introductory rites
I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault; therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin, all the Angels and Saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God. Pater peccavi... Father, I have sinned. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. I was a man of God once. I spoke for God. I was good. I was good...
O' my God, I am heartily sorry for offending you and detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.
My last confession was six days, eleven hours, and fifty-six minutes ago...
Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando, non solum poenas a te iuste statutas promeritus sum, sed praesertim quia offendi te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris. Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia tua, de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum.
Amen.
liturgy of the word
People, despite their wealth, do not endure; they are like the beasts that perish. This is the fate of those who trust in themselves, and of their followers, who approve their sayings. They are like sheep and are destined to die; death will be their shepherd (but the upright will prevail over them in the morning). Their forms will decay in the grave, far from their princely mansions. – Psalm 49:12-14.
"Grip your knife like someone is trying to take it away from you—that's how tight your grip should be."
The femur cracks and breaks free from the hip socket with the sharp, unshakable sound of skeletal fracture, loud enough to echo, to resonate in your own bones like they themselves were the ones snapping. Your mother says, perhaps to herself, "Yea, I love that sound"; you overhear anyway, and agree. Because it means prosciutto, and pork stock. Reduction is your friend; no one ever got anywhere by seeing something in the whole of a thing.
You can't make an omelette without cracking a few eggs; you cannot make ham sandwiches without dismembering a few pigs.
liturgy of the word
The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me? The Lord is with me; he is my helper. I look in triumph on my enemies. It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in humans. It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in princes. All the nations surrounded me, but in the name of the Lord I cut them down. – Psalm 118:6-10.
"We are not killers, we are butchers. The slaughter is a separate operation."
You aren't much without your knife and your Scriptures and your mother's sayings - you are small, you are fragile, you are weak. You are the fraction of a fraction, part of an equation you'll never see the end to. And they are your tools, they lay the foundation. These three things, they are your basis for being. Just those three things. And you use all three of them with the deft precision of a man twice your age and only half as sane. It's a small wonder. A cause for concern.
You're only seventeen, after all, and your mother lets the priest fuck her just so that the both of you could absolve yourselves once a week. Her body is your gift to the altar, and you make the best of it. You confess your sins and walk easier for it, never letting your hands leave the door to Heaven. You have a darkness in you and you must be the disciple that loves his messiah too much. You must be god-touched and god-wanting. You must imprint it in the marrow of your bones, and let your body translate it to flesh.
And the father? Ah, he's a nice enough man, really. But that's a given - your mother always had a discerning eye for good meat. She knows just how to cut into the natural clefts where the resistance is lowest - a good butcher always does, and she is a very good butcher. It's no surprise that she's gotten into the one priest who'll think of you like a son, the one he can never have, and you always smile pleasantly. Always tell him do go on, father - and he does. You don't just learn his teachings, you inhale them.
You swallow the kingdom of God whole - and then you choke on it.
liturgy of the word
Answer me when I call to you, my righteous God. Give me relief from my distress; have mercy on me and hear my prayer. How long will you people turn my glory into shame? How long will you love delusions and seek false gods? Know that the Lord has set apart his faithful servant for himself; the Lord hears when I call to him. – Psalm 4:1-3.
"Hey—wait, listen! I can get it, I-I swear I can—please, you know me, you know I'm good for it. The fathe—"
"Shh, shh. Don't worry," you tell him. You put your hand on his shoulder, stroke your thumb against the back of his neck like he's a cat. "Do you remember Ephesians 4:28, Mr. Ringwald?" He doesn't resist you, but he flinches. It's the knife cutting into the meat of his thick neck, just below the line of the jaw. Arterial blood is the reddest sort there is, and it beads like rubies along the edge of your blade.
"I...I-I. Please, my wife—"You press the knife's edge in further, and he chokes down his next words. He doesn't swallow.
"He who steals must steal no longer; but rather he must labor, performing with his own hands what is good..." Your smile bleeds, upturned lips melting into white teeth, tongue that licks at the crests of your incisors as you speak. There's laughter in your voice, like you amuse yourself. And you do - your behavior, the barbarity you hold at your center, always seems like a pleasant surprise to you. An a-ha moment. An ah, yes, there I am.
"We'll work something out, won't we, Mr. Ringwald?"
eucharistic prayer
Pray, brethren, that my sacrifice and yours may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father. May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands, for the praise and glory of his name, for our good, and the good of all his holy Church.
And you do. You always do.
communion rite
Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. "God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him," thus spake Nietzsche.
You use his name as a form of division, a formal-informal separation from the you who knows the word of God. You are Nietzsche when you extract payment from the desperate men and women who prayed beside you as a boy. They call you Dietrich - Dietz, little Dietz the butcheress's boy, it's me, don't you remember? - and you don't respond.
You sin beside yourself, outside of yourself. You are a closed, self-sustaining system of confession and absolution. You make your money and then you beg yourself to be forgiven for how you've made it.
You are the man people fuck for forgiveness - they say your name like a prayer. Like you are salvation, and maybe you are. You are the father your mother wanted you to have, the good man, the shepherd, and you are very good at keeping the wolves from your flock.
concluding rites
Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata mundi. Beati qui ad cenam Agni vocati sunt. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem. Ite, missa est.
Go forth, the Mass has ended.
