monday muddlings: the devil in the details

It’s another fiction Monday. This is another one of those stories that I’m not sure would land me in a Christian book store, but I am particularly excited about it. All credit for the inspiration of this idea, outside of the Lord, is to my very dear friends Evan Bassler and Grant Shellhouse, who referred to the pi thing as a joke and then set my brain spinning with possibilities. Thank you both SO much. I’m oddly pleased with this one. Not necessarily for any reason, other than it felt wonderful to write. I’d love your thoughts as always. (Also, what’s with me and Catholicism?) Also, it may be helpful with this story to know the liturgy of the hours and how it’s divided. Here’s a nice little help. Also, please note that anytime Christ “speaks,” they are direct quotations of Scripture. I didn’t try to write dialogue for God.

“The Devil in the Details”

3.141…

The bell had just sounded for Lauds, but Brother Enoch was already at his small desk in his cell and Sister Socrates was already halfway down the corridor to the Lady Chapel. He bent over his parchment with focused ambition, drew a circle onto it, and began to copy out the divided and measured sums yet again; she kneeled at the altar with quiet reverence, signed the cross on herself, and began to pray aloud the vigil and recite the psalms once more. They both committed themselves to their devotions for the hour and then returned to their beds.

At breakfast, Sister Socrates placed a bowl of porridge in front of Brother Enoch, then took one for herself. They sat across from each other in the small dinning room at the large table, which was rounded by twelve seats, ten of which had been empty for years. The crucified Christ watched them from the opposing wall, on which He hung. Sister Socrates said the blessing, as Brother Enoch declined, and they began to eat in quiet. The portions were meager. Snow gently flecked against the small window that would have illumined some of the room had it not been for the perpetual darkness of the outside world. The candles around them provided enough light to see before them, but not enough to keep their world from being cast into perpetual shadow.

“How have your calculations been coming, Brother Enoch?” Sister Socrates had finished all but half her serving of porridge when she spoke. Brother Enoch had already consumed his, despite his best attempt to eat slowly, and looked at the fullness of her bowl with an overwhelming sense of envy. As soon as the thought flickered across his mind, he imagined himself receiving the lash upon his back, scraping across his skin and tearing him open, for he was not worthy of the suffering Christ. He crossed himself against himself and looked at Sister Socrates with a stern determination.

“When we chase after Infinity, there is infinity to go,” he concluded, thinking it would settle the matter.

“Yes,” Sister Socrates mused, squinting at him in the dim light, her cobalt eyes kissed with a delicate glow. “But as I understand your work—”

“My worship.” He corrected her.

She blinked. “Your worship. As I understand it, you believe that there is indeed an end to it. You believe that you are coming to a close, is that right?”

“Yes,” Brother Enoch affirmed, but went on, “That is the beginning. Once you reach Him, then you have reached Infinity, so there is still Infinity, but you have to get to Him before that happens. You must do His will.”

Sister Socrates chewed on her lower lip and thought this over. He spoke so much sense most of the time. It always seemed true. But there was something about the way he said it, or in the way he related to it, or in how he would hold his spoon while eating, which warned her and at the same time pressed her soul with questions.

“Explain it to me again,” she asked, much to his frustration. She added, “Please, my Brother.” If he wasn’t made relaxed by it, he was in the least obligated.

“In Exodus 3:14, God names Himself for the first time. He is I AM, the highest and most true thing that can ever be said of God, if we are inclined to believe the Angelic Doctor.”

“I frequently am,” Sister Socrates conceded.

“Well then,” Brother Enoch continued and his eyes came alight with fervor and the shadows seem to enlarge in the room, “If this is how God has chosen to reveal Himself, it is in this way we should seek to know Him.”

Sister Socrates nodded, tentatively.

“What else is 3:14 attached to? The beginning of pi, the longest continuing chain of non-repeating numerals that we have never found the end to. Just like God. So is it not possible, perhaps even likely, perhaps even certain, that God has hidden Himself in the numerals of pi, so that to seek Him is to seek His end. It is the basis of the circle, which is a pregnant symbol in the Scriptures. So surely this must be the bridge that God has made with humanity, for only a few shall find Him. When we come to the last numeral, when there can be no more, we shall behold God in His essence.”

Sister Socrates worried her hands under the table. “I see.” She paused for a long time, in which she watched his agitation grow. At last she asked, “And has this brought you peace, Brother?”

Brother Enoch fought the temptation to roll his eyes. The thought had still come, however, and he cursed himself under his breath and crossed himself once more. He was damned, perpetually damned by himself. “I will have peace when I am done with the Lord’s work.”

“And this is the Lord’s work?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?” Sister Socrates took a bite of her porridge, leaving two bites remaining. The crucified Christ on the wall waited with her for Brother Enoch’s answer.

“Sister Socrates,” he began, “You are of the delusion that salvation is an easy work. It is actually a hard and brutal thing. Few shall enter the kingdom of God. If we are careful readers of Scripture, we see the only person to truly walk with God was Enoch and the Lord took him from this world so that he would not have to suffer death. Death is the great evil, the proof that we have failed. This Enoch is who we are supposed to be.” He starred at her bowl in longing, but thought of the lash again on his back, crossed himself, and continued. “But few will ever be such, I fear myself least of all. I will not achieve the Lord’s good will in my life and earn my salvation, I am damned, I know it, so I pursue Him in the numbers so as to show myself worthy.”

“What a strange thing to know,” Sister Socrates murmured, “To be certain of your damnation.” She took another bite and rested her spoon atop the last that remained. Her eyes moved to the window and the dark world outside. It was morning, according to the bells, but it could not be proven by the weather. The storm and its darkness raged and had done so for as long as Sister Socrates could remember. “Father Peter thought it foolish.”

“Father Peter is now dead,” Brother Enoch replied, “And has come to understand the truth of what I have spoken. Many will think themselves saved, but they are damned. I most of all. So I must show Him. He must see my devotion.”

The crucified Christ on the wall seemed to shrink into the shadows of the room.

“How was it revealed to you, this knowledge?”

Brother Enoch opened his mouth, prepared to give a well-rehearsed account of the Scriptures that led him to his conclusion, but he could not recall it. It had been so long ago, when Father Peter was still sitting at the head of the table they now ate their small servings of porridge on and where they waited for death or assumption. He simply gave a small shrug and said, “It has been revealed to me, Sister. This gospel is clear.”

Sister Socrates nodded, keeping her eyes on the window and the flecks of snow that whispered against it. “We are nearly out of porridge. It is just you and I now. There isn’t much time.” She thought of the apostles and the epistles they wrote. Over and over again they warned that they were in the last days. How long ago had that been? Two thousand years, at least, though perhaps longer. She could no longer remember what year it was, or day on a secular calendar. It was Wednesday in the Sixth Week of Easter. That was all she was certain of.

“Yes, there isn’t much time.” Brother Enoch agreed and made to rise from the table. “I shall return to my devotions.”

He was nearly encased in shadow when Sister Socrates suddenly asked, “Do you believe in the doctrine of Purgatory, Brother Enoch?”

There was a long pause. The crucified Christ on the wall strained to hear. Eventually Brother Enoch spoke, “I do. I do in so far as we are to believe.”

Sister Socrates placed her hands atop the table and studied them. The wrinkles there told her of something, but she wasn’t entirely sure what it was. “After the famine came, I lost my child. I came here to escape the world. Father Peter named me when I was confirmed. I have never quite understood the name, and I told him as much on his deathbed. He said to me that this was intended and it was to be my offering to God.” Something about her hands, but she couldn’t tell what it was. “I don’t remember the outside world, Brother Enoch. I don’t remember it at all. I remember shadows, fuzzy things. I could describe some of it but it would be like describing a dream. I would make up more in retelling it than I actually could confirm having experienced. How long have I been here with you? How many people have left this place in death and some…” She trailed off, considering her words carefully. He knew what she was referring to, but neither seemed particularly inclined to mention it.

Sister Socrates went on. “When Brother Thomas went outside the gate into the storm to look for food in the town, it wasn’t until Advent that I began to wonder if he had died. I kept thinking that he would come back. I kept expecting him to return. Then one day I woke up with this terrible peace that he simply was gone. He was, then was not.”

“Like Enoch.” Brother Enoch could not help but affirm. He also could not help but sense a pang of frightful jealousy fester in his heart. The lash, scraping his skin as he cried out. He crossed himself.

“Yes,” she conceded, “But not exactly. He was no more here, but I’m unsure that he was no more somewhere else. I have wondered, you see, about Purgatory.” Her hands blanched slightly as she pressed them into the table. Lifting them, she sat back in her chair and looked at Brother Enoch, addressed the question to him, but in her mind she only could see the crucified Christ on the wall as she asked, “Could this be Purgatory, Brother Enoch? Could this be it?”

Brother Enoch shook his head. “Purgatory is unnecessary for those who have done the work to escape the death of sin.”

“Escape,” Sister Socrates lingered on the word and found it unsettling. The crucified Christ seemed to stretch against the nails and cry out in thirst. “I do not find it true in our faith that escape is truly an option.”

“When the Lord sees that you are worthy to be loved by Him, He takes you away from this misery.”

Sister Socrates was suddenly overcome by a flash of violence. She grabbed the bowl in front of her and threw it with force and indignation at Brother Enoch. The spoon clattered to the ground and the bowl broke on the stone. Neither had hit him or, if they had, he showed no sign of it. The remaining bite of porridge seemed to fester and then dissolve on the floor. “And what of Christ?” she demanded. “What of His Son? Was He not loved enough to be taken away?”

“The Lord took Enoch. The Lord took Elijah. He shall show compassion on those He will show compassion. This is His way. His thoughts are not our thoughts.” With that, Brother Enoch turned and solemnly proceeded back to his cell to begin his devotions once more.

Sister Socrates was left nonplused. She felt a sudden, painful desire overcome her. She rushed to the crucified Christ and fell to her knees, beginning to weep bitterly as the Our Father poured from her lips as an offering, spilling out onto the floor. Her words and her tears consecrated there an altarpiece betwixt time and eternity and when Sister Socrates heard her name being called, she looked up to see the eyes of the crucified Christ staring into her soul.

“The stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone,” He said, then breathed His last, and returned to the solemnity of His icon.

A pain of hunger cut into Sister Socrates’ stomach. Slowly she rose and turned her eyes to the face of the crucified God. “Rabonnai,” she prayed, and then turned crossed herself. She collected the spoon and the broken bowl, but did not find the bite of porridge that had been left over. The manna was gone, the time had come. She took the broken pieces and the spoon into the kitchen and discarded the shards, washed the spoon, and then checked the supply of porridge. Enough for one.

“Lord, I believe,” she prayed toward the remaining food, “Help my unbelief.”

The bell sounded for Terce. Sister Socrates proceeded to the Lady Chapel.

They did not share a midday meal together or an evening meal, for they had long since surrendered to their vows of poverty in light of the meager store of food they had remaining. As the hours were measured out in the day, Sister Socrates occupied herself in the Lady Chapel and in the quiet work of tending to the monastery. She cleaned the floors, washed the interior of the windows. At None she passed Brother Enoch’s room and heard him whispering to someone with a sense of indignation.

“Surely I have shown myself worthy! Surely this has been enough!” There was a pause. Sister Socrates thought she heard another voice, though it did not sound of a man but of glass scraping across stone. Brother Enoch replied to it immediately, “Forgive me! Forgive! I did not mean to presume. Do not let Him think to count this against me. I desire only to please Him.”

Sister Socrates placed her hand on Brother Enoch’s door with a tender overflow of compassion, but as she touched it she felt as if a nail pierced through the palm of her hand and she recoiled in fright and alarm. She opened her mouth to scream, but she felt a gentle hand cupping over her parted lips. There was an aroma of frankincense in the air. Her pain and fear subsided. The hand gently pulled away. She turned from the door and felt within her the peace that she had felt when Brother Thomas had left to explore the world outside the gate.

Then the voice of the crucified Christ spoke to her in the corridor: “Therefore I also, that I might sanctify the people through My own blood, suffered outside the gate.”

Sister Socrates realized that she was unsure of how long she had been standing in the corridor. The bell rang for Compline. Brother Enoch’s quill could be heard scratching at his parchment between the chimes. Was it his pen? It sounded like the voice she had heard speaking to him. Yet the question no longer seemed important to her. The snow flaking against the window called to her, whispered her name as a melody.

She proceeded to the Lady Chapel.

There she began the devotions of Compline and surrendered herself to the Mystery. After an hour of prayer, she rose and took the key from the folds of her habit and unlocked the small door on the far wall. There the remains of the consecrated sacrament waited. Two pieces of the Body and just enough of the Blood. Sister Socrates took one of the broken pieces and poured a small amount of the wine into a small chalice. Bringing them to the altar, she knelt before it and looked into the face of the Virgin.

She prayed for Brother Enoch, recited the Our Father, and then partook of the Eucharist.

The wine burned her throat with promise and she opened her mouth in song: “I am the bread of life; they who come to me shall not hunger…” As she sang, Sister Socrates rose and placed the chalice back into the small opening. She was about to close it and lock it back once more, but over her song she heard the voice of the triumphant Christ: “The Spirit and the bride say, ‘Come.’ And let the one who hears say, ‘Come.’ And let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who wishes take the water of life without cost.”

Continuing to sing, she left the door open and expectant.

“And I will raise them up, and I will raise them up, and I will raise them up on the last day.” Sister Socrates sang as she pulled the last bar across the great door of the monastery, and opened it wide. The snow danced before her and bathed the world in a beautiful and purging white. Her song carried her into the courtyard, passing the graves of the faithful, the expectant asleep, who listened to her song and rejoiced, singing with her.

When she reached the gate of the monastery, she paused. She could not see beyond the gate, the darkness was so thick and awesome that there was nothing but uncertainty before her. She swallowed but did not turn back. The last verse of the song burst as a sacrifice from her lips, “Yes, Lord we believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God who has come into the world.”

The gate opened. Sister Socrates stepped through.

She didn’t understand what was happening at first. She heard the bell ring for Matins, which meant that it was now the Thursday in the Sixth Week of Easter. There was a chorus, somewhere, that was singing the refrain more beautifully than Sister Socrates had ever heard. But it wasn’t until she looked beneath her, to the snowy world that was now several feet below her, that Sister Socrates realized she was ascending. The darkness was not darkness, it was the superabundance of Light. It had always been the Light.

“And I will raise them up, and I will raise them up, and I will raise them up on the last day.” The chorus, mighty and terrible, rang throughout the Light and resounded throughout the world.

“Brother Enoch! Brother Enoch!” Sister Socrates called in joy for him again and again as she ascended, but he would not hear. Sitting in his cell, Brother Enoch listened carefully to the whispers of Old Judas, who sat on his bed and sang in melody and rhyme, who told Brother Enoch that it was still not good enough, who said that God was still not pleased, as Brother Enoch drew another circle on the page, and began to record the numbers of his counterfeit salvation once more.

3.141…

© 2011, Preston. All rights reserved.