It might as well be the inner sea, all these people floating by in surges, welcome calm after the last parishioner slips away at low tide, after the third mass, after he’s greeted each one personally, remembering chief worries, daughter in trouble, husband wronged, teenage boy not certain if he’s in or out of religion, black-hatted old woman who swam in during mass, fluffy white-suited—some misguided angel. The day is old. He walks back alone to the huge rectory built for twelve, now inhabited by one priest and the tidal wave of his God.
First there was the twitch of the olive leaf lipping its stem, then the sigh of silt, settling, and the surrender of crickets, their legs, like fans, folding, when the trill of a brook, intoxicating, irresistible, like the grace of his Lord, carried him away that evening— no chariot for Enoch at the age of 365 who walked with God and simply like the last day in a year was no more.
Michael Izbicki grew up in a nondenominational church in California. A National Merit Scholarship finalist, he chose to go to the U.S. Naval Academy out of a sense of duty to his country during a time of war. At the naval academy he began to doubt whether the career to which he had committed himself could be squared with the tenets of just war doctrine. He got in trouble when he responded no to this exam question: "If given the order, would you launch a missile carrying a nuclear warhead?" After a four-year legal battle, the navy discharged him as a conscientious objector. Izbicki may have to reimburse the service for part or all of his education (New York Times, February 22).