Michael Malone - Weebly

feared that if Christ had come carrying His Cross past
him down the street, he would have fled up a side alley
hugging his puny desires under his coat. Jonathan hated
himself because he did not labor in a leper colony, did
not carry stones to build a Harlem schoolhouse, lay not
on iron but on ironed sheets, lay there with an erection
he could not will away. Though not purposely evoked
by thought or deed, though raised in a dream, still, might
not the dream itself be unforgivable?
Indulgence in remorse was rarely an early morning
opportunity for the curate, to whom had fallen nearly all
the impersonal church duties. The rector's delight was
to officiate over Sunday Solemn Mass; he loved a
crowd. Today, however, Highwick had offered to take
Morning Song service, despite its unpopularity, since he
was leaving that afternoon for two days in Manhattan,
and therefore leaving Jonathan to draft the financial
report, pay the sick calls, listen to confession and
conversions, and celebrate Communion, alone.
On the other side of the garden from the curate's
cottage, now before the altar, Highwick was intoning to
Prudence Lattice and three other early risers: The Lord