Just how obvious is my evil nature, anyway?

I’m not a particularly evil person. Despite what my ex-wives may say. No, really. I rarely lie, I never steal, I try to follow the Golden Rule unless somebody cuts me off in traffic, in which case all bets are off.

I don’t remember all ten of the Commandments, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t broken any in a long time.

But just lately I’m starting to get a little paranoid about my eventual fate in the afterlife. It’s not that I’ve suddenly begun living a hedonistic life filled with degradation, self-indulgence and debauchery (though I’ll admit that sounds kind of fun).

I’m worried because of the priest.

See, for the past couple months, I’ve begun—after decades of inactivity—to attend mass again.

I’ve been going Sunday afternoons to St. Robert’s in Ada. It’s a relatively new church compared to the antediluvian west-side structures of my youth.

St. Robert’s is a nice parish. The people are friendly and I really like the pastor there. His sermons, as a rule, are clever, engaging and charged with good advice sinners like me can make use of in real life.

But like the nuns of my Catholic school days, the Father sometimes seems to know too much, about me, I mean. St. Robert’s is a big congregation, and by all rights I should be just another anonymous face in the crowd. However, there are times during the weekly sermon when I could swear he’s addressing me personally.

Last week’s topic was the Prodigal Son, and the good Father looked my way throughout the entire sermon. I think he did, anyway. I suppose it’s possible that I—like the narrator of Poe’s “The Telltale Heart”—was simply dealing with my own sense of guilt and imagining the whole thing.

But it sure seemed that way.

Surely, I thought to myself, there must be other sinners in a crowd this big; other evil-doers in need of special priestly attention. Why was I being singled out?

This uneasy feeling was only exacerbated when, after the service, I met the Father on my way out. He regularly stands near the exit shaking hands and speaking briefly with parishioners as they make their exodus.

“Nice to see you!” the Father said to the well-dressed couple near the doorway.

“Have a good week,” the Father said to the folks just in front of me.

The Father offered his hand as I approached the exit. I shook it. Then he said—and I’m not kidding here—“Looks like we’ve got all kinds of people here this Sunday.”

By the time I realized what he’d said, I was down the steps and halfway to my car.

All kinds of people? I thought. What does that mean? What kinds of people?

Does the Father know something I don’t? Have my ex-wives been reporting to him directly? Is there some sort of tattle-tale network I don’t know about? Some overly-blabby Facebook kind of thing?

Or is he just guessing? Back in my youth, the nuns at St. Isadore Elementary School seemed to possess a preternatural ability to ferret out my guilty thoughts. Am I still as transparent to members of the clergy as I was in fourth grade?

I’d like to think not, but I just don’t know.

This coming Sunday I plan to attend mass in a fake moustache, baseball cap and sun glasses. If the Father still picks me out of the crowd, I’ll know for sure it’s time to mend my ways.

More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.