No Greater Love (43 page)

Lil smiled. How easy it was to call to mind her years with the second-graders at St. Ursula’s. How impressionable were their innocent minds! And how legalistic and dour were the regular visits to her class by the pastor, Father Angelico. It seemed his aim was to block every direction set by the Council.

Typical was the battle over the order of confession and Communion. In pre-Vatican II times, Catholic children were introduced first to confession—then known more properly as the Sacrament of Penance, now called the Sacrament of Reconciliation—closely followed by Communion—then, as now, more properly termed Holy Eucharist.

However, after the Council and before a Vatican ruling, most parishes reversed the order.

In the prior practice, a mistaken connection was drawn between confession and Communion. Catholic children, most of them second-graders, were prepared for these two sacraments almost simultaneously.

So, most Catholic adults carried over what they’d learned as children. Many felt unworthy to receive Communion without first going to confession.

It led to confusion on a massive scale.

Children, whose peccadilloes could not rank with the transgressions of the occasional serious sinner, were making up sins for the confessional because—well, because they had to say
something
to prompt the priest to give them absolution.

Adults grew up with this routine of going to confession on a Saturday and Communion the next day. This was followed by three communion-less Sundays until time for the monthly confession.

After the Council, parishes regularly prepared children to receive Communion. Then, after a period of a year or more, the youngsters were taught to appreciate the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Some of the fire and brimstone doctrine disappeared, to be missed only by a very vocal traditionalist minority.

Short of some interferences from the Vatican, children were welcomed to Communion at every Mass in which they participated. To attend Mass without receiving Communion was compared to going to a banquet and not eating. Confession was another matter entirely.

But not at St. Ursula’s. Not under the regime of Father Angelico. This, as well as so many other anchors driven into the past, was brought home to the fledgling teacher Lillian Neidermier once she learned that she was expected to teach from the Baltimore Catechism, a book of religious questions and answers. The questions were fundamental. So were the answers.

“Who made you?”

“God made me.”

Everybody studied and learned from the Baltimore Catechism. Among other frightening bits of doctrine was the view of God that held our Creator as a harsh judge ready and able to snatch our lives an instant after the commitment of a mortal sin (a pork chop on Friday), and consign us to eternal damnation.

It was unfortunate that Lil left St. Ursula’s before Father Angelico died. Otherwise she might have come to understand that religion could be a loving experience.

Eventually, of course, her knowledge of God as Love did come about. But how neat it would have been to experience this in a St. Ursula’s newly bereft of Father Angelico.

“It wasn’t a case of my killing Father Angelico …” Lil laughed lightly. “I always thought if we both stayed in the same parish long enough, he would kill
me
. That look! When the skin stretched across his bony face, I could never guess whether he was smiling or furious. I learned in the school of hard knocks that most of the time he was barely containing rage.”

Rick’s brow was knit as if he were thinking through a complex problem. “To understand Father Angelico properly you should remember that if you were convicted of heresy, Father Angelico would have accompanied you to the pyre. He would have prayed with you, and then he would have lit the fire.”

She laughed heartily. But, as her chuckles subsided, her face grew thoughtful. “By the way, honey, you do want to go to the party tonight, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure. I just forgot.”

“We each got an invitation—sent to our separate residences naturally.”

“What can I say after I say I’m sorry? I forgot. I barely remember getting the invite. Where’s it supposed to be?”

“Old St. Joe’s downtown.”

“Hmm. I wonder why.”

“Well, for one thing St. Ursula’s is no more. We couldn’t have it there.”

“Did you ever think”—Rick stretched elaborately—“when you worked there that the day would come when the old place would be closed?”

“Mmm”—she pondered—“I guess I wondered why they bothered building it.” She smiled. “But not why they would bury it.”

“But the memory lingers on. Thus, tonight’s party.” He rose from the, table and slipped out of his robe. “We’ve got plenty of time before we can get the boat. What do you want to do?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she replied impishly. “But I’m sure we’ll think of something.”