Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

  “Maybe they’ll tighten security after what happened to you, Bob,” Hanson said.

  Koesler laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so. That appears to have been a couple of crazy kids. Maybe he was trying to show her what a big man he was. It didn’t have anything to do with this event.”

  “Well, they certainly ought to do something about it after this outburst this morning. I know they were only scuffling, but this is the ‘Murder Capital of the World,’” Selner noted.

  “I know we get a lot of bad press about being a city where casual, random, aimless murder happens,” Smith said, “But it isn’t always true. Remember after the Gulf War back in, I think ‘91, when a young soldier returned here and was shot and killed. The media made a huge thing about how this kid got all the way through the war without a scratch, but then he comes back to Detroit where he’s murdered for no apparent reason.

  “The contrast did a lot more damage to this city: You can go through a war and emerge with no harm done, but you can’t load up a car in Detroit without getting gunned down.

  “Then, a day or two later, it came out that his wife had paid someone to kill the soldier to collect something like a hundred—or a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in life insurance.”

  Smith realized that he was painting himself into a corner. “I know that soldier was just one more murder in this city. But it was different than the image of Detroit where drive-by kids shoot at each other instead of honking their horns. This was the cold, calculated murder-for-profit that can happen anywhere. It’s sort of like the hypochondriac who comes down with a real, genuine illness.”

  “It’s still a scary city,” Selner insisted.

  At this point, Monsignor Martin joined their group. Again, Koesler made the introductions, not including Smith, whom Martin, of course, knew.

  “Wasn’t that something!” Martin clearly was still in an excited state. “Did you guys see it?”

  “I did,” Smith said. “The others were in their own conference.”

  “Those guys should never have been permitted in here,” Martin said. “I’m going to see about that. Tomorrow’s the real thing. And if something like that were to happen—why, all hell might break loose.” He turned to Koesler. “Bob, you’re in with the cops; why don’t you talk to them?”

  “You’ve got that wrong, Marty. I don’t tell the police how to do their job, and in return, they don’t tell me how to preach.”

  “Even though those people shouldn’t have been there,” Martin said, “I think we might have gotten through without the violence if it hadn’t been for that reporter—Cox, he said his name was … from the Free Press.”

  “Cox, Joe Cox, that’s it,” Koesler confirmed.

  “What did he do?” Hanson asked.

  “It wasn’t so much what he did or even what he said,” Martin said. “It was his smartass demeanor. When the presenters got around to natural family planning, Cox asked if that wasn’t just an updated version of rhythm that had been discarded as impractical and unreliable long ago. And how are you going to teach a method like that to the illiterate and impoverished of the Third and Fourth Worlds, and a majority of them Catholic?

  “Well, that got the conservative gentleman arguing with Cox. Then the liberal guy started defending Cox, and that’s how the altercation began.

  “About as soon as I got those two quieted down, Cox was on his feet again with the Church’s attitude on condoms. He laid heavily on O’Connor’s opposition to condoms even when they’re used by gay men not to prevent children but to avoid AIDS.

  “That started those two yelling at each other about homosexuals, or, as the conservative preferred, ‘faggots.’ Too bad; before that, the debate was moving along pretty good. I particularly liked Father Rasmussen’s saying that the pope was likely to issue an encyclical enticed, ‘Epistle to the Fallopians.’”

  “Speaking of that,” Hanson said, “did you hear about the secondgrader who told his teacher that his mother wasn’t going to have any more babies? The teacher was foolish enough to ask why not. The kid said, ‘Because she had her boobs tied.’”

  “You heard that joke in Tübingen?” Koesler asked, in a non sequitur.

  “‘In German it rhymes,’” Hanson replied.

  “Well” Smith broke in, “I heard what’s supposed to be a true story about kids. I think it involved the bishop of Saginaw—I can never remember his name. Anyway, he was taking these kids through a Q and A session before confirming them. He asked one boy, ‘What does a bishop do?’ And the kid said, ‘Moves diagonally.’”

  As the laughter subsided, Hanson said, “I think it took a lot of episcopal guts to ask that question.”

  “Even more guts if he had asked a bunch of priests,” Koesler noted.

  “This,” said Martin, “doesn’t involve kids, but the priest who told me about it thought it did This priest had a wedding, confessions, and the regular parish Mass, in that order, on a Saturday. He witnessed the wedding, then headed for the confessional. There wasn’t any business at all, which didn’t surprise him—”

  “These days,” Smith interrupted, “almost no one goes to confession. Certainly not like the good old days.” This was said for the benefit of the two presenters, who, buried in academe, might not know what was going on in the real world.

  “Anyway,” Martin continued, “there being no penitents, the priest just sat in his box and thought about the sermon he would preach at the coming Mass.

  “Then, he heard someone enter the confessional on the blind side. He waited for the penitent to start the confession, but there wasn’t any voice, only awkward sounds like perhaps a youngster fumbling around trying to get comfortable on the kneeler.

  “Finally, the fumbling sounds stopped. But still there wasn’t any voice. So, after a reasonable time, the priest leaned over to the curtain and whispered, All right … go ahead.’

  “Now there wasn’t the slightest sound. After another pause, the priest leaned over again and whispered, a little louder, All right … go ahead.’

  “A voice on the other side of the screen said, ‘Who are you?’

  “‘I’m a priest! I’m hearing confessions! Who are you?’

  “‘I’m the photographer!’ came back the voice. ‘I’m changing my film.’”

  Koesler was always gratified at how easy it was for priests, generally, to slip into casual camaraderie. Some of these priests were poles apart philosophically and/or theologically. But they respected their shared priesthood. And they could enjoy each other’s humor even at initial meeting.

  They were now joined by the two speakers at this conference. Monsignor Martin made the introductions. Fathers Rasmussen and Palmer were slightly acquainted with Fathers Hanson and Selner, but were so shaken by the fracas that it took a while for the dawning of recognition.

  Everyone knew everyone else well enough to know that the speakers on each team at the conferences were poles apart from each other.

  “In the name of God’s green earth,” said Rasmussen, “who arranged for this symposium? Who picked the participants?”

  With uncontrollable good humor, Monsignor Martin said, “I did.”

  With mouths ajar and similar expressions of surprise, they all regarded Monsignor Martin. It was as if someone in a crowd had asked who was king in this country and one in the group claimed the title.

  “Marty! You? How come?” Koesler asked. “You aren’t part of the administration. You’re a pastor, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, I exaggerated slightly,” Martin admitted. “I didn’t do it entirely by myself. Paul here helped.”

  “Not very much,” Smith demurred.

  “Nonsense,” Martin insisted. “You were a great help in locating some of these scholars. Fortunately for me, Paul has kept current on modern theologians.”

  “But you made the final selection, as well as picking the topics,” Smith insisted.

  Koesler, recalling Smith’s promise in the seminary, had to silently applaud h
is continuing interest in theological development.

  However, none of this really addressed Koesler’s original question. “But how did either—or both of you get this assignment?”

  “An oversight, I think” Martin grinned. “The idea of having a symposium came from Rome. It was supposed to be a prelude to the pope’s visit.” He grinned again. “I think this idea was not completely thought out or planned. I think Rome just took it for granted that the local boys—that’s us—would work it out satisfactorily.

  “However, our local administration got wholly into the papal presence. They’re falling all over themselves booking residences, planning music, making sure the pecking order—secular, profane, and religious—gets observed—things like that.

  “The symposium was a minor event to them. Just think: When the pope gets here, everybody who is anybody will want to shake the papal hand, get in the same photo with him. Practically the entire Detroit Police Department will be providing security, along with state police and federal agents.

  “We, on the other hand, get so little security that our audience can and did get into a fight.

  “In the absence of any great interest on our chancery’s part, the symposium was dumped on me. And when he heard about it, Paul, good man that he is, volunteered to help.

  “Then we, Paul and I, decided we would have a little fun. So we didn’t set up any straw horses that the pope could rely on to prepare the way for him. Instead we will have an honest symposium.

  “This little thing we’ve set up may mean that neither Paul nor I will become bishops. But we can live with that.”

  “But,” Koesler said, “what about Cardinal Boyle? He’s the host for this event. He must know what you’ve done!”

  “I think you’re right,” Martin said. “But if the pope doesn’t say word one about Humanae Vitae, this symposium isn’t going to hurt very much. If, on the other hand, the rumors are accurate, and the pope’s going to drop his bomb on Detroit to spite Boyle and punish him for his intervention during the Council … well, I think Boyle is laughing behind his hand at what we’re doing.”

  “Besides,” Smith said, “I don’t think this symposium is going to make much of a splash in the media. The cameras and pens and pads will be aimed at His Holiness. They will little note what we do here.”

  “I don’t understand, Paul,” Koesler said. “Last night, you said you were going to be just a spectator at this conference. Now it comes out you’ve helped plan it.”

  “I didn’t think that mattered much. My part in this event is over now. Now, as I said, I’m a spectator.”

  “I’m not so sure something isn’t going to hit the fan over this,” Palmer said.

  “What do you mean?” Koesler looked concerned.

  “This event,” Palmer replied, “has a lot of similarities to that youth convocation a few years back in Denver.”

  “Despite the fact that it’s the Christmas season, this event certainly is not for kids,” Martin said.

  “Not the audience,” Palmer said. “The progressive routine. The Denver program was a papal event here in this country with worldwide consequences. And, most of all, it was to be followed by a papal encyclical that was touted as being close to infallible.

  “That’s what we’ve got here: not a carbon copy of Denver, but the same progression. Denver produced some statements that laid the groundwork for that very conservative encyclical, Veritatis Splendor. Granted it wasn’t termed ‘infallible,’ but it was a very strong position paper.

  “I think—and I’m sure I’m right on this—that this symposium was supposed to be set up, as was the Denver thing, as an introduction to whatever the pope is going to say. And whatever that is, it’s a lead pipe cinch that it will be extremely conservative.

  “And, with all due respect, this symposium doesn’t have a beeswax candle’s chance in hell of turning out any kind of consensus. It will not come close to producing a statement that the pope—given his conservative bent—can use as a springboard for anything he may say.”

  No one spoke for several moments. Everyone was weighing Father Palmer’s statement.

  “Well,” Martin said finally, “I certainly don’t want to get anyone else in trouble, especially not with the pope. The other conferences, with the exception of the one on canon law, are not stacked with conservative versus liberal presenters. So, I’ll go talk to those speakers and tell them about the chance they may be taking.

  “For now, I’ll put it to you, Father Rasmussen, Father Hanson: How do you feel about what Father Palmer just said? It would be awkward, to say the least, if you were to back out at this stage. Although, in a pinch, I guess we could come up with a couple of experts whose opinions were much, very much more moderate than yours.

  “The option’s yours. You could agree to tone down your statements.” He smiled. “But I don’t guess you’d consider that. Or, you can opt out, no questions taken or answered. Or, if you want, we can proceed as scheduled.”

  They all looked at Rasmussen and Hanson, who looked at each other for several moments. Finally, the two broke into laughter. “Damn the torpedoes,” Hanson said.

  “Full speed ahead,” Rasmussen rejoined.

  “Okay.” Martin smiled. “Is it all right with the others? Father Palmer? Father Selner?”

  Selner snorted. “It’s their heads, not ours, that are going to be mounted on the bridge.”

  “Actually”—Palmer looked ready and eager to do battle—”it’s refreshing to have such a worthy opponent.”

  “Then,” said Martin with finality, “it’s done. I’ll just go and sound out the canonists.”

  As Martin departed, Koesler drew near Hanson. “Are you certain?” he asked, in muted tones. “Are you certain? I really feel you’re taking a big chance challenging the very concept of infallibility. Don’t mistake me; I think you’re on solid ground historically. But … this could have breathtaking consequences.”

  Hanson smiled. “Thanks for the concern, Bob. But for one, I don’t agree with Palmer’s conviction that we’re going to make that great a splash. The people who attend this symposium more than likely will be scholars who more or less already have their minds made up. Oh, there’ll be a few zealots like the ones provoked to fight this morning. But let’s hope the security will be at least slightly superior to what we’ve seen today.

  “The media—and that’s about the whole thing as far as most of the populace are concerned—are going to be all over the pope and the other big shots. We won’t make a ripple.”

  “I confess,” Koesler said, “that I’m of two minds. I wish everyone could hear you and think about the practical consequences that have to flow from your research. On the other hand, I wonder if the majority of the Catholic world could handle such a theological bombshell. I really don’t know what to think. But my instincts go with you and the truth of the matter.”

  “We’ll just have to wait until tomorrow and trust in God,” Hanson said.

  “Seems, at this point, literally all we can do.” Koesler almost made the statement a prayer.

  20

  Nelson Kane, city editor of the Free Press, stood near the photostat machine talking with one of his reporters, Alva Depp. They were discussing the continuing saga of the papal visit. “I’ve got very reliable sources,” Depp said, “but nobody seems to know.”

  “Does that strike you as strange?” Kane always spoke as if it were difficult for him to breathe and almost impossible to move his mouth enough to form the words.

  “It sure as hell does. He’s not coming here to celebrate Christmas with us ’cause he’s lonesome in Rome. But nobody seems to know for sure what he has in mind. Actually, one of my best sources is one of Cardinal Boyle’s secretaries. Even she doesn’t know.”

  “What’s so odd about that?”

  “What’s odd—or different—is that the Cardinal usually lets his secretaries in on things like this. He feels they ought to be able to answer questions competently when people—
especially the media—call. But he’s playing this one tight-lipped. So, not only does she not know what the pope is going to say, she doesn’t know why she doesn’t know.”

  “Then we’ll have to go with the rumor. But make sure you use all the words, ‘alleged,’ ‘reportedly’—you know, the disclaimers.”

  “Okay for now. But I’m gonna find it. There’s gotta be a chink somewhere. Somebody knows. And somebody’s gonna tell me.”

  “Atta girl. Go get ’em.” Kane wished more of his people had Alva’s tenacity. There was a day when reporters were a combination of bulldog and magician. Lately, a closed door was a sealed passage.

  And, with the thought of the blend of magician and bulldog, out of the corner of his eye Kane spotted Joe Cox entering the long, white, rectangular room from the elevator. Cox made a beeline for his desk, dropping coat and scarf on a nearby chair.

  Kane poured a cup of coffee and returned to his desk in the epicenter of the city room.

  Kane was the closest thing to a revered newsman still functioning journalistically in Detroit. He was among those who were living proof that one could reach the top on talent alone—no dirty tricks or special favors.

  Odd for bosses in this era, his people respected him. A tall, heavyset man, nearly bald, with arched eyebrows, he could on occasion resemble the late Otto Preminger.

  As he fingered through wire copy, Kane kept track of Cox as the reporter pumped words into the computer. As he did so, Kane remembered the youngster he’d first hired almost twenty years ago.

  Cox had come to the Free Press with few technical skills. He could type at an acceptable speed using from two to six fingers. He had insatiable curiosity. He feared no one. He wrote lean prose almost instinctively.

  He had to be trained to verify sources, to be scrupulous about accuracy and thoroughness. These and other lessons required patience. Kane was not the patron saint of forbearance. But he recognized Cox’s potential. So they played acknowledged games with each other until Cox became a premier reporter in metropolitan Detroit.