Father Albin had been studying the Bible for quite some time. He liked to think of himself as a scholar of sorts. He had tried to learn Aramaic, Hebrew, and Koine Greek in order to study early versions of the biblical texts. Unfortunately, between his primary studies, and his ailing parents, he was not able to dedicate the required time to fully master literacy in those languages.

He had, however, found that researching early English translations came a bit easier. Many readers might have familiarity with the King James version of the bible, or possibly the New International Version (NIV), ironically titled as a translation into modern American English. Father Albin had studied both in his youth, and found them authoritarian, overtly righteous, and frequently just plain out of touch with modern society. Also, he had found many parts of the text just didn't ring true for him. And so, he had sought out the earliest, original texts to try and better reconcile the so-called word of God, and his faith.

Despite stumbling over the ancient languages, he persisted in his study of early English translations. He obtained access to early manuscripts of the Tyndale Bible. He had also been granted temporary access to a Wycliffe Bible for study. Father Albin spent time not just studying these dense texts, but also studying the men behind them and the culture of the day, to help provide context.

The thing that Father Albin found most disturbing was the combination of his faith challenge, and the biblical inconsistencies he couldn't resolve. He had studied the old and new testaments extensively, and couldn't fully understand how both described the same "God". He wanted, desperately, to believe in a Jesus, as described by his disciples, but couldn't find a way to reconcile such a man with his experiences. Men were human. Men were borne of human emotion, of human fallacy. If Jesus was human, where were his human traits? Where were his faults? Had the myth of Jesus been whitewashed over the centuries?

Perhaps the son of God was devoid of faults? But then, why make him human at all? To be human is to be human. To experience the joy, the confusion, the lust, the emotion, the failure, the triumph. Was Jesus exempt from the full range of human experience? Or was he human, but with a truer goal, a more noble transcendence.

Sometimes, Father Albin imagined what it would be like to meet Jesus today. What if Jesus was in his church? What would he do? What would he say? What would he think of Father Albin? What if Jesus was disappointed in him?

Usually these kinds of thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind. Father Albin's success had been predicated on his ability to maintain solvency, to ensure confidence in himself and his flock. Usually he was the rock they could depend on.

But this night was different. He felt numb. He felt less than. He felt unworthy. He had done good for the community, sure. But was it enough? Was it all he could offer? He had delivered his Greatest Gift sermon three days ago, but it didn’t seem to resonate for him or his congregation the way he had expected.

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What did his church need? What did his people need? Assurance? Lies? Confirmation of what they already believed? Was he a fraud? Wasn't he a fraud? He had been a student of the material, but had he been a student of the people, of their souls? His mind reeled ... he thought of the oaths and vows he had taken, he thought of the sacraments he had performed... he thought of the redundancy and rote-ness of it all. What was he? A modern-day charlatan? A huckster? What were the vows he took?

He sat back in a chair to contemplate this train of thought. And he dug deeper. And reflected on his life and where he was. He reflected on the confidence he had tried to convey to others. And then he sighed... a long deep breath in and out. A realization of the burdens and compromises of his position. It was like he had a small glimpse under the blanket that covered the universe, and could see the true reality of it all. He could see the face of God, or, rather, the lack thereof.

His car port was small. It was a simple covering over a portion of his driveway, large enough to cover his modest Toyota. The doorway from his kitchen opened into the car port. He walked through it. The backside of his house included a small chicken wire area, conceived as a garden. Father Albin had never attempted to grow anything in it. On the back brick wall, though, was a spigot, and a garden house. He already had a roll of duct tape in his hands, which he had grabbed from the junk drawer in the kitchen on the way out.

It was a simple task to tape the garden house to the muffler. And then into the window of his Toyota. He was strangely serene and calm. Even absent-bodied as he moved through each task. As he sat in the car, he played Max Bruch's Violin Concerto over the stereo. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. It took many minutes for the carbon monoxide to overcome the oxygen in the cabin of the car. And when it did, Father Albin simply breathed in and out, and his brain operation faded into a million dots of light before blinking out.

It was nearly two days before he was found. His car had exhausted its fuel supply. A local mother had stopped by to inquire about an upcoming service, and discovered him in the car, in the carport, completely unresponsive and cold. She immediately called emergency services, and an ambulance and police squad were at the house within minutes. They immediately triaged the scene and pronounced Father Albin dead.

As they went through the house, the discovered what appeared to be a suicide note.

To my parents,

I can’t bear the burden of being something other than what you wished for. The weight of it all is so much, even during the good times, but now I am suffocating.

I don’t know who to blame for this, though I want to blame someone. I am sure you do as well. But that isn’t fair. I have brought this misery on myself

I always ever want your happiness.

I wish I could think of some other solution. I wish I could fix what I have broken, what is broken in the world. I wish I had been different; been a better person. The person everyone thought I was. I wish I had a solution that didn’t end this way, but I can’t think of any. And the pain and disappointment in myself is too much to bare, and is spiraling out of my control.

The only peace I can imagine is to sleep, forever.

-Albin