“Jesus Christ, the Son of God, did not come down from heaven on Christmas night to save us. He came down to tell us that we are all already saved! The only doom is what we make for ourselves. It is not God’s mind that needs to be changed, but ours. Saint Paul said it: nothing we ever do can separate us from the love of God. And if that is true of us Catholics, it is true of everybody! The Creator loves what He creates. That is the Good News. There is no salvation outside…Creation!”
To his surprise, Kavanagh realized that he had made a fist, and elevated it above his head, a gesture of unbridled feeling. Without his knowing it, his voice had risen with his declaration, his passionate announcement of the gladdest tidings he’d ever heard.
“Let me say the thing again”—both hands were now spread before him—“offering it as my Christmas present to you, my last and best gift ever: salvation is knowing that you are all already saved. In Jesus Christ, who came down from heaven not to die a miserable death, or to form an exclusive group called ‘the Church,’ but to live a selfless life that makes plain to all of God’s children His universal and everlasting love.”
Kavanagh fell silent. The counterpart silence of the church was absolute. It lasted for as long as Kavanagh remained unmoving in the pulpit. Finally, with a wide, shit-eating grin, he asked, “So why should we not greet one another in happiness tonight, saying, ‘Merry, merry Christmas’?”
To which that same child called out, once more, “Merry Christmas, Father.” And all the people laughed, hard.
—
A FEW MINUTES later, the Midnight Mass communicants were presenting themselves at the gleaming brass rail, rolling waves of kneeling men and women, boys and girls—all dressed up in their Christmas best. To Kavanagh, they were saints. As he placed the Host on each one’s tongue, he had an impulse, also, to cover their heads with his hand, to press down with affection and farewell. To all appearances, he was a blithely efficient priest, passing out the Body of Christ, but inwardly, he was brimming with emotion—gratitude, and love.
And then, swinging to his right, he saw the sandy, well-coiffed head of a bowing gentleman in a tweed suit. Even before John Malloy brought his face up, Kavanagh recognized him. Their eyes met briefly, before Malloy’s lids fluttered shut as he extended his tongue. Placing the Host, Kavanagh’s hand trembled. Malloy kept his head bowed as he blessed himself. He stood and turned away without making further eye contact, leaving Kavanagh with the sense that, for Malloy, this moment was less about their friendship than about the Sacrament, Jesus Christ, God.
After the Mass, Michael Kavanagh, still in his vestments, stood in the chilly night, outside the church door, exchanging Christmas salutations with one and all. His breath came in puffs. His left hand was cold, but his right was warm, from all the heartfelt handshakes.
John Malloy waited, holding back, and appearing only when the other Mass-goers had drifted off. Then he and Kavanagh were alone on the top step of the broad staircase that ran down to Broadway.
“They love you, Mike,” Malloy said.
“I love them.” Kavanagh smiled broadly. “Not to mention you.” They clasped hands. “Merry Christmas, Runner.”
“Merry Christmas, Mike. But ‘Runner’! Jesus! There it is again.”
“Runner Malloy. Stayer Kavanagh. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I only got your letter three days ago. The school secretary didn’t forward it to me, because, she said, everybody hoped I’d be back.”
“To Saint Aiden’s? Back?”
“The prick headmaster tried to can me. I was put on leave…until the trustees’ meeting last week. They heard me out. Tables turned. Mr. Rohan had written them a letter. As of the new term, by unanimous vote of the board, I am interim headmaster. Emphasis on ‘interim.’ ”
“No shit! That is great!” Kavanagh only now released Malloy’s hand, and slapped his shoulder. “What about Tommy?”
“Reinstated.” Malloy smiled happily. “The lecherous English teacher is gone. You brought me luck that day.”
Kavanagh matched his friend’s smile. “Speaking of tables turned, you received Communion tonight.”
“You noticed. After that sermon, how could I not?” Grinning, Malloy spread his hands. “Prodigal son.”
Kavanagh laughed. “I got the best part from you. Si non credimus!” Then, more seriously, he added, “It was a privilege to say what I don’t believe, and what I do believe.”
“But, Mike, does the Church believe it?”
“Everything I said is in the tradition.”
“If so, it’s a minority report.”
“So it needs to be brought forward,” Kavanagh said. “You saw the people nodding. About unbaptized babies. About the Cohens and the Ginsbergs. About the monster-Father. Commonsense Gospel, John. The people, when they hear it, know it’s true…even if the clergy don’t.”
“Do they know about you?”
“The folks here? No. Nobody knows. My brother and sisters, that’s it.”
“What did Bishop Donovan say?”
Kavanagh shook his head. “He doesn’t know yet, either. If I’d told Donovan that I’d be leaving, he’d have gone to the Cardinal immediately, and they’d have made sure I didn’t say this Mass tonight. I wasn’t going to let them stop me from this farewell. I’ll be leaving letters on my desk, one each to the Monsignor, Donovan, and Spellman, explaining my decision. The housekeeper will find the letters tomorrow, after I clear out. The letters are thank-you notes, really. At this point, my gratitude for what I could do as a priest, despite the bullshit that began when they dumped you, outweighs the regret.”
“Your gratitude was on full display tonight. You seem okay about what you’re doing.”
“I am. Better than okay. ‘Stayer’ Kavanagh is not staying. No more nicknames. I’m at peace, John. First time in years.”
Malloy grinned. “Because of some nun?”
Kavanagh shook his head. He said, without levity, “My only nun was Héloïse. What I preached tonight came from her.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
To the Cathedral of Sens, for the great Council in May 1141 and its contest of giants, came all the notables of France—the King, the Queen, Dukes and Counts, dozens of courtiers, Archbishops and Bishops, Abbots and Priors, together with what yeomen, merchants, artisans, and minor clergy could crowd into the great Merovingian basilica. The thick walls and small windows meant the dark interior space was illuminated by dozens of torches and candles, placed high on ledges and low on side altars—everywhere. Shadows danced in sync with the flickering flames. Here and there could be seen black-robed Benedictines and white-robed Cistercians. With their cowls drawn over their heads, such rival monks were like pepper and salt, seasoning the throng.
Raised high on a chancel dais, King Louis VII and Queen Eleanor, looking too young, giddy, and thrilled, were enthroned side by side under the ceremonial canopy, the shimmering purple of which draped down behind them to form the cloth of honor. Her Majesty had reserved the loggia high above the Gospel side of the altar for her personal party, the Ladies-in-Waiting who accompanied her everywhere, a happy chorus of good fortune. They craned down like fairgoers, although one of the women in the Queen’s party held back. In a corner of the gallery, behind the grille and the giddy attendants, was a figure heavily cloaked in mourning dress and veil, the Queen’s cousin—recently widowed, from the look of her apparel. She was, in actuality and unknown to all but Eleanor, Mother Héloïse, Abbess of the Paraclete.
Under the domed apse, two dozen mitered prelates were positioned in rows of stout chairs fanning out on either side of the Royals. The gold and silver threads of their headgear and vestments glistened in the candlelight. Immediately in front of the bishops’ crescent was the small rostrum with railings, the stage on which the antagonists would face each other.
The only figure of prominence to be absent was Peter of Montboissier, Abbot of Cluny. More was at stake in this disputation for him than for most others, and
his truancy was taken to indicate his insecurity. An ornate chair on the upper level of the sanctuary, near the King, had been purposefully left vacant to show that the Abbot Primate had been summoned and had not appeared: Cluny was in decline.
From the sanctuary, Their Majesties, Their Eminences, Their Graces, and Their Excellencies faced the untitled throng that crowded into the transept, held back by men-at-arms—or, rather, by cross-marked knights of the Jerusalem-based monkish order, the so-called Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ, whose spiritual father was the illustrious Bernard. The crush of spectators filled the nave, a jocular multitude for whom the solemn proceedings held the promise of a joust. No one would acknowledge attending a knights’ tournament in the hope of seeing combatants killed, but if they were not regularly killed, no one would attend. A heresy trial was like that, but different. The risk of death here was the immortal soul’s, not the mere body’s: the stacked wood and kindling in the Cathedral plaza outside would fuel the burning of the condemned codex manuscripts and scrolls, not the blasphemer himself. Although, in these latter days, upon the bishops’ command, the lightning bolt from heaven could strike, igniting a spontaneous execution. A man, too, might be set aflame, the famous Abelard himself—which added to the excited suspense.
What few in the gathering knew, as they crowded into the Cathedral early that morning, was that, at the bishops-only banquet after the Vespers Mass the night before, the dramatic contest had already been decided—in the accused’s absence. To a series of propositions said to be drawn from Peter Abelard’s own work and read out by Bernard, the bishops had, to a man, cried “Damnamus.” That the public formalities of the Council of Sens, now to begin, were all but meaningless would soon become clear.
As across waves of wheat bending in the wind, a buzzing rustle spread through the assembly when Master Peter Abelard appeared at the Cathedral entrance. A black-robed monk, framed by the rounded arch of the narthex against the bright light of the open door, he wore the aura of morning as if he’d been born to it. For the first time, silence fell upon the Cathedral. It had been rumored that Theobald, Count of Blois, was providing an armed escort for Abelard, but he was alone. His solitude was magnificent. He stood there in defiance. His air of vulnerability made courage his armor. Even his antagonists were stirred. Those who were not standing, including all in the chancel, save the King and Queen, came to their feet.
Only now did Héloïse push forward to the edge of the balcony, and what she saw made her heart sink. As Peter moved slowly into the Cathedral proper, down the aisle that opened for him as the crowd drew back, his gait was uneven. Normally a man of erect posture, he tilted forward. He carried his right arm in his left hand. His head was to the side. Even across the distance, she saw, as he shuffled more than walked, how much more pronounced the tremors had become since she had seen him. She realized what she had fended off before, that Peter Abelard had the palsy. It had him.
Waiting for Abelard at the forward edge of the top step of the sanctuary, standing above the rostrum, with the array of dignitaries behind him, was Bernard of Clairvaux. The White Monk was a large, bald man. His striking pristine habit caught the flickers of torchlight, which lent him, altogether, an otherworldly luminescence. He held a parchment scroll in both hands, horizontally before his chest. His dark eyes were fiercely concentrated on the approaching black figure. When, at last, Abelard mounted the one step to the rostrum and, with evident relief, balanced himself with a hand on its railing, Bernard made a slight lowering motion with the scroll, and those in the Cathedral with stools or room to crouch sat down. That simply, Bernard claimed the presider’s authority. Against expectations, he was going to be less a participant in a disputation than the man in control of proceedings.
With a flourish, he opened the scroll and began to read. His voice was steady, confident, loud. “Having assembled under the authority of the Sacred Canons, as the Pontifical Delegates of the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Innocent II; and with the intention to proceed against disorder and the increase of prejudice to the Holy Faith; this Holy Tribunal does issue, promulgate, and declare these condemnations of the heresies of Peter Abelard, Master of the School at Mont-Sainte-Geneviève in Paris, aged sixty-one….”
Bernard turned slightly and, with a thrown glance, cued the bishops, who, with rough scraping of chairs, coughing, and adjustments of miters, came once more to their feet. Most of them had their eyes cast down, and they gave off an air of unease.
From her place, an alarmed Héloïse craned forward to search Peter Abelard’s face for some sign that he was less startled by this turn than she: a promulgation already? His expression was impassive, impossible to read.
“Erratum!” Bernard said in a now declaiming voice: “That the Father has full power, the Son a certain power, the Holy Spirit no power.”
He looked briefly back, and the bishops, more or less in unison, declared the one word, “Damnamus!”
Bernard addressed Peter Abelard, “Do you abjure this teaching?”
Peter Abelard, looking directly back at Bernard, said nothing.
After a moment’s uncertainty, Bernard returned to his text. “Erratum! That the Holy Spirit is not of the substance of the Father or of the Son.”
The bishops said, more forcefully, “Damnamus!”
Bernard again asked, “Do you abjure this teaching?”
Again, Abelard said nothing. Héloïse saw the thing clear. This was no disputation. This was a sentencing. Abelard had already been convicted—and of what? Of the sacrilege of thinking about the mystery of the Most Holy Trinity. He was standing not on a debaters’ rostrum, but in a criminal’s dock. The coward Bernard had sprung a trap.
“Erratum! That Christ did not assume flesh to free us from the yoke of the devil.”
“Damnamus!”
“Do you abjure this teaching?”
Silence. Indeed, Abelard’s silence was amplified by the absolute silence that had fallen over the Cathedral. Hardly a breath was being drawn by that multitude.
“Erratum! That we have not contracted sin from Adam, but only punishment.”
“Damnamus!”
Bernard continued the recitation of errors, and the putting of the questions to Abelard, but the pattern was unvaried, climaxing again and again with Abelard’s refusal to speak.
“Erratum! That the power of binding and loosing was given to the Apostles only, not to their successors.”
“Damnamus!”
“Erratum! That they have not sinned who being ignorant have crucified Christ.”
There they were: the Christ crucifiers! That a shift in the standing of Jews in the Christian mind would necessarily follow from Abelard’s schema made the transgression mortal, malefaction beyond all the rest. The Jew’s place in the tapestry of redemption—no place—depended absolutely on the Jew’s guilt. Untie that knot, and the entire tapestry would unravel. Jews have not sinned!
“Damnamus!”
Throughout, Héloïse heard hints of Abelard’s positions in the indictments, together with implications of what would offend a false prophet like Bernard, and she readily conjured the rebuttals Peter would have thrown back, forcing Bernard’s pomposity to swallow itself. That the accusations were not, in fact, precisely accurate representations of Abelard’s teaching did not take away from the fact that running below all the imputations were, yes, the assumptions of a critical mind at work on reimagining the faith; submitting faith to a test of reason, and to a test of love that was true to Jesus but that, in this age of odium, had been forgotten. These bishops had already pronounced the verdict: any reimagining of the faith was the offense.
Indeed, Héloïse saw it all. She understood that these anathemas marked a decisive break with the authentic tradition—anathemas she had herself entirely failed to anticipate. The future of belief was being set here, but so was Peter Abelard’s future. The most grievous recognition came all at once:
Yes, Peter had been trapped, but by Héloïse herself. By challenging him to be here, she had set the snare.
After the last “Damnamus!” Bernard drew himself up to demand, “Do you abjure these teachings or not!” The White Monk was beside himself with rage, clearly taking the heretic’s repeated refusal to respond as contemptuous, even as it was blazingly apparent that, to the transfixed Cathedral throng, Abelard’s bold spurning had become magnificent.
To Héloïse, his standing there, supporting himself with a trembling hand on the rostrum railing, had the transcendent dignity of the mute Jesus Christ before Pontius Pilate, refusing to answer the fabricated Roman charges. Yet, if Abelard was Christ, who was she but one of those who, having failed to see the stakes—or dangers—of what he confronted, had utterly failed him? She was Judas.
Bernard looked quickly back toward the King, who was leaning forward, with his chin upon his fist. The bishops were exchanging nervous glances. Bernard returned to his proclamation, the peroration, but he read nervously now: “Whereas you, Peter Abelard, cling to these grave and pernicious errors, and that they may not go altogether unpunished, and that you may be an example to others who would undermine the order of the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church…” The monk’s voice was drained of its former authority, which made the stark declaration odd. Still, its words were shocking to all who heard. “…this Plenary Tribunal ordains that the books of your hand be prohibited by public edict. Furthermore, we prescribe and enjoin that you, Peter Abelard, are everywhere to be denounced publicly as excommunicated…” Bernard looked up nervously from the parchment, but when his eyes met the unflinching Abelard’s, he dropped them again, and read on. “…accursed…condemned…and interdicted. We condemn you to perpetual silence and enforced monastic confinement for the duration of our pleasure.”
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