No Greater Love

by William Kienzle

  He was about to pass the rector’s office when he hesitated, then decided to knock.

  “Come in.” Loud voice, bored tone.

  Koesler entered. “I was concerned about you. You weren’t at dinner.”

  “But you were.” McNiff smiled mischievously. “I have my spies.”

  Koesler shook his head in mock despair. “Okay, so you knew I wasn’t going to join you, as is our occasional custom. How come you played hermit?”

  McNiff, his desk covered with books and papers, sat back in his chair. “Two things. I had some work to do. Plus I wanted you to mingle with the faculty without my being around.”

  Koesler nodded.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Pretty well, I guess. But it’s going to be hard to stay neutral.”

  “Sit down, why don’t you?” McNiff indicated a chair near the desk.

  “Can’t. There’s a guy coming to see me … from the old parish—St. Joe’s.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  Koesler shook his head. “I don’t think so. Actually, I don’t know yet what he wants. But I’ll keep in mind that you offered … just in case.

  “And you … you’re feeling okay?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, paperwork, and leaving you to get acquainted. I’ve got a microwave; I’ll heat something up in a little while. If you get done, come on down later on. We can chat, and split a cool one.”

  Koesler inclined his head to one side. “I thought you were off the sauce.”

  “I am. But I’ve got some pop in the fridge. And the makings for just about anything you want.”

  “Okay … if it’s not too late.” Koesler turned to leave.

  “By the way,” McNiff said, “did you notice my door?”

  Koesler studied the door, then turned the knob, opened it, and stepped out in the hall, where he stood examining the outside of the bishop’s door as if he’d never seen it before. “Okay. So?”

  “It’s clean.”

  Koesler looked at McNiff quizzically.

  “It’s been clean ever since it was scrubbed after Donnelly dumped supper all over it,” McNiff clarified.

  “What did you expect?” Koesler said. “Somebody had to clean it.”

  “Not so. It was just as likely to remain in status quo until the whole mess became part of the wood.”

  “Well, in that case”—Koesler bowed his head in acknowledgment—“congratulations.”

  “I know Donnelly didn’t clean it up … though she should’ve. Somebody from the kitchen told me she dumped the empty dishes off and ate her own supper. Somebody else cleaned it up before it congealed. I haven’t been able to find Donnelly to ask her. If you come across her, find out, will you? Such attention to a job that needs doing should not go unrewarded.”

  “Okay. I’ll find out for you.”

  Why hadn’t McNiff found out for himself? It couldn’t be that difficult.

  But it was a minor request, and Koesler would look into it.

  He continued down the hall to his own room and let himself in.

  Technically it was a suite. But to his mind that term connoted something a whit more elegant than this hodgepodge. His quarters consisted of a bedroom, something that might be called a den or a sitting room, and a bathroom with shower, toilet, and sink.

  It seemed comfier than it actually was because most of the furniture was his own.

  No sooner had he settled in than the security guard rang to announce the arrival of his guest. Having ascertained that Cody knew the way the guard sent him on up to Koesler’s room.

  Koesler was experiencing bad vibes over this appointment. No specific reason, just a hunch.

  From the first parish council meeting after Bill Cody’s election as president, he had given notice that his would be a hands-on presidency. And so it had been.

  As far as Koesler’s pastoral role went, there was little if any friction between pastor and president. Indeed, Cody had been extremely helpful in offering advice and guidance in several legal matters.

  This suited Koesler perfectly. He had no legal skills and he appreciated Cody’s help and guidance.

  The parish liturgies were well planned and effectively presented. They were about as traditional as they could be, given the prevalence of the vernacular and the increased participation of the congregation.

  There were no Folk Masses to speak of. So few children or young people attended Mass that there was no groundswell of support and thus no call for them.

  Koesler had the feeling that anything even faintly resembling a Pentecostal Folk Mass would have ignited a strong, relentless, hostile reaction from Bill Cody, and—under his leadership—from several other council members as well.

  Koesler considered himself fortunate that Cody’s interest in St. Joseph’s parish was limited to the liturgies and to any financial or legal questions that affected the parish.

  Conceivably, it was Cody’s legal training that kept him at a good arm’s length as far as the counseling and sacramental services Koesler offered. These, Cody believed, constituted information even more privileged than lawyer-client confidentiality.

  In the end, what with the satisfactory liturgies and respect for inviolability, the relationship between Koesler and Cody was practically trouble-free.

  Then why these vibes?

  This was not going to be a cordial meeting between old friends. Something was amiss.

  There was a knock at the door. Koelser invited Cody into his parlor.

  They settled in, facing each other across Koesler’s desk, and exchanged pleasantries after Cody had declined a drink. “Have you seen Al yet?” Cody asked.

  Koesler hesitated for a fraction of a second. In his preoccupation with trying to figure out the purpose of Cody’s visit, it had slipped his mind that Cody’s son, Al, was a student in this seminary.

  “No, I haven’t. I meant to, but I’m still getting settled here. Of course Al is tops on my agenda, but also, I have to make it clear to the students generally that I’m here for them. They can come to talk or whatever. It’ll just take a little time.”

  Cody pursed his lips. “Why did you do it, Father?” Cody would never call him Bob; he too respected the office. “I mean, why did you accept this assignment? You’re retired. And you worked hard … I can testify to that.”

  “‘Why?’” Koesler searched for a way to explain. “I did it for a friend.”

  Cody looked wonderingly at the priest. “You gave up retirement for a friend? That’s hard for me to understand.”

  Koesler smiled broadly. “Don’t get the wrong impression, Bill. I don’t know how much more time God will give me. I hope it’ll be a lot. But I don’t really expect to do this until I drop. The help I may be able to contribute here will either take effect or not within the next several months.”

  Cody stared at the floor briefly, then looked up. “Well, let me ask you this. You’ve been a priest for …”

  “Almost forty-five years.”

  “A long time. You can look back now on a lot of service. Was it happy? Were you happy?”

  Koesler paused to reflect on the question. It had been thoughtfully proposed; it deserved a thoughtful response. “Everybody’s life is a mixed bag, I think,” he said finally. “There’ve been times when I’ve been extremely discouraged. Times of loneliness. But I guess the conclusion is: If I had to do it over again, I’d do it just the way I have done it. So, in a nutshell, I think I can say yes. It’s been a happy life.”

  Cody silently considered the statement.

  Koesler wondered at the question—a question a lot more personal than any that Bill Cody had ever asked him. Was this the urgency, Koesler wondered, that Cody had advanced when he proposed this meeting?

  Koesler thought he knew the answer. “Is your concern about Al?”

  Cody nodded. “He’s got just a few more months till ordination.” He gazed fixedly at Koesler. “I know all about the priests who defected. But I consider the priesthood
something that goes beyond the grave. That’s the way I’ve raised my son. It’s certainly no secret to Al that I would be the happiest guy in the world if he became a priest.

  “I’ve prepared him for this from the beginning. By the time he got to college, he was ready. I knew he could make it academically. I knew he had the self-discipline. I saw that he dated during high school. But I warned him that women and the priesthood don’t mix.

  “He is the most important thing in my life.”

  Koesler had long been aware of, and disturbed by, Cody’s monopolization of Al’s upbringing and training. Not once had Bill mentioned his wife, Eileen, and the powerful influence she must have had on the boy.

  But Koesler quickly decided to let Bill set the direction for this meeting.

  “The point I’m making, Father, is that Al is ready for the call.” His expression was grim. “I do not intend for anyone to block his path or turn him aside.”

  Koesler had never heard any comparable statement from a parent of any seminarian. Was it a threat? A challenge?

  Koesler returned to a prior point. “Are you concerned whether Al will be happy in the priesthood?”

  “To a degree, yes. In my opinion, you’re a good priest.”

  Koesler almost blushed. “Thank you.”

  “You do your job as a priest and you do it pretty well,” Cody said. “Considering that—well, coming from the pre-Council Church and living through this plastic age of the Church, as far as I can see, you’re a good priest.

  “And you just confirmed my opinion that you’re happy being the kind of priest you are.

  “That’s what I want for Al. I want him to be a good and a happy priest. That’s what I’ve formed in him. And I will not appreciate it if anyone gets in the way of Al’s being a good and happy priest.”

  Koesler leaned forward in obvious concern. “You speak as if you know of someone who might do that.”

  Cody’s brow knitted. “This rector!” His tone was that of a physician identifying the location of a cancer. “I’ve had my eye on him for five years—since the day he became a bishop. And from some of the things Al tells me he’s said … well, I’m telling you, Father: Bishop McNiff is suspect”

  Koesler was unsure how to respond. He decided to take Cody seriously. “Bill, don’t worry about Bishop McNiff. He’s a classmate of mine, and he’s very conscientious.”

  “I wish I could be as convinced as you are. But I’ve heard that McNiff is soft on things like liberation theology and easy divorce and annulments … a whole shopping list of things condemned by the Pope—”

  “Wait, Bill. I doubt the Pope has a more faithful follower than Pat McNiff. I know him well, and I can assure you that the last thing on Pat McNiff’s mind and agenda is a return to the days following the Council—when it didn’t seem possible for things to change any faster than they were.”

  Cody nodded once acceptingly “I’ll take your word on that, Father. But I should tell you that if it were completely up to me, Al would be joining the Jesuits.”

  “Really!” Koesler thought he could make an educated guess as to why the Jesuits.

  “I wasn’t so interested in them as teachers or missionaries, but—”

  “That special vow of fealty they make to the Pope … right?”

  “Yes. That’s it. Although lately, it seems even they are cutting corners on their obedience to the Holy Father. So I suppose Al is just as well off here in this diocesan seminary. Over the years I’ve checked things out. And there are only a few teachers here that are at all suspect. Which is not a bad average. Then this Bishop McNiff comes from out of nowhere. And I’m just not sure …”

  “For one thing, Bill, the rector is only one person.”

  “I know. I know. But a rector has a lot of clout.”

  Koesler had no reason to argue over the role McNiff continued to play in the orderly transformation of this seminary. Bill Cody feared that the rector was a crashing liberal. But whatever Bishop McNiff was, he was not that. “Has Al said anything to you about this?”

  Cody shook his head. “No. Neither of us has broached the matter.”

  “How about Eileen? Is it possible he’s talked to her about it?”

  Cody’s jaw clenched, then just as quickly relaxed. “No. He’s not as close to his mother as he is with me.”

  “But, Bill, you just said neither you nor Al have talked about the new rector. How would you know whether he and Eileen did or didn’t discuss it?”

  “I’d know!” The matter was closed.

  “I accept your evaluation of this matter, Father,” Cody said after a moment. “There’s just one more thing that troubles me about this place.”

  “What would that be?”

  “There’s another deacon here who I think exercises quite a bit of influence over Al.”

  “Oh?”

  “A William Page. He’s an older man.”

  “So many in this seminary are.”

  “This guy is a graduate of Notre Dame University. He had a career in advertising. Now he’s about to become a priest.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around, Bill. Some of the better sources for vocations are older men. Call it a mid-career change. Whatever. There are quite a few who are bankers, architects, technicians, lawyers like yourself, even travel agents. You never know where they’ll be coming from. If it hasn’t already happened, I think it will happen soon that people Al’s age—which used to be the norm for seminarians—are going to be in the vast minority.”

  “Do you mind if I walk around a bit?” Cody anticipated no problem; he was already standing.

  “Sure. Go ahead. I’m just sorry I can’t provide more room for pacing.”

  “It’s all right.” Cody was not long on the light touch. “I understand about the delayed vocations. And I think the jury’s still out on that one. But I was interested in Page particularly … only because Al seemed so taken with him.”

  “Did you come up with anything?”

  “I think so. I have some friends in various agencies. I asked around.”

  “And?”

  “And, it turns out that William Page started strong—as most Notre Dame graduates do. Then things got tough. He was losing more accounts than he was selling. In short, he was headed for bankruptcy.

  “Then he started talking about how he’d always wanted to go to the seminary and become a priest. Bottom line: He talked a great seminary but never went to one.

  “So, he joined this seminary for a six-year course—the minimum training required for a delayed vocation. Six years! Hell, when I was a kid it was twelve years—through high school, college, and the theologate.”

  “Me too, Bill. But even in my day, when young men were ordained ordinarily at about twenty-five, give or take a year or two, there were still delayed vocations, some of whom made it every bit as well as the rest of us.”

  Cody nodded throughout Koesler’s statement. There was something more to be said, and Cody was going to say it.

  “My point, Father, is that I believe this Page fellow is looking for a life preserver in rough waters. He wants to be a priest for the only reason that will motivate him—financial security. And he thinks he’ll find it in the priesthood. That spells out the kind of priest he’ll be … mark my word.”

  “That’s quite a charge, Bill.”

  “I know. And I know that it’s hearsay. And I know that hearsay is not allowed in a court of law. But we’re not in a court of law. This is your room and I trust you with what’s said in here.”

  Koesler nodded. “There’s nothing I could do about what you’ve said. Precisely because it is hearsay … whose, by the way?”

  “Some of these agents I mentioned. Seems Page likes to talk. He also likes to brag. They opened up to me because I asked them directly … and because they are my friends.”

  Koesler’s fingers built a pyramid. “What, if anything, do you expect me to do about this?”

  “Just be aware of it. Didn’t yo
u say you’d soon be talking with Al?”

  “Yes.”

  “See if you can find out how much influence this Page has with my boy. I’m not asking that any sort of charges be brought against Page. What this faculty does about Page—whom I consider to be a featherbedder and a fraud—well, that’s their business. I just want to protect my boy.” Cody ceased pacing and stood, almost menacingly, over Koesler. “And, by damn, I will!”

  Koesler was somewhat taken aback by Cody’s vehemence. But before he could say anything, Cody, still standing, continued. “There’s one more thing I found out about Page. And I’m telling you this because I don’t want you wasting your time questioning it.”

  Koesler nodded, and listened intently.

  “Whatever screening procedure you have for candidates to the seminary, I’m sure you didn’t go into Page’s background as thoroughly and carefully as I have.”

  “I’m not sure what the procedure is now, but it’s got to be more thorough than we went through,” Koesler pointed out. “In our day, we took a standard test. Brought in some documentation—a copy of our parents’ Church wedding certificate, our baptism and confirmation records. We had a brief interview with one of the faculty members. That was about it. On the strength of the test and the interview we were accepted or rejected.

  “I’m sure we go into the candidate’s life a lot more deeply than that nowadays.”

  Cody started pacing again. “Yeah, the interview is more thorough, I’ll give you that. But you don’t go checking to get an actual report on the guy’s lifestyle.”

  “What—?”

  “My antenna went up several degrees when I found out that Page was in his forties when he applied here. And he’d never married. He’s willing to live a celibate life among men.”

  “You thought he might be gay? That’s a condition they look into in the screening—that I know.”

  “But they don’t go out and check into it. I did! It’s true he’s never married. It’s also true he’s had something like the girl-of-the-month. He’s not gay. He might be trying to become the father of our country.”

  “Even if this is true—”

  “It’s true!”

  “Okay, it’s true. But that’s not to say a person can’t change or mature.”