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Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: RITUAL (01/20/22)

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• TITLE: Sanctified Sacraments. | Previous Challenge Entry
  By Robert Rutaagi
  01/26/22
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anctified Sacraments
A: The Baptism

The Shepherd
Gently holds the baby
In his holy hands.
Name this child;
He enquires from the godfathers.
“Eric Bushnell”.

‘Eric Bushnell,
I baptize you,
In the name of the Father,
The Son,
And the Holy Spirit.
Amen.’

As he sprinkles
The Holy waters
Upon the unbelieving babe,
The latter kicks rebelliously
Both hands and feet;
Clenches his teeth as if to bite,
And laments this ’tragedy’
Of violation of human rights.

And what does that crying mean?
A passionate call for help,
From God, the Almighty
To arrest this Priest
For violating this baby’s inalienable rights
To live in paganism;
To protest against Jewish anachronism;
And to demand liberty.

Will no one translate?
To this baby,
The logic of this harassment?
Will the godfather,
Be able to rationalize the nexus between faith
And this baby’s rights
Against human need for liberty
When judgement day comes?


Which Apostle,
Dead or alive,
Will scientifically exonerate
This holy Chalice and its waters,
The inequities of the English thief
Who tries to baptise his thieving sins
By donating to All Saint’s Church?
How about that water,
Probably, irretrievably mingled
With the murderer’s flesh
And urine of a prostitute?
And administered by a distant descendant
Of Judas Iscariot?

B: The Holy Communion

Like an ingenuous herdsman,
Who, by a mere traditional call,
Galvanizes his herd into a marathon,
To the salted water – pool,
Whence his herd quenches its thirst,
The Priest sets his congregation,
Into stampede to the holy altar,
For the holy sacrament.

Like Jesus of olden days,
The shepherd breaks the bread,
Pours the wine, solemnly prays,
And gives to his sheep.
Like hungry children or frightened slaves,
On their humble knees,
The repentant sinners guiltily imbibe,
Those religious concoctions,
To absolve their inequities,
And biological short comings.

As the humble believers,
Queued up for the sacrament,
Like world war II victims queuing up for donated food,
Or COVID-19 victims for vaccination,
I wondered and worried,
Whether these ecclesiastical preparations,
Would ably exonerate man entirely,
From Adamic inequities,
Into heavenly kingdom?

Suppose Jesus’ death
All these sacrosanct sacraments,
And human faith,
Eventually fail to redeem man-kind,
Would a second death be necessary?
And would it be by the wooden cross,
Or by firing squad or any smarter biological weapon?
And would stage managed resurrection,
Be possible under a modern locked coffin,
Sealed cement or administered sulphuric acid
Let alone, heavily armed Adamites?

C: Death in the Morning

That dismal day,
Day thirteen of March,
Nineteen eighty nine,
Ominously came,
As the old adage goes,
With untimely demise of Allen Bob.

At 4:30 am, 628822 rang.
It rang on and on, continuously.
Entire City was in deep slumber,
Getting ready to wake up for the next day.
This silent Sunday night,
Was rudely broken by Post Office -
And me, innocent sleeper.

As I lifted the gaping receiver,
My heart was beating fast.
What could be the message?
“Hello! Mama Pearl.”
“Dad Pearl” – Celia said at the other end,
“Bob, Allen is dead”.

There ensued moments
Of confusion, deep in my frightened heart.
Overcome by a whirlwind
That swept through entire me.
“Are you sure – ask the nurse?”
“Little chance there is – she says…
Come fast as you can.”


As I gunned my Pajero into motion,
Great pain gunned me everywhere.
The journey between home and hospital,
Seemed longer than geography says –
But eventually I arrived
At those horrible
Where death daily occurs.

As I approached the ward,
My heart mourned.
I felt tearing into pieces.
And my legs rebelled to carry me forward.
Yonder, in the corridor, I decried Allen’s doctor.
“Sorry – Allen is dead,” he said.
Allen, my replica youngest child, died,
At tender age of only 11 months -
As innocent as innocence;
He lived as briefly as an unfinished dream,
And left me in perpetual grief
That is indescribable and mysterious,
Yet real to break my heart. So long Allen.

Two days later, Allen was buried.
Relatives and friends gathered.
The Clergy, too, came in their vestments.
In solemn match, we moved to the grave
Singing and mourning.
Life, much like a flower, blossoms and ends
Like a candle, the wind blows it away
And the flesh, originally dust, goes back to dust!
As the Priest ceremonially invoked these ecclesiastical decrees,
I passed out, as I witnessed my only one year old Allen Bob
Being lowered into my grave because life became and is one.

A&B: Satirical Non-Fiction Spiritual Experience. C: Non-Fiction.

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