The young man was alone in the dimly lit chapel, kneeling at the foot of a life size crucifix, praying for forgiveness, praying for his soul.
"Dear Lord Jesus Christ, forgive me please for having sinned against you. My nature is wicked and lascivious. I am perverse, unclean, but I want to change, dear Lord I want to change. As you have healed the lepers, the lame and the blind, can't you heal me? Please, dear Lord, help me." He raised his blue eyes to the crucifix above him, tears running down his soft pale cheeks. "Help me."
The painted face of Christ seemed to look down at the young man, its eyes deep and sorrowful, full of pity and love. Red paint dripped down its face from the crown of thorns, stained the impaled hands and feet and poured from the open wound in its side, or rather was frozen forever in the act of pouring for it was, after all, only a statue. Very lifelike. Gloriously life size. But only a statue. A thing of plaster and paint, no more alive than two beams of wood lashed together, a cup of wine or a bit of bread.
"I have struggled so long, so long dear Jesus, with this sin and I cannot defeat it alone. Please. Please help me, my Lord." The young man bowed his head, a wisp of blond hair falling over his tearfilled eyes. "Lay your hand upon me, dear Christ, and save me."
The hand that rested unexpectedly on the young man's shoulder was gentle, loving.
At first Christopher froze, every muscle in his body tightening, ice water running through his veins, then he looked up at the huge crucifix...
And the figure of the crucified Christ was no longer on it.
"I will save you, my son."
The voice was soft and gentle, warm and caressing. The words were in English, but there was a hint of an accent, a Semitic accent.
When he had entered the chapel Christopher was aware of the scent of frankincense and myrrh, but now that scent was stronger and mixed with something yet finer, something he could not quite put his finger on.
"My son."
He was eager to turn around to see the man who stood behind him; he was afraid to turn around to see the man who stood behind him. Christopher was in conflict, both in a state of religious awe and superstitious dread.
"Turn, my son, and look upon my face."
He could not deny the request.
With head bowed, the young man turned about, yet daring not to look up into the face of his Lord.
"I am not worthy to gaze upon your face. I have sinned. I am a sinner. I am a traitor."
"Because of a dream?"
"Because I have been a sinner since as far back as I can remember. I am possessed by sinful thoughts, even in this place, even here among men so much holier than I could ever hope to be."
"But all men are sinners," the man with the gentle voice responded, "and you need not protect anyone here. Nothing is unknown to me. Sinners walk this place too. What of Jerome?"
"Oh my dear Lord," Christopher wept, his head sinking yet lower as the tears poured from his eyes, his chest heaving with sobs of absolutely wretched sorrow. "Please do not blame him. It wasn't his fault. He could not help himself. It was my fault, all my fault. I cannot help myself. Ever since I could remember I have been cursed to tempt others into lascivious acts. I am the Devil's plaything. He uses me to bring down others, and, dear Lord, when these things happen I am so lost...so lost in lewdness that I become insane and can think of nothing else but physical gratification and sin. Please. Please. Do not punish Jerome or blame him for something that was entirely my fault."
Memories flooded his consciousness and Christopher remembered the summer night in the garden. The two young men had sneaked out to meet secretly under the stars, the air warm and sweet with the scent of summer flowers. They were never caught, but the fear that they might be caught was with them every second, then and always since then.
When Christopher removed Jerome's black shirt he saw a smooth, pale body much like his own, the other young man's nipples pert with anticipation. They did not plan to completely disrobe, but they couldn't help themselves. At no time had they seen each other or anyone else there completely naked and they longed to gaze upon one another, to admire the handiwork of God in flesh and bone. Finally they were together naked, under the stars, surrounded by bushes, the only two humans awake in that place and alone, blessedly alone.
Christopher still felt the softness of Jerome's lips on his, tasted their sweet taste, and he could not forget the exquisite sensation of the other young man's tongue in his mouth, moving so wonderfully against his own tongue. It was a kiss he would never forget. It was the kiss of (Judas) love freely given.
And the feel of Jerome's naked flesh against his, Jerome's hardness sliding against his erect manhood, then in his hand as he caressed and fondled him, finally in his mouth as he knelt before Jerome as if in adoration of some god (Thou shalt have no other gods before me)--it all seemed so exquisite at the time. However, since that one time in the garden (if it be possible, let this cup pass from me) Christopher had been assailed and tormented by the most horrendous guilt. Jerome seemed unaffected adversely. Often he asked to see Christopher again. To hold him, to kiss him, at least one last time. But Christopher could not. He wanted to. He longed to be with Jerome again. But it was a sin, a horrible, perverse sin, and already his soul was stained by the act. And what of Jerome's soul? He had allowed himself to again be used by Satan. Once again he had lured another into sin, and one so blessed as dear Jerome, such a godly young man. He might burn in hell, he thought, but already he burned every moment since for his sin, his heart aching, breaking, because of his sinful, traitorous act against both God and man.
"Please forgive Jerome," Christopher pleaded with bowed head. "Forgive him. It was not his fault."
Something warm and wet dripped down and fell upon his locked fingers in the dimly lit chapel. Christopher remembered the painted blood on the face, hands, feet and side of the Christ statue and his heart leaped to think that he might be washed in the blood of the Lamb of God.
"Can I ever be forgiven, dear Lord?"
Another warm drop fell upon Christopher's hands and he felt the warmth creep into his entire being and enliven him.
"There is no need to forgive you, my son."
The gentle voice had become somewhat deeper.
"Come, my son, and be one with me."
The young man raised his folded hands closer to his face to see the warm liquid that had dripped from the one who stood before him. It was not red. It was not blood. It was thick and milky. It was semen.
Christopher's head snapped up and he suddenly found himself gazing upon the face of Satan.
Christopher awoke with a cry. In prayer he had fallen asleep, so exhausted was he from guiltfilled, sleepless nights. Almost afraid to do it, the young man looked up at the life size crucifix before him and was relieved to see the figure still thereon, motionless, nothing but paint and plaster.
Then something dripped from that figure to the floor and Christopher could see it clearly in the candlelight and he believed it was exactly what it appeared to be--a drop of rich red blood.
The blood of Christ.
Blood shed for his sins.
Christopher leaped to his feet and ran from the chapel, weeping bitterly.