Masquerade

by William Kienzle

  What a strange man! Did Krieg have to be in control of everything he touched? Surely he alone had been master of last evening’s happening. The only other person who knew what really was happening was Sister Janet. Yet she was no more than playing a role in the drama. He alone directed the event.

  And why would he stage his own murder? It was as if Krieg had been an invisible guest earlier when the others were expressing their strong feelings toward him. They certainly left no doubt that they disliked him intensely. Didn’t one of them as much as say the world would be better off without him? And the others had seemed to agree. It required no great stretch of the imagination to extrapolate a death threat from such a vehement expression.

  How could Krieg have known how strong their antipathy was? How could he know that they disliked him enough to wish him dead, if not murdered? Yet he had to be aware of all this. Having staged his own death, he had to have anticipated that, somehow or other, they would all become suspects in that death.

  And finally, why did those otherwise godly people feel such animus toward Krieg?

  Deliberately, Koesler had avoided the TV ministry of Reverend Krieg. On the other hand, Koesler eschewed all televangelists. Hearsay had it that Krieg was considerably lesser than Billy Graham—who was probably the most sincere of all—and only slightly above Swaggart. Yet no matter how greedy and/or dishonest Krieg’s television program proved, nothing would explain the intensity of the animosity the members of this group held for him.

  P.G. Press came closer to accounting for the hostility Koesler sensed in the group, and that only because, while the TV program could be avoided with a mere turn of the dial, the publishing house tried actively to recruit them. And P.G. Press might have snared one or another of them had they not had the good fortune to get good advice.

  Even though this hypothesis did not seem a likely cause for the group’s strong feeling toward Krieg, it was as close as Koesler could come to solving the puzzle.

  It was the immoderate intensity of their feeling that confounded him. Krieg had given them adequate reason to dislike him. But, that much?

  He checked his watch. Ten minutes to 8:00. Time to investigate an unfamiliar sacristy. While vestments and accouterments for Mass were roughly identical anywhere in the world, in an unfamiliar setting there was no telling where everything was kept.

  On entering the sacristy he found, to his relief, that someone—Sister Janet?—had laid everything out for him—vestments, chalice, wine and water, altar breads, key to the tabernacle, lectionary—everything in place. Or, as Canon Law liked to put it, omnia parata.

  He slipped the alb over his head, ran his arms through the sleeves and let the white garment fall, hoping it would reach the floor—or at least nearly. No luck; too short again. The sleeves ended about halfway between his wrists and elbows. The length was midway between ankles and knees. Why, he wondered for the zillionth time, why don’t they make vestments—particularly the alb, which should cover the priest completely from neck to ankle—in large sizes? One can always roll up the sleeves or tuck up the surplus length over the cincture. But if it’s too short . . .

  There was still time to look for a more suitable alb. He began rummaging through the clothes press.

  Gradually, he became aware that he was not alone. Startled, he turned from the armoire to see David Benbow standing there looking amused.

  “Don’t tell me,” Benbow said. “You can’t find an alb that’s long enough.”

  Koesler returned the smile. “How’d you know?”

  “I have the same problem when I go visiting.”

  The first thought occurring to Koesler was that, yes, Benbow would have that problem since he was only slightly shorter than Koesler. The second reflection was that Benbow was, indeed, a priest, an Episcopal priest. How religiously chauvinistic of him not to be cognizant of Benbow’s priesthood.

  Benbow broke the awkward silence. “I saw the notice upstairs about the Mass at 8:00. Martha and I decided to come down. I thought you might need some help. But I see somebody has set things up.”

  “Yes, everything but a decent sized alb. The most charitable thought that comes to mind is that whoever did this didn’t know I was going to say the Mass. Either that, or she thinks one-size alb fits all.”

  “Er . . .” Benbow paused. “. . . you don’t mind if Martha and I attend your Mass . . .”

  “Of course not.” Koesler felt foolish; it was such a modest request.

  On Koesler’s second thought, by some lights the request wasn’t all that modest, after all. It was one thing to attend Mass. No law against that. Questions arose when Communion time arrived. There could be an awkward moment should either or both Benbows present themselves to receive Communion.

  The program began when England’s Henry VIII couldn’t get a decree of nullity from the Catholic Church. Without the Church’s declaration that his marriage to Catherine of Aragon was null and void, he was unable to contract a Church-sanctioned marriage with anyone else, more particularly in this case, Anne Boleyn. So, Henry split with Rome, declared himself head of the Church of England (which became the Anglican Church, of which the Episcopal Church in America is a branch), and bestowed on himself the desired nullity decree . . . and the desired marriage with Ms. Boleyn.

  Shortly after Anglicanism had replaced Catholicism as the state religion of England, Rome pronounced that the line of apostolic succession had been broken. This was based on the premise that Jesus selected the Apostles as, in effect, the first bishops of the infant Christian Church. These apostle-bishops appointed others to function in this succeeding apostle-bishop role. Those who succeeded the Apostles in turn appointed others to exercise leadership and eventually to replace themselves. And so it went through the centuries. As far as the Church of Rome was concerned, two conditions were required for full membership in the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church: the bishops of said Church must be able to trace themselves in unbroken line to the original Apostles. And second, said Church’s bishops must subject themselves to the authority of the Pope.

  A Church may refuse submission to the Pope while continuing to touch base with the apostolic line. In which case, Rome declares such a Church to be a schism or a schismatic church. Thus, for example, Rome recognizes the validity of the hierarchy, priests, and sacraments of all Orthodox churches. But the Orthodox are not joined to, or in communion with, Rome. Indeed, only recently did the Pope and the Patriarch of Constantinople rescind the excommunications they leveled at each other back on July 16, 1054.

  In somewhat worse shape, at least from the perspective of Rome, are those Christian Churches that are not only out of communion with Rome but also have broken the apostolic line. Rome terms them heretical. Such is the case with all of Protestantism—at least according to Rome.

  However, closest to Catholicism of all so-called Protestant Churches is Anglicanism. At one point in their history, Rome charges, the Anglicans radically changed the prescribed intent in their ordination ceremony and thus broke the apostolic succession requirement, becoming not only schismatic but heretical to boot. Yet in ceremony, vestment, hierarchical structure, and—since Rome approved vernacular liturgy—language, there is little if any visible difference between the two Churches.

  Father Koesler did not need to recall this history in detail. Catholics are, or were, taught the differences between their “one true” Church and everyone else’s very early in life and regularly thereafter.

  Awareness of all this compelled Koesler to reexamine his response regarding Benbow’s attending Mass. Episcopalians had no trouble whatsoever in permitting Catholics to receive Communion at an Episcopal Eucharist. Though Catholics, who had been carefully taught, seldom presented themselves at an Episcopal Communion railing. A matter of invalid sacraments and all that.

  But, officially, only in specifically spelled-out circumstances, none of which, clearly, applied in the present moment, could a Catholic priest invite Protestants to receive Communion.


  Would the Benbows present themselves to receive Communion at Koesler’s Mass?

  After giving the matter a solid thirty seconds of concentrated thought, Koesler concluded: Who cares?

  The Pope cares. Various members of Church officialdom in Rome care. Most bishops would care, if only because they would be expected to care. Self-appointed Church vigilantes dedicated to keeping the Church holier than Christ established it would care. And Mark Boyle, Cardinal Archbishop of Detroit, if inescapably forced to face the issue, would have to care. Past practice would indicate that if Cardinal Boyle were forced to deal with the problem, he very well might establish a blue-ribbon commission to study the matter into eternity. It was one of many reasons why Koesler so admired Boyle: With the world falling down around our ears, whether or not sincere people could worship the same God together was of little importance.

  Koesler realized that probably he was projecting his own feelings onto Benbow. Probably David Benbow felt no embarrassment in this situation. He might only have been observing some self-imposed protocol in asking if it would be permissible for him and his wife to attend Mass.

  Be that as it may, Koesler felt the potential for embarrassment in the question. Koesler was at an unfair advantage. They were at a Catholic college, in a Catholic chapel. It was Koesler’s home field advantage and Benbow couldn’t even compete.

  All these considerations took only moments to flash across Koesler’s mind.

  He turned determinedly to Benbow. “I have a thought: How about concelebrating with me?”

  Benbow was clearly startled. “Are you sure? I mean, are you sure you want to make this offer?”

  “Believe me,” Koesler said, “I am well aware of the complexities. But I don’t think there’ll be any problem. This is a small and tightknit group we have here. Like-minded people, I think. I really doubt there’ll be any trouble. In fact, I think I would have had a problem if I hadn’t invited you to celebrate the Eucharist with me.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. How about it?”

  “I think it would be grand. And I’m grateful.”

  “Then come on,” Koesler said, “let’s see if we can find a couple of decent-sized albs in here.”

  Rummaging through the vestment cases, they managed to uncover two large-sized albs. That was adequate for Benbow. Koesler needed an extra large, but by now he was convinced he wasn’t going to find one. Large would have to do. It was, in any case, a significant improvement over the previous medium size.

  They were nearly completely vested when the door to the sacristy opened and, somewhat breathlessly, Father Augustine entered, clad in Trappist habit.

  “I hope I’m not too late to . . .” His voice trailed off. “What’s this?” he asked, as he realized that both Koesler and Benbow were vested. “What’s the meaning of this!”

  “Welcome,” said Koesler, warmly. “I wasn’t expecting you. Feeling better?”

  Augustine ignored the question. “I came down to concelebrate the holy sacrifice of the Mass.”

  The tone of voice and needless adjectives told Koesler here was trouble on a collision course. Nonetheless he chose to avoid a scene if at all possible. “And so you shall concelebrate. As soon as we find some vestments for you.” If there was going to be any unpleasantness it would be of Augustine’s doing.

  Augustine readily accepted the challenge. “Father Koesler, is this some sort of joke? If so, it is in very poor taste.”

  Koesler, in turn, was quickly running out of bonhomie. “It’s getting kind of late to start a canonical or theological disputation.” He went to the door leading to the sanctuary and glanced into the chapel. “There are two nuns, Mrs. Benbow, and a couple of young ladies—students, I suppose—who are waiting for nothing more than a simple celebration of Mass. And we are, by this time, a couple of minutes late. Now, do you or do you not wish to concelebrate?”

  “With whom? A heretic and someone who is violating the laws of God?”

  “Now wait a minute!” Koesler was angered by Augustine’s gratuitous use of the word heretic.

  “There’s no need for this,” Benbow said apologetically. “I . . .” He began to remove the vestments he had donned.

  “No, don’t!” Koesler gestured, stopping Benbow. “Now look here, Augustine, there’s no need for you to be so priggish.”

  “Priggish!” Augustine shot back. “Was Jesus being priggish when he cast out the moneychangers from the Temple?”

  “Moneychangers! Are you kidding?”

  “There is no justification whatsoever for you to concelebrate Mass with a representative of a heretical Church!”

  “I assume you are allowed to read in the monastery, Father,” Koesler said, “even if only ecclesial documents. If you’ve been reading, you know that the joint Catholic Anglican Commission has all but granted the validity of Anglican orders.”

  “I couldn’t care less what some commission has ‘all but’ done.”

  “And I wish you’d stop throwing the word ‘heretic’ around.”

  “It’s the proper word. Are you willing to admit that what you’re doing is against the law?”

  “I suppose it depends on what you mean by law.”

  “You know very well what I mean by law: God’s law.”

  “When last I checked with my Bible, God’s law was the law of love. At least that’s what Jesus said: ‘A new commandment I give you, that you love one another as I have loved you.’”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  Koesler began an inner battle against rising anger. “Look at it this way, Augustine: No one is forcing you to do anything. You may concelebrate this Mass with us, if you wish. After all, that’s why you came down this morning. You can attend this Mass, if you prefer. Or you can go back to bed.” Or, for all I care, he added silently, you can drop dead.

  Self-righteousness radiated from Augustine the way Moses must have glowed when he descended from the mountain after his conversation with God. “None of the above,” Augustine announced. “I will not concelebrate this farce. Nor will I even witness it. And, instead of going back to bed, I’m going to call your Chancery and tell them what’s going on here.”

  With that, leaving neither time nor opportunity for further discussion, Augustine turned and stormed from the sacristy.

  After a moment or two of embarrassed silence, Benbow spoke. “I’m going to solve this little problem.” And he began to remove his vestments.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Koesler protested. But he saw it was useless to argue the matter further.

  “It was very kind of you to invite me to celebrate with you. And I sha’nt forget it. I should have just thanked you and declined your invitation. There’ll always be an Augustine up on the battlements defending Mother Church.”

  “Yeah . . .” Koesler shook his head sadly, “or defending God. I’ve never figured out why God needs defending. For that matter, I don’t know why Mother Church needs defending. Canon Law holds all the cards.”

  “And that was the law to which Augustine was referring.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “I hope you won’t be forced to play cards with the Chancery.”

  “Why?” Koesler looked surprised. “Nothing happened . . . or, in the language of Canon Law, nihil fit.”

  “Doesn’t the intention count in this diocese?”

  Koesler snorted. “We’ve got enough problems staffing parishes without penalizing priests for what they’re thinking. Besides, the buck on a thing like this stops at the desk of the archbishop. And, to stay with our metaphor, he doesn’t like to play his hand unless he is forced into doing so.”

  Benbow had disrobed. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Certain.”

  “Then I’ll just leave. I’ll get Martha. Maybe they’ve started serving breakfast.”

  Koesler protested. “You don’t have to leave entirely. When this thing started, your only request was to attend the Mass,
and you certainly may do that.”

  “Don’t know how to explain it, old man: The taste is gone.” He smiled ruefully. “See you later.”

  The taste had faded for Koesler also. But he was not free to simply walk away from the scene. People—a few people anyway—were waiting for him to offer Mass. And he was late. Given his obsession with punctuality, this was an added vexation.

  He was already vested, so he merely went to the altar and began setting things up for Mass. As he did so, visions of the ugly scene that had just transpired haunted him.

  Things could have been so very satisfying. Along with, and as much as, many others, Koesler had long been unhappy and uneasy with the disunity, the divisiveness, the schisms within Christianity. On those occasions when he participated in gatherings that included members of various Christian sects, he was invariably troubled that this temporary, ad hoc harmonious fellowship could not be permanent.

  What kept people of good will apart? Ancient arguments, disagreements, theological bickering, traditions of distrust, and people like Augustine, who, in Koesler’s view, put Church laws and customs—all man-made—above the simple invitation of Christ to love as completely and encompassingly as He had.

  Like most everything else in life, the offering of Mass could not be separated from the emotions of the moment. He had offered Masses that had been inspired, reflective, meditative, disrupted, distracted, disturbed. This Mass would be tainted by the angry words of Father Augustine. There was nothing Koesler could do about that. Just chalk it up to experience.

  But it left him wondering about Father Augustine May, osco. Was there that much differentiating the mean-spirited May from the greedy, grubby Klaus Krieg? Did they deserve each other?

  “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

  “My brothers and sisters, in order to prepare ourselves to celebrate these sacred mysteries, let us call to mind our sins . . . .”