McNiff shook his head. “Poor guy! He must be sweating bullets about now.
“Well …” He stood. “It’s beyond our power to help at this point. Let’s eat.”
As the two left McNiff’s suite, Koesler said, “I offered to be with him at tonight’s council meeting. But he wanted to take them on himself.”
“That was good of you—to offer, I mean. The guy is either pretty brave or pretty stupid.”
“One thing I can attest to: He’s not stupid.”
Father Tully shook the bottle. A small, white pill dropped to accompany the other two in his palm.
Ordinarily he could get by with just two aspirins. But this was no ordinary headache.
Father Tully was nervous—very nervous. And that disturbed him. He was not one to scare easily.
Everything had been fine until today’s earlier visit with Bob Koesler.
Tully was well aware that the post-Folk Mass council meeting would probably be acrimonious. He was prepared to face the music.
Then came Koesler, whose foreboding about the meeting had proved contagious. As a result of Koesler’s apprehensiveness, Tully now had misgivings.
He tried to settle himself, but, like many qualms, this one would not yield to rationalization. He tried first a book, then the newspaper, but found himself rereading the same paragraph over and over without comprehension.
Finally, at seven twenty-five, the doorbell rang. That would be Hans Kruger, typically just a bit early.
Tully opened the door. Kruger entered with his usual ebullience, which was dampened not a whit by Tully’s consternated attitude. The priest let the council member find his way to the basement meeting room.
Tully’s stomach was. churning. He would not try another aspirin; it was too soon since he’d swallowed the previous three. He stood at his office window and stared into the gathering darkness.
The bell rang again. Tully checked his watch. Exactly seven-thirty. That would be the Codys. They always came on time and they always came together. As far as Tully could ascertain, that was the only thing they did together.
Tully admitted them.
Eileen was distracted when she greeted Tully. It appeared that husband and wife had been discussing something. Perhaps angrily—Bill’s countenance was frozen. He gave no greeting.
The couple headed for the basement. Tully waited for more council people. Fervently, he hoped no more would show up.
The bylaws of the parish council called for six elected positions, with four members constituting a quorum.
As of this moment, there were three in the basement. Not enough for an official meeting.
Of course there was Mary O’Connor. But she was not an elected member. Her presence was as parish secretary and, as such, secretary to the council. She was waiting in the housekeeper’s quarters. Waiting for word that the council was ready to start. Or that the meeting had been canceled.
Father Tully checked his watch again. He did not do this habitually as did Father Koesler. But this was not an ordinary evening.
Seven-forty. Five minutes to go. According to the bylaws, a quorum was needed and if a quorum wasn’t achieved within fifteen minutes of scheduled starting time, the meeting could be postponed.
Seven-forty-three. Seven-forty-four.
The doorbell rang.
Tully exhaled, then realized he had been unconsciously holding his breath.
It was Molly Cronin. She was usually a few minutes late—a big family to care for. Tonight she was—for her—a bit early. Wouldn’t you know! Otherwise Tully could have had a cold beer in his hand and his feet up on an ottoman.
But Molly was here and one couldn’t even complain about the time; she had a minute to spare.
Tully gathered in Molly and Mary O’Connor and the three descended to the netherworld.
Hans Kruger greeted them cheerfully. Bill Cody still wore no appreciable expression. Eileen Cody seemed disappointed … as if she, like Tully, had hoped that the meeting would be postponed.
Once everyone was seated, Tully led them in a generic prayer.
Next, it was up to the president, Bill Cody, to set the agenda.
To just about everyone’s surprise, the first item of business was not the Folk Mass. He must, thought Tully, be saving that for a fireworks conclusion.
Cody called on Kruger for a report on the repair of the rectory roof.
Kruger quoted figures and estimates and concluded that the main body of work would be completed on time and on budget. But a small section would have to wait for a special order of material that simply wasn’t on hand.
Normally Cody would not have let such a foul-up go by without caustic comment. Tonight he seemed preoccupied.
Next he asked Molly Cronin how the church cleaning project was progressing.
She replied that a generous number of women and men had scheduled a floor cleaning a week from this Saturday. Little by little, they were getting the job done.
Cody thanked her.
He noted that since two members were missing, there would be no report from the Christian Service committee or the hospitality group.
He shifted in his seat to lean forward. He asked his wife for a report on the liturgy committee.
If it was going to happen, it probably would happen now.
Eileen shuffled a few papers, cleared her throat, and reported. “The new missalettes have arrived. They will be placed in the pews before the next weekend.” She paused. “The new extraordinary ministers of the eucharist and the new readers will be installed this weekend at the ten A.M. Sunday Mass.”
Unexpectedly, Hans Kruger objected. “I’ve been watching this for a long time. And since I’m now a member of the parish council, I want to say something about it.”
Cody nodded, silently giving Kroger the floor.
“Why? That’s my question,” Kruger began. “Why do we have just ordinary people distributing Communion. And why do we have ordinary people doing the readings? That’s what we’ve got priests for … isn’t that right?”
No one replied. No one wanted to get involved in what was obviously a rhetorical matter.
“Well,” Kruger pressed, “isn’t it?”
The others looked to Eileen. After all, the liturgy was her slice of the parish pie.
“Hans,” Eileen said, “the Council … the Vatican Council had a lot to say about the laity and the part they’re supposed to play in the liturgy—the Mass. And it’s because of what the Council said that we do more than we used to do. And a couple of those things are helping distribute Communion and doing the readings before the Gospel.”
Kruger’s jovial demeanor had utterly disappeared. The burr had been under his saddle for roughly thirty years. This was his first opportunity to void his displeasure in an official—or quasi-official—capacity. He had a chance to say his piece, and by God he was going to say it.
“I don’t know much about that Council. It seems to me that a bunch of Catholic mavericks just go around doing anything they want and blame it all on that damn Council—you’ll pardon my French!”
Just about everyone else around the table seemed to appreciate, to some degree, this lone voice expressing his deep-seated objection to decisions that were very much a fait accompli. Tully, however, wondered: If this group was going to object to even the smallest changes that everyone else pretty much took for granted now, what would be the reaction of these people to an Afro Folk Mass?
The ball appeared to once again be in Eileen Cody’s court. “Hans,” she said, “the questions you raise have been answered long ago. There’s no argument left. The laity are not only permitted to read from the Bible as part of the Mass; they are encouraged to do it.”
“What about Communion?” Kruger grumbled. “That’s certainly the priest’s job. Why, shoot, I can remember when nobody could touch the host except the priest. Now every Tom, Dick, and Harry can handle the host!”
“There’s a priest shortage, Hans,” Molly Cronin contributed. “I
f no one but a priest could touch the consecrated host, we’d be at Communion forever and ever, amen.”
More muttering and grousing from Kruger. “I don’ know. I don’ know. Okay, so there’s not enough priests to go ‘round. We’ve got one right here: Father Tully.
“Father Tully”—he directly addressed the pastor—“you’re a priest. How come when you haven’t got the Mass, when some other priest is the celebrant, how come you don’t come over to the church to help him out with Communion? How come you leave that up to the ordinary people?”
Cody stared resolutely at Tully, awaiting a response to Kruger’s question, or rather, Kruger’s challenge. “Father?”
Tully had not anticipated being called up on so inconsequential a matter. He was taken aback.
“Hans,” he said, faintly, “it doesn’t really matter whether I help with Communion or not. We’re still going to have extraordinary ministers giving Communion. We always have at least three people distributing. If another priest has the Mass, and if I come over to help, we still need an extraordinary minister to help.
“Besides,” he continued, “that won’t be a problem for you any longer. I’m not going to be asking for help from another priest. I’m going to take all the Masses—both weekends and daily.”
“Isn’t that a bit much, Father?” Mrs. Cronin knew what work was. “We need you. We don’t want you getting sick.”
Tully smiled. “Not to worry, Mrs. Cronin. I’m healthy and still fairly young. Besides, I have Father Koesler’s assurance that if and when we need him, he will come unless something makes that impossible.”
Silence for several moments. Evidently, the pause was to allow Kruger to pursue the subject if he so chose.
“If you are satisfied,” Cody said to Kruger finally, “we’ll move on.”
Another short silence.
“Eileen,” Cody addressed his wife, “you may resume.”
She hesitated briefly. “Well, there’s the Folk Mass that’s been added to the schedule—”
“Yeah,” Kruger dove in, “I was meaning to ask about that. What in tarnation is that? I sort of figured it was going to be some kind of group Mass. Like the Veterans of Foreign Wars, or the Knights of Columbus, or the Daughters of Isabella, or something like that. I figured it didn’t involve me. So I just kept going to the ten o’clock.
“But some of the people have asked me what’s going on. So … what’s going on?”
“Father?” Once again Cody called on Tully to respond to a Hans Kruger question. This time, there was no sense of respect in the president’s tone.
Tully felt like standing and pacing. He didn’t think that would be appropriate. So he forced himself to stay seated.
“We have,” Tully said, “begun a Mass at five in the afternoon on Sundays. I intend it to be part of our regular weekend schedule—”
“Excuse me,” Kruger interrupted, “but they tell me that there isn’t a single one of the three Masses we already have that is crowded. I know that’s true of the ten o’clock one that I attend. So, my question is: What do we need another Mass for?”
Before replying, Tully looked around the table. All eyes were on him. But each face had a different expression.
Father Tully had been well briefed before he’d ever attended a council meeting, on the personalities of the members. Cody, of course, was a staunch conservative, bordering on the fundamentalist viewpoint. His wife, Eileen, might be liberal—or maybe just opposed to whatever her husband favored.
Hans Kruger was conservative, but could be swayed by sufficient argument. Although, at least at the outset of any matter brought before the council, he tended to agree with Bill Cody.
Molly Cronin leaned slightly left on most issues, but could be convinced otherwise.
Of the missing council members, John Falahee leaned right and Harvey Wilds favored the left.
If all members were in attendance, Tully could count on the probability of an even split: two following Bill and two responding to Eileen. The priest was able to break any tie vote.
This evening, even with two absentees, the same configuration applied. Except that now, one would be on Bill’s team and one on Eileen’s. The deciding vote was still Father Tully’s.
Which, Tully knew, didn’t make all that much difference. But thus far in his relationship with the parish council, he hadn’t had to use all of his power as pastor.
Tully returned to Kruger’s question. “That’s true, Hans: We don’t come close to an SRO crowd at any of our Masses.”
“Excuse me, Father,” said Mrs. Cronin, “what do you mean by an SRO crowd?”
“Sorry, Molly. That’s a standing-room-only crowd.”
“The kind we get at Christmas and Easter?”
“That’s the kind.” Tully smiled. “We’re not doing badly, particularly for a core city parish. And for that, I’ll tip my hat to Father Koesler. He gathered in a lot of those town house and high-rise people.”
He paused and glanced at Bill Cody. Cody was one of the high-rise people. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were not kind. His brush cut, in this context, created the image of a soldier. An angry soldier.
“So why the Folk Mass?” Mrs. Cronin asked.
“What is a Folk Mass?” Kruger dug for the root of the matter.
“Okay …” Tully took a deep breath. “I understand St. Joe’s parish has never had a Folk Mass before. But I can tell you, it’s a very popular liturgy. Almost all parishes have them regularly or from time to time.
“It’s called a Folk Mass because it is not as formal as a regular Mass. And it usually has a specific theme. Maybe the most popular Folk Mass is one for children. The idea is to take the structure of the Mass and make each part relevant to the age and interest of the children. The hymns, the songs, the prayers will be ones that the kids can relate to. The children will take a much more active role in the liturgy. There’s room for a lot of creativity in a Folk Mass.”
“You make it sound very sweet and attractive for the children,” Mrs. Cronin said. “It makes me wonder why we haven’t had this kind, of Mass before.”
“You mean the new Mass on Sundays is going to be for children?” Kruger asked.
“Why don’t you tell them the purpose of this Folk Mass, Father?” There was something almost sadistic about Bill Cody’s smile.
“It’s not for children?” Kruger seemed perplexed.
“Then why did you tell us about a children’s Mass?” Mrs. Cronin demanded.
Tully sighed inwardly. “It’s not for children,” he said. “There aren’t enough Catholic kids in our parish to warrant that kind of program … at least we haven’t been able to find enough as yet.
“Look,” he continued, “a substantial number of African-Americans came to me. They are Catholic, though some had not been practicing for some time. They wanted a liturgy that spoke to them and their families. They made a good case for it.
“So, after a lot of thought and prayer I said okay. At least we’ll try it for a while and see what happens.”
“The Mass is for Negroes?” It was not an insulting designation to Kruger.
“It’s for African-Americans,” Tully corrected, “and for anyone else who finds meaning in that liturgy. It’s about the same thing as whether anybody besides African-Americans can appreciate Aretha Franklin, Bill Cosby, Sidney Poitier, Harry Belafonte, Paul Robeson, and so on.
“It started out being for and by African-Americans. But the clear idea at the outset was that anybody who wanted to participate would be welcome. As of now, quite a few white people have joined in. And, I should point out, we’ve gained quite a few new members for this parish.”
Kruger and Cronin seemed impressed.
“Maybe you could clarify some considerations,” Cody said.
“Yes?” Tully focused complete attention on Cody.
“Are there any other churches around here that offer this kind of thing?”
“Well, yes.”
“How man
y would you say?”
“I don’t know.”
“There are four or five practically surrounding us. In fact,” Cody pressed, “just about every inner-city parish has got a program like this.”
There was a significant pause. Why, thought Tully, had Cody asked when he obviously knew the answer.
Cody pressed on. “You mentioned that Father Koesler offered to help. Is that offer effective right now?”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“As a matter of fact, it is. I talked to Father yesterday. He would have come to this meeting if he had been able. Isn’t it a fact”—Cody might have been in a courtroom—“isn’t it a fact,” he repeated, “that you practically pushed Father out of the parish so he would not see this travesty for himself?”
“Of course not! And it is not a travesty. It’s a legitimate form of Folk Mass.”
“We’ll see about that. Father Koesler will observe that thing next Sunday. And I’m going to get the director of worship to come too.”
“You been at this Mass, Bill?” Kruger asked.
“I’ve been there,” Cody answered. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes! Hans, earlier tonight you brought up some things about the Mass that troubled you. Specifically, lay people doing the readings and distributing Communion. You were correct in saying that these functions used to be performed by priests. Priests did read from Scripture. Priests did distribute Communion. Then came the Council …”
He managed to make the Council’s very name sound evil.
“Then came the Council,” Cody repeated. “John Twenty-third was described as opening a window to let in the fresh winds of change. They called the process aggiornamento, an Italian word.
“But once the window was opened, a lot of things flew out. The venerable Latin, the impeccable staging of the Mass, the time-honored reverence for the priest—another Christ—who always wore an impressive uniform that identified him, solid theology based on centuries of development. Now it’s priests leaving by the carload, vocations to the priesthood bottoming out—”
“Bill,” Eileen said shortly, “what does any of this have to do with an innocent Folk Mass that’s just being tried? Get hold of yourself!”
No Greater Love Page 13
