No Greater Love (32 page)

Koesler grinned. “Did that really happen?”

“I don't think so.”

“But it could have.”

“Absolutely.”

The Folk Mass at St. Joe's continued, as did Cody's notations.

The hymns and spirituals, most of them seldom if ever heard in traditional Catholic services, were not only sung, but sung with enthusiasm and deep-felt emotion. The term “belted out” came to Koesler's mind. If each spiritual had not been identified when announced, the trio in the loft would not universally have recognized “Get on Board, Li'l Children,” “Jacob's Ladder,” and “Everytime I Feel the Spirit.” “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord,” thought Koesler, recalling one of David's most beautiful Psalms.

The congregation's syncopation on “Roll, Jordan, Roll” gave it a true spiritual sound. The refrain was split between the female voices—“Oh, brother, you ought to be there …”—and the male voices—“Oh, sister, you ought to be there.…” And for the final “Oh, Preacher,” the voices of the entire congregation emphasized the admonition, “you'd
better
be there.” The concluding “I want to go to heaven when I die,” was sung softly, yet firmly, slowing up on the grace-noted “die.” By the time the female voices soared to the high F for the final “roll,” there was hardly an uninvolved bone in nearly everyone present. Always, of course, excepting Bill Cody, whose pen from time to time almost pierced the paper on which he was feverishly entering God alone knew what.

Two of the costumed ministers gave the first two readings from Scripture. Nothing much wrong with that, according to Bill Cody—except, of course, for their unwarranted costumes.

Father Tully preached an interesting and thought-provoking homily. Subdued, to fit the somber nature of the Lenten season.

At the offertory, all the “ministers” took part in the offertory prayers. That caught Cody's attention.

During the preface and into the Canon, or body, of the Mass, the entire congregation left the pews and gathered close in around the altar. Definitely not kosher.

Then came the greeting of peace.

In the traditional Mass in traditional settings, after “The Lord's Prayer,” the priest bids the congregation offer to neighbors “some sign of peace.” Which, in the traditional setting, usually is a perfunctory handshake and the uttering of the single word, “peace.” In this Folk Mass—as in most others—this is a signal to really mingle.

Everyone went everywhere. Hugging, shaking hands, asking after the health of a loved one who had been identified as ill, talking, laughing, moving about. This continued for approximately fifteen minutes, ending only when Father Tully invited everyone back to prepare for Communion.

The Communion hymn was “Beulah Land.” “I'm living on the mountain underneath a cloudless sky—Praise God! I'm drinking from the fountain that never will run dry.…”

What particularly galled Cody was the way his wife blended in with the extended inappropriate behavior of this … this “congregation.”

Mass wound down quickly after Communion.

The recessional hymn—during which no one left the church—was a rollicking version of “When the Roll Is Called up Yonder.” The refrain, repetitious enough to be a modern rock tune, got everyone, with the exception of Lieutenant Tully, and the small group in the choir loft, holding hands and swaying to and fro.

Zoo Tully was present, presumably, either to swell the numbers in the congregation or to protect his brother, should anything amiss occur. Or both.

Once the recessional and spiritual were complete, the mingling continued, giving no indication that it would ever end. But, clearly, the liturgy—which had taken almost two hours (as against a normal time of approximately forty-five minutes to an hour)—was over.

Immediately, Cody turned to Rooney “Look at this!” Cody had filled four legal-size pages with notations on the Folk Mass.

Rooney did not take the proffered documentation. “Before we get into a bill of particulars,” the liturgist said, “let me just say one thing for the record: That was a legitimate folk liturgy. They stayed well within the guidelines.”

“What are you saying!?” Cody felt he had put together an open-and-shut case. He looked incredulously at all the notes he had made. How could anyone not see all the excesses in this travesty of a Mass?

“What I'm saying, Mr. Cody,” explained the monsignor, “is that a Folk Mass isn't anything like the Masses you and I grew up with. I know how you feel. I remember well the Latin, the chant, the whispered prayers. That was my Mass for quite a long time after I was ordained. We still have—what?—a traditional Mass, which, despite being offered in English, is not
that
different from the ancient Tridentine liturgy.

“This is merely another step. It's mostly joyous, as you can see.” Rooney gestured toward the congregation below. Their facial expressions were open, reflecting everything from happiness to concern.

“What this definitely is
not,”
Rooney continued, “is the ordinary parishioners who go to church regularly, and passively absorb what is going on. And this exodus is a lot better. You and I can remember when the end of Mass on Sunday started a mad stampede—the race to the car and the free-for-all leaving the parking lot as quickly as possible, with safety not a high priority. We're doing better with that now. But still we don't hang around with real interest in each other like these people are doing.”

Bill Cody heard almost nothing of what Father Rooney was saying. The council president was aware only that he was losing the battle. “But,” he protested, “didn't you see that dancer? The way that leotard fit her, she might as well have been nude! They've got an excellent organ—the king of instruments—but they use a rinky-dink piano, and drums—and tambourines! What is this, a church or the jungle? And all this noise! Isn't there a place for silence?”

Rooney realized that he and Cody could continue this conversation forever and never reach agreement. He felt sorry for Cody, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“I saw the dance,” Rooney said patiently. “I heard the music. I saw the vestments. I witnessed the spirit of acceptance and camaraderie. It's all quite legitimate … even restrained. You should see what some of your neighboring parishes are doing with Folk Masses—”

“I don't give a damn what my neighboring parishes are doing! This is St. Joseph's. This is
my
parish. And they're making a mockery of the Mass … here in
my
parish.…” Cody was close to tears.

“Mr. Cody”—this was intended to be Rooney's final word on the subject—“you're a lawyer. Look at it this way: You could bring the matter of this Folk Mass before the diocesan tribunal. But I can tell you, as sure as we're standing here, the verdict would be in favor of Father Tully and the people who have put together this Mass.

“And consider this: I would be the ‘expert witness.' In all honesty, in the archdiocese there is no one more expert in liturgical matters than I.

“The only advice I can give you, Mr. Cody, is to save yourself from a heart attack: Just go to the regular Masses and don't ever attend a Folk Mass again.”

With that, Monsignor Rooney left the choir loft, and the church. He would have bade good-bye to Zack Tully but he was already late for his sister's wedding anniversary party.

Koesler, silent bystander to the foregoing, stepped toward Cody. “Bill, would you like to grab a bite to eat with me? We could talk about this.”

Cody raised his head and looked over the railing at the people milling about below. As far as he was concerned, he was Jesus sighting the moneychangers in the temple—the difference being that he could do nothing to stop it.

He did not look at Koesler as he said, “Thanks, Father. It's kind of you. But I don't feel like being with anybody now.” There were tears in his eyes.

There was nothing he could do but to offer up his son as a messenger of sanity to a Church gone mad.

Father Koesler patted him on the back as Bill Cody turned, then walked slowly, almost blindly, away.

Twenty-four

The seminary had two separate and distinct sets of student mailboxes.

One set was at the entrance of St. Thomas Hall. These were small boxes for nonresident students. Usually, items such as notes, memorandums, or leaflets were deposited in them.

The larger boxes were at the entrance to St. William's Hall. These were for residents, and they were larger than the other set because they were intended not only for notes and such but also for regular mail.

One further difference was that the residents' boxes could be locked, while the others were simply closed.

In both cases, the boxes were assigned in alphabetical order.

At precisely 8
P.M.
a tall, somewhat heavyset man in cassock and clerical collar was examining the residents' boxes, obviously seeking one in particular. He located the one he wanted. He deposited an envelope through the slot. He looked up and down the hallway, but could see no one. He left.

At precisely 8:05
P.M.
, another lone figure went to the boxes. She wore a dark pants suit. She went directly to a box, unlocked it, removed the only article in the box—an envelope, which she inserted in the slot of the neighboring box. She closed and locked the original box. Then, empty-handed, she too left.

At 9:30 P.M., a knock sounded at Andrea Zawalich's door.

Andrea was expecting a caller. She hoped it was the right one. She opened the door. It was as she had planned. “Gretchen, what brings you here?”

Gretchen O'Keefe was obviously deeply embarrassed. Her face was so flushed she might have been ill. “Andrea … I found this ….” She held out an envelope. “I found it in my mailbox. I'm so sorry. I just automatically thought it was for me. I … I opened it. I read almost all of it before it dawned on me that it couldn't be for me. So I checked the envelope. It was addressed to you.

“I don't know what to tell you. I couldn't think of anything else except to give it to you. I don't know if I should do anything more. I … I just don't know.…”

Andrea took the envelope, removed the letter, and began reading it. She had planned a variety of possible actions, depending on what Gretchen would do and how she would react. In any event, Gretchen would have had to have read the note.

Andrea had, in a way, commissioned the document, so she had some idea of what it would contain. Even so, she was shocked and repelled by all that Bill Page promised.

The fact that Gretchen had, mistakenly or not, read it made the next step easier. “Gretchen, this is
awful.”

“I know. I know. Can I just try to forget about it? I mean, I could just go back to my room. After all, it was meant for you.”

“I don't know either, Gretchen. But there's something I think we …
you
ought to do. It was in your box and you read it. I think this comes under … you know …”

“No, I don't. I don't know. What?”

“Fraternal correction. You know how we're always told that sometimes things happen that are very bad but hidden in secrecy. Sometimes we have to bring them out so they can be treated. So that the appropriate action is taken by authority.”

“I don't want to get involved in this, Andrea!” Gretchen was almost whining.

“That's the very thing they told us: that we wouldn't want to get involved. But that it was important—essential—that we do. We
are
our brother's keeper, Gretchen.”

“Oh, damn! You really think so? I mean, this could hurt you too …. I mean, it was addressed to you.…”

“But I didn't write it. I'm not sure who did—but it looks an awful lot like Bill Page's writing. I think you ought to go right now. It's not too late. Bring it to the rector. Let Bishop McNiff decide what to do. After all, he's the one who was pushing us to use fraternal correction.”

“Now?”

“Now!”

“Well, all right … if you really think so …”

“I really think so.”