Lead me not into Temptation (Audio Script)

Stories

Interlocking my fingers, I inhale deeply, drawing in the familiar scent of the small, old church.

My life used to smell like cheap whiskey, iron… and sweat - first that of countless women, later that of my fellow inmates. Now it smells of incense, dust, and old paper.

For almost a decade now, my life has been governed by the rhythm of prayer and duty. Discipline is the only wall that keeps the animal within me caged.

No alcohol, to make the blood rush to my temples. No violence, to break bones and leave my ankles aching. No sex, as an outlet for my own dissatisfaction.

Just the cool air of this small church and a simple, country life, ever since I vowed to live on the side of God.

I chose this prison for myself, Lord. That I know. And I call it my peace. My exile.

But sometimes, compared to my old life, it feels more like a shroud.

For the people in this community, I’ve become a vessel for all of their pain and their sins. I’ve become a man of serenity. A man of forgiveness.

But for me, this life was a last resort. A final refuge, to tame the beast within me, without losing myself in the process.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Welcome… What has led you to the grace of the Lord today?”

“You don’t need to be nervous. This place knows no judgement. Only forgiveness.”

“May the Lord be in your heart, so that you can sincerely confess your sins. Tell me what burdens your soul.”

You start to explain that you’ve recently moved to this village. You live a secluded life and have very few regrets, but you often wonder if you do enough for others.

I know it’s my duty to listen to you attentively, but there’s something in your voice that distracts me.

It’s like liquid, like warm honey, it’s rich and sweet. I’m captivated.

It’s not often I wonder what the person on the other side of the confessional screen looks like. But the tenderness of your voice makes me want to lean forward a little, and peer through the screen.

Your silhouette is barely visible in the dim light of the small cupboard. Nonetheless, I can see how your full lips move in the shadows, as you tell me of your sins.

Sins that, in all honesty, can hardly be described as such. You’re talking about white lies and occasional impatience - things that wouldn’t even lead most people to the doors of this church.

Your soul however, seems pure. Clear and warm - just like your voice.

I lean in closer to the screen now, and notice the sweet scent emanating from you.

The distinctly woody fragrance of the dusty confessional blurs into a cloud of your own essence. Of… warmth… and sweet flowers.

Not the kinds of flowers that always give me a headache. But pure, white blossoms in the delicate sunlight, after a light spring rain has touched warm skin.

“Your sincerity is admirable. There are souls who come here, burdened with guilt. They too, find forgiveness.”

“I understand that you long for guidance. We all do, from time to time, and new beginnings can be challenging.”

“But know that we often find guidance where we least expect it.”

“Do you earnestly repent of these sins and intend to change your life?”

“As penance, I ask you to keep your eyes open for people around you, who you can help. Seek to help them with small, everyday acts. In addition, say three Hail Marys.”

“God, our merciful Father, reconciled the world to himself through the death and resurrection of his Son… Therefore, I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Go now in peace.”

After you made your confession, I expected to see you at the evening Mass too. I looked for you… constantly checking to see if you’d come.

Tonight, as the light of the setting sun drifted through the colourful windows, bathing the pews in a sea of colours - surrounded by the warm light of the prayer candles, I searched for your face.

Each time the heavy church door creaked, I held my breath for a brief moment. I hoped earnestly to associate a face with your unmistakable scent… your warm voice.

But you weren’t there.

My community here in the countryside is small, and I know every member personally. I’m certain that a new face, YOUR face, would have caught my eye immediately.

A week later, the door of the confession box next to mine opens. My heart begins to race, as your unmistakable scent fills my nose.

It’s stronger than last time, flooding the small compartment within seconds, clouding my mind in a flurry of thoughts that feel anything but futile.

(Quietly, to himself) “You came back.”

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

While I absentmindedly go through the process of confession, I lose myself in the warmth of your voice. I could hang onto every word from those lips of yours all day. I'd give anything to know what they look like… how they feel.

God, no. I’m not supposed to feel like this.

Lord, give me strength. A wave of shame and self-hatred overcomes me, instantly pulling me back to reality.

You tell me about the small indiscretions that keep you awake at night, and about a restlessness that haunts you, because you’re searching for something... deeper.

“Something…deeper?”

“I understand that you want to feel seen, and heard. We all want that.”

“And this restlessness that you speak of, is not an enemy you must face. Unrest can also lead to an awakening.”

I can feel your breath through the fine mesh of the screen. It smells fresh, like the sweet warmth that’s followed me this past week.

“God also tests us through our desires. Not only through what we fear. And sometimes this inner unrest can be a sign… that we need to change something. That we need… to have courage.”

“Your penance for today? Seek constancy. Don't run away. Face those confronting thoughts. When Mass begins, stay. Don't seek the darkness, when candlelight burns here in the house of God.”

“And with that, I absolve you of your sins. Go in peace.”

It almost hurts me when you say goodbye, leaving my confessional as quickly as you came.

You came back. Every week, always at the same time.

Three more weeks. Three more confessions. And not once did you stay for the Mass. The same is true of today.

As soon as the first light from the candles reaches the pews, you disappear from my church like a ghost. All this, even though our conversations gradually begin to stray from the confines of confession.

As the rows slowly become filled, I stand before my church with my hands folded. The unpleasant tingling in my palms, however, is difficult to ignore.

In the past, I would’ve emptied a bottle of some cheap booze, or numbed the feeling by using my fists.

Or maybe I would’ve gone home with the first pretty woman I picked up in some bar.

(heavy breathing) Now all that remains for me is prayer.

But tonight… Tonight during mass, these prayers feel like a lie.

The burning in my palms grows more intense as I lift the book of God’s word to read from it - almost as if to expose me, for the hypocrite that I am.

My thoughts should lie with the Lord, or at least on getting through the mass so I can get the church ready for tomorrow. Instead, they wander once again to the intimacy of the confession box.

In my head I hear your voice, again and again… Like liquid honey, it coats my mind, slowly softening the painstakingly erected wall of my self-discipline.

I imagine you standing in the shadow of the old pillars, observing me… how my shoulder muscles tense, stretching the fabric of my shirt across my back.

I feel like a liar. A man in my position shouldn't know what it feels like, to want to just push aside the bars of the confessional.

After all those years in exile, surrounded by rules and discipline, I thought those feelings had been repressed for good. Wilted, like a flower without water.

But I know this feeling too well. This greed. This longing.

I thought I’d left it behind in that bare, grey cell. I’ve renounced excess.

(quieter, meaningfully) But what if the greatest sin is to deny the nature that God himself gave us?

(Heavy inhalation) I keep catching myself trying to imagine what you look like in the light. Stepping out of the darkness of the small cupboard, into the candlelight and the play of colors in the stained-glass windows.

I wonder if your eyes have the same gleam as your words. The desire within me grows, to smell your unique fragrance once more - a longing that grows week by week.

As if this vague moment, this fleeting change in my surroundings, reminds me that I didn't just imagine you. That you're not just a phantom.

(murmured) “God forgive me…”

It doesn’t matter whether my belief - my moral compass- would hinder me from it. I sincerely hope that your search for guidance leads you back to me.

Because I’m afraid I’m only just beginning to realise, that I too need guidance.

Just as I’m about to extinguish the last candles after the evening mass, I sense it.

I don’t hear it, but rather… feel it.

It’s like a barely noticeable shift in the air behind me. A warmth that comes from a nearby candle. A scent that suddenly stops me in my tracks.

Sweet flowers, warm vanilla, rain on skin. Freedom…

(quietly) “You’re here…”

For a brief moment, I don’t dare to turn around. Maybe out of fear, that you’ll disappear if I do. Like a figment of my imagination.

Or maybe it’s out of fear of what will happen, when I finally do see you. The fear that you’re actually real.

(murmuring) “The mass is over.”

My voice sounds deep, rougher than it should. Not the voice of a priest. It sounds like the voice of a sinner who’s not slept for weeks, because he’s repressed too much.

But you don’t leave. You don’t move one inch.

And when I finally manage to turn around, the sight of you hits me like a silent blow that I never could’ve prepared for.

(longingly) The cool light of the spring moon shines through the stained-glass windows, casting red, gold, and blue patterns on your face. You’re really here.

For a brief moment, you don’t look like someone made of flesh and bone. Instead you’re like an angel, sent here with the purpose of testing me.

I let my gaze drift over you. First it rests on your eyes, then on the curve of your lips.

God… in the darkness of the confessional, I never could’ve imagined how dangerous it would be, to finally see you.

(quieter) “What has led you here?”

“You’re here to seek advice? What for?”

Your voice is steady and so quiet that it’s almost unsettling. And yet in your words I find something that entices me. Something open. Yet unspoken. Something that no longer sounds like spiritual guidance.

“You… you feel drawn to a connection, that you shouldn’t? To an older man?”

“A man, in whose company you feel safe, even when his position doesn’t allow for this… connection?”

My heart skips a beat. I can't say whether it's because I feel exactly the same, or because of the disappointment that you're attracted to someone who is probably not me.

(somewhat hopeful) But… what if it were me you were speaking about? My gaze finds yours.

(roughly) “You ask dangerous questions…”

I want to create distance between us. I want to remind myself who I am. What I have praised. And from which monster I have fled.

Yet with every passing second, my body betrays me. With every breath, every heartbeat, every desperate thought that tells me, all it takes is one step, to lay my hand on your warm skin…

And the recognition of this fact makes me uneasy. Because I know, in this exact moment, that no exile in the world can save a man who has locked the fire within himself, instead of extinguishing it.

“I’m not sure if I’m the right person to give this type of advice.”

“Because I’m not the person you think I am.”

“I could tell you to fight against this feeling within yourself. That desire will subside, if you just wait long enough.”

“But that would be a lie.”

The colourful light dances across your face and down your body, transforming your curves, visible beneath your long dress, into an artwork of pure temptation.

I ask myself why this nearness, this longing in me, can turn me into a sinner, with you standing before me, looking like a quiet blessing. Not corrupted and impure, but immeasurably beautiful.

Your intense gaze draws me to you, and my legs obey the silent draw of your eyes. You could cower from me, and a part of me wishes that you would. Instead, you stay where you are.

“What if I’m not the good man that this community thinks I am?”

My voice wavers as I sense how something gives way in me. Something ancient. Violent. Not just desire.

It’s hunger. The possessiveness. The absurd, terrible longing to finally stop holding myself back.

(roughly) “What if I’m the person you need to be told to keep away from?”

“I’m not?” (darker) “How do you know?”

(surprised by her confession) “Because I’m the one you feel drawn to?”

You don’t answer right away, but there’s something in your glance that ruins me. There’s no fear in it, no hesitation. Just this quiet, trembling realization - as if you’d been waiting for me to respond to your confession.

“Ten years. For ten damn years I believed discipline was the same as salvation.”

“Then you walk into my church, and a single word from you—just a trace of your scent—rattles the cage I built to hold the monster inside me.”

It is this very monster that brings me to raise my hand and reach out to you, while you still look up at me with your big, beautiful eyes, like the incarnation of an angel.

My fingers don’t move to your cheek. Not because I’m unsure, but because I want to leave the choice up to you. And finally, it’s you who leans against them.

Your warmth flows through me, like the first rays of spring sun after a long, cold winter.

“If you leave now…I won’t try to stop you.”

“Even if I spend the rest of my life acting like I could forget what it was like, to see you in the light.”