in the Scripture. To listen to someone in despair, to embrace someone alone, to offer comfort during grief, to make a cup of tea to someone who seems to need a friend... Or just to make sure that the people who come into my church don’t feel lost.”
“Is that what you’re doing with me?”
He smiled. “Perhaps. Is it working?”
She laughed, definitely more relaxed, or at least more entertained than when she’d walked through that large door.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
He smiled even with his eyes. He exuded peace, serenity, and warmth. There was something about him that made her feel like they already knew each other, even though she was sure they didn’t.
“Good.”
“Although I was expecting something different when I came here, if I'm honest.”
“A revelation?”
She shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Perhaps this makes me look bad as a Father, but between you and me…" His voice became a whisper, "that doesn't usually happen.”
“Wow, I'm going to tell the Vatican.” Mary joked with a knowingly look.
Jud laughed. “I'm afraid that only usually happens in the movies. Faith goes far beyond life-changing moments when we suddenly see everything clearly… faith is trust, forgiveness, the reason for being.” He paused again, rethinking his words and shrugged his shoulders. “Or not. Perhaps it's just a way to keep us from feeling alone.”
The young woman looked ahead again, letting the Father's words settle.
The silence between them was comfortable and unhurried. The warm light illuminated their faces, the stained-glass window separating its beam into different colors that projected around them in an almost dreamlike way.
“If I had known this would be like this, I would have come to the church sooner.”
“I’m afraid if you had arrived not long ago, this wouldn’t be what you would have found.” His face broke into a lopsided, somehow mischievous smile, and Mary remembered something about a change of priest in recent months, but she didn’t mention it.
He continued. “This is what you should be able to find in these places: tranquility, peace, understanding, and companionship. Anything else shouldn’t be called ‘God’s way.’”
She looked into his eyes. He was so young… she guessed no more than thirty-something, though he looked younger when he smiled. His hair was tousled in dark strands sticking out in all directions, and several days' growth of stubble extended across his face to the middle of his neck, where a tattoo was almost entirely hidden by his clerical collar. Almost.
“…You don't look like your typical Catholic priest.”
“No, I guess not.”
“I don't mean that in a bad way.”
“I know.”
She stared into his soft eyes.
“I was expecting some old, wrinkled man holding Mass about the apocalypse and telling me to confess my sins before I go to hell.”
“I mean, I can hear your confession if you want, that's still part of my job, too.” He interlaced his fingers.
“God, I wouldn't even know how! My parents never took me to Mass; all I know about Catholicism is what I see in movies. And so far, it's not exactly showing up.”
He smiled to make her feel more comfortable. “Do you want to?”
“To confess? I… I don’t know. Now I’m scared.”
He laughed loosely.
“There’s no need to be scared, this is made to help you. Maybe it helps you see things in perspective, or discover something about yourself or what you are looking for.”
“You’re the expert here, Father.”
He awaited.
“Okay, fuck it, let’s do it.” She paused. “Although it would be very strange to be separated in the dark in the confessional after having talked face to face for so long.”
“We don’t have to use the confessional.”
“We don’t?”
“No, we can do whatever we want.”
She looked at him for a moment before standing up.
“Why is this for free when I’m paying my psychologist this much?”
They walked together toward the back of the church, into the garden outside. It was green and manicured, with stone benches under elms and cypresses. The exterior walls of the church were covered in vibrant green moss and climbing vines that reached high above.
Mary sat down, folding her coat beside her on the pew. The Father sat opposite her, resting his elbows on his knees.
“And now…?”
“Typically, you’d start by saying, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been whatever-time since my last confession.’”
“Oh, fuck, this shit's serious." Mary paused. "Jesus, sorry. Wait, can I say that?”
He laughed. “You can swear; I think God has more important things to worry about.”
“Okay,” she breathed in. “So… Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, I think. It’s been my-whole-life since my last confession.”
“Go on, my child.”
“Now… Shit, I don’t even know what are the sins; how can I tell you which ones I’ve committed?”
He laughed. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning, then. Let’s see… The capital sins are considered to be pride, greed, lust, wrath, gluttony, envy, and sloth.”
“Oh!” “Like in Seven!”
Jud laughed loudly. “Yes, just like in Seven. But without the killing, I hope.”
“Okay, fine… good heavens, that’s a lot! Does all of that count as sin?”
The man shrugged.
She took a breath. “Okay, let’s break it down—Today I thought that I was a way better professional than my boss and that I should be earning more money than him, so… I guess that would count as pride, envy, and greed? Three in one, not a good start.”
Jud smiled, shaking his head but saying nothing. She continued.
“Yesterday I told my friends that I wouldn't go to the movies with them because I was too lazy. And I also didn’t go to the gym because it was raining… another one crossed off. I ate so much over Christmas that I was practically throwing up by nightfall. I got drunk… quite a bit this year. That’s definitely gluttony and some other sin, probably. Let’s see… I also got mad at my brother because he implied I wasn’t earning enough money, so I haven’t answered his calls for days, which I guess counts as anger.”
She paused for a few moments, lost in thought.
“Oh, and I’ve masturbated—quite a bit, if that counts as lust. And I’ve slept with several men in the last few months, some I barely knew, which I'm pretty sure that definetly counts as lust. My God, is this a perfect score?”
The Father smiled again and straightened up in his chair.
“I mean… it depends on what Father you’re asking.”
“I’m asking the only one I know so far.”
He smiled.
“For me, there’s nothing particularly wrong with any of what you just said.”
Mary raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not?”
“I only see regular human experiences.” He paused. “Maybe you and your brother could communicate a bit better, but I don’t see any big issue.”
“So where is the line between normal human experiences and sin?”
“Sin is essentially human, I’m afraid.”
“You know what I mean.”
Jud nodded.
“I know, that line is blurry…” The man gazed out at the field for a few moments, pondering his response. “In my opinion—and this doesn’t define the opinion of the Church as a whole—sin lies in the intention.”
“But many people act maliciously and hurt others with good intentions.”
“That’s true.”
“... So?”
“Then it’s their duty to repent and seek the path back to goodness.”
The woman crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m afraid most of these people never find that repentance nor stop seeing what they did as a good thing.”
“Perhaps not, but our job is to forgive them.”
“That sounds unfair, and harsh.”
“Perhaps it is, but no one is perfect, and everyone deserves forgiveness so they can try better.”
Mary remained silent, looking into his eyes again. His words sounded like those of a man speaking from experience.
“Have you sinned?”
Father Jud cocked his head slightly. He didn't seem bothered by the question.
"I have sinned, yes. I am not above that."
“And… you don't do it anymore?”
“Oh, no, I still do–I get impatient, I sometimes tell half-truths, I still get angry when things don't go as expected, and sometimes I feel... things that are not supposed to be felt by someone like me. And I wonder if that’s sin enough.”
“Enough for what? For making you feel guilty?”
“To stray from the path I chose.”
Mary was silent for a few minutes, observing the countryside around her and listening to the birds sing, the soft sound of the breeze rustling the dry leaves on the ground. She thought about her list of sins (whether they were sins or not), but she didn't feel guilty. What was the point of doing that if she didn't feel guilty? All the men she had been with to forget her troubles or to seek connection in a world that seemed to grow ever colder—she didn't understand why she should feel bad about it. It felt human.
“Why is lust a sin, Father?” She asked genuinely curious.
He shifted on the bench, thinking. He watched the treetops sway gently for a while before speaking.
“Lust is often… misunderstood,” he began softly. “It's not the body’s desire that makes it a sin. It's what we do with that desire, how we let it shape us.” He turned at her. "The Church teaches that lust becomes sinful when it separates love from dignity; when people are used… when connection is replaced by consumption." He paused. "But desire itself? The human need for touch and closeness? I don't think that's evil, if you ask me.
A faint smile appeared on his lips for a brief second before continuing. "Touch and warmth is a vital part of every life on Earth, and also of love. And many theologians believe our bodies were made to yearn and crave, whether it's between us or towards God, that depends on each individual."
"... I think I'm guilty of both, Father. Of the pleasure for connection, but also for consumption."
A sympathetic smile formed on his face. “It's never too late.”
She thought about ending the conversation there, but the man didn't seem uncomfortable or hurried, and she had too many questions.
“Is… masturbation considered a sin, then?”
Father Jud didn't flinch at the question. He met her gaze with calm sincerity, as if he had wrestled with this very thought a hundred times.
"The Church would say yes," he admitted gently. "It names it a sin against purity and self-mastery." He paused, then exhaled softly. "But… between you and me? I've come to believe that God is less concerned with what we do in our solitude and more concerned with how we treat each other, don’t you think?"
Mary looked at him in the eyes.
His voice lowered slightly. "If an act brings shame instead of peace… then perhaps it's not God judging us. Perhaps it's just us, still learning to forgive ourselves."
The woman bit her own lip, trying not to say what she was about to say.
Yet, she did.
“So…do you…?”
Father Jud chuckled softly, his teeth showing. She was sure she wasn't the first one to ask him that.
"I'm a man, not a saint," he said lightly. "I've… struggled with the same temptations you have. I would say every human does, sometimes." His gaze softened, and he looked at her in the eye, genuine and unguarded. "That's what confession is for."
“Did you make a vow of celibacy?”
Father Jud nodded with an earnest expression.
"I did, when I was ordained." He tilted his head a little, watching her carefully. "For some, celibacy is a sacrifice. They give up the idea of love, of a life with a partner, of starting a family." There's a wistful note in his voice. "But for others… it's a gift. It allows us to immerse ourselves in the service of our purpose and God, without distractions or anything that makes us doubt our decision."
“And… how do you feel about that?”
Father Jud went quiet for a long moment. The wind stirred the trees behind him, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across his face. He looked at a bird flit from branch to branch near the church roof.
"It is… effective," he said softly. "But that doesn't mean it's easy."
He turned back to her, his eyes expressing a quiet honesty.
"There are nights when I lie awake and wonder what it would be like... to hold someone again, not in blessing, but in longing." His voice dropped lower. "I've made my vow and I keep it, not because desire is evil... but because my life has been given to something else." Then he smiled, and in it she glimpsed the faintest trace of melancholy.
"But… Why can't you do both? Spread the word of God, help others, and allow yourself to love, or to give in to desire?"
Father Jud exhaled. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees again, staring at the ground.
"Because," he said quietly, "the Church demands a choice." He turned his head toward Mary. "They say love divided is love weakened. That devotion split between God and others... risks losing both."
He paused, going silent for a minute. The young woman looked at him patiently, watching as his face changed, trying to find the words, or perhaps deciding at that very moment what he felt about all of that.
"But I've also come to wonder... What if God is in that love? What if tenderness, the affection between us, His creation, is not defiance... but worship?" A sad smile appeared on his face again. "It's not a black and white thing, as you can see."
She nodded slowly.
"But... you do love others, right?"
"I do, yes, in a different way. Love should be the basis of all our actions, and to love God's creation is to love Him."
"Then?"
Father Jud crossed one leg over the other.
"It is desire that clouds our judgment. It makes us act impulsively and uncontrollably, sometimes. Lust, ambition, hate... It's very easy to lose sight of the right path when these are involved.”
“…you’re better than me.”
Father Jud let out another small laugh.
"I'm human just like you. Don't romanticize me for simply answering your questions truthfully, or for having chosen a different path than yours." He looked at her then, eyes serious and expression soft and open. The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the courtyard. "You and I have both stumbled. We've both sinned—some of them the same. But it's never too late to set our lives on the right path, whatever we decide to take it towards, as long as it's based on trying to do good."
“But you’ve had the courage to choose a destiny that makes you happy, and to commit to it even if it requires sacrifices.” Mary's words seemed now more serious and heavy. “Even if this were the path that could make me happy right now, which I doubt... I wouldn't be able to silence or turn my back on my current life, or on pleasure.”
Father Jud inhaled slightly.
"One doesn't have to silence it," he said slowly, "but to… temper it."
“So… according to the Church, I should acknowledge my desire and then choose not to act on it?”
"If you decided to go that way–yes. Acknowledgment is the first step: being honest about what you're feeling." He paused, fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the bench. "Then… you make a choice. Sometimes the desire passes, but other times… you have to fight it."
“How do you fight it?”
Father Jud leaned back slightly, contemplating his response.
"Sometimes it's just a moment of distraction, or a prayer. Sometimes..." He looked up at the darkening sky, and suddenly he seemed far away for a moment. Then he turned back to her with clearer eyes. "Sometimes it takes more. Solitude. Self-denial."
"... I don't see why any of this would make anyone better, or closer to God." She shook her head. "God made us humans, beings that crave connection and touch. Yet... He wants us to not explore that part of our true nature?"
She knew her questions weren't easy, and perhaps out of place and dangerous to the life and faith of someone like him.
"God did make us this way," he said slowly. "Desire is indeed part of the creation. But there's a difference between exploring desire, and being consumed by it."
“… Yet you made a vow not to have any of them.”
He remained silent for a moment.
"...Yes," he simply said. "I chose to set that part of myself aside, but not because desire is evil, but because I promised my whole life to this path." Father Jud breathed in. "But don't mistake the vow for freedom from longing–I still feel. Every day, very deeply, maybe more than ever.”
He smiled, a hint of sadness hidden behind his eyes, before adding, in a whisper, as if he didn't really mean to say it: "Yet, God gave us desire… then asked me to live without it. Funny, isn't it? The things we call devotion."
"... Did you have sex? Before all of this?"
"Yes," he said simply. "I did."
“Did you enjoy it?”
Father Jud looked her in the eye. He seemed to be remembering something beautiful and painful all at once.
"... Yes," he said softly. "I did." He didn't elaborate, but the weight of those words carried the warmth of the skin, the thrill of connection, the pleasure and the ache of a memory that would not go away. Then, he covered her hand with his. "And that's why it stays in the past."
“‘Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood,’” she quoted Orwel’s ‘1984’ so quietly she wasn’t sure he had heard her. Whether it was about him or her, she did not know.
Mary looked at him with a mixture of curiosity, admiration, understanding, and pity. His hand was rough, but rested gently over her knuckles. Perhaps what she really felt was envy–envy that he had found something so beautiful and important that gave meaning to an entire life, and that she would probably never get to experience it. Envy of having someone in front of her who had everything so clear in their life while she watched hers crumble senselessly.
She wondered if it was her fault that she couldn't feel what he felt.
Father Jud leaned back in his chair with a content smile on his face.
"You don't have to pity me.”
The woman looked down.
His voice was almost a whisper now. “I won't pretend it doesn't cost me, but I chose this life willingly."
He stroked her hand lightly. Father Jud smiled subtly, and then his gaze met hers again.
"That doesn't mean this life hasn't brought me good things. In fact, it has brought me the most precious ones."