Cody hesitated. He wanted a commitment from Koesler. His legal experience told him he wasn’t going to get it. “Fair enough.” Smiling, he stood, signaling that, as far as he was concerned, this meeting was over. “All right if I phone you late tomorrow afternoon and see how we stand with Father Tully?”
“If you must. I should be here about five. But I doubt I’ll be able to do more than tell you that I touched base with Father Tully—especially since the council meeting is tomorrow evening. I doubt we can reach any sense of agreement in this time frame—not on a subject as volatile as this.”
“I know you’ll do your best. That’s why I came to you.” Cody turned to leave, then turned back. “And you won’t forget Al and that Page fellow.”
“No. I won’t forget.”
Koesler sighed. This—being at the heart of conflicts in the seminary and the parish—was not what he had planned for his retirement.
Fourteen
Getting an appointment with Father Zachary Tully was every bit as difficult as Bill Cody promised. Especially if the get-together needed to be held on the same day as the request, and before the evening council meeting.
But because it was Koesler, Father Tully extended an invitation to lunch. It seemed to Tully the very least he could do for his predecessor and, in some regards, mentor.
It would be a working lunch, but not a lengthy one.
Father Tully’s schedule for this afternoon called for hospital visits. This was among the many customs carried over from the Koesler regime. Complicating this task was the multicultural makeup of St. Joseph’s parish. Parishioners ranged from the indigent to the affluent. So they could be hospitalized in any institution from Receiving Hospital to the University of Michigan.
Thus, Koesler, and now Tully, had regularly set aside at least three afternoons each week for ministering to ill parishioners.
Koesler of course understood the necessity for a brief luncheon. The parish’s part-time cook served sandwiches and coffee. Mary O’Connor, still hanging in there while the search for a parish secretary continued, brown-bagged it in her office.
Father Tully took a bite of an egg salad sandwich. A small bite, so he could chew and talk simultaneously without seeming a slob. “So, Bob, what’s so important that we have to get together before tonight’s council meeting?”
Koesler worked on a cheese sandwich. “I had a visitor last night. Ordinarily I don’t play this stupid game, but in this instance I think you might guess who it was.”
“Hmmm. Ordinarily I wouldn’t be able to. But your time frame—before the meeting—leads me to figure that it was one of the council people. And since there are only six, I’d guess it was the president.”
“You’d be right.”
“By the way …” Tully laid the sandwich down and tried the coffee. Very hot, but oh, so much better than when Koesler used to brew his own incredibly bad potion. “… I never thanked you for holding the council membership to six. Most of the parishes I’ve checked with have twelve.”
“Save your gratitude. The number was set by my predecessor. But it does make things less troublesome.”
“So … Bill Cody. I guess I’ve been a thorn in his side from the start … although I don’t really mean to be. I think we just don’t see eye to eye. Probably never will. What’s his problem now?”
“You don’t know?”
Tully put both hands on the table, palms down. He sat back, brow wrinkled in reflection. “There are so many things. For me what’s wrong—or what Cody perceives to be wrong—could be a multiple choice.”
“It’s the Folk Mass.”
“Really!”
“I’m pretty sure Old St. Joe’s never had a Folk Mass before.”
“Sort of overdue, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.” Koesler put what was left of his sandwich aside. “Bill sounded pretty convincing last night. But I know you had your reasons. I just didn’t know what they were. Thus”—his gesture encompassed everything that had been thus far said—“this meeting. Do you mind telling me where this—if Bill’s description is accurate—this Folk Mass came from?”
“No, I don’t mind. Of course not. I just can’t figure what the big deal is here.
“Some of our black parishioners—you know them, Bob—asked to meet with me. I agreed. At that meeting they brought along a pretty healthy contingent of blacks who live in our parish but don’t attend church anywhere. What these people wanted was their own Mass.”
“But, Zack, there are already nearby parishes that offer just that. Sacred Heart, Rosary, some others. Their liturgies are really quite good, and definitely centered in the black experience. These parishes host a good group of people, but they’ve all got room for a few more. Why not suggest to your contingent that they go to one of the parishes that already have what they want?”
Tully sighed. “Because, Bob, they are ours. Even the ones who are unchurched live in our parish. They—both groups, our active black parishioners and the others—want their own experience in their own parish. I don’t think that’s too much to want.
“Besides,” Tully continued, “these other parishes you mentioned, almost all of them have white pastors. Now, don’t get me wrong, these are great guys … some of the best priests in the diocese. But”—and he emphasized each word—“I am black”
The look that appeared on Koesler’s face clearly said, But you could pass.
“Yeah,” Tully said, “I know: I could pass for white. But I’m not white. I’m mulatto—and that, in our culture, is black.
“Lemme put it this way, Bob: One school of thought has it that to be Jewish, a person needs to have a Jewish mother; it’s no good if the father is Jewish and the mother is not.
“Another school of thought puts it more broadly and I think more realistically: If a person was sent to Hitler’s ovens for being Jewish, that person was Jewish—Momma or not.
“Bob, I grew up in a racially mixed neighborhood. There was a sharp distinction between black and white. Both sides considered me black—even though I had a white mother. And even though my black father died early in my life.
“Or, take my black half-brother. We shared a father. Zoo’s mother was black, mine was white. I am accepted by Zoo and his wife, Anne Marie, as a black man.
“Now, a bunch of black Catholics—some practicing, some not—came to me and asked for a liturgy in their parish that spoke and sang to their culture. They recognized me as a black priest who finds the African-American experience personal and natural.”
It rang a bell. Koesler recalled someone—who was it?—saying, “Guys my age aren’t uptight about adapting the liturgy to the occasion.” After a moment’s thought, he remembered: It was Father Zachary Tully who had given Koesler that explanation just about one year ago when Koesler had entrusted his dear old parish to Tully while he, the pastor, went on vacation.
But there were two more questions.
Koesler sipped his cooling coffee. He did not judge it; it was brown and warm; that was enough for him.
“Zack, a couple of things puzzle me. First, when I offered to help you with the weekend liturgies, you declined the offer. Bill Cody thinks you didn’t want me around to witness the Folk Mass. Is it possible he’s right?”
Tully laughed heartily. “Lord, no! You’re welcome as the flowers in spring, man. Come see our Afro Mass. Hell, join us. I declined your offer of help because … well, you were a real popular guy around here for quite a few years. I wanted to avoid exactly what happened when Cody went to you instead of coming to me. If you had hung around here on a regular basis, you would’ve been Pastor A and I would’ve been Pastor B. That would never have worked. But”—he grinned—“you’re always welcome here.
“Besides,” he added, “I didn’t think this Folk Mass was all that big a thing.” He stood, preparatory to leaving for his sick calls. “So what was the other thing on your mind?”
“It wasn’t on my mind as much as it was on Mr. Cody’s.
Although I must admit, after he told me about the Mass, I did wonder why you added it to the schedule—and you just answered that. The second question is about the role of the council. According to Bill, you didn’t mention the Folk Mass at any council meeting. And there has been a meeting since I returned from vacation.
“Given the fact that these parishioners came to you just as I was moving into the seminary, you had an opportunity to consult the council. But you didn’t. So my question is: Why not?”
Tully’s jaw clenched a couple of times before responding. “It was a liturgical decision. I think I’m qualified to make that decision.”
Obviously being taxed with this had reached him. In Koesler’s experience, this was the first time Tully had reacted sharply to anything. “Whoa,” Koesler said, “I’m on your side. Maybe you don’t see this added liturgy as something well out of the ordinary for this parish. If that’s your opinion, we disagree.”
“This is not your parish.”
“Admitted. I’ll even add to that: I can’t think of another priest in our diocese who is better qualified to be pastor here than you.”
Tully was standing now. He pushed his chair tight to the table. He looked down at the chair for several moments. When he finally spoke, his tone was apologetic. “Hey, I’m sorry. I haven’t forgotten that you went to bat for me to get me this parish. You went well beyond just putting in a good word; you really went out on a limb for me. And I’m grateful … always will be.”
Koesler was embarrassed. All that Tully had said—and more—was true. But Koesler never expected any return or reward for services he performed. “You owe me nothing. You are the perfect pastor for this parish. My concern is not so much how the long-term parishioners will adapt to the Folk Mass. My guess is that the vast majority of them will simply go on attending their regular Mass. They couldn’t care less what happens during any Mass as long as it doesn’t happen during their Mass.
“What I’m concerned about is how the council will react during their meeting tonight. I’m concerned mostly about Bill Cody. I’ve got a hunch he’ll be furious … and he won’t be hiding his anger underneath a basket.”
Tully winced. “I know. I agree. If you want to know the real reason I didn’t bring it up at the last meeting, it’s because I didn’t want to go through this twice.”
“Twice?”
“Twice. If I had announced the Folk Mass, I would’ve had to fight off Cody. And then, after he attended the Mass, I’d have to deal with him again. This way I’ll only have to do this once. Tonight.”
Koesler rose and eased his chair beneath the table’s edge. Both men were standing; in a short while they would be about their business. “I cleared my calendar. If you like, I’ll attend tonight’s meeting. Matter of fact, I’ve already been invited.”
“By Cody?”
“Uh-huh.”
Tully chuckled.
“Only trouble,” Koesler said, “is that Bill doesn’t know which side I’m on.”
“Just as well he doesn’t.” Tully, smiling slightly, shook his head. “No, Bob. Thanks for your offer—but no use having both of us in his gunsight.” He chuckled. “Anyway, if Cody gets any place close to ballistic, I know I’ll get some help from Mrs. Cody.”
Koesler nodded gravely. “You’re right there.”
“Talk about canceling out votes,” Tully commented. “I wonder how they do it? I mean, who goes first? Does Bill somehow discover that Eileen is voting Democrat so he votes Republican? Or is it vice versa?”
“I don’t think that principle applies when it comes to religion,” Koesler said. “Especially not when the subject is a Folk Mass.”
“And most especially when it comes to an Afro Folk Mass.”
“I can imagine.”
“Can you?” Tully said lightly. “You should’ve been at the one P.M. Sunday Mass the past few weeks.”
“They were both there?”
Tully nodded. “But not in the same mode. She really got into the spirit of things. I mean really. He was the furtive presence—sometimes lurking in the rear of the church; occasionally he even opted for a better view in the choir loft.”
They had walked through the rectory, bade good-bye to Mary O’Connor, and were standing on the porch about to go their separate ways.
“Well,” Koesler said, “it all comes out in the wash tonight.”
Tully sliced his index finger across his throat. “Pray for me.”
Fifteen
It was 5:30 P.M. Happy hour in some bars and restaurants. Preprandial time at the seminary—at least for the faculty.
Father Koesler had decided to skip this ritual in favor of spending some time with Bishop McNiff. Both hoped it would be that sort of time called “quality.”
Both priests wore the cassock and clerical collar. Koesler’s vestment was a plain black garment that covered from his shoulders to his black shoes.
Bishop McNiff had abandoned the simple black cassock in favor of his usual episcopal raiment. He might not have become so formalistic but for his position as rector of this very traditional seminary.
As he accepted a glass of wine from McNiff, Koesler, an amused smile on his face, looked down at his vertically challenged friend.
Crowning McNiff’s abundant white hair was a red beanie, more properly called a zucchetto. Red piping set off the black cassock and cape. A string of red buttons ran the short distance from neck to pants cuffs. A wide red sash served as a belt. A silver cross suspended from a long silver chain completed the uniform.
McNiff’s nonsensical grin mirrored a like, expression from Koesler. “So,” McNiff said, “what’s your problem, tall, dark, and tall?”
“Nothing, really. It’s just that every time I see you all dressed up, I can’t help thinking of the Infant of Prague.”
“Listen,” McNiff said as if giving a command, “if I wore plain black like you, let alone what I’d rather wear—just pants and a T-shirt—they’d run me outta here in tar and feathers.”
“Come on,” Koesler chided, “this crowd wouldn’t treat a bishop like that.”
“Like hell they wouldn’t. Haven’t you gotten to know them better than that by now?”
“Yeah, I have. And I suppose you’re right.” Koesler apparently found something arresting about McNiff’s footwear. “You’re wearing white socks!”
“My feet have some kind of skin disorder. The doctor told me to wear white socks.”
“With a black outfit?”
“The doctor said.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of socks that are white on the bottom half and black on the top?”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” McNiff’s tone was argumentative.
Koesler studied the white on black several long moments. “Nothing!” he said at length.
McNiff did not sit behind his desk. They took facing chairs. As they sipped their drinks, each was lost in his own thoughts.
At long last McNiff broke the silence. “Do you ever think about it? We go back a long way.”
Koesler did some mental arithmetic. “Almost sixty years!”
“That long!”
“We met for the first time in our freshman year in the seminary—1942,” Koesler said.
“How different everything is now. Today’s kids can’t even comprehend how things were back then.”
“The Church has changed several times over … and the seminary with it.”
McNiff gazed at his glass of Diet Coke. It didn’t even resemble wine. “Any contacts with our students yet?”
“Bumped into a few. But nothing in depth … yet. I did, however, have a long chat with Mr. William Cody last night.”
“Oh, yeah: Albert’s father … that the one?”
“Indeed.” Koesler went on to give the bishop the substance of what they’d discussed. Cody’s fear that a student named Page might be a questionable influence on Al. And, second, Cody’s distress over the newly introduced Folk Mass.
“Have
you met Page?” McNiff asked.
“No. Not yet. But I plan on doing so … soon.”
“After you do, I’d like to know how he impresses you. He’s a big question mark to me. I may be seriously mistaken about the young man. When I think of him, the image I get is a chameleon. He would’ve made his way safely through England with Henry VIII and his successors. For Henry, Page would belong to the schismatic Church of England. And for Bloody Mary, he’d be staunchly Catholic. Then back to Henry’s Church under Elizabeth. As I say, I may be mistaken.…
“But, tell me: What was the other thing?”
“With Cody last night? The Folk Mass. I didn’t mention it, but it’s an Afro Folk Mass.”
“Oh, boy! The red flag and the bull. How did they ever get that past Cody? He’s a vigilante. I picture him up on the ramparts guarding the Church from any breach in the wall around the fortress.”
Koesler chuckled. “A mighty fortress is our Church.”
“Who’s the pastor there now? Your successor …”
“Zachary Tully.”
“Uh-huh. Came up from Texas?”
“Dallas.”
“Was a josephite?”
“Is.”
“His brother’s a cop?”
“Half-brother.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right: The priest is mulatto.”
“Zack says his Mass is kosher. He invited me to come see. I think I will this Sunday.”
“Kosher or not”—McNiff set his now empty glass on the desk—“he’s going to have one hell of a time selling the concept to Cody. I don’t think it’s possible.”
“I agree.” Koesler emptied his wineglass in a swallow. He glanced at his watch. “As a matter of fact, Father Tully is scheduled to meet with his parish council in about an hour. And the Folk Mass certainly is going to be the first order of business.”
No Greater Love Page 12