by John Ayang
“Fr. Callahan didn’t apprise me of this in the message he left on my voice mail,” Fr. McCarthy complained feebly and pointlessly. His heart beating irregularly in his chest.
“Perhaps, he thought that you had already got your notice, or he just decided to spare you from worrying too much before meeting with me or some other possibility,” the Cardinal said, trying to calm him, as it looked. “But, as I said, there is nothing to worry too much about here. The Church is not a stranger to lawsuits. Compared with what we have gone through in the past, this one seems a bit frivolous. The hearing is not until November ending, more than a month. And that, I would say, leaves Stacy enough time to prepare a defense. She probably would want to talk to you. Or, again, she may not see that as necessary. Only make sure there is no other parishioner who has blatantly repudiated Church teaching on the issue and has not been appropriately sanctioned as the Eshiets allege in their suit.”
“I can’t recall any, Your Eminence,” Fr. McCarthy said, creasing his forehead in obvious but needless effort.
“That, I believe you, Father,” the Cardinal replied. “But if you, by any chance, discover a case like that which had not come to your notice don’t hesitate to call Stacy. She is an expert in these matters; and a very smart lady.”
Fr. McCarthy thought that was very comforting to know. Feeling he had gotten more support from the Cardinal than he had hoped for, he sighed with relief. But he was still confused, wondering what the world was coming to when folks would sue at the drop of a hat over what they have no right nor moral standing to sue. ‘Where has the respect of Catholics for a priest of God gone to?’ He wondered, feeling insulted by the suit and raging impotently at such an affront.
“Can you believe that?” Fr. McCarthy raged, a glass of screwdriver—orange juice spiked with vodka—in hand. “I can’t believe a couple of African block heads would have the guts to sue me for stopping them from Holy Communion when they know full well they did something immoral.”
“Whoa-o! Whoa-o! Take a grip on yourself, Nick,” Fr. Charles Polanski chided his friend. “Please, don’t let such a frivolous situation rob you of your priestly demeanor. Maybe you shouldn’t be knocking back that screwdriver so fast.”
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” Fr. McCarthy mellowed. “I got carried away. You know, I drove to the Chancery quite peeved at the poor Cardinal, thinking he gives ear too much to disgruntled parishioners over irrelevant complaints. I never knew he had a lawsuit on his hands, thanks to me. No. Thanks to my libertine, highly educated parishioners! Tell me something Charlie. Why are Catholics no longer respectful of priests and Church teachings? Where has the famous Catholic loyalty of yesteryears gone to?”
Fr. Polanski stood pensive for a few seconds. Then he said, “I have a theory, Nick,” and poured himself a generous measure of the screwdriver, dropped his bulk into the settee and warmed to his theory. “The Nordic tribes have a masquerade dance during the harvest season. When they wear their masks women and children run from them in fear and awe, shrieking. When they put aside their masks after the dance to sit down and eat and drink with the rest of the folk and everybody sees who were behind the masks, women and children can then sit beside them laughing and making fun of their awkward dance steps.” He took a gulp of the screwdriver and paused for effect.
“So, what’s the point of your theory?” Fr. McCarthy asked, barely keeping from laughing it off as ridiculous. “What connection has your theory, as you call it, to my being sued for discrimination?”
“Did I hear you ask why priests are no longer respected and Church teachings no longer followed religiously?” Fr. Polanski asked, dubiously.
“Sure, I did,” Fr. McCarthy replied.
“Then my theory has a lot to do with your case, Nick,” Fr. Polanski replied, shifting his bulk and crossing one leg over the other. He took a sip and continued. “You see, before Vatican II Council and the great aggiornamento of John XXIII, when priests used to wear black cassocks and berets, say Mass in Latin facing the wall away from the people, and generally veiling everything, there was much respect for priests. That was because there was a great mystique surrounding the person of the priest and everything he did. After Vatican II, the altar rails were knocked down, the priest ditched the black beret and black cassock and faced the people. Great emphasis was given to lay participation in the liturgy, lay Communion Ministers were created to serve at what was the exclusive turf of the clergy, and the mystery language of Latin was retired to make room for the vernacular: everything was basically demystified. Now, the masqueraders without their masks – the priests without the mystique aura – are no longer intimidating to ‘women and children:’ the laity.”
Fr. McCarthy stopped pacing and sat down opposite his host. He was always impressed at his older friend’s sagacity. As he was listening to his explanation, nay ‘theory,’ on why priests have lost respect among their flock, he felt he wasn’t let down.
“I think you’re beginning to make a lot of sense, Charlie,” he said, ponderously. “But, why? One would have thought making the liturgy more participatory and demystifying things to make them understandable would be much more welcome than esotericism!”
Fr. Polanski chuckled and said, paternally, “You should become a student of human nature, Nick. Once you demystify sacred objects and persons you divest them of the sacredness too. You make them banal and insipid.” He took another sip and continued in mock disappointment, “I thought you were going to corroborate my theory by mentioning the pedophilia scandal.”
“And I thought that was going to be the thesis of your theory,” Fr. McCarthy countered. “Because I have a rebuttal ready for that.”
“And what would be your rebuttal, my dear Nick?”
“You cannot condemn a whole barrel of apples because of a few rotten ones,” Fr. McCarthy stated, almost with the impudence of a cocksure teenager. Fr. Polanski heaved his bulk from the settee and moved toward the kitchen, saying dismissively, “Go back to school, Nick, and register in Human Psychology 101. Are you hungry?” He asked, proceeding to open the pans and pots he had on the stove.
“Oh, c’mon, Charlie. You know what am talking about?” Fr. McCarthy pursued his righteous rebuttal. “Moreover, the media was feeding the frenzy of the people, blowing everything out of all proportion to sell paper.” He took his place at the table as Fr. Polanski put a plate and cutlery in front of him and settled opposite him for a lunch of spaghetti and meatballs. “I know part of the anger had to do with the fact that Catholic moral teaching especially in sexual matters is viewed by some people as too rigid. It was as though they were saying to the Church, ‘We’ve caught you now in your own trap you SOB.’ And I know some people still have a gripe with the Church over Humanae Vitae. But, what the heck! Truth sometimes hurts.”
“Tut, tut!” Fr. Polanski exclaimed in mock surprise. “You are suddenly becoming very intelligent.”
“Yeah, I guess you can mock me now,” Fr. McCarthy said, ruefully. “But I hate the whole business of stereotyping and profiling people. I have not sexually abused any child. Nobody should judge me by the mistakes of a few misguided priests.”
Fr. Polanski forked a load of spaghetti into his mouth and spoke through the mash, “Stereotyping and profiling is what we do every day, Nick.”
“It’s not what I do,” Fr. McCarthy protested feebly.
“Yes, it is,” Fr. Polanski countered.
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“Isn’t.”
“’Is. You just did it barely half an hour ago. You referred to your complainants as ‘African block heads,’ remember?”
“Charlie, c’mon, that’s not stereotyping, you know it,” Fr. McCarthy said, exasperated. “And besides, I said that in a feat of anger, you know.”
“Nick, if you accept that people do stereotype people every day in different forms and in different ways, you will
understand that I am not indicting you,” Fr. Polanski mellowed. “You talk about anger. Don’t forget that the lawsuit against you might be a grandchild, so to speak, of the anger over Humanae Vitae which you just mentioned.”
“But that’s a longstanding teaching of the Church, and what it predicted are all coming true in our day,” Fr. McCarthy said, matter-of-factly.
“I wish it were about the truth of predictions, Nick,” Fr. Polanski said. “The fact is: whether longstanding, long-sitting, or long-squatting, there is something that is not fitting in well with popular opinion of Church moral teaching on sexuality. Don’t ask me, because I don’t know what it is.”
“What do you mean?” Fr. McCarthy asked, confused.
“How many families do you have in your parish, and what is the median age?”
“Eight hundred families, give or take,” Fr. McCarthy replied, not seeing where his host was leading. “I would say the median age is about fifty-two, or thereabouts.”
“What percentage of that number, those married in Church in the eighties up to the nineties, have more than two children?” Fr. Polanski drilled on.
“I see where you are going,” Fr. McCarthy conceded. “But I will answer truthfully. I would say, not up to ten percent.”
“Boom! That must be good news for the Church,” Fr. Polanski said, sarcastically.
“What do you mean, Charlie?”
“You see, after their first child or second child, our wonderful Catholic people took to practicing abstinence all the days of their lives.” He pushed out his chin and addressed an imaginary figure on the couch, “Move over celibate priests and monks, there’s a new group of sex abstainers in town! They have never heard about the pill, tubal ligation or vasectomy. These ninety percent, typical of every parish, were, and are very loyal to Church sexual moral teachings. Curran and McCormick were just naysayer wafflers. Thank God they got rapped on their knuckles for impudence…”
“Okay, Charlie. Okay. Okay, you’ve made your point,” Fr. McCarthy said, vexing visibly. “Quit your sarcastic rant.”
“Who said am ranting?” Fr. Polanski said, faking a hurt. “I’m just crying that there was an elephant in the house, and it is still there.” He added after a pause, “It doesn’t matter. I’m probably the only one who sees it, and that makes me the wacky one.”
“You aren’t wacky, Charlie,” Fr. McCarthy said, somberly. “You’re just saying it like it is. And I think I like it that way. But I think I prefer the truth straight without the sarcasm.”
“Gosh! I think am on cloud nine. There is nothing like a good lunch,” Fr. Polanski said, changing the subject and getting up to clear the table. “Coffee, or dissert?” He asked.
“No sweets for me,” Fr. McCarthy replied. Glad that his host had changed the topic. “But coffee is okay. I still have a long day ahead.” He began to feel a bit at ease. The conversation was getting too tense for comfort. Yet, there was no denying that his host had given him a lot of food for thought. “Thanks,” he said, curtly, as Fr. Polanski placed his coffee in front of him. Then he remembered to be a gracious guest, “The spaghetti meal was good.”
“Don’t blame me. Blame the makers of the Ragu sauce,” Fr. Polanski said, good-naturedly, settling down for his own coffee with a generous slice of brownie.
The two friends sat for several seconds, silently bemoaning the loss of clergy respect among their flock. Then Fr. McCarthy rose and thanked his host again before making his exit to return to Our Lady Queen of Peace Church.
Houston, Texas
October 9, 2012
“IN NOMINE PATRIS, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” Father McCarthy intoned, loud and clear.
“Amen,” the congregation behind him responded in an equally resounding chorus.
“Gratia Domini nostri Jesu Christi, et caritas Dei, et communicatio Sancti Spiritus sit cum omnibus vobis,” he continued.
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” the congregation responded, fluently. Father McCarthy was pleased. ‘The Latin Mass should be very easy,’ he thought to himself. ‘It would be as if the Church had not left off its official language for quite some time.’ He wondered why some priests were riled when they got the “Motu Proprio” from the Holy See. ‘The thing is as easy as ABC! Even the people of God have not forgotten their beloved Latin language.’ He felt quite delighted and proceeded to the penitential rite.
“Fratres, agnoscamus peccata nostra…” He found himself at this point holding the Host. Self-conscious, he thought, ‘I think I should do the Liturgy of the Word, first. I shouldn’t consecrate the Host yet.’ He dropped the Host into the paten and looked around to see whether the congregation had noticed his little snafu. To his despondent surprise, he saw an empty Church behind him. The pews looked rickety and tattered. He stood speechless for a few seconds, wondering where the earlier chorus response came from. Just then the Church Laity Council Chairman walked in swathed in a golf cap, a Nike polo shirt, and khaki pants with tennis shoes.
“Father, the people are all in the parish center,” He announced, a shade too excitedly to Father McCarthy’s irritation.
“In the Parish center?” Father McCarthy asked, confused. “Doing what?”
“Celebrating the new language,” he continued with the same excitement.
“But … We are using the new language here!” Father McCarthy said, plaintively, visibly confused. “Well. Latin is not new… I mean, we are renewing its use again.”
“Well, the people like the new language better,” the Chairman continued, stubbornly, talking beside the point. “Come, let’s go celebrate,” he called out, still excited.
“I can’t leave saying Mass half way.” Father McCarthy said resolutely. “I have to finish the consecration, at least.” He turned again to face the altar and the wall.
“Okay, Father,” the Chairman said. “I will ring the bells and hold the back of your chasuble.”
As Father McCarthy picked up the host again he thought, ‘The wall! Why am I facing the wall? That was discarded years ago, as obsolete. Maybe that is the reason the people left.’ He meant to drop the host in the paten again, but decided against it. He determined to follow through with the consecration and get done with it, and join the celebration in the Parish hall, perhaps. He held the Host and bent slightly over it.
“Hoc est enim, corpus meum. Lava me, Domine, ab iniquitate mea.” He stopped, feeling a tinge of shame and guilt at the same time, at having mixed up the words of consecration. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ He thought. He looked hard at the page of the Sacramentary and tried to correct himself, but the words kept dancing and blurring up. He gave up, thinking, ‘the poor Chairman doesn’t know Latin after all.’ He lifted the Host and held it up, but there was no sound of the bell. He turned slightly to look and see why the Chairman wasn’t ringing the bells. There was nobody behind him. To his horror, he discovered that he was stark naked, except for a white V underwear that barely covered his buttocks. Terribly embarrassed, he unthinkingly dropped the Host and grabbed the altar cloth to wrap it around himself to hide his nakedness. The altar cloth stuck to the altar and refused to give, causing him to pull with force. In his panicky scramble, he accidentally dislodged the candle stick and it fell on the bells which started ringing, interminably, with a loud shrill.
Father McCarthy bolted upright to a sitting position on the bed, still clutching at the altar cloth which was now, of course, his bed sheet. The foot end of the sheet was tucked underneath the heavy mattress, and he realized he had been pulling vigorously but futilely at it. He let go of the sheet, breathing heavily and feeling beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. The phone shrilled two more times and went dead. A woman’s voice crackled to life to leave a message.
“Hi, Father McCarthy. This is Stacy Donovan at the Chancery. Please, give me a call when you get this message. My number is…”
He threw off the bed sheets a
nd slid out of bed. He was vexed and did not want to wait out the rest of the message. He knew Stacy’s number at the Chancery, anyway.
“What a weird dream!” He said, aloud. He looked down at himself and was thankful to see that he wasn’t naked, though that wouldn’t have mattered in the sanctuary of his bedroom. In fact, he was still fully clothed in his clerical attire. The screwdriver and the big lunch of spaghetti at Father Polanski’s was enough to send him into a good afternoon nap, despite the coffee he quaffed to wash it down. He remembered coming into the bedroom and sitting on his bed, but didn’t remember tucking himself in for the unplanned siesta. The clock on the reading lamp stand beside the head of the bed read 3:35 p.m. He crossed the room and pulled open the curtain over the South window. The room became flooded by a bright afternoon light. Part of the sun’s rays flashed through to fall on the chest of drawers to the East side of the bed. Fr. McCarthy was partially blinded for a moment and squinted to adjust his vision. From the window of his room, the sky outside was sparsely clouded in grey and white. The white clouds looked like huge balls of cotton, irregularly shaped, and broken at intervals to show a smoky blue that let through huge shafts of sunlight. Down below, to the right, was an expansive golden red, orange, and yellow foliage, themed with deep green, stubbornly holding out and seemingly resolute on defying the climate, though it was middle of autumn. The scene looked like one giant carpet of wild beautiful colors, severally dotted by scattered roof tops of equally assorted colors. To the left was Main Street, from which several other streets forked off. A few of the roads crossed to the right and disappeared, peeping out at intervals, as it were, under the thinning autumn foliage. The tributary roads had scanty traffic while Main Street had a lot of vehicles of assorted sizes, make and color; all weaving in and out among themselves, vying for right of way. Father McCarthy knew it would soon be rush hour.
