Point of View/ "Hallelujah"
I'm taking my second semester of Creative Writing and I've been having fun with different points of view. First is great because it's personal, in your face and carries a lot of voice. Third is similar since our professor wants us to write in a limited perspective (staying inside one character's mind) rather than omniscient (knowing everything before the characters do, like God). Last week I tried second person, which is also similar to first, but it's a liberating point of view because you're not tied down to the pronoun 'I.' That's not to say that just because you use 'I' you're doing nonfiction, but it's easier for me to transcend my own lens of experience when I'm in a different point of view. There's a certain disconnect that comes with using 'you.' Here's the piece I wrote, if you'd like to read it. The prompt was to come up with a strange first sentence and build from there.
Hallelujah
You’ve never been to church before. You’ve never sung hymns with the choir, never sat on an old wooden pew and stared up at a stained glass window depicting Jesus nailed to the cross, never knelt down to pray at the altar. You’ve never taken communion, despite your love of red wine and carbohydrates. You’ve never confessed your sins to a priest, a stranger really, sitting out of sight but within earshot, eager to redeem you of your wicked ways.
You don’t need any of that. You know you’ve done wrong, but nothing worthy of an eternity in the fiery depths of Hell. You don’t want to believe in such a place. As far as you can figure, it’s just a metaphor for the pain and torment you’re bound to experience throughout your life. You want to believe in Heaven though. Surely, one day you’ll be worthy of entering those pearly gates to be with your loved ones who have passed on. Maybe you’ll finally meet your mom’s sister you’ve heard so much about, who died during labor. Maybe you’ll meet Jesus, see him smiling, sans thorny crown, shake his holy hand.
You don’t need church because you already know God. You know the meaning of Hallelujah. You know that the goosebumps mean that He’s listening. You know He communicates with you through signs He knows you’ll read and understand. You know He wants you on Earth for a reason. You could have died several times already. Once in the ocean, once in the hospital, once when you played chicken with a car in the middle of the highway.
Your cousin once told you that God looks out for children and fools. You have been foolish. A woman once told you that He blessed you with the gift of discernment, but you’re not so sure. You trust too easily, want to see the good in everyone, even the Devil. The Devil doesn’t want your sympathy though. He only wants to fuck you, laugh and proclaim to God, “Look! See how far your child has fallen. She will never fulfill your purposes and plans. She’s nothing but a whore.”
You shudder at the thought and wonder why you’re here, at the very place you’ve never needed, on the verge of confessing your mistake to that stranger behind the curtain. You enter the booth and sit down. You hear an aged voice say, “How long has it been since your last confession?”
You say through the stinging lump in your throat, “This is my first. I’m honestly not even Catholic, but I felt compelled by God to come here. Will you still listen?”
After a moment’s pause, the voice says, “Yes, child. You may proceed. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
You imagine him crossing himself so you do the same. You’re not sure if you've done it correctly. You’re not really sure where to begin, so you say, “Can I ask you a question?”
“You may,” the voice replies.
“Why does God allow evil in the world?”
“He has blessed us with free will. He allows evil because He hopes that His children will choose good. Have you encountered evil recently, child?”
“Yes,” you say, eyes stinging. “I think I was seduced by Satan last night.”
“Many good people fall into Satan’s snares, but remember, you may always return to grace, child.”
“When I kissed him, he said, ‘You really put your soul into it,’” you say. “Did I give my soul to the Devil?”
“You say God compelled you to come here today. If the Devil had taken your soul, you would not have felt that. The Devil aims to confuse and deceive. He does not have the power to remove God’s grace and mercy from you.”
The tears are streaming now, and you nod even though the priest can’t see you. You say, “Thank you for your time, Father. I feel better.”
“You are welcome, child. Remember what I told you.”
You exit the booth, and leave through the wooden double doors, down the stone steps, into the break of day. You stop at the foot of the steps and gaze at the rising Sun. It’s warm, but you feel the goosebumps. The cold and broken, “Hallelujah,” escapes your lips and you know that grace is yours.