Koesler checked in at the reception desk with Mary Alfredo, the vivacious and seemingly ever cheerful secretary to both Iming and Boyle. Brightly, she informed Koesler that there was someone with the Cardinal but that he would be only a few minutes more.
That, thought Koesler, was a safe conclusion. Cardinal Boyle shared Koesler’s obsession with punctuality. When Boyle supervised his schedule, he allocated an appropriate amount of time for each person—not too much, nor too little.
So Koesler had no more than a few minutes in which to cool his heels. He took a seat on one of the two beige leather sectional couches. Everything was pretty much as he remembered it. He’d been here with some frequency while he was editor of the Detroit Catholic, but not lately. In fact, until today, he’d expected he would have no reason to be here ever again. On the other hand, he had lived long enough that he had learned never to rule out any possibility.
The long wall he faced bore photos of the present Pope as well as his two immediate predecessors. There was also a tile rendering of Cardinal Boyle’s coat of arms. The brilliant red-orange, plus the thirty tassels, unmistakably identified Boyle as a Prince of the Church. Below the photos and the coat of arms was a long credenza on which was displayed a sculpture of the Sermon on the Mount, all in green and mounted on a log. Between the two sections of the couch was a small table holding a lamp. There were no magazines or any reading material whatever—a statement to the visitor that there would be little waiting time.
He sat recalling his previous visits, mostly informational meetings wherein either he or Boyle had something to tell the other.
A door opened, out of sight down the hallway. He could hear Cardinal Boyle’s voice, though he could not make out what was being said. Boyle’s voice was easily identified. It had a husky quality, possibly from being used in public addresses far more frequently than the Cardinal would have preferred. Yet there was a softness and a lilt that suggested his Irish ancestry.
Koesler remained seated as another priest emerged from the hallway. It was one of the rare young priests Koesler scarcely knew. He thought the man’s name was Father Hanley. The two nodded in a friendly but noncommittal way, as Hanley had to walk the length of the foyer, then wait for the elevator. He seemed somewhat embarrassed.
Koesler speculated as to why Hanley had been called downtown. Reasons could range from receiving a special nonparochial assignment to getting raked over the coals. Koesler found it amusing that Hanley was wearing a freshly cleaned and pressed black suit with traditional Roman collar, and even a white shirt whose French cuffs peeked out from beneath his jacket. Koesler guessed that, whatever his business with “the boss,” Hanley couldn’t wait to get back to the rectory and climb into some sweats.
He didn’t have much time for speculation; Mary Alfredo announced that the Cardinal was ready and waiting. Koesler checked his ever present watch: 10:45. Right on the nose.
As Koesler turned the corner of the hallway, he saw Boyle waiting at the door to his office. As Koesler entered the room, they shook hands. Not too many years ago, Koesler would have genuflected, taken Boyle’s right hand and kissed the episcopal ring. That, like a myriad minor rituals, was gone forever, at least in Boyle’s life and by his wish.
Boyle gestured toward one of the chairs surrounding a circular coffee table just inside the door. “Sit down, won’t you, Father. Good of you to come.”
As far as Koesler knew, the Cardinal was the only Catholic clergyman in Detroit who invariably used the formal title of “Father.” But then, Boyle was courtly to a fault. On his part, Koesler could not have forced himself to address Boyle other than by his title. So, there they were, two remnants of an older world, marching toward the twenty-first century.
They sat opposite each other. Boyle fidgeted, as he always did—alternating between toying with his episcopal ring—ring finger right hand—and adjusting the gold chain that fell across his chest and held the pectoral cross.
Boyle, still handsome as he approached his eightieth year, was a couple of inches over six feet tall and, due to recent health demands, very slender. His once jet black hair now was white and wispy. But his most arresting feature by far was his eyes. Light blue, they were, beneath beetle brows, piercing and most expressive. It was a challenge to meet his gaze. He never had to verbally express anger, or enjoyment for that matter. His eyes said it all.
Now, Boyle’s demeanor was disarmingly cheerful, as if to say that what he was about to discuss was of no great moment.
“Father Koesler,” he began, “no doubt you’ve been following the accounts of that new group in the diocese, the . . .” —he cleared his throat; definitely too much talking for such a quiet voice—“the Congregation of St. Stephen.”
“Yes, I have, Eminence.” Boyle was the only person he knew who in ordinary conversation sounded as if he were writing a scholarly book.
“Well, then, you are undoubtedly aware that over the past few days there have been several . . . uh . . . unusual events that have been reported going on there.”
“Uh-huh. Miracles, I believe the media is calling them.”
Boyle waved his right hand as if erasing what Koesler had just said, or giving an episcopal triple blessing. “Well, of course, the news media are unconcerned with the technical requirements that underlay a genuine miracle. We would prefer, at this point, to refer to them as unusual events.”
“I’ve got no problem calling them ‘unusual events.’”
Boyle narrowed his gaze, puzzling as to whether Koesler was putting him on. It would not be the first time. “Well, Father, be that as it may, let me tell you a little about how the Congregation happens to be established in Detroit. The purpose of all this will become clearer in due time.”
From his earlier conversation with Monsignor Iming, Koesler knew damn well what the purpose of all this was: He was going to get stuck with investigating this ecclesial mess. But it certainly wouldn’t hurt to perhaps learn something about how he was supposed to accomplish one more task for which he’d never been trained.
Koesler sat back, relaxed, and watched Boyle wind and unwind the gold chain around his index finger. Those restless hands. Boyle should have been a smoker. But in the nearly thirty years he’d been in Detroit, there had never been an ashtray in his office. Insofar as he could control the atmosphere around him, Boyle tried to live in a smoke-free environment.
Boyle cleared his computer-like brain by announcing, “In all that I shall say regarding Church Law, I shall of course have reference to the 1983 Code.”
Of course, Koesler thought, what else? Well, there was the 1917 Code. But that was passé.
In all of the nearly two thousand-year history of the Catholic Church, ecclesiastical law for the entire Church had been gathered, codified, and published in a single volume only twice. The 1917 Code of Canon Law contained 2,414 laws. The 1983 Code had 1,752 laws. Outside of the 662 fewer laws, Koesler was unable to find any radical difference between the Codes. Although he had not studied the 1983 version nearly as carefully as the 1917, from random specific research and conversation with students in the field, he was forced to conclude that Church Law was still primarily concerned with “Preserving the Institution.”
“The relevant canon,” Boyle continued, “is number 589, which has to do with an institute of consecrated life of diocesan right.”
Amazing! Koesler knew the Cardinal had not memorized the entire Code. Some local priest with a Canon Law degree had looked all this up for Boyle. But Koesler knew that the Cardinal was such a quick study that he had mastered all the pertinent law and now was going to toss it off as if it were second nature. Besides, Boyle was a teacher by training and temperament and he loved this.
“As you probably know, Father . . .”
Don’t bet on it.
“. . . an institute of consecrated life may be said to be of pontifical right if it has been either erected or approved by the Holy See. On the other hand, the institute is said to be of diocesan right i
f it is established by a diocesan bishop and has not obtained a decree of approval from the Apostolic See.”
Boyle looked intently at Koesler, but, for the life of him, the Cardinal was unable to ascertain whether there was anything going on behind that bland expression. “Have I made myself clear thus far, Father?”
“Uh-huh. I suppose the Congregation of St. Stephen is one of the two. Either pontifical or diocesan.” Koesler was indeed interested—far more interested than he appeared—for two reasons: He found the machinations and/or logic of all law inherently intriguing. And he knew beforehand how all this was going to end—in his lap.
“The very point,” Boyle said. “The Congregation of St. Stephen is an institute of consecrated life of diocesan right.”
Koesler nodded. “Okay, Eminence: which diocese?”
Boyle was gratified that despite his impassive demeanor, Koesler was paying attention. “Pomaria,” Boyle said, in answer to Koesler’s question. When Koesler’s quizzical expression persisted, Boyle clarified: “Pomaria is a very small diocese in southern Italy.”
Koesler looked incredulous. “Pomaria! I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Eminence. I mean, what’s the connection between a little diocese in southern Italy and a monastic group in inner-city Detroit?”
Boyle sighed. “The only relevance, Father, is that the group is canonically correct. As far as we know, each member of this group is a United States citizen. Sometime ago . . .”—again, Boyle waved his hand, this time communicating the message that this and many other details were perhaps fodder for the investigation, but, in any case, beyond Boyle’s interest—“. . . but within the past year, the group traveled to Pomaria and petitioned the bishop there to establish them as an institute of consecrated life. In effect, a new, if presently insignificant, religious order.”
“And the bishop there—in Pomaria—did it? He just did it?” Without waiting for Boyle’s response, Koesler pursued, “Then I don’t understand why they’re not in Pomaria. What are they doing in Detroit?”
The question did not please Boyle; his brows almost met over the bridge of his nose. “Bishop Di Giulio, the ordinary of Pomaria, is not what he once was. He has not been well these past few years.”
Koesler completed a simultaneous translation: Bishop Di Giulio was a vegetable and had been such for as long as anyone could remember. “If I understand this correctly, Eminence, these Americans—one of them a priest . . . ?”
Boyle nodded.
“. . . one of them a priest, and four or five—what—religious Brothers?”
“Any Catholic, with the correct intention who has the qualities required by law, and who has no impediment, can be admitted to an institute of consecrated life.” Boyle correctly quoted Canon 597, as Koesler would later find for himself.
“So,” Koesler proceeded, “this priest and his companions presented themselves to the Bishop of Pomaria and requested that they be incorporated—no, better-established as an institute of consecrated life. And the bishop, who has . . . uh . . . not been himself lately, put his stamp of approval on the enterprise. But he doesn’t demand that they operate in Pomaria. He doesn’t make any demand on them at all. So, for some reason, they migrate to Detroit. And here we are.”
There was a pause. Then Boyle admitted, “That would be a fair assessment.”
Koesler considered Boyle to be holding up well for a Prince of the Church who had been screwed.
“I think I see the ploy,” Koesler said. “This is something like that maneuver some twenty years ago during the Council when that extremely conservative priest accompanied the retired bishop to Rome as the bishop’s expert.”
Koesler remembered the event well because, as editor of the Detroit Catholic, he had written a satirical essay about that very affair. The point of the essay had been that the more one understands Canon Law, the better one is able to manipulate it to one’s own purpose.
Koesler continued. “And while he was in Italy—what was his name, Father Depaul or something like that—while he was there he dropped over to another little Italian diocese and got the bishop there to incardinate, adopt him. Then the priest returned to New York and set up a strong conservative wing of the Church. There was little Cardinal Spellman could do about it because the priest belonged to the Italian bishop—who, like our Bishop Di Giulio, was also ‘not what he once was.’
“And the priest was never canonically incardinated into New York as our Congregation of St. Stephen was officially welcomed to Detroit. So, there was nothing Cardinal Spellman could do about it.”
Boyle nodded, not happily.
That was the secret to religious life in the Catholic Church, Koesler mused. Everybody belonged to somebody. He belonged to a territory: the Archdiocese of Detroit and to its archbishop. Jesuits, Dominicans, Franciscans, nuns (of all orders)—all belonged to their religious orders and to their religious superiors. The superiors owed their subjects a living, plus anything else their constitutions provided for. The subjects owed their superiors obedience, maybe reverence, and anything else their constitutions called for. And the superiors were responsible for their subjects. Responsible to see that their work was done, that they did not make waves, that they were punished when that was appropriate and muzzled when necessary.
Everybody belonged to somebody. The Congregation of St. Stephen belonged to Bishop Di Giulio, who was going to be of no help controlling the Congregation because the bishop was permanently under the weather. Sometimes a system as time-tested as the Catholic Church can produce a squeaky wheel.
Koesler thought he might have found a solution. But it seemed such an obvious gambit that he could not believe he was the first to have thought of it. “Why not ship the Congregation back to Pomaria?”
“We have considered that . . .” Boyle began.
Koesler wondered whether the “we” was an episcopal plural or if Boyle had actually consulted with others. Whatever the circumstances, Koesler clearly had been neither the first nor the only one to have considered repatriation, or exile, depending on how one wanted to look at it.
“. . . But,” Boyle continued, “we decided against it.” He shifted again and resumed toying with the ring and the chain alternately.
“On the one hand, don’t you see, Father, there is the notoriety or fame they have gained.
“And, on the other hand, they are here legitimately. We accepted their credentials and approved their presence in this archdiocese. They followed all the prescriptions of the law regarding Canons 936, 937, and so on about the reservation of the Eucharist. Until this issue is settled one way or another, it would be suicidal, from the public relations standpoint, to opt for so extreme a solution. At least at the present time,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“And that, Father,” Boyle leaned toward Koesler slightly, “is where you enter the picture. In keeping with the spirit of Canon 1717, I am hereby delegating you to cautiously—and I emphasize the element of caution—to cautiously inquire about the facts and circumstances.” Anticipating that the priest might interrupt at this point, Boyle continued in an unbroken pattern. “You need not trouble about such things as the lawfulness of what they do in dispensing the Sacraments. The priest has been granted the faculties of the archdiocese and, in accord with Canon 1223, their chapel qualifies as an oratory in which the faithful may lawfully gather.” He paused.
Koesler was convinced that any objection he might raise would be dismissed out of hand. But he simply couldn’t resist. “Eminence, why me?”
The shadow of a smile passed over Boyle’s face. “Whatever else may be at work here, Father, these unusual events have become a media event. It was thought that with your experience at the newspaper, you might be better prepared than anyone else in the Detroit presbyterate to appreciate all the consequences of what we are facing here.”
Koesler reacted inwardly. Yes, he thought, my experience in the media began many years ago when then Archbishop Boyle tapped me to be editor of the Detro
it Catholic. But, for that sublime mystery of selection I would have no media experience whatever.
Boyle continued, “That, Father, and in addition, the Canon expressly states, ‘Care must be taken lest anyone’s good name be endangered by this investigation.’ Some might find it tempting in conducting an investigation of a matter such as this that has an international spotlight of attention on it, to—how shall I put this?—to play to the crowd. And in that way, the reputation of those involved could easily be tarnished.
“It is tempting, Father, to prejudge what is going on here to be of a purely hysterical nature or even an act of fraud. Any unstudied remark or premature conclusion could damage the reputation of those monks. But it would gain a great deal of attention for the investigator.
“It comes down to this, Father: I have confidence that you shall be most circumspect and cautious about all of the reputations involved.” He paused. “If there is no further question, Father . . .” Boyle leaned back, giving every indication he considered their meeting concluded.
But Koesler had one final question. And, while he anticipated that it, too, would be waved away, he had to present it. “Your Eminence, I have no experience in this. I will not know what I’m doing.” And, Koesler thought, it won’t be the first time. When he’d sat in this same office years ago and heard Boyle announce his appointment as editor, Koesler had had the same demurrer. He knew nothing about being an editor, nor had he had any training to prepare for the position. He had objected, but the objection had been airily dismissed. And it was happening again.
Boyle relaxed and tried to communicate a lighter mood to Koesler. “Father, you must understand that your role in all this is largely pro forma; ceremonial, if you will. Whatever your findings, they will be reviewed by our Tribunal—that in accordance with Canons 1717 and 1718.”
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