The Witch of Portobello Page 0,16

communion.

I think most of the congregation knew what was happening. And they were all watching me, waiting for my reaction. I saw myself surrounded by the just, by sinners, by Pharisees, by members of the Sanhedrin, by apostles and disciples and people with good intentions and bad.

Athena stood before me and repeated the usual gesture: she closed her eyes and opened her mouth to receive the Body of Christ.

The Body of Christ remained in my hands.

She opened her eyes, unable to understand what was going on.

'We'll talk later,' I whispered.

But she didn't move.

'There are people behind you in the queue. We'll talk later.'

'What's going on?' she asked, and everyone in the line could hear her question.

'We'll talk later.'

'Why won't you give me communion? Can't you see you're humiliating me in front of everyone? Haven't I been through enough already?'

'Athena, the Church forbids divorced people from receiving the sacrament. You signed your divorce papers this week. We'll talk later,' I said again.

When she still didn't move, I beckoned to the person behind her to come forward. I continued giving communion until the last parishioner had received it. And it was then, just before I turned to the altar, that I heard that voice.

It was no longer the voice of the girl who sang her worship of the Virgin Mary, who talked about her plans, who was so moved when she shared with me what she'd learned about the lives of the saints, and who almost wept when she spoke to me about her marital problems. It was the voice of a wounded, humiliated animal, its heart full of loathing.

'A curse on this place!' said the voice. 'A curse on all those who never listened to the words of Christ and who have transformed his message into a stone building. For Christ said: Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Well, I'm heavy laden, and they won't let me come to Him. Today I've learned that the Church has changed those words to read: Come unto me all ye who follow our rules, and let the heavy laden go hang!'

I heard one of the women in the front row of pews telling her to be quiet. But I wanted to hear. I needed to hear. I turned to her, my head bowed it was all I could do.

'I swear that I will never set foot in a church ever again. Once more, I've been abandoned by a family, and this time it has nothing to do with financial difficulties or with the immaturity of those who marry too young. A curse upon all those who slam the door in the face of a mother and her child! You're just like those people who refused to take in the Holy Family, like those who denied Christ when he most needed a friend!'

With that, she turned and left in tears, her baby in her arms. I finished the service, gave the final blessing and went straight to the sacristy that Sunday, there would be no mingling with the faithful, no pointless conversations. That Sunday, I was faced by a philosophical dilemma: I had chosen to respect the institution rather than the words on which that institution was based.

I'm getting old now, and God could take me at any moment. I've remained faithful to my religion and I believe that, for all its errors, it really is trying to put things right. This will take decades, possibly centuries, but one day, all that will matter is love and Christ's words: 'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' I've devoted my entire life to the priesthood and I don't regret my decision for one second. However, there are times, like that Sunday, when, although I didn't doubt my faith, I did doubt men.

I know now what happened to Athena, and I wonder: Did it all start there, or was it already in her soul? I think of the many Athenas and Lukuses in the world who are divorced and because of that can no longer receive the sacrament of the Eucharist; all they can do is contemplate the suffering, crucified Christ and listen to His words, words that are not always in accord with the laws of the Vatican. In a few cases, these people leave the church, but the majority continue coming to mass on Sundays, because that's what they're used to, even though they