64. Jerusalem, 1999 - Maundy Thursday

In which Francois has a visit.

Francois finds peace. He is done with the guilt. Forever.

Francois

Francois kneels in the dark at the back of St Stephen’s. He’s arrived very early; there’s not another soul in the church yet for the Maundy Thursday foot washing service. The only lights on are those shining on the triptych behind the altar: Jesus at the second coming, returning to judge all mankind—the living and the dead.

Francois kneels on the cushion, his elbows on the wooden pew in front of him, head bowed in prayer, sorrow in his heart, tears on his face. He looks up—directly at Jesus—daring him to answer; expecting only silence.

For forty days Francois has been rigorous with Lent. He has fasted. He has come to vespers every evening; he has missed not a single Liturgy of the Hours¹. And here he still is. Still in the same torment and torture, still wracked with guilt. He has done as Father Michel had suggested: he has immersed himself watching and reading those who are happily living full out—loud and proud. And still he is wracked with doubt. Should he, or should he not?

“So, here we are,” he looks up defiantly at Jesus, coming to judge. “Forty days later, and where am I? Still in the same shit, nothing has changed. Where do I go from here?” His voice is demanding, pleading; his soul yearning, cracking.

And then suddenly Francois feels Jesus kneeling on his right next to him. He feels a warm arm wrap around his shoulders, being held in a loving embrace. Jesus’s quiet voice is crystal clear; it’s a rich musical tenor, with a trace of an accent Francois can’t place, full of both compassion and firmness.

“I did not make a mistake, Francois. You are what you are. You are as God has made you. And it’s up to you to live your life, to find your way. But you are not a mistake. You are loved—as you are—for all of who you are. Be proud of who you are. For you are, truly, created in God’s own image.”

The words…Francois hears them, but he also feels them. They are like cleansing water, flowing to every part of his body. They find every doubt, every fear, every bit of guilt and shame, and simply melt them, washing them clean away. Pure, divine love flows into and through Francois. He feels himself lifted, embraced, and put back down, the same man, but not the same man. A man transformed.

And for the first time in over forty years Francois feels completely and utterly at peace with himself. He feels seen, truly seen. He feels held, truly held. And he feels unconditional acceptance and love. He leans his head on Jesus’s shoulder, his breath even and deep. His body feels full of light and love, released of all its burdens. He's been living in someone else's skin for so long, he's forgotten what it's like to be in his own skin.

It’s a quiet ecstasy.

The old skin just falls away; and he feels newborn.

Eleanor

“You’ve every right to be angry, Eleanor,” Jerry says, his tone calm, matter-of-fact. “His behavior is completely unprofessional and he’s put all of you in an invidious position. He’s betrayed the trust of each of you. And, yes, you’re going to have to talk to him about this. I know you don’t want to. But you have to.”

I’ve poured the whole sorry story out to Jerry. He had time before he had to get to mass.

How on that Saturday I can never forget, I came into the office to get some work done, thinking I was alone, and instead finding Francois sitting naked behind his desk, watching a video I blush to describe to Jerry: explicit homosexual pornography. I had been too shocked to know what to do, so had just backed silently away. Shocked, and also baffled. Coming through the double security doors—they are right next to his office—is not a quiet affair. He would absolutely have heard me coming into the office. And he just sat there, with his office door wide open…I can’t even begin to understand what he was thinking.

The awkwardness the following Monday, neither of us saying anything. How, multiple times since then, I’ve walked into his office during the day, when all of us are in the office, to see him looking at more of the stuff. He continues to keep his office door open. I make sure to knock before I go in. Even so, as I stand at the door, I see images on his screen before he hastily powers it down.

If I am seeing this, Nagla must be too. Her office is right outside Francois’.

“She’s become reserved, quiet. I am sure she has seen it too,” I tell Jerry. “When I come out of his office now, she averts her gaze. It’s like she’s waiting for me to do something. Like she takes my silence for being okay with this, and I’m not. I’m not okay with it.

“And then there was Tuesday.”

And I tell him about Anita, a journalist who does work for Radio South Africa, National Public Radio and other news outlets.

And the fax.

Anita had come to the mission to interview Francois on South Africa’s position on the Palestinian statehood question. After it was done, and while her crew was packing up their stuff, she came to my office, closing the door behind her as she came in.

“Eleanor, we need to speak someplace in private, urgently, can you come round to my place after work today?” And my stomach had dropped to the floor. Oh god no, not Anita too?

Yes, Anita too.

She told me that both she and the crew had seen the same stuff on his computer. I didn’t know what to say to her. I didn’t tell her that after she left the office, when I went to check on an incoming fax, I found it was a letter transferring a large sum to Jacob. And the hideous fear dawning on me that on top of the pornography, now there’s also blackmail.

So here I am, pouring my heart out of Jerry.

“What am I supposed to do?” I beseech him.

“You need to talk to him, Eleanor. You need to be firm and forthright with him,” Jerry responds bluntly, but not unkindly. “You need to tell him what you just told me. You need to make clear, as you have to me, the impact this is having on you, your fears about Jacob, the risk to not only his own reputation, but to all of you, and how this compromises the position of the mission with the Palestinians.”

Jerry is never one to mince words. He is calm, but he is also being blunter and more forceful than I have ever seen him, his eyes steel, his jaw set. Yet at the same time he is gentle with me.

“Whatever he might be dealing with privately and in his personal life, he has not only brought it into the office, he has also exposed it to the press, and that is simply unacceptable and unprofessional. And it has to stop. Immediately.”

I know Jerry is right. But I am absolutely dreading talking to Francois about this. I don’t feel remotely up to the task.

“But how do I even have that conversation with him?” I waver.

“Eleanor, don’t underestimate yourself,” he says kindly, his tone softening but still firm. “Talk to him just as you have to me. Yes, he should not have put you all in this position. But now that he has, it is your job to be clear with him. It’s not the job you wanted, it’s not the job you should have to do, but it is your job now. He shouldn’t have put you in this position, but now he has,” Jerry leans forward and gives my hand a squeeze, “I’m so sorry, my dear, but now you need to deal with it.”

I leave Jerry’s cell feeling clear on what I need to do, must do, but still absolutely dreading tomorrow.

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1. The Liturgy of the Hours (Latin: Liturgia Horarum), Divine Office (Latin: Officium Divinum), or Opus Dei ("Work of God") are a set of Catholic prayers comprising the canonical hours, often also referred to as the breviary of the Latin Church. The Liturgy of the Hours forms the official set of prayers "marking the hours of each day and sanctifying the day with prayer." (Source: Wikipedia)