by Rolf Nelson
“I guess.”
“You up for some hard work and learning to get an entry skill?”
“Maybe.”
“Been to church very often?”
“Often enough. Got nothing to drop in the collection plate though.”
“Not asking for anything, certainly not money you don’t have. Maybe ask for a little faith in yourself and God.”
“Don’t need a sermon.”
“Not giving one.” Bill shrugged. “Free will says you can make your own choice. If your other plans don’t pan out, the soup kitchen,” he indicated the business card, “has breakfast eight to nine and Mass at 9:30. Tell them you’re a vet, and Bill sent you. There might be a guy there that you can talk to. Served in the ’Stans. Quiet, scarred face. See what you can do for each other. If you don’t hear anything to your interest, you can leave with food in your belly. Might not have anything for you, but you never know. Might even make a friend or two. Mysterious ways and all that.’’
Terry fingered the card skeptically, eying the address, and then the man that gave it to him. “Dunno.”
“Well, I have to get going. Nice talking to you, Terry.” Bill stood and held out his hand. “Think it over. Can’t hurt to see what they might have for you.” He flashed a good-natured smile. “Or you could just keep begging for peanuts.”
Terry snorted at the dark humor. “Bill sent me, huh?”
“The choice is simple. But not easy. Best of luck.”
Bill headed home whistling while Terry watched him leave, wondering what Bill was really getting at.
Two months, many jobs not offered, forty-three Masses, some cold nights spent alone on the street, and many conversations with vets that were no longer homeless later, Terry was on a bus headed west with three other men in similar situations, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
Old Stomping Grounds
The abbot must always remember what he is and be mindful of his calling; he should know that the greater his trust, the greater his responsibility. He should recognize the difficulty of his position—to care for and guide the spiritual development of many different characters.
The Holy Rule of Saint Benedict, Ch. II (The Qualities of the Abbot)
“Thomas, you know I don’t want to pressure you, but I am starting to get a rather intense amount of pushback from higher up. You have spent a great amount of money, and your accounting for it has been rather… sketchy, shall we say. A single multimillion-dollar line-item reading manufacturing machinery and dies is not very illuminating. Now, now, I would never accuse you of intentionally misusing funds, but not everyone knows you as well as I, and, well… you understand?”
“Yes. Perfectly,” replied Thomas, a relaxed smile on his face, a face far leaner on a body much more fit than it was when the idea first came to him years before. “I’ve been expecting such a call for some time. This week would be a fine time.”
“So then you can show something for it? Something concrete? Are you sure? A few of the cardinals are more than a little skeptical of your claims, as sketchy as they are.”
“What does the schedule look like in the next few days?” Bishop Cranberry asked. “Any weddings, baptisms, confirmation, other business?”
Archbishop Malone rattled off a few things after consulting the calendar.
“Good. Can any of the cardinals be here, say, 11 AM Thursday? For a half-hour service and then an hour meet-and-greet?”
“I suppose I could ask them. Why? And why on such short notice?”
Thomas pulled out his phone, pushed a few buttons, and waited. A few moments later the archbishop faintly heard a voice answer before Bishop /Abbot Cranberry spoke. “Thursday, 11 AM at St. Paul’s on 5th. The archbishop would like to see what’s happening with the monks, numbers-wise. And a one-time silent collection. Put out the word, bring families, everyone who can make it…. Correct…. That’s right. 11 AM sharp Thursday, every brother still in or errant…. Affirmative…. Buses from the abbey…. Cash cards would be best…. Social after…. Silent approach…. See you here, then. Goodbye, brother, and God bless.” He hung up and put the phone away.
“I have put out the word for the brothers. I will not call again or say anything further. Don’t announce it or say anything to anyone, except for a few cardinals. Nobody else would normally show up then, so you can see for yourself what has come to pass. You’ll be giving a homily on the virtue of gratitude. Nothing at all, please, about giving back, collections, donating money, or anything similar. The collection plate is to be passed by hand, silently. Be sure to run the homily past me, first, please. There are only a few regular hymns and an unusual canticle that they are familiar with.”
“Just like that you can call up crowd for a homily?”
“I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”
“Are you sure you don’t want a little more time? Only two days isn’t long.”
Thomas shook his head. “If the cardinals were here now, I’d do it at 3 PM and give the Koresh baptism a surprise. Thursday will be fine.”
* * *
At ten minutes to 11, three cardinals, the archbishop, and Abbot Cranberry in his monk’s habit stood outside on the steps. There were no obvious crowds. In fact, there didn’t seem to be a single person arriving for a sermon at all, except frail old Mrs. Mabry, who often dropped by unexpectedly to sit and pray. She’d chatted briefly with the new faces and then tottered inside, blissfully unaware of the sequence of events she had kick-started. The cardinals were looking none too happy.
“Perhaps you are scaring them,” suggested Thomas. “Many of them are not very fond of uniforms. Shall we go inside and await them there?” He held the door open for them and waved them inside.
“If this is some elaborate joke, Thomas, I am not amused,” said one of the cardinals, a very serious-looking man with a long expression.
“Patience is a virtue, Eminence. It is not yet eleven.”
At six minutes to eleven they heard a growing, rumbling thunder slowly building outside before it steadied and died away.
At four minutes to the hour, the large main doors swung open; a phalanx of men strode in. Some were in street clothes, others were in biker leathers as they had ridden in on the thunder they had just heard arriving, some were in their highly specialized monk’s habits, a few were in suits, and others looked a bit rough around the edges. All were sober and alert. Right behind the entering column was a crowd clearly covering the steps and more, swelling even as the flood poured in. The vast majority were men, generally young, fit-looking, clean-cut ones at that, and all were standing tall. Only a handful appeared to be more like the typical gray-haired churchgoers. Some were escorting young women who were nicely dressed—perhaps not in traditional “Sunday best” but at least clean, neat, and church appropriate. A number of them were obviously family groups with children, and some of the women had baby-bumps. The swarm was oddly quiet, almost silent, disciplined and well organized, with men walking in nearly a lock-step march, flowing into the pews and aisles fluidly and efficiently. It rapidly became clear that it was going to be a standing-room only crowd, and the men adjusted themselves almost automatically, sliding close together on the benches and sorting people by height to get the tallest ones behind the shorter ones. By three after eleven the hall was packed, and quiet for such a crowd. The flow ceased as suddenly as it had started.
Thomas had been silently nodding, greeting them as they entered, recognizing many old friends, and seeing some new faces and scores of unknown family members and friends. Archbishop Malone and the three cardinals watched, agog. None had seen a church crowd or demographic like this in their lifetimes.
Still silent, Bishop Cranberry signaled the archbishop to begin. Beaming, he did so. “Welcome, you are all most welcome. Such an audience I could scarcely have hoped for. I am indeed very grateful to Bishop Cranberry—now Abbot Cranberry—for performing such a miracle. More than I imagined in my wildest dreams…” As he spoke, sticking to his prep
ared notes, the collection plates made their way around the men, nearly all of whom tossed in a small plastic cash card as they went by. In the back, two of the cardinals started arguing, very quietly, when one of them observed it was far too many to be believable, too like a social media flash-mob. Perhaps it was an elaborate ruse?
About halfway through his sermon, Malone came to something Cranberry had added that was a mystery to him.
“All rise for Canticle 762.” He motioned to Thomas to stand on the dais at the head of the cathedral and lead it.
As Cranberry raised his hand, there was a collective inhalation, and with the down stroke of his left hand about half the men started a deep, melodious chant. With his right, he started the other half of the men, a higher but still strong and masculine note. The ladies in the pews saw that some of the men only hummed or clapped or snapped rhythmically with the tune—not everyone can carry a tune well—but every man there was contributing what he could to the rhythmic waves of sound. Everyone who wasn’t a monk wondered what the words meant. They were in Latin.
The melody and words of any one man sounded fairly simple, with a number of oft-repeated phrases and relatively narrow range of notes so it would be easy to learn, but the harmony they produced together was powerful. A minute in, both Cranberry’s hands went up sharply, cutting off the voices though the gentle clapping, snapping, and humming kept the simple rhythm beating. A few quick motions and with a sudden thudding thunder of tramping feet they started marching in place, picking up the canticle with even greater energy and slightly higher pitch, giving an almost overpowering sense of flow and movement, and as the voices rose and fell, the stamping feet never changed beat, but varied in firmness considerably. About two minutes in, the men let their voices become instruments, ceasing the words and splitting into four interweaving melodic lines building to a crescendo. It was unlike anything the archbishop or cardinals had ever heard—somewhere between a Gregorian chant, a military marching cadence, a sea shanty, Tuvan throat-singing, and an a cappella gospel chorus. It sent a lively, powerful, almost defiant cascade of sound echoing about the vaults and side passages of the church.
With a final thundering of boot heels, hands, and voices, the monks—current and former—fell totally silent.
“Amen,” was Cranberry’s understated finale, quiet but clearly heard in the suddenly quiet air.
The cardinals had the answer to the was this a simple flash-mob? question: an unequivocal NO. But now the question of what had they sung? came to the fore. They all knew Latin well, but their experience was with rote scripture and common Church phrases. The enthusiasm and energy in the air was plain, but the meaning? Not so much. References like “guess long aim low” made no sense, nor did some of the apparent puns on “ingenium” and “range of possibilities delivered to the Lord.” It was an odd amalgam of classical Latin, modern figurative speech, sketchy grammar, and allusion. There was something real here, something big—very big—but what it meant to the deeply conservative cardinals was uncertain, possibly subversive.
“Thank you. Thank you all. That was… most impressive. Thank you,” said Archbishop Malone. It took him a moment to recompose his thoughts and to find his place to pick up again. After the deep energy the giant hall reverberated with from the canticle, his electronically amplified voice sounded tinny and light even to his own ear when he continued. But it was with more enthusiasm and hope than he’d felt in a long time that he carried on anyway.
* * *
When he wrapped it all up with a final Amen, Malone felt both drained and energized. Maybe it was not the greatest homily the church had ever witnessed, but it was a good one and far better attended than any in many a year. Likely a record for a weekday before noon, perhaps by nearly an order of magnitude. He strode over to Cranberry and shook his hand firmly, his eyes out on the crowd rising to its feet.
“If I’d not seen it myself, I’d think anyone reporting it was cutting the Communion wine and drinking the difference. Can we expect to see them all here regularly?”
“That can wait.” He turned to the three cardinals joining them. “Eminences, I give you the monks of St. Possenti, mission bound and monks-errant.” He waved toward the crowd, now standing and filling the aisles greeting friends and family warmly. “Men with a warrior’s heart and work-hardened hands, now with a belief in themselves, humanity, God, and a firm oath to actively protect and widen the flock.”
“Impressive. Most impressive, Abbot Cranberry,” said the shortest cardinal, a Pole by the name of Ascot Mierzejewski. “That hymn was powerful, but I didn’t recognize it at all. What were they saying?”
“It’s hard to explain without a range of information. The CQB version is it’s a prayer that their aims in life are on target and just.”
“Ah, I see,” said the taller one, Cardinal Castro. “So this is the project we’ve been pouring money into?”
“A modest sum, for a great long-term return. It was less than building even a small church in a metro area. Much less. And these are just a part of the first cohorts and the people whom they have touched, the ones who are local and could make it on such short notice. More will come. Some of them will become regulars on Sunday, and some you’ll never see again, but the reach will be long. Already, we have more people being sent to us than we can accommodate, and we are still working out the kinks in the program.”
“You are recruiting more? How much money are you talking about?”
“Very little, if any. It’s nearly self-sustaining already.”
“You are?” Castro sounded very surprised. “I had no idea.”
“I didn’t want to build false hopes. And to be honest, I had no idea how many people would show. And I have no idea how much was collected. For some, it’s likely every penny they have. For others, I’m sure it’s a pragmatic ten percent. We shall see. I told them this was a one-time collection as a ‘show of force,’ as it were.”
“A most surprising show it was,” said the third Cardinal, Mayes. “A much younger group than I have ever seen packing the pews. And bringing young children! It bodes well for future numbers.”
“Yes, but this isn’t about pew numbers. It’s about saving souls and lives. The rest will come in due course.”
* * *
The next hour was spent introducing some of the men who had become monks to the cardinals and archbishop and having them briefly tell their tales. Some were part of the original two-score cadre who had seen firsthand what effect saving the body and mind could have on saving souls and related their own experiences in the monastery and beyond. Others were family members Cranberry was also meeting for the first time, introduced by the now-salvaged and rebuilt monks-errant, giving thanks for reviving some who were all but given up on as lost causes. A few were business owners who offered praise for this newfound source of reliable and trainable workers. Some introduced wives of saved marriages, others newfound relationships. It wasn’t all images from a G-rated movie as one hollow-cheeked and still haunted-looking man said, “Life ain’t great… but at least I’m still alive for it to get better.”
Deacon Hugh “Carcere” Antczak had a chance to introduce his wife, Erika, and the twins to those brothers that were not regulars at the Howling Puffin or couldn’t make it to the wedding. Business at the Theology and Guns store and range, which he’d opened with Mickey and shared the building with John’s dojo, was good.
Some of the men were still very quiet, physically present but withdrawn. Others enthusiastically greeted old friends and fellow graduates, shaking hands warmly and inquiring about mutual acquaintances. Some of the newer initiates were startled and almost overwhelmed by the size and enthusiasm of the crowd they saw, peers who had seen what they saw and recovered.
In her normal third-row pew, old Mrs. Mabry sat in wide-eyed wonder at all the strangers she saw in her church, apparently nice enough but a totally different sort than she normally rubbed elbows with. Many politely said hello, and a handful introduced themselve
s, but they mostly let her sit and watch in mild confusion, not all of which was due to advanced age. She did smile uncertainly when her eyes met Cranberry’s, but he looked so different and busy she didn’t approach him.
When all who wanted to approach had done so, the Churchmen had a moment to step aside, watch the crowd, and talk together.
“Truly a miracle, Thomas, now that I see it in person. So many, with so much potential. I cannot apologize enough for doubting you.”
“Having seen from the inside all the hard work and near-disasters, I’m less inclined to believe it’s a miracle than it is an application of mysterious ways. But I will take all the divine inspiration and intervention we can get, regardless of how it lands on the threshold.”
“How many are seeing the light in this course of study right now?”
“We bring in about twenty every other week at this point, and–”
“Twenty every other week!” Cardinal Mierzejewski squeaked. Cranberry nodded.
“And graduating nearly the same. We almost have enough willing to give a commitment to start another monastery on the west coast, and things are shaping up to push another across the Atlantic into Europe. Some in southern Africa are keen to have us send brothers to their own war-torn nations to establish abbeys, but that’s only in the earliest speculative stages. We have been quietly reaching out to diocese and government agencies to try to determine numbers and problems there and to see if we can bring some over for training first.”
“That is most ambitious. Do you have any idea how many may be interested in total? Ballpark number, just a best guess, of course,” asked Mierzejewski.
Thomas pondered which possible answer to give. He decided to paint a larger picture. “More than ten million men under thirty have separated from military service in the last decade throughout Europe and the Americas. Not all are Christian. Conservatively, a third of them are unemployed or underemployed, and ten percent have some psychiatric issues from the operations they were involved in. One percent are in desperate need. There are another fifty million men in the desired age range who are potential candidates, but who are completely unknown to us because they spent no time in military service.
