One of Thy Members

Father Ashton was in a terrible state. The man, once so proud and so serious, now knelt sobbing with his head bowed before the crucified figure of his savior. All vestiges of pride and strength had left him, and he cried out to his God for mercy.

"Please, please, dear God," he cried through his tears. "Take this pain from me! This horrible pain!  Let it stop!  Free me, please!" He gasped pitifully.

“I have done what you asked!”

Father Ashton's entire life had been marred by conflict. His war was a secret, internal one. Men, he had always felt, were among the most beautiful of God's creations. As a young boy, before he had learned the proper way to behave, he would dream of being kissed by boys his age, and even endeavored to make good on his fantasies. It was only after the beatings---first from the friend he'd tried to kiss, and then from his own father---that he realized there was something the matter with him.

The rest of his life would be a quiet one. In fact, the main reason he had joined the priesthood was the hope that, there, he should have his mind and soul so fully occupied by thoughts of his Lord that there should be no room for sinful feelings. For a time, he was pleased to see that this worked. He had settled quite nicely into his pious routine of greeting parishioners and delivering sermons, occasionally punctuated by a joyous wedding or a somber funeral. It was a safe, predictable existence, and he thanked God every day for it.

That is, until one day, when Father Ashton found himself in the confessional. He had just assigned penance to one parishioner and sent her on her way when he heard another enter.

"Bless me, Father," said a deep, melodic male voice on the other side of the window. "For I have sinned. It has been a year since my last confession."

Father Ashton could not find his voice right away. Something about the man seemed strange. He did not sound penitent at all. In fact, he seemed almost... proud.

"What is your sin, my son?" the priest asked.

He heard the man chuckle to himself. "Lust," he said at last.

"Lust?" the priest repeated. He could feel a bead of sweat forming on his forehead and quickly wiped it away.

"Oh, yes," said the man. "I have been very lustful indeed." He laughed again. "I do believe there's not a man here in this parish I haven't tasted." He paused, and then added, "Except you, perhaps."

"Me?" A chill crept crept up the Father’s spine. "What do you mean?"

"You'd like it, wouldn't you, Father?" said the man. "You'd love it if I slipped over onto your side... kissed you sweetly on the lips and neck... ran my hands all over you...."

The priest could feel his desire growing. Suddenly, everything he had worked for for years was under siege.

“You’re imagining it, aren’t you, Father? You’re imagining how my hands feel….”

"Now stop that!" he demanded. "This is a confessional!"

"Exactly," said the voice. "What happens in here stays in here. Am I right?"

Father Ashton swallowed hard. He reached down to adjust himself where he was suddenly quite uncomfortable. This was a mistake. Once his hand gripped his hardened shaft through the fabric of his robe, he could not stop himself.

"You're breathing a little heavier now, Father," said the voice. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were---"

"No!" the priest exclaimed. "You have to stop this!"

"But it feels so good, doesn't it?" The man laughed again. "Just picture me, my hard, young, muscular body laid out on the altar just for you, waiting for your hands to come and take me. Imagine my hot hungry mouth, my lips, my hole!  Just think of how it would feel.”  He paused before twisting the knife even further.

“You've probably never done it with a real person, have you, Father?"

Father Ashton was beyond the point of response. His only thought now was the climax toward which he was hurtling.

"That's it, Father," said the tempter. "Release what you've been saving up for years!"

The priest did exactly as he was told. With a moan so loud he startled even himself, he let loose what must have been years of forgotten desire. When he caught his breath and felt his heart rate begin to slow, the shame and panic set in at last.

"Good boy," said the man. "Now say a few Hail Marys and I'm sure you'll be forgiven."

With that, the priest could hear his tormentor exit the confessional, leaving him alone with his confusion and despair. He knew it would take far more than a few prescribed prayers to atone for such a grievous moral failing.

And so, the unhappy Father spent a sleepless night, weeping and begging for a release from his pain. The release came soon enough, but not in the way he had hoped his Lord would deliver it.

When they found Father Ashton the next morning, the cause of death was clear. He had bled to death, the result of a self-inflicted wound. Tragic though it was, it would certainly not have been noteworthy or unheard of under normal circumstances, but it was the nature of the wound that turned even the strongest stomachs among the first responders.

Lying on the floor, cast aside like trash, was a three-inch piece of flesh. Anyone who stood over it knew immediately what it was. Those who wondered why had missed the open Bible that sat on a table nearby. It was open to a particular verse. Matthew 5:30: "And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell."

The emergency responders could only wish it had been the priest's right hand that offended him.