The Gathering

by William X. Kienzle

  And it was a one-time-only donation. Send them one hundred bucks (or whatever amount was required) and in perpetuity the donor could simply trace a sign of the cross over the beads and they would be blessed. As blessed as anything requiring five Latin pages.

  There were additional benefits to the rosary owners—like a reduction in one’s time in purgatory—just for using these specially blessed beads. One could enter the amusement park sooner than one might have otherwise expected.

  Father Simpson couldn’t have cared less about the other fringes. He had sent his financial gift, received the authorization, and never again flinched at the outstretched hand bearing an unblessed rosary.

  And now, once again a missionary organization would come to his aid. But this time the missionaries would be of his own invention.

  The plan was so simple it required no time to put it in operation. But for the sake of credibility, he waited a week before calling George, Lily, and Stanley Benson in for the good news.

  Meanwhile, Father did not let slip any hint that he had or had not been successful in his quest for the Bensons’ salvation.

  When he finally opened the door to the family, the look of struggling hope on their faces was all too evident.

  He ushered them into the living room. No one cared for coffee or any other beverage. They sat on the edge of their chairs, waiting … waiting for their destiny to be revealed.

  He told them bluntly that relief for them was nowhere in Canon Law—Church law. Their case, as his predecessor had found, was canonically hopeless.

  Their attitude bottomed out.

  However, he went on—after a pro forma pause—he had recalled, in a providential moment, a missionary society that had contacted him years before. Said society had offered a special privilege to priests who would, for a small stipend, spiritually participate in their missionary effort at catechizing the natives of a country in Africa.

  As a reward for contributing to their effort, the order was empowered to grant a share in a dispensation they had gained from the Vatican.

  Father Simpson had the Bensons’ rapt attention.

  One of the biggest problems facing missionaries, Simpson explained, was the status of marriage among the natives. It was extremely common for men, especially tribal chieftains, to have many wives—many, many wives.

  The missionaries could catechize to their hearts’ content, but, in the end, as much as they had convinced their catechumens of the necessity of becoming Catholics, still and always there were those impossible marital situations.

  The missionaries could bring these people to the very threshold of Christianity, where, in the vast majority of cases, they would slam into the unrelenting door of multiple marriages.

  Did the Bensons follow so far?

  Yes, they nodded. The condition made sense, though the Bensons had never really reflected on it.

  “Well,” Father Simpson continued, “it was a stalemate, a Mexican standoff, as it were.”

  What these missionaries did, Father Simpson explained, was to take the problem to the Vatican authorities. The missionaries convinced Rome that there was no way in hell—Father Simpson asked pardon for his French—that they could ever walk these well-meaning people through the intricacies of canonical procedures.

  So, in a one-time-only exception to Canon Law, a compromise was reached. The Vatican Congregation would allow each man of these tribes to pick one of his wives to be his one and only wife. In other words, once each man had made his choice, that was it! No more multiple marriages. One choice, one time.

  Even with such a generous offer, the dispensation didn’t solve all the problems, but it helped.

  “Now,” Father Simpson semiconcluded, “you may wonder what all this has to do with you.”

  Yes, they nodded, they did wonder.

  The missionaries, Father Simpson explained, couldn’t accomplish all that might be accomplishable without help—both spiritual and material.

  Which is why the Vatican granted the Order permission to solicit priests around the world to contribute both money and prayers for the work of these African missionaries. And, in keeping with the one-time-only rule, this would be a one-time-only solicitation.

  Father Simpson paused. He was approaching the nub of his fabricated story. It was crucial that the Bensons believe what would follow, else the priest would be up a creek, paddleless.

  George and Lily looked as if they were ready to believe anything. Besides, Simpson’s story was not that incredible—especially if one had only a superficial grasp of Church machinations. Simpson picked up his narrative.

  In return for their generosity, the contributing priests were allowed to share in the boon bestowed on the missionaries. Each native man would be permitted to select a member of his harem to be his one and only wife. Therefore, the power to grant a declaration of nullity without consulting any Tribunal or submitting any documentation would apply not only to the members of the missionary Order but also to those priests, worldwide, who contributed to this missionary program. They would each be empowered to grant one similar dispensation to a couple whose canonically impossible union could not otherwise be dissolved by law.

  Everything about this unique relaxation of law, known as the Missionaries’ Privilege, was on a one-time-only basis. (There it was: that one-time-only rule. Obviously, the powers that be were concerned about not setting precedents.)

  Each male tribal member who had God-knows-how-many concubines would, upon this application, have just one wife. Aside from the death of that spouse, he could henceforth have no other wife. It was a one-time decision, which did not completely solve the problem—some refused the choice—but it did help in many cases.

  What was relevant to tonight’s gathering was that Father Simpson had contributed to the missionaries’ fund. He, therefore, had received permission to utilize this power once and only once in his lifetime.

  He had never used it, he told them. But now he had decided that the Bensons deserved the benefits of this remarkable privilege. Lily Benson had been more than faithful to her Church lo these many years. Not to mention that this dispensation and convalidation would clear the path for Stanley to enter the seminary.

  George had a reservation. “Do I have to join the Catholic Church? I mean, I got no objection. It’s great for Lily, so I’m all for it. And I don’t really know why Stan wants to go to the seminary. Hell, that’s up to him.

  “But not if I have to join the Church!”

  What George Benson did with his immortal soul was beyond Simpson’s immediate interest. “No, George, you don’t have to become Catholic. Actually, you don’t have to do much of anything. We just make a date to meet in the church. Both you and Lily can look on this as a renewal of your vows. Stan can be the witness.

  “Well,” he summed up, “what do you think?”

  George shrugged. “It’s okay by me … as long as I don’t gotta join.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Tears streamed from Lily’s eyes. “How good of you, Father … to let us benefit from your Missionaries’ Privilege.” She shook her head in wonderment. “It’s as if God was saving this wonderful gift in your care. I can hardly believe it. But”—she smiled through her tears—“I do. I’m just so grateful.”

  She turned to gaze adoringly at her son. “And you, Stanley: You may one day be my very own priest!”

  Stanley could scarcely breathe. He had let others, primarily his father, think he wanted to go to the seminary because he had been so certain all along that Church law would block him.

  Now, as far as he could know, Father Simpson really had this Missionaries’ Privilege, which could be used only once. And that once was now!

  This was one of the worst days of his young life.

  Father Simpson leaned back in his chair, quite self-satisfied. He had pulled it off.

  Still there were some loose ends. “I must caution you: This—what I’ve told you—must be our secret. You may tell no one … no one. For one th
ing, if this got out, people would be knocking my door down. They would never understand that I lost this privilege when I used it for you. I was given this power to use only once. And that will be used for you. Once we go through with this convalidation ceremony, the power I have to do this will be gone.

  “It’s like a genie’s three wishes,” he said, driving his point home. “Once the last wish is used up, that’s all there is; there isn’t any more. And that’s the way it is with this: Once we do it, that’s all there is; I can’t do it again … for anyone … any time.

  “On top of that, how many other priests were given this power I don’t know. This Vatican decision took place only once, and it happened many, many years ago. I have no idea who the other priests were. And it was so long ago that I’m sure that most, if not all, are either dead or have used the privilege long ago. We’re just lucky that I saved my power till now.

  “So,” he pronounced, “for the sake of my sanity, it’s our secret.”

  They nodded, wide-eyed and solemn.

  “One more thing, Lily: Once we go through this ceremony, just begin living your faith again. What I mean is, don’t confess what we’ve done. There’s no reason you should confess it. It’s not a sin. Just begin receiving Communion again. If any parishioners ask you about it, just tell them—without going into detail—that we were able to fix things.

  “Do you all understand?”

  All nodded, again wide-eyed and solemn. They understood.

  Lily was ecstatic. George was happy for her. Stanley was numb.

  He loved his mother. In his young life, he loved no one as much as he loved her. He had never seen her as happy as she was now. What would happen if he were to tell her his true feelings about going to the seminary?

  It wasn’t that he didn’t love the Church. It wasn’t that he didn’t respect the priesthood. He just didn’t want to be a priest.

  That should be easy enough to understand. Not everybody who becomes an altar boy pines for the priesthood.

  He wanted to be a secretary, an office clerk. He would be good at that. He loved detail work. He enjoyed picking up loose ends for others. He was not the type who dreamed gigantic dreams. He was the indispensible one who dotted i’s and crossed t’s.

  A priest doesn’t do that, he thought. A priest isn’t a detail man. A priest is that heroic figure who runs huge parishes, who builds churches and schools and rectories and convents.

  A priest finds jobs for the unemployed. He counsels people. He instructs people. He leads and guides.

  He wears a special uniform that everyone recognizes. When he enters a room, conversational language becomes instantly self-cleansing.

  He presides at weddings and wakes and funerals. And when somebody dies he knows just what to say to comfort the mourners.

  Stanley did not want to do any of that. More fundamentally, he didn’t think himself capable of those enormous responsibilities.

  On the other hand, he loved the Mass. For him, it had proven to be the perfect prayer. He could well see himself at the altar wearing all those majestic vestments, whispering the sacred words that change bread and wine into the living presence of Jesus Christ.

  But that was it.

  Mass usually took from thirty minutes to an hour. The question that frightened him was, What to do with the remaining twenty-three hours of each day?

  He couldn’t do it. But he had to do it.

  It was the perfect example of a dilemma.

  Was there an alternative?

  He could wait until this Missionaries’ Privilege was used, then find some excuse for not going to the seminary.

  But what sort of story would deliver him? Health problems? Granted, he wasn’t the most robust kid in captivity; he was skinny and caught colds frequently, along with an annual case of the flu. But just about everyone suffered those same winter woes.

  Was he too dull to qualify academically? Hardly. On the contrary, he was a better than average student.

  And not to be disregarded was his history as a pious and faithful altar boy.

  Prima facie, he had to admit he was a pretty fair candidate for the seminary, if not the priesthood.

  Stanley was desolate.

  As he and his parents prepared to leave, Stanley was further shaken when Father Simpson asked him to stop by the rectory tomorrow after Mass.

  What could Father want to see him about now?

  Father Simpson had everything he wanted.

  He had bugged Stanley unmercifully. And now things were looking up for everyone involved.

  Except Stanley.

  The next morning, faithful as usual, Stan served the Mass. He then accompanied the priest to the rectory.

  As they ate breakfast, the priest turned from small talk to more serious subjects.

  “Son,” said Father Simpson, who would never be a father in the conventional sense, “I know you’ll be going to the seminary mostly for your mother’s sake …” He paused, hoping he had set the proper mood.

  “By now,” he picked up, “I’m sure you’re going to apply for the seminary next spring. I mean, that’s settled … right?”

  “Yes, Father.” The words were barely audible.

  “Speak up, son. I can hardly hear you.”

  “Yes, Father!”

  “This thing that we’re doing for your folks is pretty complicated. Do you understand it?”

  “N … no, not really.”

  “That’s all right.” In fact, as far as Simpson was concerned, completely missing the point was perfect. The less anyone knew of this concoction of Simpson’s the better. “Even the Vatican knows little about this favor granted to the missionaries and through them to me. So we don’t want to mess this up … do we?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Okay. Good. Now, this is what we’re going to do: Next May when you apply for the sem, your folks will give you your certification of baptism and confirmation. I will give you their marriage certificate. It will be predated to the day when their civil marriage took place—that’s so we don’t have to go through all that paper chase and explanation of how you were born out of Church wedlock and only much later were your folks married in the Church. It’s water under the bridge.

  “So, son, this is how we’re going to do it—” He stopped, noting the boy’s abstracted expression. “Believe me, Stanley, it’s done all the time,” he assured. “Just goes to show you: If you want to mess things up and create problems for everybody, you can do it. But why is what I say! Why?” His gaze fixed on Stanley. “You clear on that, son? Any questions?”

  There were indeed questions, but Stanley trusted his priest and was used to doing as he was told. “No, Father.”

  “Good. Now, there’s only one more thing—but it’s a biggie.”

  Stanley’s attention was riveted.

  “From now on,” Simpson declared, “you’ve gotta hide your light under a bushel. Now I know you’re a smart cookie,” he said, before Stanley could remonstrate. “But you gotta rein yourself in. No raising your hand every time you know the answer. Answer if you’re asked—but no volunteering. You can shine on written exams. That way you and your profs will know that you’re not slow. You can pass everything without your classmates and pals knowing just how smart you really are.

  “Got all that?”

  Stanley frowned. “I think so, Father. But … if you don’t mind: What’s all this for?”

  “A decent question, son. What we want you to become is an average—maybe a little better than average—student. You see, we don’t want you to be singled out. Better to be a statistic rather than a star.

  “Suppose you are outstanding in something—anything to do with the priesthood. Supposing one of the chancellors discovers that you’re outstanding. Maybe he wants you to be named a monsignor, or, heaven help us, a bishop.

  “Then they start digging into your past. They want to make sure you can do the job they have in mind. Certainly they want a biographical sketch for the newspaper
s.

  “Suppose they discover that your folks were married in civil law but there’s no record of their being married in the Church … no notice of it in the marriage register, and nothing in the baptismal book.

  “You see, son, that’s something even I can’t do. I can’t push the lines apart enough to enter a marriage record.

  “But I don’t want you to worry. It’s all on the up and up. It’s just that it’ll work out better if you don’t stir up any sand in the water. I mean, I don’t know whether Rome could even find the record of the Missionaries’ Privilege in the archives by this time.

  “I think that what we—you and I—have got to keep in mind always is that beautiful smile your mother wore when she understood we could fix up her marriage. And the even more beautiful smile when she called you ‘my priest.’

  “Now, what I want you to do, Stan, is make a big success of your eighth grade, and get ready for next May, the application, and the test.

  “After that, just aim to be no more than ordinary, just average. You’re not to stand out in anything. Got that?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “That’s the boy! Now, if you have any doubts or questions, bring them to me … nobody else. Got it?”

  “Yes, Father!”

  “O … kay! Now, let’s see a smile on you that is as perfect as your mother’s.”

  As he left the rectory, Stanley tried to hold the smile. It felt so artificial. He would have to work at it.

  He would have to work at many things. But he would work on those things. He would do it motivated only by his love for his mother.

  Damn Father Simpson!

  No, that was not too strong a curse. For some unfathomable reason, this priest wanted Stan in the seminary and ultimately in the priesthood.

  Was there such a thing as the Missionaries’ Privilege? Maybe. There were lots of things Stan didn’t know or understand about his Church.