Bless me father…

I discovered a completely new facial expression the other day, one I had never seen before, and have no idea how to bring it to be again.

It materialised on the face of a friend when I told them that I thought I had the makings of a good priest.

The reaction this declaration elicited was unlike anything I have ever made – or seen – a face do before.

The peculiar sounding statement was spoken as I considered a book I had been reading, one about a faithless minister.

Empathising with the main character, as good books cause you to do, I wondered whether I possessed any of the same qualities as the novel’s protagonist, Gideon Mack.

After ruminating on this question for a while, locked in internal debate, the moment a clear answer crystallised in my mind, I verbalised it.

“Ye know,” I said, out of the blue, “I would say I have what it takes to make a decent priest.”

The first contortion this caused my friend’s countenance to undergo was familiar.

Raised eyebrow, skeptical squint, a faint grin. The kind of one that, without words, asks if you are taking the proverbial Mick.

My expression must have communicated to her that no Michael was being taken, and, in turn, the incredulity fell from her face, as it twisted into an altogether stranger configuration, her features taking off towards places I had never witnessed them travel before.

Eyebrows conquered new forehead. The corner of her mouth ventured to cheek hitherto unexplored. And her eyelids peeled back as though removed by a scalpel, leaving me looking into a set unblinking, reptilian eyes.

“Do you even go to Mass?” she glared, her face frozen in this new and unsettling arrangement.

“I would if I was a priest,” I said.

Her look remained as unflinching as a gargoyle’s.

Growing increasingly freaked out by her face, I gambled that she was silently demanding to hear my rationale.

“The job of the priest has always been an important one. Historically, he was the boy that was present at virtually every major event in a person’s life,” I began.

“He wasn’t there for every major event in my life, thankfully,” she smirked. The weirdness of her expression mercifully beginning to wane.

“Fair point,” I conceded, grateful that normality was reasserting itself upon the muscles that ruled her mug. “But you know what I mean.”

I then tried to explain the private argument that been taking place inside my head during the minutes that preceded my unexpected utterance.

“A priest has a very important and privileged job, though, right nuff,” I pushed.

“Splashing water on new life, sanctifying ever-lasting love, bringing comfort to those who need it most. It is a rare kind of honour to be so intimately involved with those big moments in people’s lives,” I said.

“Hmmm… true. But why do you think you’d be fit for it? And what about the whole not-believing-in-God part?”

“I am a good listener, I’d say if I looked at the bible long enough I could find a suitable parable for most modern day dilemmas, and I reckon I’d suit the collar. Not too sure about the public speaking, right enough… And, here, how do you know I don’t believe in God?” I asked, half-insulted.

“Well do you?” she replied.

“Not really,” I admitted. “But I could pretend I did. It would be good craic, and I bet I could do the job just as well as an authentic believer, probably,” I said.

“Right. Doubt it. And what about celibacy aspect?”

“Hmmm…” I said, like a man whowas being forced to realise the folly of hasty reasoning.

“Maybe I could be a minister?” I suggested.

A short silence fell.

“Well, there does seem to be one thing that you have in bagfuls that many would argue might make you the perfect man for the job,” she said.

“And what’s that?”

“Your tendency to shamelessly chat a pile of absolute…”

“You’re going to Hell,” I condemned her – and her immortal soul.