by Jessica Wang
Philip Moreau came to me on a cold winter’s night when the moon was gibbous waxing, a pregnant golden orb hanging above stripped skeletal branches. Which day of the week was it? I can’t now recall, and it somehow shames me that such a momentous moment is lost among all the others that crowded that particular season: the Christmas and New Year’s festivities, the Robinsons moving to Boston, April Ludlow’s baby being born, Pastor Doug retiring and Pastor Mary Ellen taking his place.
It was early evening that much I remember. I was in my office at the back of the church, verifying the schedule for the upcoming week’s home and hospital visits and choosing a closing bible verse for Sunday’s sermon. Somebody had turned the heat up too high again, and I was sweating beneath my suit. I checked the messages Cora had left me: Mrs. Willette had called about the bake sale, and Jenny Armstrong needed to back out of conducting storytime for the five and unders on Sunday morning. I was picking up the phone to see if Wade Nagel could fill in when there was a tap on my half-closed door.
“Come on in, Cora.”
A throat cleared itself, and then a man, fortyish tall, wearing blue jeans and a navy parka, said, “Hello.” He pulled off a stocking cap dusted with snow and crammed it into the pocket of his coat. “The um . . . the main doors were unlocked. I hope it’s okay that I . . . ”
“Of course, of course, please come in. Still snowing, is it?”
“Tapering off now.”
I’m embarrassed to admit my first thought was that he meant to rob me. It’s not that his clothes were shabby or that he exuded unsavory vibes, but rather that his eyes were what I’d describe as vacant. I was uncomfortably aware of the fact that I was alone in the building.
He glanced around the small space, his gaze sliding over the books lining the single shelf and the framed school photos of my nieces and nephews. He said, “My name is Philip Moreau. Phil. I’m, uh, wondering if I could make an appointment to speak with a pastor?”
I motioned him toward a chair. “I’m Pastor Daniel. You can talk with me right now if you’d like.”
He hovered in the doorway. “Don’t you have something you need to be doing?” A smile that looked more like a grimace tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Besides counseling me, I mean?”
“Are you in need of counseling?”
“I am.”
I stood to close the door. He stepped further into the room, and I could smell the damp wool of his clothes, a trace of aftershave or deodorant. He perched on the edge of the chair, big hands dangling between his knees. This sort of thing wasn’t new to me; I counseled Christina Schmidt and Steve Nelson every Thursday at six-thirty and seven-thirty p.m., respectively. Mavis Wagner practically lived in my office for an entire month after her husband, Karl, died of an aneurysm last spring.
I offered to rustle up some coffee, and Phil said no thanks. I waited for him to speak, and after a minute, he did. I won’t relay what we discussed, but I will say Philip’s story was heartbreaking and that it touched me deeply. I think of it—of him—often, to this very day.
He stared at the floor as he spoke, and when he had finished, I began to quote a bible verse, but he interrupted me. “No, Pastor. I’m here because I need you to make me believe.”
“Believe what, Phil?”
He looked at me then. “In God.”
“I think it’s natural to feel angry with Him right now—”
“Pastor Daniel, I’m not mad at God. I don’t think He’s there at all, and I want him to be; I need him to be. I have to know that I’ll see them again.” The eyes I had thought empty, I now realized, were haunted. They searched my face. I had never converted a non-believer, to my knowledge. All of my parishioners came to me with their faith intact. Or if they didn’t—if they appeased husbands or wives or mothers or fathers by dutifully attending worship every Sunday morning—they never spoke of their disbelief in these blunt terms, at least not to me. I was acquainted with a couple of agnostics and one atheist, but the first group wore their uncertainty casually and the latter like a badge.
I said, “You’ll see them again in heaven.”
“Will I?”
“Certainly.”
“How do you know, Pastor?”
“I can feel it. I can feel Him.”
Phil asked, “Can you make me feel it?” He was leaning forward, staring at me expectantly. His earlier stammer had deserted him, and I seemed to have caught it. I fumbled around, tidying papers on my desk, uncoiling the phone cord that had once again twisted itself into tangled knots.
I asked, “Did you grow up with religion, Phil?”
“Lutheran. That’s why I chose this church—I saw the word ‘Lutheran’ on your sign out front. I quit going to worship years ago.”
“You were once a believer.”
“I was, yes. In another life.”
“I suspect many people have temporary lapses of faith during their lives, at one point or another.” My usual statement that God never burdens us with more than we can handle didn’t seem appropriate here, tonight, with this man. Was it even true? Weren’t people across the globe dealt blows every day that broke them physically, mentally, emotionally? Who was I to tell Philip Moreau what he could or could not or should or should not bear?
I explained that God’s will is not for mortals to comprehend, and Phil asked, “Isn’t that just something people say to try and make sense of the shitty things that happen to them? So they don’t have to accept that everything is just circumstance and luck—good or bad?”
We spent the next ninety minutes together. I listed for him the many reasons why I’m a believer, but after each point, he remained silent. Finally, I asked, “Phil, do you want to believe? Would believing offer you comfort and relief?”
He stared at me. “Yes, Pastor, I believe it would.”
I held out my hand, palm up. “It’s a choice, my friend. Choose it now. Believe.”
My desk clock ticked off several seconds. He reached across the desk. His callused hand gripped mine. We prayed together. Or rather, I prayed, and Philip Moreau listened.
After a moment of silence, Phil said quietly, “They were innocent, and they suffered, Pastor. Doesn’t that prove He’s not there?”
I offered, “The Lord’s reasons can seem obscure to the human mind, particularly when viewed through a lens of pain,” but he just shook his head, those blank eyes seeming to look through me. I was scared of him again, but not for my earlier reasons.
Phil asked, “How old are you, Pastor?”
“Thirty-two.”
He nodded and pulled his cap from his pocket. He stood. “Thank you for your time. I appreciate it.”
“We’d love to have you at Sunday service,” I said weakly, and that ghost smile pulled at his lips again. I said, “Philip, I’ll pray for you. Please come see me anytime.” I watched his broad shoulders pass through my doorway, wondering if he would go over to Holy Unity on Third and Hamil and speak to the minister there, Tim Lostrum. Or perhaps he’d try the Catholic Church across town.
I didn’t get home until after nine p.m. Tobias was happy to see me, wagging and whining. I moved about the house in a kind of daze, feeding Tobias, adjusting the thermostat, microwaving leftover spaghetti, changing into jeans, and hanging up my suit. I found the leash and walked Tobias absently through the neighborhood, trying to avoid the slippery patches. The air smelled of snow, clean and empty, and was so biting it made my eyes water and my lungs ache. The moon had crept across the sky, glittering like some unreachable treasure. I felt like I’d never forget the way Philip Moreau had looked at me, imploring, when he said, They suffered, Pastor.
My own faith had never been tested. Since childhood, it had been my constant companion. If I were to experience what Philip Moreau had suffered, would it desert me, leaving me adrift in my greatest hour of need? Tobias examined a fence post. Lights shone cozily behind windows.
I’d thought belief was there for the taking—that anyone who wanted it or needed it could have it could fall into its simultaneously heady and comforting embrace. It had never occurred to me that for some, needing and believing are two wholly separate things.
I did pray for Philip Moreau that night and every night since. I’ve prayed for myself, too. Only silence answers me back, vast and echoless.