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Act of Mercy by Kortpeel __________________________________________________________________ Cardinal Bumley rapped the gavel and called the meeting to order. The Bishops ceased their mumble of conversation and there was silence. “Gentlemen,’ said the Cardinal, “His Holiness has directed me to assemble this committee on church ethics as a matter of matter of urgency. We are faced with a problem that threatens the very fabric of the Church.” He had their attention and their interest. Two rows of white, pale, mostly elderly faces were turned toward him. His Eminence continued. “As you are doubtless aware, the Church has been receiving some harmful publicity of late. At the other end of the long table Bishop Slasher of the Diocese of the Northern Islands sighed inwardly. The church had been receiving bad publicity for years, millenia in fact. So what else was new? He’d had to forego his annual fishing trip with the Cathedral Congregation Young Wives Group for this? Although Bishop Slasher would admit to some mild disappointment about it, in fact he was thoroughly pissed off. “I refer of course to the publicity regarding abuse of children. Regrettably some of our ordained clergy in schools and orphanages have betrayed the trust of the children in their care.” “Tut bloody tut,” Slasher thought. “Fancy that! Priests have been buggering little boys. Whatever next?” “The time is long past when the Church could handle these matters internally …” “And completely ignore it,” Slasher thought. “… Today the vulgate demand that these matters be brought out into the open, dealt with in lay courts and exposed to the light of publicity. We are unable to resist such demand.” A number of grey heads nodded solemnly. It was so regrettable that the Church could no longer deal with its own. The meeting began its earnest deliberation into the problem. How could they stop priests from sodomising little boys and even penetrating pre-pubescent girls? What should they do about it? Bishop Softon queried why they needed to do anything about it at all. Why now after two thousand years should the Church be concerned over such a trivial, rather pleasant and harmless minor sin? Certainly it didn’t count as fornication and after all, what were little boys for? More than a few other grey heads nodded. It occurred to Cardinal Bumley that the general level of intelligence in the Church’s middle management was not what it used to be. Where were the Loyolas and the Richelieus when you needed them? The meeting dragged on. Bishop Slasher found he was day-dreaming about attractive young Mrs. Wansome in the Young Wives Group. Her husband was unable to get her pregnant. Bishop Slasher was confident of his ability to help her in that respect. “And what do we have from the Northern Islands? Do you have any input, Bishop Slasher?” Slasher’s mind moved a million miles in an instant. “Yes, Your Eminence. I do. The solution is very simple.” “Thank Christ for that,” the Cardinal thought. His thought was literal and sincere, not blasphemous. “Then do please share it with us, your Grace.” “ Gentlemen, the answer is in the confessional.” It was the irritation in his heart that moved Bishop Slasher to speak against those who had caused it. As Bishop Slasher outlined his proposal the meeting listened intently to his words and grey heads nodded. * * * In a particularly backward part of the third world Sister Angela of the Holy Order of the Mercy of God was kneeling on the packed, dry stony ground in the blazing heat of the noon sun. Her hands were together, her head bowed and her eyes closed. After a while she lifted her gaze to heaven with an expression of divine rapture on her face. “Such piety,” commented Sister Mary. “Sister Angela is an example to us all.” “Piety be damned,” Mother Superior thought. “That bitch is masturbating again.” Later she was to send Sister Mary to pull out the worn-smooth wooden peg from the ground where Sister Angela had been kneeling. It was seeing the mangy dogs from the village sniff the peg and then piss on it that reminded her to do so. That evening Sister Angela really prayed. “God, what are we doing here in this hell-hole? Our mission and this hospital have been here for two hundred years, ministering to your children. And we have achieved absolutely fuck all. Despite our best efforts they are still as pig ignorant and useless as they were when our ministry here started. They can’t even feed themselves. Is it really your will, God, that we keep these idiots alive? Keep them alive for what? Just as objects of charity to suffer and continue in their pointless misery?” “Please God, help me on this one. I’m sure you love them; but me personally, I’ve had a gutfull of the bastards.” Sister Angela was completely honest with God in her prayers. He knew what she was thinking so it was pointless to be otherwise. Perhaps God appreciated it. Next morning in Mother Superior’s office: “You sent for me Holy Mother?” “Sister Angela, thank you for your promptness. I have a letter from the Bishop. Head Office are seeking qualified nurses for special service. Would you be interested?” Sister Angela was surprised to be asked. In this order ‘poverty, chastity and obedience’ meant exactly that. “I am here to serve God, Holy Mother. As the Church may see fit.” “Very well Sister Angela. The transport will leave in an hour. Be on it.” “Eight years in this dump and then kicked out at an hour’s notice.” Sister Angela was glad to get away but Mother Superior could have been a bit more human about it. “And what am I going to be doing?” Angela wondered. All she knew was that she would receive special training for her new role in the Church. * * * Deacon Upshot was preparing himself for his weekly confession. He was rehearsing his list of sins. Most of them were run of the mill stuff but he was embarrassed about his lapse with young Duggie in the choir. Duggie had the most beautiful soprano. To hear him in a solo always gave Upshot an erection. He had the face of an angel too. And the rest of him was very nice. Such a lovely boy and always so willing. Upshot thought he was in love with Duggie. He went into the box. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned ….” * * * Father McFee was a man who had never harmed anyone and had given help freely to many. He was praying in the darkness at the back of his own church as the clock struck midnight. He watched the small procession, each person, hooded and gowned in black . The burning candles they carried were the only light. The procession walked down the aisle and stopped at the altar steps. There were no words, no music, no sound at all. A man was bound, naked to a St. Andrews cross. There were some preparations: the spreading of a cloth across the steps, the lighting of incense. The candles were placed on the ground around the figure. On the cross the figure remained as still as death. Father Mc Fee shuddered and intensified his prayers. He recognised that this was his Church in action, mediaeval in its style, ruthlessly protecting itself as always against threats from within and without. He was reminded of how the Church once burnt heretics and witches to death. Terrible in its mercy, the Church’s reason for doing so was that the flames would purify their immortal souls. Thus sinners would gain salvation and the Church would be rid of a threat. That it scared shit and the devil out of the laity at the same time was a fringe benefit. A hooded figure stood before the man on the cross. Father McFee knew it would be the Bishop. He didn’t who the other two were. “Deacon Upshot, the penance for thy sin is to submit to the ministration of Cultellus Christi. Do you so submit?” The Bishop spoke softly but in the silence Father McFee could hear every word as if it were spoken in his ear. The tone was kindly, as if the Bishop were trying to help the man on the cross but the contrast between the kind voice and the imminent, inexorable suffering sent fear through Father McFee. “I so submit,” the man on the cross said. “So be it. Heavenly Father we ask for your blessing on Deacon Upshot that he may endure the ordeal, that his sins be forgiven him and that his heart be made pure. We ask this in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.” The Bishop stood back and the other two figures began their ministration. Father McFee had read an account of the procedure so that from his position at the back of the church could see just enough to know what was happening. Cultellus Christi1 removed the scrotum. That there was no anaesthetic was in itself a cleansing of a sinner’s soul and a wonderful deterrent to others. The church really meant business here. Cultellus Christi 2 tied off the testes whereupon Cultellus1 severed the cords. Cultellus 2 sewed up the wound. It didn’t take very long but the suppressed gasps of the man on the cross seared Father McFee’s soul. “Deacon Upshot, thy sins are forgiven thee. Go and sin no more.” The Bishop left through the vestry. No doubt glad to get away. Only then did Cultellus Christi administer anaesthetic. They removed the unconscious man from the cross and put him onto a gurney and covered him. He would wake up in his own bed. The nurse who would tend to Deacon Upshot would be yet another member of the newly founded order of Cultellus Christi, the Knife of Christ but this member, not a knife wielder, would be uncowled. The procession left the church. An ambulance would be waiting outside by this time. Father McFee crossed himself and prayed for God’s mercy on all sinners, including himself. He remained for an hour or more after the procession had left. * * * After ten years in the Order of Cultellus Christi, the last five as head of the order, Holy Mother Angela had a feeling that their work was complete. There had been many wieldings of the knife in the early days but latterly very little. The task was done; the problem solved. A great deal of skill had been acquired by the order over the years. How could it used in the service of God. A thought occurred to her. Perhaps it would be of use in the third world? Would it not be beneficial in helping to reduce the starving millions? End
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