No Greater Love (37 page)

It began with Palm Sunday commemorating Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem. Holy Thursday was the next of the special feasts. It was on Thursday that all priests, except those unable for good reason to attend, gathered in the Cathedral to bless the oils that would be used in specific sacraments throughout the year. That evening was a reenactment of the Last Supper.

Good Friday remembered Christ's death. Easter Sunday was His resurrection.

For Al Cody, Holy Thursday was his focal point.

For a number of reasons, it had come to be known as the priests' day. The prime reason was that at the Last Supper Jesus spoke the words, “This is my body” and “This is my blood” over the bread and wine. Then He told his twelve closest friends to do in His memory what He had done.

Thus, in theologies that recognize ordained ministers or priests who re-create the Last Supper, Holy Thursday is a celebration of the priesthood.

In Catholic theology, while the bread and wine retain their appearance, the substance changes to the body and blood of Christ. This is the centerpiece of Catholicism, and its observance the highest function of its priests.

Al Cody set aside the Day of Priests as the time he would spend in prayer and total fasting. He had concluded that he could not take so permanent and demanding a step as ordination as long as there was the slightest waffling. By the end of Holy Thursday, with the help of God, he would know what his future held.

As a member of the seminary choir, he boarded the bus taking the group to the Cathedral. Bill Page was also in the choir. They greeted each other civilly and nothing more. Page still believed Cody would return to the fold and was amazed that it had not yet happened. They did not sit together as they certainly would have before the split.

The Holy Thursday liturgy, conducted by trained seminarians, proceeded impressively and smoothly. The choir was excellent. The goodly showing of laity thought they had found a small corner of heaven.

Al Cody listened carefully as the Cardinal archbishop led his priests through promises of faith and service. Next year at this time, he, Al Cody, would be among these priests, doing then what they were doing now.

Or not.

When the bus returned to the seminary, the students went straight to the refectory for lunch. Except for Al, who had skipped breakfast as well. He took only water, as he would through the day.

He went to the chapel, where he experienced a moment of panic. The day was half gone and no decision was in sight. Maybe what everyone said of him was true: He just couldn't make a decision.

Would he go through life like this? Indecisive to the end?

What could he bring to the priesthood? He knew how to refute most of the ancient heresies that had been all but forgotten by just about everyone. He knew his way around Canon Law. So did most of his classmates.

He had some good insights into Scripture.

He had learned Moral Theology from one of the faculty's strictest traditionalists. Those who believed the Church's seeming preoccupation with sexual mores to be somewhat voyeuristic found a champion of that preoccupation in the Moral prof.

While Al had learned Moral Theology on the rigid side, he couldn't imagine himself teaching the strict interpretation or holding penitents to its strict observance. Perhaps, in a negative sort of way, that was a good thing to bring to the priesthood: to not teach what he'd been taught.

These thoughts brought him to an important point: He was very good at understanding others, particularly in times and areas of disagreement. This spoke well of how he would handle the confessional. He knew he could be patient. And there was a lot to recommend in this virtue.

However, this was not getting him anywhere close to a decision. And it was midafternoon. Not much time left.

Well, why did the decision have to come down on Holy Thursday? Where was that carved in stone?

No, no. He had struck an agreement with God. Today! This was God he was dealing with … and one doesn't fool with God.

For the umpteenth time, he made the Stations of the Cross—fourteen “stands” or separate incidents marking events that happened to Jesus from the sentence of death to the body being taken from the cross.

These Stations had been a favorite prayer for Al many times. Now, when he badly needed enlightenment, the Stations gave him nothing.

It occurred to him that he'd been occupied in a game of balance. Putting things he was good at on one side of the scale, things he did poorly on the other. That wasn't going to get the job done. There was no way he could remember all the things that he did well or badly.

There had to be another way. There just had to.

Students began to file in for the late afternoon liturgy. The color scheme in the chapel, from the decorations to the floral arrangements to the altar linens, was white on white. The purity of the sacrifice.

It was so late in the day. He felt guilty. It wasn't a culpable fault. Still, he was not delivering on a promised agreement. Maybe his answer would come as he participated in this Mass.

The liturgy began and the celebrant intoned the Gloria—a hymn of praise to God. Some of the students rang bells of assorted shapes and sizes, while the organist played a triumphant refrain. Neither bells nor organ would sound again until the Gloria of the Easter vigil on Holy Saturday.

The liturgy moved forward with a sense of foreboding. This night, after the supper, Jesus was arrested and the nightmare began.

But first there was the ceremony of bathing the feet. The celebrant bathed the feet of twelve parishioners. Just as Jesus had washed the feet of the twelve Apostles, saying, “You call me master, and you do well to do so. But if I, your master, wash your feet, so must you do for each other.”

Although Al Cody had witnessed this ceremony many times, for some reason it took on a new meaning today.

He could not recall ever having washed anyone's feet but his own. Not physically, that is. But figuratively … that was something else.

In order to please and win the approval of his mother and father he had figuratively washed their feet many times. He dated: girls his mother approved. He did not date: His father was structuring him into a celibate personality. He lived in a seminary and associated with males. His mother wanted him to be at home with mixed company. He roughed it in the woods during deer season. His dad wanted him to grow up to be a real man like the priests his dad admired. He stood up for the underdog: a value his mother instilled in him. He was leary of people of other colors and creeds: as was his father. He put away his guns for his mother: He took them out for his father. And on and on.

Figuratively, he was constantly washing the feet of his mother and father. In the words of William S. Gilbert, he never thought of thinking for himself at all.

He was confused and indecisive. He was confused. And the authors of his confusion were his parents. But especially his father. Left on his own, or under his mother's formation alone, Al doubted he ever would have entered a seminary.

So, in answer to what sort of priest he would be: his father's sort of priest.

Al felt excitement. He sensed that he was nearing a decision. The most important decision of his life.

Throughout his training, from parochial school to Catholic boys' high school to the seminary, he had learned things. Now that he was giving panoramic perspective to this body of knowledge, he knew that as a priest he would be eclectic.

Of course he believed in the core of Catholic doctrine. But once he was ordained, once he was dealing with a hurting humanity, he would be more selective. He would not bother already troubled souls with those rules and regulations that had nothing to do with Christ's law of love.

In just a couple of months he would be ordained. No longer would any of the faculty be looking over his shoulder. He had given them the answers their questions demanded. He would be free of all that.

Still there was hesitation, some radical wavering.

He sought the cause. This was one time when he would not—could not—be satisfied with a partial decision. He had made a bargain with God. He would spend this entire holy day in prayer. He was searching for a decision on his vocation that would be conclusive, absolute, final.

Instinctively, he knew there was more ground to cover.

All the while, the Holy Thursday liturgy continued.

It was Communion time. Al received the consecrated wafer and felt the bonding with the Lord that always came at this intimate moment.

The Mass was concluded. But there was no recessional procession. Most of the students and faculty remained in the chapel to savor the memory of that first Holy Thursday and its foreboding of doom.

The Apostles had just been “ordained.” As their first priestly acts, one would betray Him, and all but John would abandon Him. The seminarians would keep Him company for as long as their eyes would remain open.

Al remembered Jesus in the Garden of Olives praying while His friends slumbered. “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me. But not my will, but yours be done.”

It came to Al quickly.

Not Al's will, but his father's.

After ordination, the faculty would be out of his hair and his mind. As long as he did nothing publicly bizarre, he should be able to be the sort of priest he wanted to be.

The faculty would not stand in his path. His father would.

Heretofore, Al had quite naturally imagined himself in a parochial setting where he and his parishioners would interact. That's not how it would be.

Why had he been so slow to see what his life as a priest would actually be? Between his parishioners and himself stood the omnipresent figure of William Cody. Bill Cody would live his lost priesthood through his son, Father Al Cody.

This changed everything.

In seconds, he went from a joyful solution to his dilemma to a despondent certainty that he was facing a brick wall which would not fall.

Was there any way he could get his father out of the picture?

None. Nothing but death. And he could not, under any circumstances, wish his father dead.

He spent much time testing the presumption that his father would never let him be what he felt he must be in the priesthood. Every theory tested failed. All doors were closed. No windows were opened.

As the self-sustained argument continued, it became more and more clear what he must do.

Yes, he wanted to be a priest. But not a puppet priest being pulled in directions in which he did not wish to go. And the puppeteer was not going to flag or go away.

Under these circumstances he could not be a priest. Eventually, the conclusion was inescapable.

He could not be a priest.

There was a certain sadness. The priesthood had been a lifetime goal. But, as it became clear through intense prayer, not
his
goal but his father's.

Nor could his decision be brushed aside with the words, “Not my will but thine be done.” God's will was a far, far thing from Bill Cody's will.

As the turmoil within Al slowly subsided, it was replaced by a quiet sort of peace. It was an entirely new sensation. Al found it comforting.

Just to be sure, he played the script through once again. Again he arrived at the same conclusion.

He was convinced. It was inescapable.

He felt he could not hesitate another hour. He must go and see someone. He must tell his decision to someone. The first name that came to mind was Father Koesler. He would be sensitive and supportive. He would know what to do.

Repeated knocking on Father Koesler's door elicited no answer. Father Koesler must be out. Probably helping at some Holy Thursday parish liturgy.

The next best person with whom to consult had to be the rector. Bishop McNiff had been the principal celebrant of the seminary's liturgy. He must be here.

Twenty-eight

It was a spent bishop, fatigued to the point of grayness, who opened the door to Al Cody. The liturgy had been unhurried and lengthy. It had sapped McNiff's seventy-one-year-old reserve, his physical and psychic stamina.

Al eyed the haggard bishop, frazzled in rumpled black pants and damp T-shirt. “You seem awfully tired. Maybe I should come back some other time.…”

McNiff wearily studied the young man. “Is it important, Al?”

“To me, yes. Very important.”

“Then come in and make yourself comfortable. I'll just go in and change this shirt. Holy perspiration does not guarantee the fabled odor of sanctity.” The bishop disappeared into his bedchamber, emerging a minute or two later in a fresh white T-shirt. “I hope you won't mind the informality.”

“Oh no. Of course not. I know you're pooped. I appreciate your seeing me.”

McNiff gamely lowered himself into his desk chair and gestured toward a facing seat. “Now, then: What's on your mind?”

The floodgates spread wide as Al Cody poured out his story. Beginning with his fresh decision to leave the seminary, he then retraced his path toward ordination and the role his father had played in this journey.

McNiff's impulse was to stop Al's recitation early on, but he restrained himself; he would hear the lad out.

When Al had finished, the bishop began with the obvious questions. Did Cody not realize that his call to holy orders was certain? That ordination was only weeks away? The effect this would have on his parents, his relatives and friends, the others in the seminary?

The bishop reminded Al that he had spent eight long years devoted solely and completely to training for nothing other than the priesthood. Did this not seem an extremely abrupt, ill-thought-out, hastily made decision? How could he wash away eight years of preparation with one day of no matter how intense prayer?

Al Cody was among those few whom McNiff desperately desired to recommend for ordination. His immediate reaction to this bombshell was to attempt to talk Al out of resigning—at least until the matter was more extensively examined.