No Greater Love

by William Kienzle

  Everyone went everywhere. Hugging, shaking hands, asking after the health of a loved one who had been identified as ill, talking, laughing, moving about. This continued for approximately fifteen minutes, ending only when Father Tully invited everyone back to prepare for Communion.

  The Communion hymn was “Beulah Land.” “I’m living on the mountain underneath a cloudless sky—Praise God! I’m drinking from the fountain that never will run dry.…”

  What particularly galled Cody was the way his wife blended in with the extended inappropriate behavior of this … this “congregation.”

  Mass wound down quickly after Communion.

  The recessional hymn—during which no one left the church—was a rollicking version of “When the Roll Is Called up Yonder.” The refrain, repetitious enough to be a modern rock tune, got everyone, with the exception of Lieutenant Tully, and the small group in the choir loft, holding hands and swaying to and fro.

  Zoo Tully was present, presumably, either to swell the numbers in the congregation or to protect his brother, should anything amiss occur. Or both.

  Once the recessional and spiritual were complete, the mingling continued, giving no indication that it would ever end. But, clearly, the liturgy—which had taken almost two hours (as against a normal time of approximately forty-five minutes to an hour)—was over.

  Immediately, Cody turned to Rooney “Look at this!” Cody had filled four legal-size pages with notations on the Folk Mass.

  Rooney did not take the proffered documentation. “Before we get into a bill of particulars,” the liturgist said, “let me just say one thing for the record: That was a legitimate folk liturgy. They stayed well within the guidelines.”

  “What are you saying!?” Cody felt he had put together an open-and-shut case. He looked incredulously at all the notes he had made. How could anyone not see all the excesses in this travesty of a Mass?

  “What I’m saying, Mr. Cody,” explained the monsignor, “is that a Folk Mass isn’t anything like the Masses you and I grew up with. I know how you feel. I remember well the Latin, the chant, the whispered prayers. That was my Mass for quite a long time after I was ordained. We still have—what?—a traditional Mass, which, despite being offered in English, is not that different from the ancient Tridentine liturgy.

  “This is merely another step. It’s mostly joyous, as you can see.” Rooney gestured toward the congregation below. Their facial expressions were open, reflecting everything from happiness to concern.

  “What this definitely is not,” Rooney continued, “is the ordinary parishioners who go to church regularly, and passively absorb what is going on. And this exodus is a lot better. You and I can remember when the end of Mass on Sunday started a mad stampede—the race to the car and the free-for-all leaving the parking lot as quickly as possible, with safety not a high priority. We’re doing better with that now. But still we don’t hang around with real interest in each other like these people are doing.”

  Bill Cody heard almost nothing of what Father Rooney was saying. The council president was aware only that he was losing the battle. “But,” he protested, “didn’t you see that dancer? The way that leotard fit her, she might as well have been nude! They’ve got an excellent organ—the king of instruments—but they use a rinky-dink piano, and drums—and tambourines! What is this, a church or the jungle? And all this noise! Isn’t there a place for silence?”

  Rooney realized that he and Cody could continue this conversation forever and never reach agreement. He felt sorry for Cody, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  “I saw the dance,” Rooney said patiently. “I heard the music. I saw the vestments. I witnessed the spirit of acceptance and camaraderie. It’s all quite legitimate … even restrained. You should see what some of your neighboring parishes are doing with Folk Masses—”

  “I don’t give a damn what my neighboring parishes are doing! This is St. Joseph’s. This is my parish. And they’re making a mockery of the Mass … here in my parish.…” Cody was close to tears.

  “Mr. Cody”—this was intended to be Rooney’s final word on the subject—“you’re a lawyer. Look at it this way: You could bring the matter of this Folk Mass before the diocesan tribunal. But I can tell you, as sure as we’re standing here, the verdict would be in favor of Father Tully and the people who have put together this Mass.

  “And consider this: I would be the ‘expert witness.’ In all honesty, in the archdiocese there is no one more expert in liturgical matters than I.

  “The only advice I can give you, Mr. Cody, is to save yourself from a heart attack: Just go to the regular Masses and don’t ever attend a Folk Mass again.”

  With that, Monsignor Rooney left the choir loft, and the church. He would have bade good-bye to Zack Tully but he was already late for his sister’s wedding anniversary party.

  Koesler, silent bystander to the foregoing, stepped toward Cody. “Bill, would you like to grab a bite to eat with me? We could talk about this.”

  Cody raised his head and looked over the railing at the people milling about below. As far as he was concerned, he was Jesus sighting the moneychangers in the temple—the difference being that he could do nothing to stop it.

  He did not look at Koesler as he said, “Thanks, Father. It’s kind of you. But I don’t feel like being with anybody now.” There were tears in his eyes.

  There was nothing he could do but to offer up his son as a messenger of sanity to a Church gone mad.

  Father Koesler patted him on the back as Bill Cody turned, then walked slowly, almost blindly, away.

  Twenty-four

  The seminary had two separate and distinct sets of student mailboxes.

  One set was at the entrance of St. Thomas Hall. These were small boxes for nonresident students. Usually, items such as notes, memorandums, or leaflets were deposited in them.

  The larger boxes were at the entrance to St. William’s Hall. These were for residents, and they were larger than the other set because they were intended not only for notes and such but also for regular mail.

  One further difference was that the residents’ boxes could be locked, while the others were simply closed.

  In both cases, the boxes were assigned in alphabetical order.

  At precisely 8 P.M. a tall, somewhat heavyset man in cassock and clerical collar was examining the residents’ boxes, obviously seeking one in particular. He located the one he wanted. He deposited an envelope through the slot. He looked up and down the hallway, but could see no one. He left.

  At precisely 8:05 P.M., another lone figure went to the boxes. She wore a dark pants suit. She went directly to a box, unlocked it, removed the only article in the box—an envelope, which she inserted in the slot of the neighboring box. She closed and locked the original box. Then, empty-handed, she too left.

  At 9:30 P.M., a knock sounded at Andrea Zawalich’s door.

  Andrea was expecting a caller. She hoped it was the right one. She opened the door. It was as she had planned. “Gretchen, what brings you here?”

  Gretchen O’Keefe was obviously deeply embarrassed. Her face was so flushed she might have been ill. “Andrea … I found this ….” She held out an envelope. “I found it in my mailbox. I’m so sorry. I just automatically thought it was for me. I … I opened it. I read almost all of it before it dawned on me that it couldn’t be for me. So I checked the envelope. It was addressed to you.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I couldn’t think of anything else except to give it to you. I don’t know if I should do anything more. I … I just don’t know.…”

  Andrea took the envelope, removed the letter, and began reading it. She had planned a variety of possible actions, depending on what Gretchen would do and how she would react. In any event, Gretchen would have had to have read the note.

  Andrea had, in a way, commissioned the document, so she had some idea of what it would contain. Even so, she was shocked and repelled by all that Bill Page promised.
<
br />   The fact that Gretchen had, mistakenly or not, read it made the next step easier. “Gretchen, this is awful.”

  “I know. I know. Can I just try to forget about it? I mean, I could just go back to my room. After all, it was meant for you.”

  “I don’t know either, Gretchen. But there’s something I think we … you ought to do. It was in your box and you read it. I think this comes under … you know …”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know. What?”

  “Fraternal correction. You know how we’re always told that sometimes things happen that are very bad but hidden in secrecy. Sometimes we have to bring them out so they can be treated. So that the appropriate action is taken by authority.”

  “I don’t want to get involved in this, Andrea!” Gretchen was almost whining.

  “That’s the very thing they told us: that we wouldn’t want to get involved. But that it was important—essential—that we do. We are our brother’s keeper, Gretchen.”

  “Oh, damn! You really think so? I mean, this could hurt you too …. I mean, it was addressed to you.…”

  “But I didn’t write it. I’m not sure who did—but it looks an awful lot like Bill Page’s writing. I think you ought to go right now. It’s not too late. Bring it to the rector. Let Bishop McNiff decide what to do. After all, he’s the one who was pushing us to use fraternal correction.”

  “Now?”

  “Now!”

  “Well, all right … if you really think so …”

  “I really think so.”

  Bishop McNiff was preparing a talk on spirituality that he would deliver to the students. That was a regular feature of his routine.

  He put his notes aside when Gretchen reluctantly explained her mission. She gave him the letter, then hurriedly left.

  There are various forms of sexual activity that are condemned by church teaching. And Patrick McNiff agreed with each and every condemnation. He was outraged by the contents of the letter.

  Immediately, he summoned the principals: Gretchen O’Keefe, Andrea Zawalich, and, by no means least, William Page.

  McNiff interviewed each of them separately, then sent them to their rooms, where they were to remain—alone—even for meals, until tomorrow afternoon when this matter would be submitted to the faculty for resolution.

  Gretchen, the innocent bystander dragged into a messy situation by sheer accident and bad luck, was miserable.

  Andrea regretted that it had to come to this. But she was satisfied that in good conscience she had done the right thing. Page in her view, was a cancer on the priesthood. He had to be abscised for the health of the whole body. Beyond that, she was evening the score for her friend Patty.

  Bill Page was bewildered. Since he’d had no personal communication with either Andrea or Gretchen, he had to presume that he had somehow slipped the letter into the wrong box—though how he could’ve done so eluded him.

  In any event, the three followed their incarceration rules to the letter. They were already on dangerous ground; no use pushing matters to the edge.

  Of course this extraordinary situation involving three of their fellow students was bound to have its effect on the others. Rumors flew.

  At five in the afternoon—normally a predinner happy hour, the, deprivation of which did nothing to better their humor—the entire full-time faculty, plus Father Koesler, assembled in the faculty lounge.

  Bishop McNiff explained why he had not settled the matter on his own. There were so many shadowy sides to this affair and since two senior students were implicated he felt that a faculty decision was called for.

  Then, one by one, those involved were called in to present their cases.

  Consensus promptly exonerated Gretchen, who by this time could have used either a physician or a counselor or both to bring down her blood pressure and calm her nerves. She got neither.

  Andrea, as she had planned, told the simple truth. She explained her reasoning and her justification completely. She was convinced her actions had been fitting and appropriate. And she was certain the faculty would be understanding and in agreement that she had done what needed to be done.

  Bill Page, when summoned to McNiff’s office the previous night, had been grateful he would have almost twenty-four hours to come up with a defense. However, as time passed, it became clear to Page that no exculpatory explanation would hold water. At best he would buy a little time, delay the inevitable.

  His only possible escape would be to claim he hadn’t written the note. He hadn’t signed it. But he had written it. And any handwriting analyst worth her salt could testify that Bill Page was indeed the author of the infamous note.

  After long thought, and even a little prayer—there are no atheists in the sex crime defendant’s dock—he decided in effect to throw himself on the mercy of the faculty.

  Thus, in his testimony he described Andrea as a seductress—an agent provocateur. She had started the whole affair. She had entrapped him with her promises of sexual favors. It was outrageous conduct for someone who was about to be awarded a diploma in Pastoral Ministry.

  He was weak—but not evil. He begged the faculty to take into consideration his conduct throughout his career, delayed though it was, in the seminary. He asked for mercy.

  He had been eloquent. And, if one were to overlook Andrea’s very strong motive, much of his defense was accurate.

  Andrea and Page were sent to their respective rooms under the same rule of isolation as before. They were assured they would learn the verdict as soon as it was rendered. Before this evening, if possible.

  The doors to the faculty lounge were closed and locked. Those within were in conclave.

  Bishop McNiff swore the faculty members to a secrecy that would prevent them from divulging the details of the deliberation to the extent of identifying a particular speaker with his or her opinion. They could reveal the total number of votes. But again, they were not to identify an individual with his or her vote.

  McNiff then led them in a prayer to the Holy Spirit for enlightenment and guidance.

  The future of two students—one young, one close to ordination—was at stake. The welfare and integrity of the seminary were on the line.

  Finally, votes might be cast by each and every member of the faculty present, including the rector. Father Koesler was there only as an observer.

  Koesler was not wild about being the permanent dummy in this bridge game. On the other hand, he thought that the debate and the voting would be instructive and interesting.

  Early discussion centered on William Page and his apologia for his admittedly crude overture to Andrea.

  “He confessed to being weak. What are we about here? Do we ordain only saints, or are we, all of us, sinners who need forgiveness?” So spoke Father Frank Grasso. In most formalistic settings such as the present, Grasso was the principal spokesperson for the conservative side.

  “Being weak is one thing,” Father Paul Burke, a progressive, said. “We’re talking about conduct you probably wouldn’t find even in one of those X-rated movies!”

  “You’ve been to one? Some?” Grasso challenged.

  “Don’t be a blithering idiot, Frank,” Burke shot back. “We’ve all read Page’s letter. Any redeeming social value there?”

  “Follow Page’s argument,” Father Laurence Duross, a traditionalist, said. “It was no more than a slip … a lapsus linguae. He has an unblemished record in this seminary. Doesn’t that count for, anything?”

  “Is his record unblemished because his heart was pure all this time?” said Father Cliff Rogers, Burke’s buddy. “Or has this basically blemished character been there all the while, and did it surface when invited to show itself?”

  “Look at the record,” Duross remonstrated. “He’s been an exemplary student and seminarian.”

  “Meaning he follows every dictate of the magisterium as if it were God sending down the tablets?” Burke said.

  “The magisterium is God’s word and God’s will,” Gras
so declared.

  “Says who?” Burke snapped.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen …” McNiff called for everyone’s attention. “Please, let us not get into a theological donnybrook. We’re trying to deal with some very serious conduct on the part of two of our senior students. Shall we confine ourselves to the issues at hand?”

  There was a brief pause, giving everyone an opportunity to refocus on what they were about.

  “It comes down to this,” Rogers said. “Supposing we have Page ordained. He is sent to a parish—”

  “St. Waldo’s, I’m told,” Burke interrupted.

  “It just so happens,” Grasso retorted, “that no other ordinand asked for that assignment.”

  “So,” Burke argued, “we’re supposed to feel very sorry because poor Page is slated to serve the wealthiest parish in the diocese?”

  “Gentlemen!” McNiff intervened. “Father Rogers has the floor.”

  “As I was saying,” Rogers proceeded, “supposing that Page is sent to Waldo’s or just about any other assignment. It is not beyond reason that one or more of the ladies of the parish might find him debonair, mature, eloquent, even attractive. Supposing one or another of those women indulges in a little innocent flirting … you do see where this goes, don’t you?”

  “Directly,” Duross replied, “into the trash heap labeled hypothesis-speculation.”

  “Not exactly,” Rogers corrected. “Remember what you read in that note, eminent colleagues. All that sickening sexual excess awaits the gentle flirt. Next, we will find Page being bounced around the diocese. Assigned to one parish after another. Leaving behind a mounting series of scandals.”

  “I think,” said Duress, “that Father Rogers’s imagination has run wild. To elicit that sort of response from Page, you’d need not a flirt but a provocateur. A Salomé. And you’re not going to find such a woman in the Rosary Altar Society.”

  “I submit,” Grasso said, “that we’re concentrating on the wrong character in this little drama. Miss Zawalich orchestrated this entire gambit. If she hadn’t dreamed up this scheme, nothing, absolutely nothing, would have happened.”