No Greater Love

by William Kienzle

  He leaned back. “That is the sore point, Father: the intolerance. Respecting the opinion of someone whose opinion one does not share is a lesson we in this diocese learned only after much give-and-take. It pains me to see this hard-achieved openness and courtesy undone.

  “This half-formed philosophy will close this diocese to forward movement. It will close our minds to the direction of the Holy Spirit. Do you not agree, Father?”

  McNiff’s vigorous nod evidenced wholehearted agreement. “I was aware that the seminary had drifted into a fairly conservative position, Eminence. And, frankly, I didn’t think that was such a bad idea; I just thought it was merely a reaction to the previous liberal stand. But, if they won’t admit any other approach, well …” McNiff hesitated. “Tell me, Eminence, how did it happen? How did they manage to pull it off?”

  Boyle pronated his hands several times, a gesture that indicated that it had been done without his awareness or consent. “Appointments were made to the faculty over the years by a certain few members of the Curia. These appointments gradually changed the complexion of the seminary staff. My only contribution was to ratify the appointment of the new—now recently departed—rector. I knew little about the man. But my advisers assured me of his excellent qualifications.”

  Boyle shook his head. McNiff didn’t know whether Boyle thought the Curia had betrayed him or if his consulters had been duped.

  “Now,” Boyle continued, “as you well know, the former rector has been named a bishop—an auxiliary, in Pittsburgh. In a couple of weeks, I will be attending his ordination there. That means that our seminary—St. Joseph’s—will need a new rector.” He looking meaningfully at Father McNiff.

  McNiff raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t help it. He’d been following the Cardinal’s narration carefully. It wasn’t what Boyle had just said; it was that significant look.

  There were several moments of silence. McNiff was waiting for clarification. Boyle was waiting for his drift to wash through McNiff’s mind.

  “A new rector …” McNiff mused aloud. “I knew the monsignor was headed for Pittsburgh. And I knew he was going to become a bishop. And I knew he must be replaced at St. Joe’s. But … what? You want me to be on some committee to nominate candidates? I can understand now why you told me about the present status of the seminary. And if you want me on a committee, I can assure you I would keep in mind everything you’ve told me … your concerns about how single-minded everything is.…

  “But … can a committee do this? It doesn’t have to go to Rome—?” McNiff was babbling. He feared he knew what was coming. But it couldn’t break through as long as he kept talking.

  Cardinal Boyle understood. A smile played at his lips. “Father,” Boyle interrupted, “members of our Curia have already met and have nominated five candidates—each and every one of whom would assuredly maintain the status quo … of that I am certain.

  “The committee is supposed to act in an advisory capacity—to make recommendations: recommendations for me to take under consideration. I have not yet revealed to this committee that I intend to become more involved than on previous similar occasions. Nor have I even hinted that I have already selected the next rector—that is, if he will accept the post.”

  McNiff slumped slightly. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

  Boyle nodded. The smile faded. McNiff’s was a serious, difficult, and fraught decision. An affirmative response would run in the opposite direction from the retirement the priest had planned.

  The silence continued.

  “I’m no Jeremiah,” McNiff protested after a lengthy silence. “But I feel like him when the Lord called him to be a prophet to the nations.”

  “At least you can’t complain of being too young.”

  “No. But what if I point out that I may be too old?”

  “A consideration,” Boyle admitted. “But who among us can say how much time he has?”

  McNiff considered the caliber of the man who was asking this favor—if it could be called that. How once each year for the past several years, Mark Boyle had submitted his resignation to the Pope. How each time it had been rejected.

  How seriously did Boyle want retirement? McNiff had no way of knowing. Probably as much as most people who longed to rid themselves of the weight of authority, responsibility, and accountability. But the Cardinal continued to shoulder the burden at the command of his superior.

  McNiff himself would desire to follow such a loyal example.

  Still … there were practical considerations that needed to be resolved.

  “Em—Eminence …” McNiff was stammering, something he’d never done … well, hardly ever. “Eminence,” he repeated firmly, “I’m just on the verge of retirement. I have plans—”

  “Tell me about it.” This from a man who’d had to repeatedly postpone retirement plans.

  “There’s my health …” McNiff was reaching.

  “Has your physician set any time limit on your active life?”

  “Well … no.” McNiff was crestfallen. Then, more firmly: “But it could happen any time. That aneurysm—”

  “In the end, Father, you are no different from me or practically anyone else our age. None of us knows when the end may come. We try to stay healthy. We carry our crosses at this stage of life. We use the time we are given in God’s providence. We try to do God’s will.”

  “Eminence, are you telling me that my accepting the assignment as rector of the seminary is God’s will?”

  The Cardinal hesitated. His fingers formed a steeple and rested on his lips. “Let me ask you a couple of questions. Do you think—all other considerations aside for the moment—do you think yourself capable of managing the seminary on a day-to-day basis? Keeping in mind that there are very capable people working in the various administrative offices? Part of your responsibility would be to supervise them.”

  McNiff did not hesitate. “After all the varied jobs you’ve given me over the years, yes, I think I could.”

  “Then, Father, do you think you could try at least to instill a spirit of openness and tolerance as we have just discussed?”

  McNiff bowed his head in thought, or prayer, or both.

  “To be as honest as I can, I don’t think so, Eminence. For openers, I doubt I’d be welcomed … particularly since my name evidently was not on the nominating committee’s list. And I wouldn’t have much, if any, clout. I am a simple priest. There are even a couple of monsignors on the faculty who outrank me.”

  Boyle smiled. “I think we can resolve that problem.”

  “How?” McNiff hadn’t a clue.

  “By making you a bishop.”

  McNiff’s jaw dropped. He could not think of a single response.

  “A bishop!” he said at length.

  “A bishop,” the Cardinal affirmed.

  “At my age?”

  “You would not be the first to become a bishop in later years.”

  “With my health problems?”

  “You would not be the first bishop in a delicate state of health.”

  “B … but how could this happen?” As the words left his lips, McNiff realized they were the words spoken by Mary when the angel announced her divine maternity. To McNiff, they somehow seemed just as appropriate now. “A bishop!” he mused. “I can’t imagine myself a bishop. I never in my life imagined myself a bishop.”

  “Yes.” Boyle allowed time for the concept to sink in.

  It had been no surprise when Mark Boyle began to climb the ecclesial ladder. A native of Cleveland, he spent little time in parish work—the service for which he had been trained. Always obedient to his bishop, Boyle filled one administrative post after another … including, oddly, that of rector of the local seminary.

  Then, as would be expected, he was named an auxiliary bishop in Cleveland. Then Bishop of Pittsburgh, then Archbishop of Detroit. Finally, following in the footsteps of his predecessor, Edward Mooney, he became a Cardinal.

  All as if it were foreordained.<
br />
  Not so with Patrick McNiff.

  While it was true that he had performed some special jobs on the parochial level, no one, including himself, could ever have suspected that he would be named even a monsignor, let alone a bishop.

  “Is this tentative?” McNiff asked. “I want to be clear about this whole thing. You are offering me the position of rector of St. Joseph’s Seminary.”

  Boyle nodded.

  “I am free to accept or refuse your offer.”

  Again Boyle nodded.

  “If I accept, I can forget about retiring in a couple of years.”

  Boyle shrugged slightly, but nodded … as if to say this was true—unfortunately true, but true nonetheless.

  “This appointment,” McNiff rattled on, “doesn’t have to be ratified by anyone … I mean, it doesn’t have to be cleared through Rome?”

  “No. Not your appointment as rector. But we will have to get the approval of our Holy Father to ordain you a bishop.”

  “That was my final question. And I guess there is no guarantee that the Holy Father will consent. I mean, excuse me, Eminence, but scuttlebutt has it that your track record is not all that certain when it comes to naming auxiliaries. I mean, rumor has it that you generally get an auxiliary when you want one—and not many Ordinaries can say that—but—and I know this is hearsay—you don’t always get the man you ask for.

  “Wouldn’t this be a concern if you asked for my appointment—especially to a job as sensitive as that of seminary rector?”

  Boyle fingered the chain of his pectoral cross. “That, Father, is where your rather conservative reputation comes into play. I feel confident my request will be granted, not only to have a bishop as rector of the seminary for the first time in our local history but also that that bishop be you.”

  Then it was true! At least it seemed true. Boyle had not been getting the priests he’d been requesting. The Vatican must be extremely cautious, perhaps even fearful, in the face of Boyle’s reputed liberal bent. Boyle had just admitted that the Vatican screened his nominees, substituting conservatives for supposed liberal candidates. The Roman hierarchy must feel exceptionally defensive to treat a Cardinal like this.

  Maybe the entire scuttlebutt is true, starting with the Pope’s refusal to accept Boyle’s resignation.

  Mark Boyle was at least perceived to be that rare creature, a liberal Cardinal. The Pope, as well as his administration, was staunchly conservative. With that as a premise, it would be logical to assume that when the liberal Cardinal submitted his resignation, the conservative Pope would accept it with pleasure.

  Yet over and over again, the Pope had rejected the resignation.

  Instead, the Vatican Curia, doubtless at the Pope’s direction, continued to select as assisting bishops to Cardinal Boyle the most conservative of nominees.

  McNiff conjured up the image of a prizefighter, a boxer, carrying his opponent. Rather than allowing the opponent to fall and thus ending the match, he keeps the adversary standing while continuing to punish him.

  Is this what had been going on over the past few years?

  McNiff did not want to believe it, but at this moment, it seemed the best explanation.

  “If you wish, Father,” Boyle broke into McNiff’s mental musings, “you may think and pray over your decision for a few days. Take a week, if you find that necessary. Then come see me again.”

  “Thank you, Eminence. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Surely within a week.”

  Six

  “If I hadn’t quit smoking years ago, I might just light up now.” Father Koesler spoke only half in jest.

  “Isn’t it nice”—McNiff paused to blow his nose—“isn’t it nice,” he repeated, “to know that you have some corroboration for your theory about the conservative auxiliaries? Not to mention the reason the Pope keeps rejecting the Cardinal’s resignation?”

  “Yeah, that’s nice.…” Koesler paused. “How many people have you told?”

  McNiff shook his head and gestured: “You’re it.”

  “I can see why.”

  McNiff nodded. “It would have been counterproductive. We felt that the longer the faculty—and the students, for that matter—were in the dark about the real reason I’m here, the more chance of success I’d have.”

  “You couldn’t even let the minority liberals in on it?”

  “Uh-uh. They might have reacted with some wink-and-nod body language that would have tipped the whole thing off. This transformation had to be imperceptible, not apparent … you know, just a gradual kind of thing, for it to work.”

  “Well, I’ll give you that.…” Koesler leaned back in his chair. “It’s going so gradually that no one in the diocese seems to be detecting it. You’ve been here over five years and I haven’t heard anyone comment on any kind of change going on here whatsoever.”

  “There have been changes.” McNiff sounded a whit defensive. “I admit they’re subtle. A couple of the priest faculty are gone—one to a pastorate, the other to Senior Priesthood. Three of the lay staff have left. And I’ve replaced them all. No …” McNiff shook his head and waved his hand in a negative gesture in response to Koesler’s obvious heightened interest. “… not with crashing liberals, but with conservatives who have that needed touch of tolerance.”

  McNiff began to cough, blessedly not in the direction of Father Koesler, who felt he would be fortunate to escape this bug-filled space without contracting pneumonia.

  “So,” Koesler said finally, “as far as you know, there are two, and only two, who are in on your secret mission: you and the Cardinal.”

  “Until this moment, yes.”

  “Okay, you’ve told me. Now, isn’t it possible that the Cardinal has let someone else in on it?”

  “The understanding is that we would share this knowledge with no one without informing each other. And the agreement affects me mainly. I’m the one on the firing line. I need more mobility in handling this policy.”

  “So you’ve told Boyle about our meeting tonight?”

  “I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

  Koesler paused, giving himself time to assimilate all this. “Okay,” he said, finally, “I guess that brings us logically to the ultimate question: Why me?”

  “Exactly.”

  Koesler noticed that McNiff’s eyes were bloodshot and his face was puffy. He wondered whether this cold, or flu—whatever—had been at least partially brought on by the stress of this assignment. He was beginning to feel sorry for his classmate. Boyle had given McNiff a rugged row to hoe. Considering his age and physical condition, McNiff might well be flirting with death.

  “I need help, Bob. And I need it bad.”

  Koesler could tell, both from this plea and from his longtime familiarity with his classmate, that the situation was taking a lot out of the man. McNiff was not one to ask for help. Knowing this, Koesler was motivated to supply whatever help he could. “In what way? How can I help you?”

  McNiff shook his head. This was draining him. “I need someone to confide in. I need to bounce ideas off someone I can trust. I need someone I can relax with. I need a friend—preferably someone who knows and understands my assignment here. And, to top everything off, someone who agrees with the need for this mission.

  “Also,” he added parenthetically, “someone who’s got the time to do all this. Someone”—he winked one bloodshot eye—maybe who is retired.”

  Koesler chuckled. “Did you gerrymander these criteria to fit perfectly my present lifestyle, or do I just happen to fit the bill?”

  “Would I do anything underhanded to you?”

  “Yes.”

  McNiff barely smiled.

  “But,” Koesler said, “I’m still not clear on what you expect of me. Do you see this as-yet-anonymous ‘helper’ as someone who responds to your decisions on a full-time basis?”

  “No, not at all. Let’s say for sake of argument that you were this as-yet-anonymous helper. I envision it this way. You’d have a
suite here in the seminary. It would be yours to use as you will: complete freedom to come and go as you wish.

  “It would be nice if you would attend—concelebrate—our daily liturgies. If you wished, you could also help out at the parish of your choice on a daily basis or on weekends.

  “If you wanted, you could teach a class here. You’d get to know some of the students better. And you’d be sitting in on the faculty meetings, since you would be, in effect, an adjunct professor—”

  “Of what?”

  “I’ve given that some thought—”

  “You’ve given some thought to everything.”

  McNiff was undeterred. “You spent some years at the diocesan paper. You could teach a course in journalism … or maybe creative writing.”

  “My career in journalism was at a small weekly paper that specialized in Catholic news and opinion. That’s not a lot of background for a course. As to ‘creative writing,’ what’s the opposite—’destructive writing’?

  “I don’t mean to put you down, Little Pat; I just don’t think I’m qualified to teach one of your standard subjects.”

  McNiff sighed impatiently. “Look, Bob, within limitations, we can do pretty much what we want in creating and staffing classes. You could float a bit. Drop into the Homiletics class occasionally. You’re a good speaker; for the love of Pete, I asked you to give the eulogy for both my parents. I didn’t ask for you at that important time in my life because you were chopped liver!

  “Hey, you’ve been a parish priest for forty-five years. For a dozen of those years you were also editor of the Detroit Catholic. Bob”—McNiff was both pleading and exhorting—“give the kids the benefit of your experience.”

  Koesler looked out the window in deep thought. “If I give them the benefit of my experience,” he said, finally, “won’t they begin to tumble to what you’re doing? I mean, I am not now, not have I been for a very long time, a member of the conservative wing of the Church. Nor do I even fit in with those conservatives that you’re looking for now—the ones with a high degree of tolerance. I’m a liberal who tolerates conservatives—at least the ones who tolerate back.”