The Weight of the Altar
Illustration by Gemini AI Fiction “Oh, God! I feel like a fraud.” Father Thomas complained to the crucifix behind the altar in the parish church. Jesus didn’t seem particularly concerned. Nothing changed in His weary face that lay inclined and dead on His right shoulder. Father Thomas was nearing the age of fifty when he started feeling that his entire life as a priest amounted to nothing of any significance. Earlier, at least the church used to be full with the faithful on most days. Nowadays even Sundays didn’t draw more than a few score parishioners. People are losing faith, Father Thomas lamented. But soon he realised that that wasn’t his real problem. Was he losing faith himself? Had he become a ‘clerical machine’ as a retreat preacher phrased it recently? A mechanical performer of weddings, funerals, and the Mass. The prayers had become mere echoes in a cold stone building. “My God! My God! Are you forsaking me?” He asked the crucified God. A fine, cold dew of exertion ...
