The Good People of God

"Have you been saved by the Holy Spirit today?"

The first thing that caught my gaze was the massive cross around her neck. It was hand nicked out of wood, about 8" tall, 4" wide and 3" deep, so deep that is appeared to be in 3D. It laid perfectly between her bosom and created a perfect trinity across her chest: the father, the son and the holy breast. It was attached to her pencil like neck by a large piece of hemp, the kind that religious orders use to cinch their robes tightly again incoming evils and I worried that if she leaned too far to one side she might be thrown off balance by the weight of the thing, strangled and cast down towards the unearthly fires.

"Do you like it?" she asked as she fingered it delicately, her tiny white digits gliding obsessively over the whole unvarnished surface. We were standing face to face in the church business office and the scene felt a little obscene to me. It was as though I had interrupted someone in the midst of their private raptures and I felt I should immediately shield my eyes from these dark, delicious sins. She continued to touch the small wooded talisman in a nervous tic like manner. I was remined of those devoted nuns of yore who whipped themselves senseless to ecstasy with small pieces of leather. Repetitive motions on behalf of the Lord, I supposed.

"Of course," I answered.

I had been working as a substitute church organist at a prominent Catholic Church in NYC and was a bit alarmed as I hadn't been paid in all of two months. Jesus was always in high demand, even more so after the recently lifted pandemic restrictions so there was no obvious financial distress in this House of the Lord. "They pack them in like fishes and multiply, multiply, multiply the profits" observed my friend Jeff, the very one, a fellow organist, who was responsible for my temporary placement.

She continued to stare at me intently, still fingering the crucifix, when I could feel the beginnings of an guttural utterance, that slight feeling you get when acid reflux starts its perilous journey upwards, just at that exact moment your vocal folds fire to life to form sounds. " I haven't been paid in two..." But before I could eject even the beginning of the next word she began to rise up like the communal burning fires of Fatima and proselytize about the good works of Jesus, the overpowering presence of God in the world and the benefits of letting the Holy Spirit into the body. "Like this," she hissed as she snorted air into her nose with little whistle sounds, the little wispy divinities sailing heavenward, riding earthly air molecules up each nostril on a mission to carry the mist of the Holy Spirit into the earthly body. She continued this monologue for some 5 minutes or so at which point I decided to back up slowly and exit into the courtyard. I don't think she noticed. Through the window I watched her through the small paneled church window panes as though she were a silent film star. Her lips mechanically formed those reverent inaudible vowels and her eyes were trained skyward towards the prize.

I kept sending weekly invoices to the church office email address and also started to leave backup voice messages. No response. I sometimes stopped by the office on weekdays hoping to run into another more "lucid" employee but she was always there alone, staring through me with those eyes, each pupil a tiny laser jet that bore the Holy Spirit aloft on its lonely journey and seared it into the unfaithful.

During one of my visits I found out her name. While she expounded on the benefits of divine grace, the Holy Scripture and the imminent need for all to be saved, I excused myself to go to the restroom. More accurately, I walked away and she didn't notice. On the shelf above the sink I stumbled upon some unopened church mail. The address read as the "The House Of God" and the recipient simply "Santa Angela." So Angela was her name. I exited the restroom and the office, still no payment in hand.

"You really need to contact one of the priests," Jeff said to me over lunch. I told him that I had tried, but every Sunday I descended from the organ loft and everyone was gone from the Sanctuary, and that I never saw anyone else in the office. He suggested I try to visit the rectory located down the block from the church. I agreed.

One more try. I thought that I would give Angela one more chance. I am not the type who wants to cause anyone trouble with their superiors, and, since the office was on the way to the rectory I stopped by on Wednesday. As I rounded the corner I noticed that there was quite a bit more activity than I had ever remembered in the courtyard by the office. Hmm, I though --- maybe they are catching up on repairs. I buzzed the office, opened the door a went in. Behind the desk was a young woman of about 29, alert and professional.

"Hello, my name is Annie."

"Annie? What happened to Angela?"

A confused look, like a passing cloud of dirty water, wiped over her face. She told me that no one named Angela had ever worked in this office and that she, Annie, had been the Church Administrative Aide for 8 years. She continued to recount that she had recently been out sick for an extended period of time and that one of the Priests had been covering while she was away.

"Really? said I, somewhat exasperatedly. "I have never seen anyone else in this office."

"Maybe he was working online in the back office."

I relayed to her my story of nonpayment to which she apologized profusely, told me that they had never received any invoices from me and suggested that I submit one final invoice that she would promptly process.

"One more thing," she said. "There is a package for you."

I found this curious to say the least but accepted the box and exited out onto 1st Avenue. I opened the box and found inside the most beautifully colored paper I had ever seen. Hiding underneath, as though in its own private crypt, lay a series of small stained glass panels that were forged out of every invoice I had ever sent to the church. The invoices had been mixed into the sandy glass and whole was lit from within, like a Rembrandt painting, giving off an eerie iridescent glow. I carefully lifted the panels out of the box when a piece of paper dropped to the ground. It was a check. I picked it up and looked at the front. It was made out to my name for an amount that was more than 5 times what I should have been paid. At the bottom of it all rested a small velvet bag. I picked it up, rolled it beneath my fingers only to recognize its contents before I even opened it. It was the wooden cross strung with hemp. Attached was a note that read "For Your Service."

I didn't have the nerve to go back inside the office so I called. Annie picked up. I told her that there must have been some accounting error on my end and that I had already received payment. She reviewed the church records and insisted that this could not the case. She was somewhat confused when I told her that there would be no need for them to send payment at this time to which she asked, "So what should we do with the money we owe you?"

"Donate it to a worthy charity in the name of Saint Angela."