The Power and the Glory

Graham Greene’s classic The Power and the Glory brilliantly, and perhaps unashamedly, unmasks the inner emotional, psychological, sexual and spiritual battles of a Catholic Priest in the muddy back hills of Mexico amidst the terror of fascist persecution. For the Vatican The Power and the Glory unmasked a little too much and the book was condemned in 1953.

But despite the seediness of Greene’s “whisky priest”, who in many ways embodies much of the corruption responsible for the poverty and lawlessness of early 20th century Mexico, the arc of the novel bends eschatalogically toward redemption. Though the whisky priest bears the constant blemishes of his manifold histories and sins, he does not lose faith. He continues on, village by village by village, administering the sacraments to the faithful and hope to the hopeless. He does not lose his faith because he knows his own doubts and sins are not the most definitive things he bears. He also bears the marks of the cross – through and in which all sins and doubts, however grievous, can be washed in the absolution of water.

On Friday night I felt a little like that old whiskey priest. Weary and tired from a busy week of travel and catchup, I hit the door at 4pm and hardly paused until nearly 4pm. Room by room, patient by patient, I came bearing hope to the hopeless. In the course of the night I would see and hold three dead babies. In the face of such terrible tragedy a chaplain’s stripes are earned. You stand there in the midst of the sadness and you look in the face of those bereaved parents and you say, “Your child was fearfully and wonderfully made. And you will see that child again some day in the hope of the resurrection.” You say it, whether you believe it or not, you damned well better say it. On Friday I believed it. The Power and the Glory were mine to behold and I believed it.

But as Friday night drifted into Saturday morning I began to grow tired. Like Moses before me, the glory began to fade slowly from my face and I was ready for some rest. And then the beeper went off again. It was the Emergency Department. Most of the time when the ED calls it means a trauma victim is coming in. The adrenaline-inducing excitement which surrounds a trauma is more than enough to keep you awake a while longer. This was not a trauma however. Instead I was called to come and sit with an 87-year old woman who was afraid and wanted me to hold her hand while she tried to sleep. As I sat there, heavy-eyed and irritated, the words of Jesus continued to come back to me, “When I was sick you visited me.” I wanted to watch and pray for this woman but my body finally gave way. When the nurse finally came to move the woman to another staging area within the ED I decided to make my break. “Arise,” Jesus said to his disciples when he found them sleeping in the garden in the dark hours before his arrest, “for the son of man is handed over to be betrayed.” I prayed to God for forgiveness.

Greene was right. The gospel is indeed entrusted in earthen vessels. The Power and the Glory are his and his alone.