No Greater Love

by William Kienzle

  General laughter. Koesler looked troubled.

  “You’re not laughing, Bob,” in a stern tone. “What’s the matter? I think it’s rather obvious—even ingenious. The diocese is served papers of intent to sue and, instead of being dragged into court or forced to settle out of court, the diocese goes on the attack. Isn’t that better than giving up without a fight? Don’t you consider that”—intensely argumentative—“a wise and long overdue course of action?”

  Koesler cleared his throat. “I was just thinking about your comparison of a marriage annulment to a priest’s laicization.”

  “And?”

  “And, I was wondering … Church law never initiates an annulment procedure, does it? I mean, the process of securing an annulment always begins with the person who wants one.”

  “So you’re saying …?”

  Koesler began to wonder how he’d gotten involved to this degree. But he couldn’t put on the brakes at this point. “What I’m saying is, Canon Law … nowhere in Canon Law does a marriage court, a tribunal, move to invalidate a marriage. The challenge to the validity of a marriage always comes from one or the other of the parties to the marriage.

  “On the other hand, you were talking about a priest who is accused of child abuse—molestation, He doesn’t question the validity of his ordination. But his bishop does. And his bishop wants the Church not only to judge that this priest’s ordination was invalid, he wants Rome to be quick about it.

  “I mean,” Koesler continued, “it’s possible for a marriage case to trickle on for months … years. All depending on whether the matter is being processed by a friendly diocese or one that is stonewalling—being deliberately slow. If the case has to go to Rome, then you’re talking major league delay.

  “But with a priest charged with sexual misconduct, his case goes to Rome—normally the most time-consuming and sluggish agency in a marriage case. And the Roman decision, unlike its procedure in an annulment”—Koesler had worked himself into an indignant mood—“is expected to be granted yesterday.”

  Koesler was gazing into five sets of unfriendly eyes.

  After a brief, studied silence, one of the group said, “I suppose, Bob, you’d prefer that we join forces, circle the wagons, and deny all accusations.”

  “Well, no, of course not. Part of our problem now is the result of just such a reaction. We all know that some of our number have actually been guilty of this crime. And, far from facing up to the problem, the diocese just sends the priest to another parish, maybe another diocese … where the same thing happens all over again. Here’s a case of both the priest and the victim or victims needing help.

  “But it seems to me that throwing the guy out of the priesthood—retroactively—is not a constructive, loving, or Christian way of dealing with the problem.”

  Koesler’s statement was followed by a couple of harumphs and several barely audible grumpings from his listeners.

  It was time for dinner.

  Koesler noted that no one was exactly walking with him down the corridor toward the refectory. Maybe, he thought, he ought to keep his comments in the yes-and-no category—at least until he got a better appreciation of who was to the right or left of whom.

  Dinner, as usual, was cafeteria-style. After Koesler had filled his plate, he looked around for a place to sit. He turned just in time to see the five faculty members he’d been talking to in the parlor. They were in the process of inviting another faculty member to join them. That filled that table of six.

  Was it his imagination, or was he being shunned?

  He scanned the room and found a table just forming. He would be the sixth—that is, if they let him join them.

  They did.

  One of his tablemates was a permanent deacon. He was not a full member of the faculty. He was in charge not only of the diaconate program but also of the required classes for deacon candidates.

  Evidently the deacon and the others were continuing a conversation begun in the parlor. It concerned one Henry Sawyer, another deacon who had recently become a widower.

  “Poor Henry,” the deacon said. “I think his age did him in.”

  Koesler looked up from his plate, a forkful of potatoes poised in midair. He was confused. Was it the death of the husband that had created a widow? Or the wife’s passing that made the deacon a widower? In either case, Koesler was not going to question this odd statement.

  But it did bring to mind one of the more glaring blunders made in many parishes when praying at Mass for special intentions. The error concerned burying the wrong person—as in, “Let us pray for Andrew Brown, the father of Edward Brown who was buried from this church last week.” If that prayer were correct, poor Eddie Brown had been buried alive.

  However, Koesler remained determinedly silent, hoping that the question of who had died would be resolved in the succeeding conversation.

  Light was cast on the subject by another faculty member’s question: “Well, why in the world would he want to get married again anyway?”

  That sparked some less than pious repartee.

  “To find relief from concupiscence.”

  “Henry? Why, Henry must be in his—what?—eighties?”

  “Eighty-seven!”

  “That’s why I said that his age did him in,” the deacon asserted. “He doesn’t fit into any of the three categories for a dispensation.”

  “Will someone tell me what you’re talking about?” This from an elderly priest who, till now, had not spoken.

  The deacon attempted an explanation. “It’s about remarriage, Father. Married men can be ordained to the permanent diaconate. But if such a man becomes a widower—or if he’s divorced, for that matter—he can’t get married again.”

  “That’s silly!” said the elderly priest.

  The comment shocked Koesler. Not because the priest’s statement seemed inappropriate; Koesler just was not used to this faculty’s making common sense. Then he recalled: The elderly priest was one of the three reputedly liberal members of the faculty.

  The deacon grew defensive. “I wouldn’t call it silly, Father. It’s a law of our holy Church. And we permanent deacons understand this very well before we’re ordained. Any deacon who is married at the time of ordination, and who then loses his wife, cannot marry again. The diaconate becomes an impediment to remarriage.”

  “Then,” asked the elderly priest, “why would you say Henry’s age did him in? What’s his age got to do with it?”

  “Because …” The deacon gave every indication that his food was cooling and he would rather eat than talk. “… our Holy Father, about a year ago, ruled that there were three conditions for the remarriage of deacons. He said that a dispensation is possible if any one of the three is present.”

  “Pray tell, what might these three compelling reasons be?” The elderly priest was smiling, enjoying something. Either the absurdity of the argument or forcing the deacon to delay his supper.

  The deacon managed a bite and answered while still chewing. “The first condition: ‘the great and proven usefulness of the ministry of the deacon to the diocese to which he belongs’; the second, ‘that he has children of such a tender age as to be in need of motherly care’; and third, ‘that he has parents or parents-in-law who are elderly and in need of care.’”

  “That’s silly,” the elderly priest repeated himself.

  “What’s so silly about it, Father?” The deacon was growing testy. But the question might well have been his way of borrowing time to eat before his dinner got stone cold.

  “Well, take the second condition, for instance: The kids are so young they need a mother.”

  “So?”

  “So kids need a mother their whole life long. There are a whole bunch of guys whose wives die and they need a wife and their kids need a mother. There are a whole bunch of guys who aren’t deacons or priests who lose their wives and they never find another mate. So, they muddle through. It’s silly to make remarriage be dependent on kids needin
g a mother.”

  The deacon forgot there was food in his mouth. “It’s our Holy Father you’re talking about!”

  “I guess there was a time in his life when he needed a mother. Only he wouldn’t have had to wait for his father to get a dispensation to go looking for a wife.”

  “Well!”

  “And take the third condition. Same as the second. The deacon’s wife dies and his parents or her parents are old and need care.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “His wife dies and he goes looking not for a wife or a mother for his kids, but for somebody who will marry him and take care of the old folks. He’s not looking for a wife; he wants somebody who works in a nursing home.”

  “But—”

  “And as for the first condition—the usefulness of his ministry has been great and proven—I know what they’re going to ask downtown. ‘How many hospitals did he build?’ ‘How much money did he give to the diocese?’ Something along that line.”

  “But—”

  “And on top of all that, you said that a dispensation from the impediment to marriage was ‘possible,’ didn’t you?”

  “Well … yes, that’s true, but—”

  “That means a guy could meet one of those cockamamie conditions and still not get permission. So, I go back to my original statement: This is silly.”

  The deacon stood abruptly, and threw his napkin on the table. “I’ve lost my appetite.” He stormed out of the dining room.

  Several moments of silence followed at his table as well as at adjoining ones. The elderly priest did not seem particularly contrite. Finally, he looked across the table. “You’re Bob Koesler, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been so long since we last got together that I nearly forgot you.” He extended his hand. “I’m Paul Burke. What do you think of all this, Bob?”

  “Interesting.” Koesler was wary of falling into another trap. “But I don’t understand why poor Henry, whoever he is—or was—was done in by his age.”

  “Oh,” a nearby priest said, “even—maybe especially—a man Sawyer’s age would appreciate a wife who would care for him. If she was elderly too, they could care for each other.

  “The point is, the choice is taken away from a guy like Sawyer.

  “Sawyer certainly isn’t indispensable to the diocese. He’s not likely to have young children who need a mother. And”—he grinned—“if Sawyer’s parents are still living—well, they don’t need him; they could make a mint appearing on talk shows, or on the lecture circuit.”

  His listeners chuckled.

  “So,” the priest concluded, “Henry sort of slipped between the cracks.” He offered Koesler his hand. “Cliff Rogers. You don’t remember me. I was several years behind you in the seminary.”

  “And you teach …?”

  “Homiletics.”

  “Oh yes.” Koesler recognized the name as that of another liberal member of the faculty. What were the odds of having two thirds of the faculty liberals at the same table? Then again, why not; they probably huddled together to stay warm.

  “So,” said Burke, “Henry slipped through the cracks?”

  “Isn’t it sort of obvious?” Rogers said. “Especially after you put flesh and blood on the three conditions. Henry was way too old to have either dependent children or dependent parents. And Henry lived almost hand-to-mouth, so he wasn’t likely to build any hospitals or bail out the archdiocese.”

  “I still say it’s silly!” Burke emphasized.

  “I couldn’t argue that,” Rogers agreed.

  “It’s this preoccupation the Vatican has with marriage,” Burke stated. “Why in the world would a widower not be allowed to remarry just because he’s a widower? It makes no sense. A guy gets married. Then he becomes a deacon. Then his wife dies. Everybody else—except another deacon, apparently—would be free to marry again. But not this deacon.”

  “You know,” Koesler said, “it’s the same with these married Anglican priests and other Protestant ministers who convert to Catholicism. If their wives die, they can’t remarry.”

  “Actually,” Rogers said, “that this Roman congregation gives the deacon widowers any escape clauses is a big break for them.”

  “If that’s a break,” Burke said, “I’d hate to think what they’d have to do without the three conditions!”

  “Quite simply,” Rogers explained, “if they wanted to remarry, they’d have to try to get through the laicization process. Just like a priest would. And the chances in either petition of getting ‘reduced to the lay state’ are mighty slim.

  “As a matter of fact,” Rogers continued, “about the same time last year as the Vatican gave the deacons a break, they also gave one to expriests—at least, in both cases, the Vatican considers it a gift.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Burke said. “That one must’ve gotten by me.”

  “I thought it was weird at the time,” Rogers said, “and I haven’t any reason to doubt my original reaction.” He turned to Koesler, then back to Burke. “See if this makes any sense to either of you.

  “A guy leaves the priesthood. He doesn’t get laicized—either he doesn’t apply for it, or, more likely, they refuse him. Then he gets married. Since he’s not laicized, the marriage is invalid and he’s excommunicated. Then he falls ill; now he’s in danger of death.

  “Next, they throw this condition into the procedure: His marriage has to be capable of being convalidated. Which nine times out of ten means the wife has to be free to marry—no previous marriage or anything like that. Then the bishop has to send the request for a dispensation to Rome. And, mind you, it’s a request, a petition—so it’s still possible that even though the guy is dying, the Congregation won’t bail him out.”

  “And if he doesn’t go through this process, or if it’s too late, or if it’s turned down …” Burke asked, “what then?”

  Rogers shrugged. “I suppose they’d deny him Christian burial. What more could they do to him at that point?”

  “I remember hearing about that set of circumstances,” Koesler said. “It didn’t seem fair.”

  “What’s fair and what’s foul,” said Rogers, “depends on the umpire’s call.”

  “In baseball as in theology, it seems,” commented Burke.

  “Besides,” Rogers said, “the ultimate explanation, if we care for the solution given by the recently departed deacon, is that we knew what we were getting into before we got ordained.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said Koesler. “Those of us who were ordained before the Council had no way of knowing what was coming … how much things would change.”

  Burke nodded. “That’s true.”

  “Virtually no one was retiring,” Koesler said. “I’ve just recently retired—something I thought I’d never do. Another big change was priests resigning. I’ll bet they never thought it would be so tough to get released from the obligations of the priesthood.”

  “So,” Burke said, “unlike the permanent deacons who had everything spelled out clearly for them before they were ordained, the priests who’ve left maybe didn’t know what they were getting into.”

  Burke shook his head slowly “Silly rules!” he said, barely audibly.

  Twelve

  Hitherto, Father Koesler had kept a comparatively low profile.

  Coming fresh from retirement and being a classmate and friend of the rector, he did not want to give the impression that he was at the seminary as some sinister force. For, indeed, such was not the case.

  So, other than periodic chats with McNiff, an occasional student consultation, and helping out in Homiletics, when Koesler wasn’t catching up on visitations or taking in a few movies and plays, he pretty much stayed in his room, answering correspondence and indulging in the luxury of reading.

  But now he was in the water.

  As for the seminary faculty, most of the members were too young for him to know. Priests, especially, knew their older confrères
at least by name. Younger priests were a vast unknown. Those priests on the faculty who were Koesler’s age or older, such as Father Burke, had been immersed in this subculture so long they scarcely remembered priests in the outside world. And vice versa. As for the deacons and lay faculty, men and women, Koesler had never had occasion to know or even meet them.

  All that would change now. He would mingle. He would try to inject a measure of tolerance and moderation into these rock-ribbed people.

  Koesler had just gotten a taste of the two camps. It was not encouraging.

  After a postprandial cordial, Koesler meandered back to his room. He thought over the conversations he had heard and the ones in which he had, at least partially, participated.

  If one could trust this evening’s samplings to reflect the conservative majority’s opinion, there was a long way to go before everyone could be open-minded, let alone indulgent and merciful.

  If a priest was in trouble and that trouble was likely to cost the diocese large sums of money, dump the man! Thus not only washing one’s hands of him but denying that he was ever a validly ordained priest.

  In the case of deacons who lost their wives—surely a crushing blow—those who wished to remarry had to fit into at least one foreordained condition before they could even petition for permission. And there was no guarantee that permission would be granted. This seemingly arbitrary rule was justified by the cold explanation: He knew what he was getting into.

  Finally, the case of an excommunicated priest in a canonically invalid marriage. If he is in danger of death he can apply for a laicization decree and a convalidation of his marriage. All of that to qualify for Christian burial, with no guarantee that permission will be granted or that he will live long enough for the procedure to be completed.

  So much for the conservative majority.

  As for the liberal minority: Once they got the head deacon on the defensive, they pursued the matter unrelentingly.

  Not a lot of tolerance. And certainly not any mercy.

  Koesler wondered where this might end.