For Koesler, it dated the spirit of this group. So far, it seemed the Congregation of St. Stephen was trying to reclaim whatever the Middle Ages had to offer. Nothing he would see or hear in this displaced monastery would alter this supposition.
Using existing plumbing conduits, they had fashioned a bathroom of sorts: a urinal, three separated commodes, several sinks, and a two-stall shower. A sign over their bathroom door read, “Locus”—Latin for “The Place.” Very ancient.
There really wasn’t much more to see. The kitchen and dining area were carved from what might be termed the living room. In monastic circles the whole area more than likely would be called the common room.
To one side of the common room, patiently awaiting their visitor, were the other four monks, seated, silent, hooded, looking straight ahead. Living models of such virtues as recollection and custody of the eyes.
Introductions were made by Brother Paul, followed by an awkward—as distinct from a pregnant—silence.
At length, Father Koesler took a chair, without actually being invited to. “Look,” he said, “I apologize for this intrusion into your lives and routine. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been sent. But, Father, Brothers, we are in this together. We are not enemies. In the end, we are doing the same work. The work of the Lord.” He sensed a hint of thawing, though there was no visible way to tell.
“Some months ago,” Koesler proceeded, “you were welcomed to the Detroit Archdiocese. At that time no one knew that you would attract so much publicity. But you have. You must know you’ve become famous, nationally and internationally. Which puts the archdiocese on a bit of a spot. Very shortly, Church authorities, on the national and Papal level, are going to want to know what’s going on here. Simply, the archdiocese wants to find out, so it can give an informed response. That’s why I’m here and that’s why you may shortly be visited by someone from the Tribunal. But it’s not a new edition of the Spanish Inquisition—just a brotherly attempt to understand what you’re doing. The truth behind the headlines, as it were.”
Still no response from the monks.
“For starters,” Koesler continued, “might I suggest there’s no need for you to keep on wearing your cowls. I’d feel more at ease if I could see who I’m talking to.”
There was an almost habitual hesitation on everyone’s part. Then the four, as one, looked to Brother Paul, who nodded curtly and pulled back his cowl. The others followed his lead.
That’s better, thought Koesler. Now they have faces. Now they have personalities.
Brothers Dominic, Francis, and Bernard seemed shy, embarrassed, and confused. Almost as if, instead of simply removing a head covering, they had stripped and were ashamed of their nakedness.
It was difficult to guess Father Robert’s age. He gave the impression of looking much older than his actual years, however many that might be. Behind thick glasses, a wispy, gray-white beard, and a thin mustache of the same coloring, his face was heavily tracked with wrinkles. His crown was bald; a fringe of gray running from ear to ear at the back of his head was all that was left of his hair. He seemed very tired. He sat slightly stooped forward as if carrying others’ burdens in addition to his own. He looked not unlike some of the pictures of old Father Solanus Casey, Detroit’s other famed “miracle worker.”
Brother Paul was strikingly handsome with sharp Celtic features. He was clean shaven, with a full head of black hair, and heavy black eyebrows. His eyes were deep blue; the shade reminded Koesler of Cardinal Boyle’s, except that Paul’s eyes lacked any trace of warmth. His countenance seemed alert, intelligent, commanding, and humorless. Koesler was certain that Paul’s Irish eyes seldom smiled.
“Well,” Koesler said, “where shall we start?” Then he had a thought. “Maybe it would be a good idea to get to know each other a bit.” Yes, that might be the ticket. “I’ve lived all my life in Detroit. Thought of joining the Redemptorists because I grew up in Holy Redeemer parish. Instead, I went to the diocesan seminary and became a diocesan priest. But,” he smiled encouragingly, “I’ll bet each of you has a more interesting background than that. Brother Dominic?”
“La Crosse, Wisconsin.” He volunteered nothing further.
Koesler could picture Dominic working on a dairy farm in a rural Wisconsin setting. “Brother Francis?”
“New York City.” He seemed apologetic about it.
Koesler could imagine this childlike creature utterly adrift in New York and eager to escape into an obscure religious order. “Brother Bernard?”
“Chicago.” He appeared proud of the fact.
Chicago seemed right for Bernard. Of all this group, Bernard, Koesler thought, seemed closest to Paul. “Brother Paul?”
“Boston.”
“You’ve lost that intriguing Eastern accent.”
“I lost that early on.”
Koesler chuckled in an attempt to lighten these proceedings. He found he laughed alone. Instinct told him here was the hinge. Was Brother Paul, who seemed in charge of everything, the leader of this group or was it Father Robert? It had to be the priest. Koesler turned, finally, to the priest. “Father Robert?”
“Little place. Very little place. Coeur d’Alene.”
“Idaho?”
Father Robert brightened. “That’s right.”
“When were you ordained, Father?”
Robert hesitated—”1949.”
“Just five years before my ordination!” Koesler felt a natural chronological affinity. “But tell me: Coeur d’Alene, Boston, New York, Chicago, La Crosse! How did you all manage to get together!”
Brother Francis seemed to leap at the opportunity to provide some information. “Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre.”
“Archbishop Lefebvre?” Koesler thought the reply somewhat incomplete.
“The Priestly Society of St. Pius X,” Brother Bernard clarified. “It was founded by Archbishop Lefebvre.”
“Yes, I know.” Koesler was very familiar with the French archbishop who, during the seventies and eighties flirted with suspension, excommunication, and schism in his lopsided war with the Mother Church over whose version of Catholicism was orthodox— the Pope’s or his own.
“We,” Brother Bernard indicated all but Brother Paul, “attended St. Thomas Seminary out East. As far as the studies and life went, that seminary was all we expected it to be. But we found two things in common: one, we were afraid that the Society would break its ties to the Universal Church. And the second was that we felt unworthy to become priests. We wanted to be religious Brothers in an order that was like the Society in every way except its willingness to break with the Holy Father.”
“But . . .” Koesler glanced at the other priest, “Father Robert—he wasn’t there at St. Thomas Seminary . . . was he?”
Brother Francis replied. “Anyone who is familiar with the traditional wing of the Catholic Church knows Father Robert.”
I guess that tells me I haven’t been paying one hell of a lot of attention to our conservatives, thought Koesler. He’d never heard of Father Robert.
Brother Francis, almost as if constrained, continued. “Father Robert has written for all the more popular traditional publications for years.”
“So,” Brother Bernard broke in, “we were in touch with Father Robert and, together, we founded the Congregation of St. Stephen.”
“I see,” Koesler said. “And why St. Stephen?”
“The protomartyr,” said Francis. “The first martyr.”
That made sense, thought Koesler. It had been his experience that Catholic extremists, on the left or the right, had a tendency to equate themselves with the martyrs. “And then what happened? I mean, you all were in a seminary in the East and Father Robert was out in the Northwest?”
“We were all together—except, of course, Brother Paul.” Brother Bernard inclined his head toward the oddly silent Paul. “He joined us later, after we arrived in Detroit. The rest of us communicated,” he continued, “first by mail, then by phone. Finall
y, we left the seminary and met Father in Coeur d’Alene. And then we made our plans.”
Brother Francis broke in. “Bishop Di Giulio is internationally famous for his opposition to the Second Vatican Council and yet for his fidelity to the Holy Father.”
It’s happened again, thought Koesler: Another famous conservative I hadn’t heard of—before the Cardinal mentioned him this morning.
“Of course,” said Brother Dominic, “Bishop Di Giulio is not as well as he used to be.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Koesler, whose notion of Bishop Di Giulio was of a living vegetable. “So, that was it.”
“That was it,” Father Robert acknowledged. “We traveled together to Pomaria, met with the saintly bishop and, at his direction, founded the Congregation of St. Stephen.”
“That is really a remarkable story,” said Koesler, vaguely troubled by the account. He turned to Robert. “I’ll bet when you were ordained in ‘49 you never thought you’d become a founder of a new religious order.”
Robert shook his head almost sadly. “No, I had no inkling.”
“But, Father,” Koesler said, “the fifties! Wasn’t that a marvelous time to be a priest? The last ‘age of innocence’ for this country?”
“And,” Robert added, “the last ‘age of innocence’ for the Church.”
Yes, you would think that, wouldn’t you? thought Koesler. The Council happened in the early sixties, leaving, as far as traditional Catholics were concerned, a Catholic Church that had become Protestant, and which was in desperate need of reclamation.
“Well, now,” Koesler said, “now that we know each other better, let’s get down to the matter at hand. That would be your healing ministry.” Another long pause; no one picked up the cue. “So,” Koesler plowed on, “how did you get into it?”
“Well,” Father Robert cleared his throat, “it started with the relics. The modern Church,” his sarcasm was patent, “has little use for the mementos of our heroes of the past. But we and the official Church”—read the Pope—”still believe in the Mystical Body of Christ, the Church Militant, the Church Suffering, and the Church Triumphant. And we believe in the intercession of the saints in our behalf.”
“So, while you were in Rome . . .” Koesler nudged.
Robert picked up the thread, “. . . we made the necessary contacts to get the specific relics we felt we would need.”
“Then, right from the beginning you used the relics to bless people with . . . that was the origin of your healing ministry?”
“Using the appropriate relic, of course,” Robert replied.
“Of course.” Koesler did not mention what he had perceived as Brother Paul’s directional role in the selection of the relics. But Koesler had noted it. “Lately,” he prodded, “it’s been more than the relics, more than just a simple blessing.”
“It’s been a miracle!” Brother Francis exulted.
“Well . . .” Father Robert demurred.
“Look, I know how slowly the Church moves on a matter like this,” Koesler said, “and I know that, from my position, I can’t refer to these events as miracles in the strict sense. And, after all, that’s what this investigation’s all about. But they were certainly ‘miraculous’ in a more popular sense.”
The monks seemed content with this accommodation. All except Brother Paul, who seemed on edge, and had not joined in the ice-breaking conversation; indeed, after conducting the brief tour, he had said almost nothing.
Koesler leaned toward Robert, and in a conspiratorial tone, said, “Tell me, Father, just between us, and off the record: What was it like . . . I mean, when that woman received her sight? What was going on inside you at that moment?” It was a long-standing, if seldom expressed, wonder of Koesler’s. He was of course familiar with Biblical miraculous cures and had read about the work of mystics through the ages. But he’d always vaguely wondered what it would be like to actually effect a cure.
Father Robert smiled warmly for the first time in this meeting. He rubbed a fist into the palm of his other hand. “It was marvelous! It’s something—a sensation—that builds inside. There’s a feeling—I would call it a divine urge, to travel outside the boundaries of nature. It starts as a strong—and growing stronger—inclination to take a chance. Eventually—and I think this is essential—the element of chance gives way to faith. A living faith that engenders the most solid confidence I’ve ever felt.” Robert seemed lost in recollection as he recounted his experience. He returned to the present as he noted, “Of course that same sort of faith has to be present in the subject.”
“As was the case in the Gospels,” Koesler said. “Jesus always seemed to comment on the faith of those he cured.”
Robert glanced away from Koesler, to whom he’d been giving his complete attention. He seemed to stiffen. “Of course, as we read in Mark’s fifth chapter, when a woman is cured by touching the hem of Jesus’ garment, He was conscious that a healing power had gone out from Him. So, it does take something from the intermediary. Not, you know, Father,” he said to Koesler, “that I am a particularly holy person.”
“I hadn’t thought about that before,” Koesler said, “but I suppose if one actually were to work a miracle, it probably would fall under the heading of a gratia gratis data.”
Father Robert inclined his head as if pondering that possibility.
Brother Paul spoke. “A grace given freely ... a grace given freely for the sake of the grace itself? Excuse me, Father Koesler, but would you say that was true of the miracles Jesus worked?”
“Really, Brother,” Koesler said, “I don’t think it’s comparable. We believe Jesus has a divine as well as a human nature. He is perfection quite apart from the miracles he performed. All gratia gratis data implies is that the wonder or miracle worked is not dependent on the holiness of the human agent. Padre Pio, for instance. He was said to bear the marks of the crucifixion on his hands and feet. Now, our theology tells us that the phenomenon of the stigmata is a gratia gratis data; that it may support or instill faith in others. But it does nothing to guarantee that Padre Pio is a holy man.”
“Ex opere operantis?” Brother Bernard’s smile said he was playing devil’s advocate.
Father Koesler could not suppress an answering smile. Bernard had made it a game. But Koesler did not mind playing. As far as he was concerned, it was a game that led to uncharted waters. “Ex opere operantis.” He translated for the benefit of Brothers Francis and Dominic, who did not appear to grasp the Latin: “From the work of the worker, or, the effectiveness is the responsibility of the doer. As opposed to ex opere operanto, or, the deed itself effects the result.”
“Huh?” Dominic said.
“It’s the classic distinction between a sacrament and a sacramental,” Koesler explained. “A sacrament—baptism for example—takes its effect—the infusion of grace and initiation into the Christian family—by the power Christ puts into the deed, the work, the sacrament. So, as long as the minister or the recipient places no impediment or obstacle in its way, baptism works. It works ex opere operato. It doesn’t matter whether the minister is sinful or holy. As long as the minister has the intention of baptizing, passes water over the recipient, and says the words, ‘I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,’ and as long as the recipient does not intend to refuse the sacrament, it works—or so we believe.
“On the other hand, sacramentals—blessings, like the blessings you perform with the relics—depend very much on the disposition of the minister and the recipient. Because it comes personally from the minister—his blessings, his prayerful wish—it matters very much what sort of person he is. His holiness or lack of it has quite a bit to do with the effectiveness of the blessing. Or, ex opere operantis.
“Now,” Koesler smiled again, “as to whether gratia gratis data is the result of ex opere operato or ex opere operantis . . . I’m sure the gratis data is linked with opere operato. A grace given by God for the sake of others minimizes the human
factor. And so does a sacrament that does its work due to its divine institution, rather than because of the holiness or lack of it on the part of the human minister.
“But what do you think of the argument, Father Robert?”
The priest looked up suddenly as if wakened from a nap. His gaze wandered off to the side. He sighed and said, “In First Corinthians, we read that ‘Through the Spirit one receives faith. By the same Spirit another is given the gift of healing and still another, miraculous powers.’“
Damn! All that talk. All those distinctions. All that lovely Latin. And Robert captured it all in a brief Scripture verse from St. Paul. It put Koesler in mind of the countless weddings he’d witnessed, wherein, by the couple’s choice, there would be a five-page reading on love by Khalil Gibran when a brief excerpt from one of St. John’s Epistles would have said it all so much better.
“Well put, Father Robert,” Koesler commended. “I know,” he added apologetically, “I’m keeping you all too long. But just a few more questions should take care of my part in this.
“I think the basic question on my mind, Father, is why. If we, for sake of argument, accept as a fact that these ‘unusual incidents’ are real miracles—and I don’t believe I’m qualified to judge yes or no—why you? Why do you think God has chosen you to be the medium through which He operates?”
“Faith.”
“Faith? That’s it? Just faith?”
Father Robert spoke without meeting Koesler’s eyes. Robert was looking off to the side. He had not looked directly at Koesler since making his statement on how it felt to work a miracle. “‘The man who has faith in me will do the works I do. Anything you ask in my name I will do.’ John, Fourteen.”
“That seems to be an open invitation to all Christ’s followers, Father,” Koesler replied. “I don’t understand how that test would serve to single you out.”
Eminence Page 27
