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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Next to me on the train going home to the suburbs is another guy stuck in a suit reading his paper, a normal-looking guy who suddenly says it’s terrible, what’s happening in Syria and Iraq, terrorists killing people. Then he says if he believed what the terrorists believe he wouldn’t care either whether he died in battle. If 77 virgins were waiting for him, he’d be happy to die a martyr for the cause, but since he’s an atheist he knows no one is waiting. Then he looks at me and asks if I'm a believer. I’m a lot bigger than he is so I say I’m a Catholic, and he says if he believed what Catholics believe— that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, is in a wafer waiting in that little house in the middle of the altar-- he wouldn’t walk into church, he would crawl up the aisle every Sunday and lie there, face down, praying. He asks if I get his drift, shaking his paper. I say I certainly do, but Catholics know what they have and don’t like making a scene. It’s in their genes from the time they spent in the catacombs praying not to be killed. He says he understands the importance of propriety but says if Christ is God and is on that altar, how can Catholics just sit there, mannequins in a pew, standing and kneeling once in awhile to avoid clots in their legs. I agree that’s a good question. Finally he yells, loud enough for all to hear: For Christ’s sake, the next time you go to church, act like he’s there and do something! He shakes his paper again. The train rolls on and there’s a loud moment of silence. The man has a point, I say to myself. Finally I say I’ve enjoyed talking and have learned a lot but the next stop is mine. I have to get off. Donal Mahoney
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