Sleeves were rolled and collars opened, inside the unearthly hot shelter of Saint George’s Church. Even a year removed from the comfort of home, Jonah was still horribly dressed for the unforgiving Indian sun. He wriggled uncomfortably inside his navy blazer, secretly envious of the dozens of other men, dressed plainly in thin white cotton dress shirts with nothing underneath. The pipe organ was particularly clear and loud that day, playing a rendition of a hymn that Jonah had sung when he was a child. He struggled for a while to remember its name but gave up, utterly drained from a week of physical church work under the hot sun. His shoulders still ached from hours spent digging canals and laying the foundations of houses, and all Jonah could think about was rushing to his bed after the service to rest his battered body. He felt guilty for indulging in such selfish thoughts, and struggled to fight the calls of his body and pay closer attention to the day’s liturgy. Despite his effort, however, the heat still managed to lull his mind into a soft and gentle daydream. He imagined himself home in Montana, under a summer sun much more forgiving than this one, when he would spend the day running in the fields with his dogs and napping in the long grass of his father’s ranch. Jonah envisioned his mother calling him to dinner at sundown, and sitting down before a plate of chicken and freshly picked corn that he knew would not burn his tongue.
When the music finally finished and Jonah broke from his fantasy, he quickly straightened his back and tightened his tie. He was embarrassed and took a quick look around him to see if anyone had noticed him drift off, but was relieved to see that no one was watching. Jonah hoped he had not missed too much of the service while he had been distracted, but as Father McReddin came down from the altar and signaled the time for communion, he knew it had not been for too long. As Jonah got up from his seat near the back of the church, he had a brief moment to survey those waiting to receive communion before joining the line himself. Usually he would do this to see who had come to church on that particular Sunday, and who had decided to stay home. Parthasathy and his young wife were there, after missing church the past few weeks, and this lifted Jonah’s spirits. Behind them were Epon and Shanta Varghese, the two eldest members of the community. They were lifelong parishioners of Saint George’s, never having missed mass since Jonah had arrived in Kerala. The two of them had generously helped him adjust during his first weeks there, and Jonah deeply admired them.
As he settled himself in line, Jonah fixed his attention on the image of Father McReddin giving communion. For a year this sight had never evoked so much as a thought, but today, Jonah was captivated by the sight of the procession of dark brown faces passing slowly by Father McReddin, who was extremely pale and dressed in mostly white. Jonah was gripped by a new and strange feeling of guilt and lamentation, manifested in a lump in his throat that felt larger each time Father McFadden moved his thin white fingers towards the mouth of each parishioner. Jonah shut his eyes for a moment and imagined the original followers of Christ, Semitic and brown as they must have been, presenting the Gospel to white Europe. And now, here the Gospel had returned to a place as dark as that land from which it had emerged, and Jonah felt somewhat comforted by the irony. In his new life here, he had to sometimes remind himself of Jesus’s skin of bronze and hair of wool. The crucifix above the altar presented him with a different image, that of a pale and soft-haired Son of God with which Jonah had become all too familiar, and which seemed to resemble Father McReddin more than anyone else.
As he watched Father McReddin give communion, Jonah felt a familiar sense of uneasiness. Growing up, he could not help equating the ritual with some sort of sacred cannibalism, almost like that of an uncouth and distant native tribe. As a boy Jonah had more than once asked people in the church about it, hoping for a softer and less literal interpretation. The answer was always the same, however, one that asked him to accept the physical miracle of transubstantiation, and to abandon his curiosity about the subject. With time he did exactly that, although he was certain that his sense of discomfort would be with him forever. Jonah paid close attention to Father McReddin as he recited over and over in his grandfatherly voice those sacred words, the body of Christ, as he presented each wafer. His face was radiant and at peace at times like this, with the look of a venerated and satisfied servant of God, whose day perhaps was coming to a graceful close. Father McReddin wore a look of certitude on his face and wore it proudly. And this was perhaps the reason why he was a missionary, a tireless servant, and Jonah just a young volunteer.
The last prayer was read and the rows of pews had emptied, and Jonah was nearly the last to leave. He had been roasting uncomfortably in his seat for the entire service; and yet, the chapel was still a relatively cool haven compared to the bare brutality of the sun outside. Eventually Jonah made his way to the front doors, which were propped open, letting in a stream of sunlight that caused him to raise his forearm over his eyes as he made his way out. As he stepped onto the chapel’s stone steps the sun beat on his forehead and the heat swallowed him. He pulled open his tie a bit and unbuttoned the top of his almost soaked shirt, as he prepared himself to walk home. The voice of Mr. Varghese caught his attention.
“Jonah, my boy.” Jonah turned his shoulder to see that both Mr. and Mrs. Varghese were waiting for him by the door. They were both quite short and somewhat plump in their old age, two painstaking servants of the church who warmed Jonah’s heart with their love and humility. “My goodness, chap,” Mr. Varghese said as he glanced at Jonah’s shirt and laughed. “You look as if you were about to melt away.” Jonah couldn’t help chuckling a little bit himself at the whole idea. He enjoyed Mr. Varghese’s wit and charm, but most of all he admired the sheer sound of his voice. Both he and Mrs. Varghese were educated and well read, and spoke with a distinguished hint of an English accent.
“What’s a miracle to me is that you people actually don’t melt in this weather,” Jonah replied. Mr. Varghese held his belly and laughed heartily, even before Jonah had finished his sentence. Mrs. Varghese remained graceful and composed as always, smiling with her hands joined in front of her.
Mr. Varghese straightened his smile and put a hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “We had better be used to it, Jonah,” Mr. Varghese said as he gently shook his head, “because the people you see around you, they’ll be in a much hotter place soon unless they start to open their eyes.” He nodded toward the church.
Jonah stayed silent a moment as he searched for a response. He preferred not to talk about the subject that Mr. Varghese had so awkwardly brought up, but now he was obligated to say something in reply. Sadly, there was no denying the truth of what Mr. Varghese had said. Jonah had not traveled to India to relax, nor had he come to make peace between the Church and the nonbelievers. He had come to help the mission to spread the Gospel, to win converts, to save the backward from damnation. This was the unfortunate reality of his life here in India. No matter how many new converts walked through the doors of the church, there were hundreds of millions whom could never be saved, and would live their entire lives never even hearing the name of their Savior spoken. It was an uncomfortable reality for Jonah, one that caused his heart to ache with sadness. He forced a smile to ease the silence. Mrs. Varghese interrupted and rescued him.
“Jonah, come to our house for a moment and have a cool drink. I am sure you could use it.” He had never been to the Vargheses’ house. He wondered how long it would take to walk there.
“That’s very generous of you,” Jonah replied. He was still thinking about taking a long nap and resting his battered body, and there was no telling how long they expected him to stay. Jonah had a soft spot for both of them, and yet on more than one occasion he bad been stuck with one of them at a church event, trapped in a torturously long and tedious conversation. He felt obligated to accept Mrs. Varghese’s offer, if not out of pure politeness, then out of appreciation for all they had done for him. “I’d love to, thank you.” Mrs. Varghese grinned and took his arm in hers, and the three of them began to walk.
The Vargheses lived close by, just on the other side of the town center in fact, and Jonah wondered how it was that he had never been there before. Ordinarily he preferred not to walk through town. He did not like the strange foods and mixtures people sold there, and he was constantly pestered by salesmen who jumped at the sight of his foreign face. Animals roamed the streets as they pleased, and Jonah cringed at their foul smells. Beggars with mutilated and deformed bodies would often follow him around, sometimes hanging onto his shirt as they asked for money or food. During his first weeks in India, Jonah would bring with him a loaf of bread to hand out to the beggars. When they saw him they would quickly circle around with their open palms, and Jonah would hurry to break the bread into pieces and put one in each awaiting hand. Every time he did this, however, there were always a handful of individuals who had received nothing, and Jonah would be left behind to look them in the eye and feel their sadness. Finally, he adopted the policy of pretending to ignore them, just as the locals did, while he prayed silently for assistance. It was God, he reminded himself, and not him, who could truly help them.
The Vargheses’ house was small, even by Indian standards, but was attractive and pleasing to the eye. It was made simply of unpainted wood with three or four small windows, and Mrs. Varghese had grown a small patch of yellow and purple flowers outside the entrance, of which she was obviously proud. Jonah was reminded of his mother’s garden in the yard back home. He had learned over time the names of all sorts of flowers and plants, yet those of Mrs. Varghese were unfamiliar to him. He complimented her nonetheless.
As Mr. Varghese unlocked the door and the three of them entered, Jonah smelled the sweet scents of spices and traditional perfumes that he commonly encountered inside Indian homes. Mrs. Varghese quickly darted to another room, and Jonah was left to inhale the pleasant fragrances and admire the humble insides of the house. A small bronze crucifix was hung high on the wall, directly above a framed photograph of a woman whom Jonah instantly recognized as Queen Elizabeth. Mrs. Varghese soon returned carrying a metal tray with four short glasses of coconut water. Behind her in the doorway stood a tall and beautiful young woman holding a thick green textbook in her hands. He knew the Vargheses’ children were long gone and wondered who she could be. As Mrs. Varghese rested the tray on the table, he smiled at the young woman, and took a cautious step in her direction. She tucked the textbook under one arm and extended the other to shake his hand. “My name is Shalini,” she said. Her beauty stunned him for a moment, and he paused before shaking her hand.
“Jonah,” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and started again. “My name is Jonah.” He tried to focus on her eyes, which were large and deeply dark brown. Her black hair was long and tied behind her head, exposing her delicate ears and her long neck. Jonah watched the divot between her neck and chest move as she breathed. He realized he was still holding on to her hand and finally let go. “I’m surprised we haven’t met before,” he said. “Are you sure we maybe haven’t met at Saint George’s?”
Shalini looked puzzled, and hesitantly opened her mouth to speak. Mrs. Varghese put a glass into Jonah’s hand. “Actually, Jonah, Shalini doesn’t belong to the church, that’s why you don’t know each other. She’s a family friend, studying here in Kerala.”
Jonah was embarrassed and quickly tried to redeem himself. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said to Shalini. “I guess I had just assumed that, you know…” She accepted his apology with a silent smile, and Jonah felt relieved. Subconsciously he had hoped that that she was Christian, and felt disappointed somehow to hear otherwise. He stood still for a few quiet moments, and then took a drink from the cool glass. Mr. Varghese had already taken his drink to the corner of the room and had plunged his face between the pages of a yellowed newspaper.
Shalini put her hand on Mrs. Varghese’s shoulder. “I’m sorry but I can’t stay, Shanta. I’ve got to go back to the university.”
“My goodness,” Mrs. Varghese responded. “Don’t tell me you have a class today.”
“No, it’s nothing of that sort. I just need to pick up an assignment.” Mrs. Varghese sighed, a look of disappointment on her face and a glass in each hand. Shalini said to Jonah, “I hope you’ll excuse me.”
“Jonah,” started Mrs. Varghese. “Have you seen the university yet?” He shook his head. “Well,” she continued, “here’s an idea. Go along with Shalini if you’re not too tired. It’s not too far a walk.” Shalini grinned and seemed intent on him to go. She seemed too sweet to deny him, and Jonah was excited to escape with her, even if it meant walking under the strong sun once again. As he was busy admiring her beauty it suddenly struck him why the Vargheses had invited him to their house that day. It had had nothing to do with his failure to beat the heat, nor was it just another simple expression of hospitality. They had intended for him, a young man of about the same age, to befriend the girl and preach to her, and to help her to find Christ. He was sure of it. The idea made him nervous, and yet added to the excitement he already was feeling in anticipation of walking with a woman of her beauty. “Jonah,” said Mrs. Varghese, calling back his attention. “Whatever you do, take your time and drink that before you go. I don’t want you to dry up.” He quickly drank the contents of the glass in two gulps, barely stopping to savor the sweetness of the water. As Shalini opened the door and stepped out before him, Jonah saw Mr. Varghese smiling and motioning him out the door.
On the way to the university the two of them walked a dusty road leading away from town. Somehow Jonah felt comforted in Shalini’s presence. She walked tall and straight, and her voice was clear and strong when she spoke to him. Walking beside her, Jonah caught a few glances of her red linen skirt dancing around her legs in the wind, and clinging to her just above her ankles. Jonah had offered to carry her books, but Shalini simply thanked him for his generosity, placing her delicate hand gently on his arm. As she clutched them against her chest with her bare arms she again smiled at him peacefully, and Jonah felt his stomach jump with excitement. The two of them walked slowly on the side of the road, and he savored the soothing sounds of the wind and the chirpings of birds. He relaxed and breathed deeply, so far away from chaos of the town center, and seemingly removed, at least for a time, from the realities of life. On the way they passed a large field of rice. The crops swayed gently in the wind, and an older woman with gray hairs hanging out of her shawl walked in between them collecting grain in a large sack. As they passed her, the old woman dropped the sack and called out to Shalini, waving and blowing kisses with a hand rested on her lower back. Shalini put a hand over her mouth and laughed, waving back and replying with something that Jonah couldn’t quite understand.
She was reserved but not at all shy, and in time she began to reveal her story. She had grown up in Delhi, where most of her family still lived, and the Vargheses had agreed to host her while she studied in Kerala. Jonah listened to the stories of her parents and her three younger brothers, to whom she wrote letters every week. The youngest of them was only seven, and Shalini had received news from her mother of how he had cried from missing his sister so much. As she talked about her family her eyes began to get glassy, and she paused and inhaled deeply before continuing. As she looked back at him, Jonah felt she had entrusted him with her most intimate secrets.
The road to the university seemed endless, and Jonah had entirely lost track of time. He had no idea for how long they had been walking, but as he snuck a glance at his watch, he saw that they had been gone for almost a half-hour. “We’re not too far from school now,” Shalini told him. “But we can sit down for a bit if you like.”
“No, it’s fine, really. We don’t have to stop,” he replied. He was exhausted.
“Actually, Jonah,” she started and then paused. “My feet are killing me, so please tell me we can sit down for a bit.” Jonah found the whole thing to be funny, Shalini with her arms filled of books, half embarrassed and half giggling, practically begging for the two of them to sit down. He told her he was tired too, and Shalini happily rested herself and her books on a large, flat boulder on the side of the road. Jonah sat beside her as she reached down and removed the sandals from her feet. “So, tell me about your church work,” she asked him. Jonah realized that he had entirely forgotten what the Vargheses had expected of him.
“There’s not much to tell, really.” He was puzzled that she had asked this question. “It involves a lot of visiting people out in the villages, that sort of thing. Community projects. We’re building a new church now, actually.” He made it a point to stay away from talking about evangelism, thinking it might insult her or scare her away. She looked a bit bewildered at his response.
“Oh, that’s not really what I had imagined, to tell you the truth. I thought perhaps you’d be doing more preaching.”
Jonah wasn’t sure how to react. “Well, yes, that is a part of it, that’s true. After all, I am volunteering in a missionary church. I guess it goes with the territory.” He grew a little nervous.
“You know,” she replied, “talking with Shanta and Epon, and just from reading, I’ve actually learned quite a bit about Christianity.” She seemed eager to share her knowledge with him, and Jonah was somewhat amused. He sat up straight and inched closer to her.
“So, what do you think, then?” he replied.
“Well, quite frankly, I can see why the church is so attractive to people. I love Bible stories, you know. We have our own Hindu myths, which are similar, I suppose. But I grew up learning those, so maybe they have lost their novelty. The stories I have read from the Bible, though, those are really magical. But, of course, I don’t have to tell you that.”
Her comparison of the Bible to Hindu myths had made him a bit uneasy, but Jonah was pleasantly surprised at the interest she had shown. “But of course, you don’t believe them. The stories, I mean.”
“Do you believe them?” she replied.
“Well, yes, I do. I have to believe them, don’t I.”
“I suppose you do.” There was a pause in the conversation, and Jonah watched her consider what she was about to say. “So, what do you think about Jonah, then?”
Jonah hesitated for a moment. “Jonah who?”
“Jonah from the Bible. The story of Jonah. What do you think?”
“Oh, I get it. People have been asking me this question since I was a kid, you know. Jonah, do you know where you get your name? they would always ask. It’s a pretty fabulous story, really. Don’t run from God, that’s the message, I guess. God has mercy on all of us, that’s another. And watch out for giant fish.” He made a jaw with his two hands and pretended to chomp on Shalini, and she slapped him playfully on the shoulder.
“Now you see why I like Bible stories,” she laughed.
Jonah was intrigued by her, and as she looked back at him and smiled, his heart raced. He was dazzled that a young woman halfway around the world had known the very story by which he had defined himself as a believer, and he burned to know what was truly in her heart. “But, you really believe that story?” he asked again.
Her smile straightened. “In many ways I do. I believe we must answer God when he calls on us. I believe that prayer can dig us out of the belly of the beast. And I believe that God is indeed all-merciful. So I suppose your answer is yes.”
Jonah was impressed but wanted more. “But the fish. What about the fish, then?”
“The fish.” She took a deep breath as she prepared an answer. “Have you seen the insides of a fish when they cut it open?” She made the gesture with her hands. “It’s not a pleasant sight, is it? There’s a reason. Human beings were not designed to survive inside a fish’s stomach.”
“Ha! I appreciate the lecture, professor,” he teased. “But you could have just said you don’t believe it, that’s fine. It doesn’t offend me.”
“Well, there’s more, you see.” Jonah waited for her to explain. “The answer to your question – did Jonah really survive being swallowed by a giant fish – is this: it doesn’t matter.”
“Hold on one second,” he replied. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? It does matter. I mean, you can’t claim you have faith in something and just conveniently dismiss what is difficult to believe. It doesn’t work that way.”
“No, no.” Shalini shook her head. She could see that Jonah had become a bit irritated at her reasoning. “You’re misunderstanding me. What I’m trying to say is that the spiritual truth is what matters. The material reality is, well, immaterial.” Jonah appeared puzzled. “So, the story supposes that Jonah was swallowed by a fish, and was spit up, and was fine afterwards. Or, it could be that the fish is just a symbol, included to enrich the message. Either way, it doesn’t change the most important truths and values of the story.” Jonah stayed silent, wearing a contemplative expression on his face. “You know,” she continued, “there was a big event in India a few years ago. As you know, it’s common for Indian families to keep statues of Hindu gods. One of them is Ganesh, and people sometimes bathe him in milk.” Jonah had only a vague knowledge of what she was talking about, but he nodded to her nonetheless. In his mind he imagined a dark skinned Indian woman pouring milk over a clay elephant. “Well,” she continued, “all over India on one particular day, people were reporting that Ganesh had drunk milk that was raised to his mouth. People were going crazy, and they called it a miracle. God is giving us a sign! they said. But the whole time, I just kept thinking, a sign of what? Is God’s power measured in his ability to cause a clay statue to drink milk? If so, I am certainly not impressed. I prefer to believe that God’s power is evident in the everyday beauty of our lives. He is the one who causes the very earth to turn. He puts love in the heart of a mother for her child. And He causes his creatures to have faith, and to do what is right. So, that is the miracle of Jonah, if you ask me. Not that he lived in a fish. That is what I prefer to believe.”
Jonah struggled to digest everything she had said. He stared into her eyes, which were calm and reassuring. As she brushed her soft hair off her cheek, revealing her both her radiance and seriousness, she seemed entirely confident and at ease. It was this expression, that of a young woman so confidently optimistic, and so animated by life, that gave him a feeling of joy unlike any he had felt before. And yet, a disturbing suspicion lingered in his conscience, that meeting Shalini had already changed the course of his life, and steered him away from a path of belief that he had so effortlessly walked for as long as he could remember.
After Shalini had picked up her assignment and the two of them had walked home, Jonah bid her goodbye at the doorstep of the Vargheses’ house. The sun had gone down by then, and Jonah finally arrived at his own room and laid flat his aching body. Many nights he lay in bed trying to sleep, complaining to himself silently of the stiffness of the ragged mattress underneath him. But today, his utter exhaustion had made the bed seem pleasantly soft, and Jonah could feel the muscles in his lower back releasing from their knots. His room was almost entirely dark, only a glimmer of light from the moon passing through the tiny window behind his head. The gold cross around his neck, a gift his father had given him before leaving, gleamed in the moonlight, and Jonah picked it off his chest and rubbed it slowly in between his thumb and forefinger. Over and over he saw Shalini standing in the doorway of the Vargheses’ kitchen, where he had first met her, dazzling him with the brilliance of her smile, her green textbook under her arm. Like a photograph the memory had been frozen in time, and Jonah knew it would be with him forever. He thought about the discussion they had had, in many ways attracted to the logic and reason of her opinions. Somehow he sensed the curiosity he had felt as a young boy in church being rekindled, having been stomped on throughout his adolescence but never having been extinguished. Shalini had awakened a part of him he had comfortably kept asleep for much of his life, and as he realized this, Jonah became as terrified as he was excited.
Again he imagined her face and her delicate smile, and he felt at peace. He had known her for only a day. And still, he believed, it was she who could pull him from the depths of loneliness that had swallowed him here in his new home. Strangely, he felt it was she who knew him best, a woman of a different culture and background, born to an entirely different world than his. In a day she had shaken and rebuilt the very foundation of his Christian faith; and yet, Jonah imagined her at home, knelt before the very idols he had come so far to destroy. How could God, he wondered, send down an angel like her, supposedly waiting only to send her further still, to the burning belly of the earth? His mind spinning with confusion, he pressed his eyelids tightly together and prayed for understanding.
Early in the morning Jonah waited outside Father McReddin’s office in the basement of the church. Mondays at eight o’clock, the two of them would sit down together and discuss church-related topics, in particular Jonah’s teaching efforts. Today Jonah had arrived early, even before Father McReddin had begun his day. He sat upright on a smooth wooden bench in the hallway, tapping his fingernails nervously on the armrest, his mind still preoccupied with thoughts of the previous day. Only one of the lights in the hallway had been turned on, and Jonah sat alone in the dark and hollow corridor, wondering when Father McReddin would arrive. When he finally heard footsteps from down the hall he quickly stood up from his seat. In the distance he could see the dark outline of Father McReddin pacing slowly towards him. He was walking with his head down had not yet noticed Jonah, but as he switched on another light in the middle of the hall, Father McReddin saw him and smiled. “You’re early,” he said as he walked in Jonah’s direction. His white collar gleamed brilliantly and seemed to jump out from his black shirt, which had not a single wrinkle or crease. Father McReddin put his large hand firmly on Jonah’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Jonah.” For over a year, he had uttered to him this exact phrase every Monday morning.
Father McReddin’s office had a musky smell, a combination, Jonah figured, of the stone walls of the church basement and the dozens of volumes of dusty old books that covered two huge wooden bookcases. Jonah noticed that Father McReddin’s desk was more cluttered than usual. A stack of seemingly disorganized papers sat underneath a thick, soft-covered Bible with post-it notes sticking out from every direction. On the corner of the desk was a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame, of a beautiful woman dressed in an elegant black dress, standing with a tall and wavy-haired young man in military uniform. Jonah had stared at the photo every time he sat across from Father McReddin at that desk. He had once told Jonah that it was a picture of his brother, taken only a few months before being killed in Korea. Beside him was his wife. It was the reason Father McReddin had joined the Church.
Father McReddin eased into his chair behind the desk and pushed aside some stray pieces of paper. “So,” he started. Jonah’s attention had been pleasantly focused on the various distractions around him, but this single word called him back to the moment, and he once again became tense. “How are you?”
“Good,” he replied. Father McReddin waited for Jonah to continue, but soon realized he had finished talking.
“Well good then.” He paused and put his elbows on the desk, a bright smile upon his face. Ordinarily it was that very smile that would put Jonah at ease, but today, it only worsened the terrible worries that dominated his thoughts. “I saw Parthasathy in church yesterday,” Father McReddin continued.
“Yes, so did I. It was good seeing him there,” Jonah responded. He looked again at the photo in the silver frame. The two of them were silent. Father McReddin took a deep breath and rested his broad hands on the desk, preparing to speak once again, but Jonah interjected. “Father, there is something I have been wanting to ask you,” he said.
“Please, go ahead,” Father McReddin replied. He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, eager to hear the question. His blue eyes were large and inviting, and Jonah stared into them like they were two giant oceans.
“I have been thinking, Father. Being here has not been easy for me, as you know. It has certainly been a test.” Father McReddin nodded, his face now more serious than before. “We’ve talked about this many times. Without your guidance, I should add, I don’t think I would still be here in India.”
Father McReddin put his hand to his chest. “It had been my pleasure, Jonah. It is the Lord who guides us both.”
Jonah contemplated these words. It was the Lord, he thought, who had changed his life in a single day, who had leveled the faith that he had built since his birth. And it was He, Jonah hoped, who would rebuild it as well. “I think I know why I have been so uncomfortable here, Father. Before, I thought my problem was my adjustment to this new place, this new culture, these new people. The weather. But now I’m not so sure.”
“And what do suspect now?” Father McReddin asked.
Jonah paused and collected his thoughts. It was the most candid he had ever been with Father McReddin. “It’s a matter of doubts, that is what I suspect. And the problem, I realize, is not that I have been living with doubts. It’s that I have been living without them.”
“Jonah,” said father McReddin. “Tell me how I can be of help to you.” He looked deeply concerned.
“When we attract new believers to the church,” Jonah started, “I feel exhilarated, that God has used me, in some mysterious way, to give something only He can give – salvation. And this is why I traveled here, Father, to feel that feeling. But with it, I have discovered, comes the horrible pain of failure, the pain of knowing that many of the people we preach to – most of them, in fact – will ignore our message. And this, I think, is what truly troubles my soul. I wonder about these people, Father, and I worry, not about what they might believe after hearing Christ’s message, because this is something we can not change. Rather, I wonder what the fate of those individuals may have been had they never heard that message. Would they have been blissfully ignorant of their Lord, and would He have had mercy on them? And now that we, the Church, have caused these same individuals to be accountable for their belief, is God’s infinite mercy now limited for them?”
By the time he had uttered this last word, Jonah was nearly out of breath. Meanwhile, Father McReddin had remained remarkably composed, his calm and peaceful expression unchanged. “You may think, Jonah, that it is my interest for you to abandon your questions,” he said. “But that is not the case. What I will tell you, however, is that it is not our job to question God’s judgment. We can only spread the news, you see, and pray that He will do the rest.”
Father McReddin relaxed in his chair, satisfied at his answer to what he realized to be a painfully difficult question. Jonah had not been listening to a single word. His eyes were fixed on the bronze crucifix hanging directly above Father McReddin’s head on the wall behind him. For the first time, the image that he had seen on every day of his life became more than a cold piece of metal. He could almost feel the figure of Christ come to life and call out to him, with a spirit of love radiating with utter omnipotence, capable of breaking the very shackles of the wooden cross, and even escaping from inside the thick stone walls of the church.