"Charity" by Ben Blackwell
Peter caressed the cool silver cross dangling below his white collar in the sweltering heat of a foreign sun. A Christian since birth, he had not missed a Sunday attendance since his father’s funeral. Three days since departing for holiday, Sunday had risen again and the call of the nearest Church was inevitable.
Plain in decoration and uninspiring in grandeur, the unfamiliar Church reminded Peter of his own in England. That is, of course, except for the gaps burnt through the roof and the chipped model of the Virgin Mary - and the crows shuffling through the waste outside and the sealed windows, unable to free the Church of the stale, pressing air. Not that Peter would have complained for he understood that devotion was the most important quality of Church, not the physical quality of the building itself.
Peter’s fellow worshippers appeared, a group of labourers, set in dust, and an elderly couple, their hair the same colour as the dust. They sat in silence until the priest arrived. His gut protruded out of his black costume with the patch in his collar a faded grey. He performed a gracious smile upon an elevated stage. Carrying a Bible, face-down, he wore glasses without any lenses.
“Right,” his voice slithered across the room, soft and enticing in its nature but with a firm conviction. The sun delved behind the clouds, leaving the sunlight which had flowed into the Church, shut off. “Thank you to those who have returned.” He tentatively laid his left palm flat on his prop, the face of the scripture still hiding itself into the wood of the lectern. “And to those whose have arrived for the first time today on this blessed day of rest” he nodded towards Peter “welcome”. Peter nodded back. “Now, as you know, your generous donations have helped contribute to the fixing of the Church roof.” Peter shifted in his seat as a drop of water fell from a crack above onto the back of his neck. “And helped tremendously with the clean-up of the surrounding community”. Outside, a raven crowed hunting for more waste over-flowing from the surrounding bins. Peter glanced behind him to the labourers with their solemn expressions set like granite for another rehearsal. To his left, the old man did not make eye contact with the priest but examined the defects in the floor while his wife glared above the priest to the large wooden crucifix with the suffering Jesus, Himself glaring back down at the priest.
“So thank you all for whatever charity you have provided for it has helped us all”. The sudden flash of metal distracted Peter from the priest’s testimony. His first grin revealed several gold teeth and, despite his distraction, Peter noticed the shimmer of a silver watch brandished unashamedly just beneath the priest’s costume.
Peter just sat there. Sat there with in silenced objection. Ignoring his enticing voice, Peter focused instead on his breathing, deep and calm on the inhale but his breath shaking upon exit. No-one had roared for an encore.
“Any more donations towards new Bibles for the children would be greatly appreciated”. A bowl was presented from underneath the lectern. He first ambushed the elderly couple. The husband reluctantly handed over a hard-earned note. The priest stayed rooted, like a weed. “Your granddaughter is going through our Sunday School at the moment. Claire, isn’t it? I’m sure she would like a new Bible.” He tilted his head like a snake considering to bite. He added encouragingly, “I’m sure the Lord would agree”. The man looked up at him, glaring. He passed over another note. “Bless you”.
The priest moved on to the labourers, content with his earnings from the couple. Out came leather wallets worked thin. The priest picked the notes by their corners, careful to avoid the dusty hands of his donators from spilling onto the cloth of his costume. The labourers did not pay this any special attention: they were here every week. It did seem to make sense that the pathway to heaven would require sacrifice. Half of the previous day’s wage was significant to only their families who demanded merely food and shelter. Once they had all passed, as the priest had taught, pain will cease and peaceful oblivion fulfilled. It would sinful not to pay, as the priest had imparted.
The priest strode over to Peter and thrust the bowl against his chest expectantly.
“Where does this money go?”
The priest was not surprised. He had observed Peter becoming visually more agitated as more money was paid to his bowl. “Do you not want to donate, my child?” He dropped a hand upon Peter’s shoulder. “Do you not have money?” The rest of the congregation began to turn in their seats. They had already paid. Peter was increasingly aware of the new shirt protecting his chained silver cross from the priest’s realm.
“No, that’s not my issue with…”
“Do you know the parable of the Widow’s Offering?” The priest interjected. Before Peter could confirm his familiarity of the teaching, the priest continued. His hand was still gripping Peter’s shoulder. “Before his sacrifice for our sin, our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ witnessed the donations of many in the temples. Many of the elites made shows of this. After paying for all of their slaves, and their houses, and their cuisine, and their holidays,” The priest patted Peter’s shoulder before retracting his hand. “The elites would make a donation which outweighed any other but made no dents from their gross fortune. Jesus observed this. While at the temple, Jesus also saw a poor widow give away a measly few coins. Teaching his disciples, he praised the widow. She had quietly and obediently donated the remainder of her money, trusting God to keep her safe. God wants sacrifice from us, as he allowed Jesus, his own son, to do.”
“Are you saying that any money we do have should be used selflessly?” Peter could still see the outline of the priest’s silver watch under his black sleeves. The priest lifted the finger on his right hand to awkwardly adjust his collar, uncomfortable around his neck, the rolls of indulgence bulging against it.
“Selflessness is a quality of real integrity.” Again, the priest presented the bowl in front of Peter. “Do you have any money to spare for children’s Bibles?”
Peter rubbed the cross on his chest for a few seconds before answering. “Where does the money really go?”
“What?”
“You heard.” The sun emerged from the clouds, sunlight piercing through a gap in the roof, blinding the priest. Peter left. The façade of this Church had dropped, no longer a sacred place of worship and, instead, simply a building.
Written by Ben Blackwell
I am currently studying A-levels in Bath. I’ve always enjoyed creative writing and after winning short story competitions such as the Mid-Somerset Festival, the Threshold Prize and being published in my school anthologies, I am looking to apply for a university course in English Literature and Creative Writing. When I’m not writing, I enjoy playing rugby and spending time with my friends.