The church was already warm by the time the congregation filed in, the early afternoon sun casting long amber stripes across the stained-glass windows. The pews creaked under the weight of coats, scarves, and restless shifting bodies. New Yorkers filled the sanctuary in the way only New Yorkers could — bustling, skeptical, impatient for the service to begin, yet unwilling to leave once they’d claimed their place. Old women clutched rosaries with knotted fingers, teenagers slouched like they’d been dragged in under duress, and working men sat stiffly, as if bracing for judgment.

At the altar, Father Schlatt cut an imposing figure. Tall, broad-shouldered, his cassock loose around him like a shadow, the gleam of his clerical collar interrupted only by the stubborn line of his mutton chops. His Yankees cap sat discarded at the lectern, as if some quiet war had been fought between faith and habit, with faith narrowly winning this round. His eyes scanned the room with the same measured calm that marked his voice, a calm that seemed to unnerve and soothe at once.

He opened with scripture, his baritone slow and deliberate, words falling heavy on the still air. “The wages of sin is death. The gift of God is eternal life. Romans, chapter six.” He paused, let the weight of it settle, then leaned slightly forward on the lectern, expression dry. “Which is a long way of saying: God’s bookkeeping skills make mine look like a joke. And trust me — I keep awful books.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the pews — hesitant at first, then more confident as the parishioners realized he was serious about the joke. Schlatt’s smile was fleeting, but unmistakably boyish.

“But here’s the problem,” he continued, voice dipping lower. “We all want the gift. Eternal life, forgiveness, mercy. But what do we do? We go around spending like it’s Monopoly money. Lust here, greed there, a little wrath on the subway when the guy in front of you can’t swipe his MetroCard.” He raised an eyebrow, “Don’t pretend it’s just me. The Lord sees you too.”

The younger members of the crowd stifled chuckles. An old man in the front row frowned, shifting in his seat, but didn’t leave. Schlatt had that effect — half the room drawn closer, the other half bristling but unable to look away.

He leaned back, folding his hands over the lectern. “The truth is, sin isn’t rare. Sin isn’t exotic. Sin is common as bagels in this city. And if you sit there thinking you’ve managed to dodge it, well…” He smirked faintly. “That’s pride talking, champ. That’s another one for the list.”

There were groans of recognition, even a couple of rueful laughs. A teenager, dragged by his mother, muttered under his breath and earned a sharp elbow to the ribs.

Schlatt’s eyes softened. “But here’s where Catholic guilt gets it wrong. We sit in our rooms, tallying sins like accountants, convinced the ledger defines us. That’s not the point. Guilt doesn’t save you. God’s grace does. You’ll never balance the book. You’ll never pay the debt.” His voice cracked just faintly, a strain of sincerity cutting through the humor. “And maybe that’s a relief.”

For a long moment, the sanctuary fell silent. The only sound was the shifting of wood as people sat straighter, listening. Even the old man in the front row had unclenched his arms.

Then, just as quickly, Schlatt undercut it. “That said,” he drawled, “if you feel like donating extra to the offering plate this week, I’m not gonna stop you. God helps those who help their parish priests.”

The congregation burst into laughter — some shaking their heads, others clapping as if they’d been waiting for the punchline all along. A few frowned disapprovingly, but they stayed seated. No one left.

When the final hymn began, the pews moved with new energy. Some parishioners exchanged smiles, others grumbled, but all lingered a little longer than usual on their way out. Father Schlatt remained at the altar, eyes lowered, hands folded — the picture of a man who had delivered his duty and still, privately, wondered if he’d betrayed it with a smile.