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priestly robe, carrying the golden ice bucket, and sprinkled every last churchgoer with dirty, lukewarm

tap water. It was a sparkling shower, glorious and golden.

               The donation baskets that were passed around afterwards paid for the baseball bats 10 times

over. The crowd was in a frenzy. The parishioners felt as though they were participating in a

shopping spree, some not realizing how much they were actually spending, others forgetting that they

didn't even like baseball. "If this is religion," one newcomer wearing a mustache and catcher's mitt

remarked, "sign me up for season tickets."

               Father Feinstein stood in the vestibule after mass, shaking hands and saying hello to each

member of the current congregation. "Remember, folks," he said, though looking at only one person,

"Those wishing to make their donations by credit card may see Sister Susie at the table over in the

corner, or can call the Guilt Hotline at 1-800-GOD-CASH anytime during the week."

               Sister Susie posed, not lying down on a shiny, competitively priced sports car, but standing

behind a cheap brown card table. She kept herself busy all morning long, collecting credit cards and

issuing receipts, and occasionally letting out a surprised "Oooo!", then playfully scolding the

moment's culprit. But she smiled and pushed the pinching claws away. The guilty fingers seemed

satisfied with Sister Susie's back side, though, because for the days of the following week, and the

week after, the Guilt Hotline didn't ring once.

               Father Feinstein shook hands with the last few parishioners. The only people left by this time

were a few from the old days-- grey haired, fidgety Republicans, still mumbling to themselves about

faith, family, and country.

               "Say, Father, it's a shame about Father Kevin, wouldn't you say?" a wrinkled, half-conscious

woman chirped. She was pointing through the double doors to the construction site across the street.

A glistening, black tarp was covering the frame of a new building where Father Kevin's church had

once stood. The tarp hung like a mask, covering the face of whatever new department store or

apartment building that was being erected.