No Greater Love (36 page)

“How did we ever let a catch like her get away?”

“Our faculty took care of that.”

“Oh, yeah. But you said that the faculty's vote brought good and bad news. Well, we've seen the bad. What about the good?”

“The good news, Bob, was the tabulation of the ballots.”

“How's that?”

“The verdict in this case … the trial, if you want, was pretty much decided before we even gathered. About the only thing that surprised me on the bad side was her expulsion.”

“And the good?”

“The number who voted for forgiveness and tolerance. Until very recently the votes on a matter like that would be 27 to 3—over and over again. That's how unevenly divided this faculty was.

“Those votes yesterday were a victory for what I was sent here to do. Oh”—he raised a hand as if in warning—“it's not over. They weren't voting on any of the ‘absolutes' in Doctrine or Morals. Or how we react to the Pope's latest word. But it's a step.”

“Congratulations.”

“To you, too.”

“C'mon. I've been here just a little while.”

“I know that. But you've had an effect. You probably can't see it. Our three acknowledged progressives have been a bit more sure of themselves. And the conservatives have unbent a little. You're just too close to this thing to see the changes. And of course the changes haven't been all that dramatic. But they're real—and yesterday's vote was a solid indication.”

“Well … if you say so.” Koesler had difficulty accepting compliments from someone like McNiff with whom a joking relationship held sway. “So … what next?”

“In this institution?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Not much …” McNiff thought aloud. “Things should quiet down. Easter's coming up in about three weeks. Then it's all downhill till graduation, matriculation, and ordination.

“Take my word for it. Things will settle down. It's going to be business as usual. And”—he grinned wryly—“we could use a little bit of that.”

Father Koesler made his way slowly and thoughtfully back to his room. “Business as usual,” McNiff had predicted. All well and good … but what, exactly, was “business as usual” nowadays?

Koesler shook his head.

At the heart of it all was the polarity of Catholic conservatives and liberals. Those of the committed sort. The two groups might just as well consist of nitro and glycerin. Mix them and … murder.

Thirty-some years ago such sharp divisions were unknown in the broader Catholic Church.

The “Faithful” were faithful. They received the sacraments regularly and fervently. Most would not even think of missing Sunday Mass.

Priests—the diocesan or secular sort—were either pastors or assistants (curates). Pastors had lived long enough to outmaneuver the actuarial tables. Now they planned on surviving long enough to enjoy their triumph. Assistants prayed for their pastors, that they might soon be in heaven—or at least in purgatory.

Bishops—who “had achieved the fullness of the priesthood”—really had it made. If nothing was too good for Father, in Ireland nothing was too good for the bishop at all, at all.

Things changed in the Church at about a quarter of a resolution each millennium.

Then came Vatican Council II—roughly analogous to the turning point between Before Christ and Anno Domini.

The Council ushered in the Age of the Laity. Armed with the Conciliar phrase “The People of God are the Church,” they (the laity) launched an incursion into hitherto priestly territory.

Where once only the consecrated hands of deacon-on-up could touch the Communion wafer, now there were Extraordinary Ministers of the Eucharist.

Priests might struggle to retain their territory. Or they might retire. Meanwhile there occurred a fission that divided the conservative and the liberal wings of the Church.

These were not conservatives who harkened back to the Apostolic days immediately following Christ. These conservatives merely wanted things to be again as they were immediately before Vatican II. As it turned out, they were trying to put the toothpaste back in the tube.

Liberals were marching resolutely into the twenty-first century even though, at that time, the world was only a little bit more than halfway through the twentieth.

Bishops, members of one of the more exclusive worldwide clubs, began to circle their wagons. They were squeezed between the Pope and their priests.

Tending to be mostly conservative, bishops tried to carry forward the dictates of the Pope. Ordinarily, they could accomplish this through their priests. But the priests were disillusioned, their morale was scraping bottom, and they were grievously overworked.

In 1966, the average age of seminarians was twenty-five. In 1993 the average age was thirty-two. Seminaries were not churning out priests in anywhere close to the numbers thirty-some years before. Active priests were trying to survive even as they served.

From the hierarchical aerie, the Church hardly was The People of God. It was the same old triangle that had existed quite comfortably before the Council.

The People of God formed the foundation. They were given “the word” by, in many cases, a hard-pressed clergy. The clergy were given “the word” by, in many cases, a bewildered hierarchy. The hierarchy was given “the word” by a confident if insular Pope.

Mother Angelica with her network TV toy sat at one end. Theologian Hans Küng sat at the other.

“Business as usual …” Koesler stood irresolute in front of the unopened door to his room. How long had it been … how many years—
decades?
—since things had been “usual” in the Church? He thought back to his service as an altar boy, to his years in the seminary, to his days as a fervent young priest, to his time at the helm of the archdiocesan newspaper, to his terms as a pastor. Where, along the way, had things stopped being “usual”?

Vatican II, that's where. What was the name of the tune the British had played when they surrendered at Yorktown—“The World Turned Upside Down”? Yup, that was it. Well, they might as well have played it for the post-Vatican II Catholics; for so many of them, their world
had
turned upside down.

Koesler opened his door, entered his room, and sank into a chair, to ponder more recent events.

Patty Donnelly wanted to become a priest. Polls revealed that most Catholics could find no reason to deny her that vocation. But the Pope and his Curia taught that it never would happen. This teaching bordered on the infallible.

Her desire and his opposition were on a collision course. One fine day, perhaps sooner than most expected, today's priest shortage will become a famine.

Catholicism is—as, to a slightly lesser degree, are almost all Christian denominations—a sacramental religion. Priests and ministers are needed to confect and to deliver sacraments. What happens if Christianity runs out of priests and ministers?

What happens to infallibility and the ordinary teaching office of the Church if it is compelled to ordain women and married people?

Bishop McNiff is not all that concerned with the conservative or liberal camps. Probably because he is an amalgam of both. Very few others have accomplished this.

His full-time seminary faculty numbers thirty—of which three are liberals.

Bishop McNiff's goal is to re-create a seminary faculty that may be predominantly conservative, but is marked by tolerance, openness, and understanding.

Even that goal would not necessarily prove daunting. Except that today's liberals want everyone in the boat, while today's conservatives want all dissidents out of the boat. Sort of Happy Days are Here Again versus My Church, Love it or Leave it.

Closer to home, it looked as if Old St. Joseph's parish was about to be torn asunder.

When Koesler bequeathed St. Joe's to Zachary Tully, the tacit understanding—at least on Koesler's part—was that things would stay pretty much in status quo. Apparently that understanding was not understood by Tully.

No sooner had Koesler been gently swept out of the rectory than—according to Bill Cody—Tully had introduced an African-American. Folk Mass to the regular Sunday liturgy.

Koesler understood Bill Cody well enough to know that scheduling a Folk Mass on Cody's territory was like waving any number of red flags before an extremely angry bull.

Did Zack Tully realize the consequences of what he'd initiated? What purpose could he hope to accomplish? Why had he not introduced this change to the parish council? Why had he made it a fait accompli instead of a proposal? Why would he add a Mass to a schedule already less than filled? Why would he do this especially in light of the priest shortage? Why would he add this weekend Mass at practically the same time he rejected Koesler's offer of help?

By Koesler's reckoning, Bill Cody was not a wild-eyed traditionalist. He was not the sort to tie his conservatism to the beginnings of Christianity. Nor did he demand that everything Catholic return to pre-Vatican II.

This was evidenced by his obvious belief that little of Christianity had changed between A.D. 30 and 1999. Which meant that he had not made much of a study of his religion. The battle cry of this concept was, “As the Church has always taught …”—a claim which held that no Church teaching had changed in nearly 2,000 years.

On the other hand, after struggling against the first fruits of Vatican II and losing, Cody and most reasonable conservatives had staged a strategic retreat to a more stable position.

Tully's seemingly autocratic scheduling of an African-American Folk Mass at St. Joseph's parish had crossed the line Bill Cody had drawn in the sand. And Koesler was amazed that Tully seemed unaware of this. Or—in the more likely chance that he fully understood what he was about—that he had gone ahead regardless. Why?

Finally, there was Al Cody and Bill Page and the conservative-liberal battleground.

If everything Bill Cody had said about Page was true—and now, in retrospect, it seemed to be—it would be extremely probable that the deacon should not be in a seminary, let alone a short time from ordination. Even with a critical shortage of priests, the Church did not need a representative whose major, almost exclusive goal was nothing more than the security that Mother Church could provide.

Now, when he thought of Page, Koesler envisioned someone floating through life on a Church-supplied air cushion. About all that would bestir him would be the infrequent but periodic heterosexual Arabian Night.

And then there was Al Cody.

Koesler clearly remembered Al Cody as a teenager. Not that many young people were involved at St. Joe's. Of those few, Al was by far the most faithful, even attending daily Mass.

So outstanding was Al's presence at St. Joe's that Koesler certainly would have recruited him for the seminary had not the young man's father already done so. By the time Al finished high school, he was all but signed, sealed, and delivered to the seminary. Koesler remembered regretting—not for the first time—that the seminary had closed its high school due to a scarcity of students. Al would have thrived on the complete offering of high school, college, and theologate.

However, the better acquainted Koesler became with Al Cody the more misgivings the priest had.

For one thing, seldom had he encountered anyone as indecisive as Al. Inconsequential decisions such as whether to light the altar candles five minutes before Mass or two. Major decisions such as which elective course to sign up for in school.

Al was so young to be so uncertain about so many things. When he begun vacillating over nearly everything?

Getting to know his father made it a little easier to understand the son. Bill Cody was nothing if not sure of himself. But he had not passed this attitude on to his son. Rather, the father was virtually the son's deciding force.

The next and inevitable question had to be: Whose determination was it that Albert should become a priest?

What he was going to do with his life, the choice of a vocation or career was, by all odds, the most far-reaching decision he would ever make. Was Al's priesthood going to be the vicarious vehicle for his father?

Koesler, reflecting on his own involvement—no matter how tenuous—in all this, was forced to conclude—again—that this was not what he had expected from the golden years of retirement.

Twenty-seven

It is almost axiomatic that liturgy on the parochial level never matches the beauty, the meaningfulness, the dedication, the near perfection of that of the seminary. This is especially true during the week preceding Easter.

Of all the Detroit parishes that tried for the higher achievement, the one that came closest was St. George's in Southfield. That was an unspoken tribute to Andrea Zawalich and the people she had trained. Andrea herself was absent from the scene. Her nonpresence would dim the joy of Easter.

This final week of the Lenten season was indeed called Holy Week.