23. PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACH
PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACH
HIM
Ihad been in Butte for nearly a week and already a gnawing unease had begun to take root deep within me.
The town, with its charming streets and humble homes, had welcomed me with open arms. The people were kind, perhaps naively so.
The whole town seemed to hold great respect for Father Cyrus, as though he were a god amongst men, with his broad smile, gentle words, and calm demeanor.
And truthfully, I could see why they admired him.
His presence was steadying, his faith apparent in everything he did.
But there was one thing that I could not understand: the brothel.
It wasn’t the existence of it that troubled me, per se, it was the way the townsfolk, and Father Cyrus himself, seemed to accept it with a level of tolerance that seemed to me both appalling and irredeemable.
My mind swirled with confusion as I paced the small rectory with my hands clasped tightly behind my back.
How could they, these good, God-fearing people, simply overlook the sinful presence of that establishment in their midst?
The brothel, with its open doors, its welcoming embrace of men and women who sullied their souls in acts of lust—how could Father Cyrus, a priest, allow such an abomination to exist under his watch?
How could he stand idly by, offering grace to the women who worked there and the men who frequented it?
My thoughts spiraled. I had heard the whispers around town, the rumors about Bernadette, the owner, and her business. She had been to church, in fact she was a regular, and she was even respected by Father Cyrus. It was inconceivable to me.
I remembered the first time I met Bernadette and her girls.
They had entered St. Ann’s on a Sunday morning, wearing lavish silk dresses that looked far too expensive for women who supposedly lived a life of sin.
They had seated themselves with such casualness, such ease, as though they were just like any other parishioners, and Father Cyrus had welcomed them with a smile, rather than rebuke.
He had even joked with them, as if they were just old friends, not the harbingers of moral decay that I, and any other ordained man of God, understood them to be.
I did, however, notice the way the other townsfolk had reacted.
They had judgment in their eyes and a clear sense of disapproval.
But still, it was almost as though the brothel were simply another business in town, no different than a bakery or a hardware store.
“Disgusting!” I blurted aloud.
My hand tightened into a fist as I paced the room, my footsteps echoing through the rectory.
The walls, adorned with simple religious symbolism, seemed to close in on me, each crucifix staring down at me with a silent reprimand.
I felt trapped in a sea of hypocrisy, but it wasn’t just the brothel that plagued my thoughts, there was something else. Someone else.
Violet.
I had seen her at church, seated in the pews with Bernadette and the other girls, her long, angelic blond hair falling in gentle waves around her shoulders, her skin pale and flawless.
She had a mysteriousness about her, something dark and dangerous but also irresistibly beautiful.
Violet didn’t laugh like the others, didn’t smile like the others.
She just watched, with those dark, brown eyes that seemed to strip me bare every time her gaze found mine.
I caught myself watching her during the sermon, again and again, my mind a twisted pit of filthy thoughts that made me want to vomit. It was her fault: Violet’s.
She haunted my every waking hour. She was the cause of every desperate, shameful night spent touching myself alone in the dark, begging for release from a craving I knew was sinful but couldn’t stop.
Every time our eyes met, a sick knot twisted deep in my belly, half longing, half hatred, for her, for myself, for this unbearable desire that clawed beneath my skin.
I tried to drown it out with prayers, with scripture, but when she was near, my body betrayed me.
I was meant to be pure. A man of God. But instead, I was a slave to her shadow, trapped in a cage of lust I built myself.
I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms, but the images stayed, vivid, relentless, crawling beneath my skin like worms. My mind wandered to the brothel, that cursed place festering at the edge of town.
A place that seemed to hold all the answers to my confusion, yet none of the salvation I craved.
The rage boiled beneath my calm facade. How dare that place exist?
How dare she? And why does Father Cyrus allow it?
A part of me wanted to believe that perhaps the old priest was doing the right thing.
After all, the townsfolk loved him, respected him, and if they truly had been living in sin, would they not have turned on him long ago?
But another part of me, the part that tugged at my very soul, rebelled against this idea.
I had been taught that sin must be confronted, that those who stray from the path must be brought back to the light.
Yet here in Butte, in Father Cyrus’s church, there was no confrontation, no judgment, no salvation.
How can I accept this?
“Father Frederick,” came the voice of Father Cyrus from the doorway, cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
I turned abruptly, my face a mask of frustration and confusion. My hands trembled slightly, a clear sign of the inner turmoil that had consumed me in recent days. “Yes, Father Cyrus?”
Father Cyrus smiled warmly, his presence so calm and steady that it only made my frustration grow. “You’ve been in here a while. I thought you might want to join me for a walk. The weather is beautiful today.”
I clenched my jaw but nodded, following Father Cyrus out of the rectory and into the sunlight.
We walked side by side, the comforting hum of the town surrounding us, the sound of children playing and merchants haggling in the distance.
The day was bright, and the sky was a deep, cloudless blue that seemed to mock the darkness inside of me.
We walked in silence for a while, the soft crunch of gravel beneath our feet filling the space between us.
Father Cyrus, as always, seemed at peace with the world, his slow, deliberate steps in perfect harmony with the rhythm of the town.
But for me, each step was a heavy reminder of everything I couldn’t shake.
I was hyper-aware of everything, the warmth of the sun on my face, the cool breeze tugging at my cassock, the quiet pulse of the town around me.
It was all too normal, too perfect, and yet, I felt like an outsider, like a man standing on the edge of something I could not be a part of.
Father Cyrus led me down the familiar path, past the white picket fences and quaint houses, until we reached the town center.
The brothel loomed in the distance, its faded sign swaying slightly in the breeze, its entrance marked only by a small, simple door.
The building was modest, unremarkable in its outward appearance, but to me it represented everything that was wrong with Butte.
Its very existence was a stain on the town’s otherwise pristine image.
My stomach churned as we drew closer, and I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of disgust. My chest tightened and a coldness settled over me as though something unseen was pressing down on my shoulders, urging me to turn away. But I couldn’t.
Father Cyrus stopped at the entrance of the brothel and turned to face me.
“I know it’s hard for you to understand, Father Frederick,” he said, his tone gentle.
“But this town, these people, are good, despite their flaws. They live their lives, they struggle, they fight their demons, and I believe they deserve grace. All of them.”
My eyes narrowed, a mix of disbelief and anger flashing across my face. “You’re okay with the brothel? You condone it?”
Father Cyrus’s eyes softened, but his voice remained firm. “I don’t condone it, Father Frederick. But I understand it. People fall. They make mistakes, and sometimes, they need a place to go where they can find solace, even if it’s in the arms of another.”
“Solace?” My voice rose slightly, though I quickly tempered it.
“Sin is sin, Father Cyrus. The women who work there—” I stopped myself, biting back my frustration.
“They are prostitutes. It’s not a mistake.
It’s not something they deserve forgiveness for.
It’s something that they choose every day.
And you . . . you just let it go on. You let them sit in your pews, you let them take communion, and you do nothing to stop it. ”
Father Cyrus’s gaze hardened for a moment, and I braced myself for a rebuke, but instead he simply smiled, though there was something sad in his eyes, something that made my chest tighten.
“You’ve been taught well, Father Frederick,” he said quietly.
“But you have a lot to learn. God’s mercy isn’t just for the saints, it’s for the sinners too, all of them.
Even the ones who sell their bodies, and even the ones who find solace in their weakness. ”
A cold knot twisted in my stomach, and my thoughts turned again to Violet, to her face with that distant, knowing look in her eyes. How could she, how could anyone find solace in something so revolting? The question hung in my mind, unanswered.
Father Cyrus patted me gently on the shoulder, guiding me away from the brothel. “Come now, Father Frederick,” he said softly. “Let’s continue our walk. There’s more to see here than this place.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak. I nodded stiffly, following Father Cyrus as we walked away, our footsteps fading into the background of Butte. The brothel, still looming behind us, remained a silent witness to all that had been said, and all that had been left unsaid.