The Sacrifice (3 page)

“You,” Morgan stated, “have managed to do what I've always thought was impossible: You and your ilk have forced a Pope to contradict himself. Or seem to. After all, he is only permitting this practice of ordaining Protestants. That's far removed from his apostolic teaching in this matter.

“But I must thank you for one thing, Father Koesler.” There was no reason for the formal address other than sheer sarcasm. “This conversation has served to clear my mind. Before we talked this out I feared that our Holy Church was actually dead and didn't know it. Now I see that there is hope after all. As long as we who enjoy the
vera doctrina
survive this attack. Except that we must be overwhelmingly militant. And I assure you: This militancy is already being mobilized. We shall endure!”

As Morgan finished his bellicose statement, Reichert groaned and clutched at his chest.

Both Koesler and Morgan, concerned, immediately moved toward him. But Reichert waved them off as he fumbled in his breast pocket.

“What is it, Dan?” Morgan asked urgently. “Your heart?”

Reichert retrieved a small vial containing tiny white pills. With a practiced hand he extracted one pill, popped it into his mouth, and carefully folded his tongue over it.

“It's his nitro,” Harry Morgan explained. “He never goes anywhere without it. It's been a lifesaver.”

Gradually, Reichert returned to normal.

“Let's get out of here, Dan,” Morgan said. “We'll go back to my rectory and you can take it easy … I'll be there to watch over you.”

“No, no. I want to stay here.”

“It's only going to get worse. They're going to ordain the guy. It'll drive you up the wall.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Let's stay and watch.”

Morgan shook his head. “If you insist.”

“You know, of course”—Reichert leaned heavily on Morgan's arm—“that I would give anything to prevent this. I mean, the fact that I want to stay doesn't mean I approve.”

“I understand, Dan. I understand completely. Why don't the two of you go over there where there are some empty chairs.” Koesler gestured to the recessed grotto where a religious statue stood. The sight-line wouldn't be the best. But at least they could sit down, relax—and be more comfortable than they were now.

Two

Father Koesler watched the two men as they haltingly made their way to the grotto, Reichert leaning on Morgan.

Their behavior and their reaction to what was about to take place in this church brought to Koesler's mind the militia movement that was struggling to become popular.

The Constitution of the United States made reference to the right of citizens to bear arms as members of a well-regulated militia. As Koesler understood it, the militia man considered himself constitutionally correct.

This present movement attracted people who had serious apprehensions regarding the government. Particularly the federal government as exemplified by the Administration and its bureaus, such as the FBI, ATF, the Secret Service, and so on.

The more militant among such detractors had formed paramilitary units, complete with firearms, bombs and like weapons. In effect, they considered themselves at war with the authorities of the nation. And, in a sense, they were. No two events would better bear out this situation than the bombing of the government center in Oklahoma City and the Davidian holocaust in Waco.

This sort of fatal confrontation was kissing cousin to a brand of religious militancy that motivated people who bombed abortion clinics and murdered physicians who performed abortions.

Koesler had never, to his knowledge, met a militia person face-to-face. Yet he had the feeling that he had, in some sense, just talked to the prototype.

Reichert and Morgan stood for all who felt similarly about the state of their Church. They were faithful people who were intensely dedicated to a religion that claimed to stretch back to Jesus Himself. Reichert and Morgan had been inducted into this faith more than seventy years ago. For the past approximately fifty years they had been priests. During that time, an event—Vatican II—that took place in the mid-sixties had turned their world topsy-turvy. And they were bitter as bitter could be.

The analogies between the militia people and Catholic traditionalists seemed to Koesler inescapable. Of course, there had been no extreme violence on the part of Catholic conservatives. Was it possible the movement might fester into such a tragedy?

Lost in these thoughts, Koesler only gradually became aware that someone was standing next to him and, in fact, had been standing there for some time. Slowly he turned to look at this silent companion.

It was a priest. At least he was wearing a black suit with clerical collar. A fair assumption would make him a Catholic priest. But, on this occasion, he might just as easily be an Episcopalian. He was bald, with a shadow of facial hair. At about five feet six, he was a dumpy figure, and his clothing was rumpled. The latter condition swung the assumption toward his being Catholic.

In simplicity, Koesler supposed that an Episcopal priest had a wife to see to it or at least remind him that he be well groomed. Catholic priests, generally, had no such buffer.

As Koesler continued to study his companion, the man grinned broadly. Clearly he had no intention of identifying himself.

Koesler hated that. Life held too many needless games without playing Guess Who I Am. So he broke the ice by extending his hand in greeting. “Am I supposed to know you?”

The grin widened. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby … you don't remember me.”

The statement was rhetorical. Of course Koesler didn't remember him.

The grin metamorphosed into an expression of fake solicitude. “No need worrying that you're having a ‘senior moment.' It's been twenty-some odd years.”

Perhaps it was the proffered date … twenty-some years. Or maybe that miracle of memory which even at his advanced age occasionally kicked in. But the scales began to fall. “Joe …” Koesler reached for a last name. “Joe Farmer! Son of a gun. Has it been that long?”

“You probably thought I'd died.”

“Not really. The truth is, I haven't been thinking of you at all.” No reason Koesler should have been thinking of Farmer. Still, there was a semblance of guilt.

“But you remember me now?”

“Yes.” Koesler had known Farmer briefly many years ago. Joe belonged to a religious order: the Society of the Precious Blood, sometimes known by the casual sobriquet Precious Bleeders. The aim of their founder was to establish a missionary order. In time many in the society served in parishes much the same as diocesan priests such as Father Koesler.

Father Farmer had carved out a life somewhere between that of a secular priest and a missionary. He traveled around the Ohio/Michigan territory generally conducting one-to-two week spiritual crusades in various parishes.

He'd been at this occupation for these twenty-five years and more. Koesler guessed that in all that time Farmer had not radically altered his presentation. His guess was correct.

Still portraying God as a vengeful being just waiting for some poor soul to sin grievously so he could be plunged into hell. Farmer would then get graphic about the pain fire can cause, especially when it does not consume.

“And how long does hell last? Imagine, my dear sinners”—Koesler could in his imagination hear Farmer's summation—“a solid steel ball, larger than the earth. Every thousand years a small bird flies by, just brushing that ball with its wings. Well, my dear sinners, when that little bird has worn down that ball to nothingness …” Pause for effect. “… eternity
has not even begun!”

Confessions usually were pretty heavy after that no-holds-barred threat.

The exhortation had lost a lot of its punch with the passing years. Catholics of today were more apt to appreciate God as infinitely compassionate and merciful. But it had worked in Farmer's heyday. Back then one could never lose by overestimating a Catholic's capacity for guilt.

As he stood there recollecting, Koesler remembered that Joe Farmer had a penchant for gadgets, practical jokes, and funny if occasionally vulgar stories. The stories regularly lost a lot of their effect since Joe always broke himself up, effectively smothering the punch line.

Now, giving Farmer his full attention, Koesler asked, “What brings you to town, Joe?”

“This!” A sweeping gesture encompassed everything and everybody in the church.

Koesler feared a reprise of the confrontation he had just concluded with Reichert and Morgan.

“An abomination!” Farmer judged it.

“Joe, why do you do this to yourself? You must be retired by this time.”

“No.”

“No?”

“One can't retire from the priesthood.”

“I did.”

“You may have taken leave of the active ministry. But no priest can retire.”

“Ah, yes: ‘A priest forever.'”

“You can't tell me …” Farmer shook a finger at Koesler. It was the second time today that he had been finger-whipped. He couldn't recall that happening to him before, ever. “You can't tell me,” Farmer repeated, “that you've stuck yourself on the shelf. I'll bet you're plenty busy.”

“As a matter of fact, I am. But, I assure you, if I got as worked up over any event as you are over this ceremony today, I sure wouldn't voluntarily attend it.”

“I've got reason.”

“Oh?”

“Next month I'm going to conduct a retreat for what you might call a conservative group: Project Faith. Ever hear of them, Bob?”

“Uh-huh. There aren't many members, but they sure make a lot of noise. They know how to get publicity, too.”

“Well,” Farmer said, “that's why I'm here. This is research. I'm going to come into that retreat armed with the latest propaganda the enemy is using.”

The second time the word “enemy” had been uttered this afternoon. Could the Church survive all these enemies?

“Joe”—Koesler rested a hand on Farmer's shoulder—“what you're saying reminds me a lot of a conversation I just had with a couple of priests here. Did you see them?” He inclined his head toward Reichert and Morgan. “Do you know them?”

Farmer looked directly at the two priests huddled in the grotto. “Sure, I know them. Fine, upstanding gentlemen. I didn't interrupt your conversation with them … you looked like you were having too much fun.” The mischievous gleam was back in Farmer's eyes.

“Yeah,” Koesler said with some disgust. “At least you've got a better reason to be here than they do. You're preparing a talk. They're here mostly out of curiosity.”

“Damn straight!” Farmer stated forcefully.

A lingering silence followed.

“Joe,” Koesler said finally, “you go back as far as I do … and more. Can you remember … what was it we used to talk about?”

Farmer's brow furrowed. “Hard to say now. After the damn Council, we went through a bunch of changes.” He shook his head. “I must admit I didn't pay much attention to the thing …

“I had no idea it would go as far as it's gone,” he said, after a moment. “It didn't have as much immediate effect on me. I was going around our neck of the country, doing my thing, preaching retreats. Not very much that happened during the sixties and seventies affected me personally.” He looked up at Koesler. “But I was watching you guys. And, man, it was pitiful.

“In most parishes, there was a fresh wall between the priests and the people. Especially when the parish councils started up. Nobody knew what the hell was going on. Who was running things? For as long as anyone could remember, the pastor had been boss. But with the parish councils, there was a grab for power. For the first time, parishioners not only had a say in what went on; they grasped the reins.”

“You make it seem so sinister. As if the laity—at least those who were active enough to be interested in a parish council—were plotting a takeover.”

“Maybe there was no conspiracy. But when they saw the barn, they really headed for home. And by home, I mean the books, the expenditures, the budget.”

“I didn't have that problem. We didn't have any course in fiscal management when I was in the seminary—and neither did you. Hell, I was happy that competent people could take control of the finances. No, my problem was with council members who wanted to take over the altar and the pulpit.

“But, hell, Joe, that's all water under the bridge. We've moved a long way over the years. Back then the place was crawling with priests. Nowadays you could shoot cannons off in Catholic churches and hit very few clergy.”

“True, true. But we certainly aren't going to fill the vacancies with the likes of Reverend Wheatley and his wife and children.”

Koesler couldn't argue with that conclusion; he let his silence stand for agreement.

“But,” Farmer went on, “you were wondering what we used to talk about. Priestly conversations have changed, Bob—along with just about everything else. It used to be real, genuine, good old-fashioned gossip: Who was running for bishop … or even who was bucking for monsignor. Who was doing what to whom. Whose parties were the best. Vacations. What parts of Florida could best stand an influx of priests.

“Now all we hear about is who's retiring early, who's taking a leave. Resigning pastorship and sliding back into the assistant category. The young squirts getting to be pastors before the oil of ordination is dry behind their ears.

“The stories used to be funny—a reflection of our lives. Most of it was lighthearted. And, like the song says, the livin' was easy.

“Now there's little—if any—fun; nothing to look forward to but old age—sitting on the shelf, waiting to die.”

Farmer seemed to have said just about all he wanted to, and lapsed into silence as he continued offhandedly scanning the growing crowd.

Koesler reflected that he had begun this day in high spirits, excitedly anticipating the ordination that would be unique, at least in Detroit—and in all of Michigan for that matter. Now, after talking with Morgan, Reichert, and Farmer, he found himself depressed—-more depressed than he'd been in recent memory.