Till Death

by William X. Kienzle

  And that was it.

  It was a small procession to the cemetery and a lonely burial. Dora’s parents, her only close relatives, were dead. Six young men who worked for Tom Becker and with Rick Casserly acted as pallbearers. The undertaker, his assistant, and the four survivors attended. Fathers Tully and Koesler presided. A few prayers, the sprinkling of holy water, and it was over. Without another word each went his or her separate way.

  Father Koesler was one piece shy of completing this jigsaw puzzle of a mystery. He knew full well that whether or not he was able to put it together to his satisfaction, he might well carry the secret to his grave.

  The next several months passed quickly. It was January. Those who favored winter sports were delighted. Snow continued to fall in abundance. Michigan’s ski resorts did not even need to “make snow.” Those interested in and/or captivated by football had their fill of the college bowl variety over the New Year’s holiday. And there was still more to come from the postseason pro games.

  Most of the rest of humanity was in the doldrums, waiting for Lent to pass, Easter to come, and spring to arrive.

  One distinctly bright spot had been the marriage of Jerry Anderson and Lillian Niedermier. Father Robert Koesler had witnessed the ceremony, which took place in St. Joseph’s—downtown—church just before Christmas.

  Lil’s maid of honor was her friend and assistant principal. Most of the school staff, as well as many of the students, attended. Nearly the entire editorial staff of Oakland Monthly was there, led by editor Pat Lennon.

  Conspicuous by his absence was Rick Casserly who had not been invited and would not have participated in any event. He had just barely gotten over the pain of thinking about Lil with another man; he did not need to be reminded so vividly by the reality of her marriage.

  For Lil and Jerry this Christmas was the happiest of their lives. They had each other. They loved each other. And neither would ever have to be lonely again.

  Jerry’s mother was a bit confused by this turn of events. One day, her little boy was a priest—the answer to a mother’s prayers. Then suddenly, he was no longer a priest—even though he was “a priest forever.” Then that was okay because the Pope let him be a layman again. Now he was married—even though he had a lifelong commitment to celibacy. But it must be all right since it had happened in a Catholic church with many of Jerry’s priest friends and classmates in attendance.

  Her head was reeling.

  In an undemanding moment, she decided that God was good. She’d had the button-popping pride of having her son a priest. And now, one of these days, maybe she’d be a grandma. The best of all possible worlds.

  Tom and Peggy Becker thanked God every day they were together.

  Tom decided it was past time to retire. He put his business up for sale and was considering the offers. Already he had enough money for the rest of his life. And with proceeds from the sale his children would be set till the end of their days.

  Tom and Peggy cherished life after he had come so close to losing his. The boat was a total loss, but it had been completely insured. He would not buy or build another. From now on he would drink water, not travel on it.

  Rick Casserly returned to work a month after his wife’s funeral. But his heart wasn’t really in it. And he had lost his angel/protector, Tom Becker. Becker could not guarantee that his present employees would be retained. To try to find a buyer who would agree to that might take more years than Tom had.

  Casserly then, had to give some attention to his future. He spent the next few months debating within himself what he might do next. Clearly, he was at a crossroads. To stay with the present job with the strong possibility that new owners would clean house and bring in their own personnel. Or, to anticipate such a move and try another company.

  Or …

  Father Koesler would always remember that it was Palm Sunday when Rick Casserly called for an appointment. As luck would have it, Koesler happened to be helping during Holy Week at St. William’s, Casserly’s last parish. The chancery still had not found a permanent replacement for Rick.

  They met that afternoon in St. William’s rectory. Casserly was unwilling to suffer the memories evoked by this building so he repressed them.

  They sat in the living room, each with a cup of coffee fortunately not made by Koesler. Though a mite stale, still it was infinitely more potable than anything the elder priest would have brewed.

  “Bob,” Casserly began, “I’ve been thinking a lot about my future. I could use a little help. I’ve got a good job with excellent pay now, but once Tom sells the business, the new owners may want their own team. And sixty, leaning on sixty-one, isn’t the best time of life to start hunting for work.”

  “I see what you mean.” Koesler nodded. “But if you wanted advice regarding the job market, you probably would have gone to some sort of employment agency. So, to make a long story short and to get down to what we might more realistically consider—you’re thinking of returning to the active ministry. You didn’t get laicized—and you figure that opens the door for you. Anything else you—or an agency—could have figured out. That about it?”

  Casserly nodded and smiled. “In a nutshell, yes. Only thing is … I don’t know how to go about it. First, I wanted to know what you thought of the idea. Then, maybe you know something about the procedure.”

  Koesler stood and began pacing the large living room. “If I can believe the Detroit Catholic, you are one of the many on ‘leave of absence.’ Few guys with that label ever return. Those who do generally are gone a short time, during which they do little or nothing to compromise the possibility of their returning. You weren’t gone long—so far so good—but you did get married.”

  “But it was invalid and never convalidated.”

  “Right. But you’d have to prove that. And, of course, you know that and you also know how to get a declaration of nullity. My point is, even ‘attempting a marriage’ kind of compromises the possibility of returning.”

  For the first time, Casserly looked concerned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Koesler stood still, hands in pockets, looking down at Casserly. “It just so happens that I counseled one of the fellows who came back. So I have a pretty good idea of what to expect in this archdiocese. You know about Fred Doyle?”

  “Only that he was activated after being gone a long time.”

  “Twenty years.”

  Casserly gave a low whistle. “That long!”

  “Uh-huh. He tells his story to anybody who’s interested. So I don’t think he’d mind my telling you—so you know what’s ahead.”

  Casserly sat back. “I’d appreciate knowing.”

  “It starts,” Koesler began, “with Fred—or in this case, you—getting together with a chancery official. You formally state to him that you want to return to the active ministry—and that you want to be incardinated in the Detroit archdiocese. Then, after a couple of months you arrange for a conference with the chancery man and one of the auxiliary bishops.”

  “Two months!”

  “They’re in no hurry. If everything goes well up to that point, you take a semester to make sure your theology is kosher. If you’re still on track, you spend three days being interviewed by a psychiatrist or psychologist. That goes to a psychological evaluation. And you take tests: Rorschach, MMPI. Then …”

  “There’s more?”

  “Oh yes. The chancery people take all of this for their assessment.”

  “And if they’re satisfied?”

  “You make a thirty-day retreat at the retreat facility of your choice.”

  “Holy cow!” Casserly breathed.

  “One more thing,” Koesler pressed. “And this you’ve got to expect, I think: With Fred, somewhere during this procedure, they found out that he had gotten somewhat involved with the Episcopal Church.”

  “He got ordained?”

  “Not nearly that involved. Just received into that Church and became a Eucharistic Minister. Not
hing more than that and that only for a short time. But the chancery people came this close”—Koesler held up his thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart—“to washing him out.”

  “It sort of makes you wonder, doesn’t it? If they get their noses out of shape because somebody is just distributing Communion for Episcopalians, what are they going to think about someone who ‘attempts’ marriage?”

  They were silent for many long minutes. Koesler resumed his chair.

  “I had no idea,” Casserly murmured finally. “My wedding was as clear-cut a case as you can think of for an invalid marriage. I had not been dispensed from the obligation of celibacy. I hadn’t even requested a dispensation. Any marriage I attempted in that state was invalid on the face of it. All I would have to do was prove I was an undispensed priest and I’d get an annulment in record time.”

  “But it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Koesler mused. “I mean, if you leave the active ministry and you are not laicized, theoretically you can return to the active ministry. Nowhere, however, does it say the Church has to take you back.

  “But in the final analysis,” Koesler concluded, “I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone knows. Maybe there aren’t any cast-iron categories. Maybe it’s a fresh decision for each case. I just don’t know.” He looked at Casserly with great seriousness. “If I were you, I don’t think I would give up my day job.”

  Casserly looked somewhat numb. Clearly he hadn’t expected any information resembling this.

  They said their farewells. Koesler urged his visitor to “Keep in touch.” And then watched as Casserly went weaving down the walk to his car.

  Suddenly the final piece in Koesler’s jigsaw puzzle fell into place. In fact, he might even have a couple of pieces in reserve.

  Twenty-five

  Rick Casserly not only thought mightily about his future and the Catholic Church; he prayed over it.

  Something about Koesler’s explanation of how reentry into the active ministry worked suggested that the procedure might not be identical in every diocese. At least that’s the way it seemed to Casserly. Sometimes things happened so quickly or abruptly that it took Mother Church by surprise—before She could make up any governing rules and regulations. Wandering in and out of the ministry just might be one of those instances.

  Just about every diocese was hurting for priests. But not to the same degree.

  The longer he thought about these possible differences, the more convinced he was that he wanted to test his theory. And his theory definitely did not include the Detroit archdiocese. Not after hearing what Fred Doyle had gone through.

  Casserly considered that he himself might not live long enough to qualify for reentry. Not to mention the serious possibility that his own diocese might not welcome his return.

  In the state of Michigan there were eight dioceses, Detroit being the chief or metropolitan diocese, and Flint the most recently created diocese. Casserly wanted to stay in the state if possible, though not in Detroit. The question was, Which of these sees was most desperate for priests? If the rules for reentry were uniform, it would make no great difference where one applied. But if his hypothesis was accurate, he should at least try to find the weak link.

  After study, research, and prayer, he picked the runt of the litter—Flint. That diocese had been created, largely, by taking a small chunk of the Lansing diocese and a big bite of the Saginaw diocese. Priests in the affected areas were given a small window of opportunity to remain in their original, now shrunk, dioceses. Otherwise they would belong to Flint. Most chose to depart Flint and relocate in either a Lansing or a Saginaw parish. Thus leaving Flint with the majority of its clergy on the brink of retirement and not at all disposed to work twice as hard as they had hitherto.

  Flint it would be.

  The first bishop of the neonatal diocese of Flint was the Most Reverend Harold J. Waldo, former auxiliary bishop of Grand Rapids, home of Gerald R. Ford, once President of the United States. The bishop, in his forty-five years as a priest, had been stationed all over the large Grand Rapids diocese. It was the rare parish that hadn’t been served by him. This peripatetic history, along with the popular book, prompted the sobriquet “Where’s Waldo?” He had five years to retirement—and everyone, including the Pope, was counting. He made a nice interim Ordinary. Those who created bishops were sure they could find a decent replacement in five years. Just hang in there, Waldo, they prayed, until we cut you out to pasture.

  Rick Casserly knew who the bishop was, but knew nothing about him. Detroiters, particularly Detroit priests, tended to know nothing about the rest of Michigan, including where anyone else was located.

  Casserly made his appointment with Waldo for 1 P.M. Holy Thursday. Tradition had it that this was the day Jesus instituted the priesthood of the Apostles during the Last Supper. Appropriate, Rick thought.

  The bishop himself opened the door and invited Casserly in. They settled in the kitchen over coffee and cake.

  “Now,” the bishop opened, “what was it again that you were interested in?” He was wearing black trousers, not well pressed, and an open-collared white shirt.

  “I want to be a priest in your diocese.”

  As far as Bishop Waldo was concerned, this was a by-damn miracle. This man, to all appearances in full command of his faculties, wanted to be a priest. In this diocese. And on Holy Thursday. There must be some catch. The bishop was soon to discover there was.

  Casserly held nothing back. He was loath to go over his time with Lil when they’d lived in fear that someone would discover their secret. But—no more secrets. When he finished his autobiographical sketch the two men sat in mutual silence.

  “As I understand it,” Waldo said, after a thoughtful minute, “you left the priesthood to marry. That was about ten months ago. You didn’t petition for laicization, nor were you granted it. A few months ago, your wife died in a tragic accident. So, now you want to return to the active ministry. But not in your home diocese, Detroit. How so?”

  “Too many memories. Too many explanations.” These reasons were valid even if they weren’t the essential cause of his leave. Of course, if this request to belong to Flint required the time and effort of that Detroit rigmarole, it would be back to the secular workforce for Rick Casserly.

  But Waldo simply nodded, indicating understanding. He rubbed his hands together as if completely satisfied. “Well, since your impediment is deceased and you haven’t been laicized, I guess I’ll just incardinate you into the Flint diocese.”

  Casserly was too stunned to utter a word.

  “Wait a minute,” the bishop wondered aloud. “Can I do that? Just accept you into the diocese?”

  As rapidly as Casserly’s heart had soared, that quickly did it plunge. Was this going to be another Detroit?

  “Do you know anything about this, Richard?”

  “Uh … no. I’ve never done this before.”

  “Neither have I,” the bishop said. “It makes sense though, don’t you think?” he asked brightly.

  Casserly nodded happily.

  “After all,” Waldo continued, “you’re a validly ordained priest. You just don’t have any bishop’s permission to function. If there are any rules and regulations about how this is to be done, I’ve never seen them. Still, it does make sense. Rome probably will be making up some folderol about it in time. Why don’t we do this …” He rubbed his hands briskly again. “We’ll make all that you told me earlier your confession. I’ll give you absolution. And I’ll take care of that little matter of excommunication you incurred when you attempted matrimony. I know a couple of lovely canons that will do the trick. Then, just after Easter we’ll talk, and figure out what assignment will be best for you. Now, kneel down.”

  Casserly did.

  “God, the Father of mercies …” Waldo began the rite of absolution. After concluding, he held up a finger, indicating that Casserly should wait a minute or so. He then disappeared to another part of the rectory, shortly to reappear, bea
ring a sheet of paper that he handed to his still stunned guest. It was a document granting Rick power to again function as a priest. Once more Father Casserly was a priest in the active ministry.

  Later, reflecting on what had transpired, Casserly thought it extremely odd that the bishop had referred to Dora as an “impediment.” However, Rick was not about to argue the point. He had learned to accept what was offered and be grateful.

  Twenty-six

  Liturgically it was still the Easter season, though it was now the middle of May. Spring, thus far, was mild and dry and extremely welcome after a harsh winter.

  Father Koesler was still parish-sitting St. William’s. He had finished the weekday morning Mass and was sitting down to an oatmeal-and-banana breakfast when the phone rang. He almost jumped. This phone, unlike in former times, hardly ever rang.

  “You told me to keep in touch.” Rick Casserly’s voice was oddly upbeat.

  “Yes, indeed I did. The last time we talked was … what?… almost a month ago. Did you ever follow up on getting back into the active ministry?”

  Rick, condensing as he went along, related what had happened in Flint with Bishop Waldo.

  Koesler chuckled. “It reminds me of Pope John the Twenty-third. The Cardinals couldn’t agree on anyone in that consistory who was acceptable to the majority. So they elected that old man, who overturned everything.

  “I remember when they made Flint a diocese. Neither the Michigan bishops nor the Vatican could agree on anyone, so they appointed Waldo to do nothing for five years. And then, good-bye. From what you two worked out, I’d say he’s going to make some pretty sizable changes in the time he has left until retirement.” He chuckled again. “Well, congratulations, Rick. Welcome back.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I thought you’d dropped off the face of the earth.”

  “The bishop wanted to keep it quiet. There was a brief notice in the Flint paper. But if you weren’t a Flint priest, it well could slip by.” Casserly hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice seemed to have lost some of its buoyancy. “Say, Bob, I wonder if I could have some of your time? There’s something else I’d like to talk over with you.”