I believe in the forgiveness of sins...

Disease, the word conjures powerful images. When I hear disease, I see images of elderly, crippled humans. I see images of browning-yellowing leaves, and smell rancorous death. There is a disease frothing to the surface of our society. It is cynicism and doubt. By itself, cynicism is an unpleasant vice. When it is directed towards something good and true, it becomes a biological weapon. It does not strike like a bullet or a train or even a bullet train. It festers. It multiplies, until its host can no longer keep the truth. The truth is, sin is real. It is as real as darkness, or coldness, or emptiness, and the world would rather you don't believe it.

Tonight, somewhere, a child is dying of starvation, a swollen belly full of emptiness, fragile ribs taught against the skin, and bowed bones. This child is everything beautiful and good in us. At some point in the recent past, two living cells met. In the red glow of the mother's womb, this child grew. Tiny lumps pushed out into tiny fingers, fingers which would have one day held another person's hand in marriage. Fingers which would have caressed another in love, and saved a life. Black shining eyes emerged, eyes like her mothers. Eyes that would have drank in the loveliness of the Eastern Cape by moonlight. Instead, everything beautiful is being emptied out of this child. Everything marvelous and precious is turning into dust, soon to be trod underfoot. It is sin, and many cynical people would like you to know it is not.

A laugh, a glance, a casual word, what do you think it's a sin? Sin is antiquated. It is an idea, a theory, a control mechanism. It's a drug, an ancient relic pressed into pills and delivered through religion. It is sliced, snorted, and sipped, until you lose your reason. Let us be honest. Your simple lie has nothing to do with a dying child on another continent. Yes, my mind says, yes. This is true. It is reasonable. From the deepest part of me something whispers in return.

In the red glow of the human heart it whispers, no. God created us to be beautiful and strong and faithful, to care for one another and live. Our eyes were made to drink deeply of the beauty He created. We were not meant to die alone in cold apartments, or shuffle silently into poverty and death, alone and confused. We were meant to look into the sky and wonder with childlike innocence at the order of the universe. Each sin, no matter how small, hurts that dream, because sin is not a size. It is more like a stink, a cancer.

If what they say and what we tell ourselves about sin sounds familiar, it's because it is: I did not hammer the nails. I simply nodded, and they took him away. I did not strip his robe and beat the crown of thorns into his head. I simply kissed his cheek. I did nothing but come to the garden where he prayed.

The parish I attend has a well groomed garden. Incense can be smelled from the chapel, drifting over the wooden stations of the cross and pink roses . There, in a white painted wooden ark filled with kneeling families, we confess our sins. Male and female voices intertwined in chant above, and the priest gives us a message. He says a man has come, a man who was God. He infected us with beauty and order and salvation from sin. He said that he would not forget the little ones, and neither should we. He said he is truth, and sin is real, that he will bear your sins, and you should not listen to the world.

Where to start, where to start. I could tell you I am sitting at a beautiful marble bureau. As soon as I finish tapping my fingers in thought I'll compose an elegant blog on converting to the most ancient of faiths. Well this isn't a work of fiction, and I am just a slightly shy rather common young man sitting behind an Ikea desk. Next to me is a candle smelling of cheap cinnamon that is on the verge of puffing out forever and a cup of quickly cooling bagged tea. I'm not exactly the image of greatness. There's not a whole lot I would consider extraordinary about me, except for a peculiar religious journey I took four years ago.

You may be thinking, spiritual journeys are rather common these days. It's true. They are quite affordable too. I once visited the tiny occult store two blocks down from my humble apartment to pay a rather overweight woman fifty dollars to give me a spirit journey. It wasn't unpleasant by any stretch of the imagination. Afterwards, I could choose from my assortment of angel Tarot cards and Buddha statues to round out my energy. It's a funny thing, energy, often requiring rounding and centering, and regular liver cleanses from the latest diet plans.

No, my religious journey was nothing like that, no fortune telling, hot yoga sessions, or drug induced comas. It's really the story of a young boy, average in most senses of the word. He is a bit soft for his age. He has dirty blonde hair, a lingering remnant of the lady who gave birth to him. It was a painful birth. The boy's grandparents who raised him often tell him how dangerous it was. He doesn't give it much thought. Boys at that age usually don't. He is a quiet boy, tight lipped, melancholy at points, but not without friends. He sits in a creaky brown pew in a Roman Catholic cathedral. It's a strange place, dark but not uncomfortable. All of the adults are holding candles with tiny paper wax guards. It's been two hours and he's getting tired, besides he can't see much in the forest of dark bodies. He cranes his neck around, sighs, looks up and sees blue.

Ten years later. The boy has become a teenager. The melancholy of his childhood has become every terrible trait of young men. Like other youths in his group of friends, he has a buzzed head. The tight lipped expression of his younger years is replaced with a hard stare and a high chin. An open scar on his left eyebrow permanently keeps one eyebrow slightly higher than the other. The last time he was in a Catholic church he had been invited by an old friend of his grandmother. They were a wealthy couple from India, and he was just a child. It was Easter, and he remembered the beautiful blue vaulted ceilings. Today was different, a funeral service. The Indian lady was dead now. Once, he had taken a beautiful Christmas tree ornament off her tree home with him. She forgave him with a few gentle words. He proceeded past her casket and paused to look inside. The lady was pale, unfamiliar. No one had paid to have her dressed. She still wore the white gown from the hospital.

Two years later. The boy is a quiet young man. He works as a cook in a small brick restaurant in the poor part of town. It doubles as an art gallery on slow days. Before he begins his eight hours of pressing dough, he reviews his mathematics with a coworker. His coworker is Irish. He does not have parents either, but has made a family of the restaurant workers. They look over his work together. His university application depends on this. A bell rings, and an old lady walks into the restaurant; she sits on a red leather bench in the waiting area and looks dazedly around the room. A police officer follows her into the restaurant. The boy can't hear what he's saying, but he's shouting animatedly at the lady. Later, the owner of the restaurant shares that she had a disability and didn't know where she was. Midnight, the boy walks home. He comes home to a dark apartment. He walks into his bedroom without turning on the lights, leans against the doorway and cries deep chest heaving sobs.

One year later. The boy lies in a hospital bed. His older sister sits on the side of the bed playing video games with him. She jokes that he has got so skinny his neck bones make him look like a dinosaur. The nurses joke that he looks like a rock star with his beard and long hair. He knows they joke with him to avoid the obvious. He's dying. His grandmother and sister bring him fresh strawberries everyday. He's secretly sick of them, but appreciates the gift. A Jewish doctor, a lung specialist, enters the room to tell the boy about a new operation, a hope. It will be painful. A nurse sits with him after the operation. She is pale with dark hair and a kind face. She calls herself Mary-Anne. She sits at the boys bedside and talks about her large Catholic family and marriage, darting out every few hours to a call, but always returning throughout the night. Her voice takes his mind off the stabbing sensation in each breath. He loves her. Slowly, he begins to sleep. When he wakes up, he is alone. The Bible his grandmother left in the room is at his side. He picks it up and begins to read.

Two years later. The boy adjusts his collar and looks curiously at the priest. He is healthy, focused on his university. He is alone, but happy. A small metal container rests in the priests hand. He does not remember this from his classes. He closes his eyes and feels oil pressed against his forehead in the shape of a cross. The smell of myrrh fills his nostrils..