The Sacrifice

by William Kienzle

  “In most parishes, there was a fresh wall between the priests and the people. Especially when the parish councils started up. Nobody knew what the hell was going on. Who was running things? For as long as anyone could remember, the pastor had been boss. But with the parish councils, there was a grab for power. For the first time, parishioners not only had a say in what went on; they grasped the reins.”

  “You make it seem so sinister. As if the laity—at least those who were active enough to be interested in a parish council—were plotting a takeover.”

  “Maybe there was no conspiracy. But when they saw the barn, they really headed for home. And by home, I mean the books, the expenditures, the budget.”

  “I didn’t have that problem. We didn’t have any course in fiscal management when I was in the seminary—and neither did you. Hell, I was happy that competent people could take control of the finances. No, my problem was with council members who wanted to take over the altar and the pulpit.

  “But, hell, Joe, that’s all water under the bridge. We’ve moved a long way over the years. Back then the place was crawling with priests. Nowadays you could shoot cannons off in Catholic churches and hit very few clergy.”

  “True, true. But we certainly aren’t going to fill the vacancies with the likes of Reverend Wheatley and his wife and children.”

  Koesler couldn’t argue with that conclusion; he let his silence stand for agreement.

  “But,” Farmer went on, “you were wondering what we used to talk about. Priestly conversations have changed, Bob—along with just about everything else. It used to be real, genuine, good old-fashioned gossip: Who was running for bishop … or even who was bucking for monsignor. Who was doing what to whom. Whose parties were the best. Vacations. What parts of Florida could best stand an influx of priests.

  “Now all we hear about is who’s retiring early, who’s taking a leave. Resigning pastorship and sliding back into the assistant category. The young squirts getting to be pastors before the oil of ordination is dry behind their ears.

  “The stories used to be funny—a reflection of our lives. Most of it was lighthearted. And, like the song says, the livin’ was easy.

  “Now there’s little—if any—fun; nothing to look forward to but old age—sitting on the shelf, waiting to die.”

  Farmer seemed to have said just about all he wanted to, and lapsed into silence as he continued offhandedly scanning the growing crowd.

  Koesler reflected that he had begun this day in high spirits, excitedly anticipating the ordination that would be unique, at least in Detroit—and in all of Michigan for that matter. Now, after talking with Morgan, Reichert, and Farmer, he found himself depressed—-more depressed than he’d been in recent memory.

  “I guess,” Koesler said at length, “our conversation just coincides with what’s affecting us at the time. It’s only natural to be preoccupied with all that Vatican II has done. And it’s done a lot. But that would have to differ from one diocese to another, don’t you think?”

  “How’s that?” Farmer asked more in politeness than in interest.

  “Well, take Detroit, for instance. Our archbishop simply took the Council as God’s message to the Church of today. There isn’t a liberal bone in Cardinal Boyle’s body. But—just because his loyalty has always been with the Church, he has the undeserved reputation of being in the liberal camp.

  “And because Boyle implemented the decrees of the Council, we really had a confrontation here. I suppose that’s why the fluff talk has deserted us.

  “You ought to be able to speak to this theory, Joe. You’re forever traveling from state to state, from diocese to diocese …”

  Farmer needed little time to respond. “I think you’ve got something there. I hadn’t really thought of it. But just last month I gave a weeklong mission at a parish in Toledo. For the closing, the pastor held an old-fashioned open house, with lots of the old geezers like us in attendance.”

  “No kidding. How’d he keep the youngsters out?”

  “Simple: He didn’t invite any. It was just a grand bash. Drinks and finger food at four on a Sunday afternoon; dinner at six; closing of the mission at seven-thirty—and afterglow with a hell of a poker game for as long as anybody cared to stay.” His face and his tone spoke volumes: “It was a page from our past. The booze flowed freely and so did the stories. One of the guys had one I hadn’t heard before.”

  “That right? Usually it’s old favorites.”

  “I could be wrong,” Farmer disclaimed. “Stop me if you’ve heard it. Anyway, so the story goes, this took place a good many years ago in New York.

  “Seems a priest needed an emergency appendectomy. A flu epidemic had filled the hospital to overflowing. But it was a Catholic hospital, so there’s always room for Father.

  “The operation went off without a hitch. But post-op was bursting at the seams; the wards were filled, and the private and semiprivate rooms were all occupied. Where could they put him?

  “Finally, they located an empty bed in the maternity ward. So, rather than leave him in the hallway, they put him in there and, because he was still groggy from the anesthetic, he didn’t know the difference.

  “Then there was a complication. Every crib in the nursery was taken and another newborn baby made his appearance. As a last resort, the harried nurse decided that it would be safe to put the kid in bed with the priest.” Farmer grinned. “He was, after all, in the maternity ward.”

  Koesler made a face in disbelief. “This is apocryphal, right?”

  “A story is a story. This one may have a moral.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, eventually, the priest came to. He was bewildered and appalled to find a baby in his arms.

  “Just then the doctor came in to check on his patient. Of course he put two and two together right away and figured out what had happened.

  “The priest looked up at his doctor in confusion. ‘I don’t understand … what’s this baby doing in my bed?’

  “The doctor, run ragged, overworked to the point of giddiness, and a practical joker to boot, gave his fancy free rein. ‘Well, Father, it’s this way: We opened you up and got your appendix out just in time. Then we noticed this other problem: Your baby had come to term. So we removed the little boy in a sort of cesarean section. And there you have it.’

  “The priest was totally unnerved. He was so obviously hysterical that the doctor attempted to reassure him. But now in near panic, the priest said, ‘But you don’t understand! Okay, okay, so it’s my baby, but you don’t realize …’” The laughter started near Farmer’s navel, moved up through his chest cavity, and wheezed and rumbled out his throat. “‘Cardinal Spellman is the father!’”

  Koesler reflected on Farmer’s new ability to finish a story without totally breaking himself up and demolishing the punch line. This was one of Farmer’s cleaner offerings. And Koesler thought it at least amusing. “Joe, you know the old saying, Nil nisi bonum de mortuis. Besides, you said it had a moral.”

  “I said this story may have a moral. There’s one in here someplace. Each listener has to come up with his own.

  “Besides,” Farmer added, “Spellman was archbishop of New York. That alone should make him fair game. Sometimes I think that just about every priest in America—or at least those of our generation—has a Spellman story. How about you?”

  Koesler smiled. “Not personally. I never met the man. The closest I got was through a friend of mine who was at St. Aloysius, downtown. I guess Spellman visited Detroit with some frequency. On one visit, Spellman was going to offer Mass at St. Al’s. My friend was helping the Cardinal vest. Spellman asked where he was assigned. My friend replied, ‘I’m assistant pastor of this parish.’

  “Well, Spellman turned right around, glared at him, and snapped, ‘Father, in my archdiocese that word is a noun, not an adjective!’” Koesler chuckled, but Farmer’s only reaction was obvious bewilderment. “‘A noun, not an adjective’?”

  “H
e meant that no priest dare claim the word ‘pastor’ unless and until he was indeed an actual pastor. Until such time, the word ‘assistant’ was to be used as a noun only, and the title ‘pastor’ could not be claimed by the assistant in any way, shape, or form.”

  “Pretty nitpicky.”

  “Yeah. But doesn’t it sort of illustrate the changing times? Nowadays, there are very few assistants. And they’re called associate pastors now. It’s hardly worth getting a business card made when a man is ordained these days. The title ‘associate’ is going to disappear in a very short time for today’s newly ordained. As a matter of fact, George Wheatley is never going to be a pastor.”

  It took several moments before Koesler’s statement sunk in. “Wheatley is not going to be a pastor? Never?”

  “That’s right.”

  Farmer scratched his head. “Am I hearing you correctly? What’s Wheatley’s position in the Episcopal clergy?”

  “He’s a pastor—what they call rector—in one of the suburban parishes.”

  “That’s what I thought. He’s plenty old enough to be a pastor in any one of Detroit’s parishes. We used to need assistants. Now we need pastors. Hell, we need everybody. So why is Wheatley not going to be a pastor?”

  “He’s not going to be a pastor or an associate. Quite simply, he’s not going to be in any parish ministry.” In response to Farmer’s obvious puzzlement, Koesler held up a hand, traffic-cop-like. “Why? Because it’s a rule.”

  “A rule!”

  “You know as well as I, Joe, that we have rules like Carter’s has little liver pills. As far as I can tell, this is just another in a long series of ’em.”

  “Does that mean the guy can’t say Mass in parishes? If it does, why in hell would he want to be a diocesan priest? I mean, I’m fighting to hold on to my mission work. Everybody’s pressuring me to settle in a parish.

  “I admit the old firing line is nearly empty. But there’s a need for missionary work, too. So here’s a guy who wants on the firing line … and they’re not going to let him?!”

  Koesler shrugged. “Don’t look to me for an answer. These rules come right from HQ—from the Vatican.

  “But I admit I can’t make sense of it either. He’s done everything they demanded of him: He’s been accepted into our Church; he’s met all the requirements, completed all the assignments, been ordained deacon—in short, he’s done everything necessary to become a Roman Catholic priest in good standing. Obviously he would want the same sort of ministry he had as an Episcopalian. But he’s not going to be able to have it. And I can’t conceive of a single rational reason why he can’t. When you think of how desperately we need parish priests …”

  “So what’s he going to do?”

  “Some chancery work—at least to start with … and maybe some jail ministry on top of that. And he will be able to help out at parishes on weekends. But he’ll never be able to establish the special bond that seals the relationship between resident priests and parishioners.”

  “Well …” Farmer shook his head. “Doesn’t that beat all! I started out being prejudiced against this heretic joining us. And now I feel sorry for the poor guy. I just don’t know …”

  After a few moments of silence, Koesler said, “It’s about time to start this ceremony. Are you going to join the procession?”

  Father Farmer smiled. “Didn’t bring any glad rags. I think I’ll just get down there close”—he inclined his head—“so I can have a ringside seat. Is the Old Man going to do the honors?”

  “Cardinal Boyle? No. We asked for him, but he’s not well.”

  Farmer grinned. “What he is is old! Like Methuselah. Why don’t they turn the guy out to pasture? He’s too ancient to be of any use as a stud. Why, he’s even older than the Pope!”

  This, Koesler knew, was leading up to one of the most widespread and oft-repeated bits of scuttlebutt in the archdiocese. Koesler wanted no part of it now. “Well,” he said, as Farmer started to move toward the sanctuary and a ringside seat, “I’ll see you afterward at the reception.” Farmer’s only response was a grin.

  Koesler looked about. He was reminded of his visit many years before to the Sistine Chapel. It was a long distance down many corridors from the out-of-doors to the extremely popular viewing site. A series of wall plaques informed visitors that they were nearing the sacred chapel and reminded them that they should maintain a reverent silence when they entered.

  When Koesler had, at long last, entered the chapel, the scene was bedlam. Tour guides were showing their groups the priceless walls and ceiling. Almost everyone was talking and because there were so many people speaking in so many tongues, each group had to speak more loudly than the next in order to be heard. And since it was an enclosed space, the sound was amplified.

  So it was now—almost—in the interior of Old St. Joe’s. Granted, the walls and ceiling here couldn’t hold a paintbrush to the Sistine. But a lot of people were milling about. What little effort there was to hold down the noise was largely unsuccessful.

  Koesler made his way toward the rectory where the clerical guests were assembling. He was thinking of his conversation with Father Farmer.

  What, indeed, kept Cardinal Mark Boyle from retirement?

  Koesler subscribed to the theory that keeping the Cardinal in harness, though he was well past the maximum age for retirement and had submitted his resignation annually since becoming eligible, was this Pope’s way of getting even—as political as that seemed.

  Even for what? Some clerical pundits had it that Boyle had been a closet liberal all along and had just been waiting his chance to change everything. The Council gave him that chance.

  For Koesler this was an easily discarded theory.

  As former editor of the diocesan paper, Koesler had known Boyle rather better than the average Detroit priest. The Cardinal was the newspaper’s publisher … even though he rarely seemed to advert to that fact.

  Koesler knew that among Boyle’s strongest commitments was his dedication to fidelity. Faithfulness to the Roman Catholic Church. However, one of the Cardinal’s chief virtues was an ability to coexist comfortably with and hold no animosity toward those who did not share his view or opinion. It was this virtue that Koesler most admired in Boyle.

  With dissidents, Boyle was prone to listen to them, respond to them, reason with them—whether the disagreement was profound or pro forma.

  He held strongly to his own conviction. But he was willing, as had been noted, to live with the opposition.

  This was not exactly the Vatican’s modus operandi. In the wake of Rome lay any number of fractured theologians. Some forbidden to publish or to teach. Some excommunicated. Or, as in the case of the famous Galileo Galilei, forced to deny what their own scientific eyes saw.

  Boyle’s un-Vatican-like response to opposition—his aversion to squashing those with whom he did not totally agree—made it only natural, in Koesler’s view, that Boyle’s name would appear on the Vatican’s Enemies List.

  Thus, when it was time to name a new auxiliary bishop for Detroit, Boyle would submit an honest list of candidates. Rome, in response, would select the most conservative of the candidates. Sometimes, the Roman Curia would ignore all on the list and name an archconservative of their own choosing.

  This selection of the conformables—those most compliant and loyally submissive to the Vatican—was not invariable; a few rare mavericks did manage to sneak through—but it definitely set a discernible pattern.

  In Koesler’s view, a similar motive led the Vatican to consistently reject each of Boyle’s offers to resign. It would have been a simple matter to accept one of these offers and allow this bothersome Cardinal to retire to the shelf. Instead, he was left to twist slowly in the breeze.

  If Koesler’s hypothesis was correct, the Vatican, in this instance, was not the epitome of Christianness.

  Koesler heard his name called. Not unusual; he knew a significant number in today’s congregation. He stopped and turned. I
t was Father Zachary Tully. He was standing in a group consisting of his brother, his sister-in-law, and George Wheatley’s wife, Bernadette, known to her friends and relatives as Nan.

  During the process of Wheatley’s conversion to Catholicism, Koesler had come to know the Episcopal priest quite well. But not so his wife. Bernadette Wheatley kept her own counsel. Toward Koesler she was neither reserved nor effusive. Tentatively, their relationship might be described as congenial.

  Mrs. Wheatley, a strikingly handsome woman, gave the appearance—probably because she was so slender—of being taller than she actually was. Her gracious smile had a plastic foundation.

  “Plastic” was Koesler’s word for Nan Wheatley. And one would have a difficult time getting emotionally close to plastic. Her mutation into something like a Stepford automaton took place gradually over the period when she and her husband entered in stages the Roman Church.

  Her Anglican world crumbled as former parishioners and friends fell away. Seemingly in the “Whither thou goest, I shall go” mode, she appeared to be following uncomprehendingly the path set by her husband.

  And then there were her children. But that was another story.

  Koesler hesitated to respond to Tully’s invitation. The time for the procession leading to the ordination ceremony was nearing. He checked his watch, something he did often, day and night. Things should get under way within the next fifteen minutes.

  The musicians in the choir loft were playing divertimenti so softly they scarcely could be heard over the muted hubbub of the congregation.

  Would it seem impolite not to respond to Tully’s invitation? Koesler was acutely sensitive to, Nan’s feelings; above all, he wanted her to feel accepted in her new, unaccustomed situation.

  He joined the group.