No Greater Love

by William Kienzle

  “What does this have to do with an innocent Folk Mass?” Cody’s fierce eyes skewered his wife. “I’ll tell you what!

  “It was the mid-sixties. We had a Pope who looked and acted like Santa Claus. The bishops of the world gathered in Rome. Except that the bishops didn’t do their homework. They didn’t know what was going on.

  “They brought so-called experts with them. The experts had done their homework. The bishops were like dummies sitting on the experts’ laps. The bishops by and large did what the experts advised them to. That’s when we got our bastard Mass language and plastic prayers. That’s when we got the seeds of liberation theology. That’s when we got this whole stinking mess we call the liberal Church.

  “The Council ended and we got all this crap foisted on us. On you, Hans. And on you, Molly. We thought all these changes must be good; after all, the Holy Spirit guides His Church … doesn’t He?” Cody’s voice rose to a crescendo. “He does,” Cody answered his own question, “unless someone seemingly in authority betrays the Spirit.

  “And that’s what happened. We gradually accepted all those early changes, new rituals for our beloved Mass. Now it’s too late.

  “Hans … Molly … you remember how it was. It seemed one week we attended a Mass that had been celebrated the same way in the same language for a hundred years and more. And the next week we had this bastard ceremony with poorly constructed English texts.

  “Well, we learned to accept that. We didn’t realize that the changes were going to keep coming … that they would never stop.

  “So, Hans, you can bellyache all you want about priests not carrying out their roles in the Mass. You can even go back to the earliest changes and argue against them. But it won’t do you any good … not any good at all.

  “It’s too late … it’s too late. It’s a done deal.

  “Now, along comes the Folk Mass. It’s not exactly brand new. It’s been around.

  “But it’s not been around St. Joseph’s before. Not ever. Not until some weeks ago when our pastor, all on his own, with no one else’s input, with not a nod to the parish council, starts having a Folk Mass, on Sundays, in an extra Mass we don’t need.

  “Well, Hans, Molly, it’s not too late for this one! This one we can—and must—nip in the bud. Either we stop this Folk Mass nonsense right now, or we lose another battle for good and all.

  “I motion”—Cody emphasized every word of his motion—“that the Folk Mass recently inaugurated in our parish schedule for Sundays be discontinued and never be revived.”

  “I second that motion,” Kruger echoed.

  “I feel,” Cody said, silencing what Tully was about to say, “that there has been enough discussion on this topic. I call for an immediate vote. Those in favor of the motion?”

  Kruger and Cronin raised their hands along with Cody.

  “Those opposed?”

  Eileen raised her hand. Slowly, Tully raised his, then turned. “Molly!” Tully said the name softly. He seemed stunned. It was as if he’d said, “Judas.”

  Molly blushed and stammered. “I … I’m sorry, Father. But if they have their own Mass in all these neighboring parishes …”

  “That’s not the point, Molly. This is their parish too,” Tully insisted. “This Folk Mass is geared for their needs, their lifestyles—”

  “It’s a little late to continue the argument, Father,” Cody said. “The vote’s been taken. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. This time you lost.”

  “What do you mean?” Tully addressed Cody.

  “The vote, of course. This is the end of your Folk Mass.”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Don’t know what?” Cody’s voice had lost the edge of victory.

  “Why,” Tully replied, “the role of a parish council.”

  “It’s an administrative body. It makes law for its parish,” Cody responded.

  Tully shook his head slowly. “It’s not an administrative body; it’s consultative. I thought you knew that.”

  “That can’t be!”

  “That is what it is.”

  “This has never come up before,” Cody protested.

  “Very probably in the pastorship of Father Koesler, there had never been an issue where the council and the pastor were on a collision course.

  “Think about it for a minute,” Tully said. “Father Koesler was settled in here before you people were elected. You didn’t stand in the way of all those changes that had become commonplace in all the parishes. Like the vernacular, the priest facing the people at Mass, communal penance services, and the like.

  “For his part, Father Koesler didn’t hit you with a Folk Mass—a legitimate form of liturgy. But a major step away from the more traditional Mass.

  “So,” Tully continued, “the waters remained calm. Evidently, Father never brought up the status of the council—what sort of role it plays in the parish. During his watch the need never arose to clarify the relationship between the council and the pastor.

  “When parish councils began, I was in Texas in a parish so poor that a parish council was near the bottom of their concerns. But I was aware of what most of my priest colleagues were going through. At that time, there was a good deal of sparring going on as to who was going to run the parish. Just because of that, a lot of priests stepped down as pastors and became assistants; some retired, some even had breakdowns.

  “So, eventually, the matter was settled: The pastor had complete responsibility for the parish. The parish council advised. Following or ignoring that advice was the pastor’s prerogative.

  “Evidently, you simply didn’t know,” Tully concluded, “what the limits are to your role. But, Bill, you above everyone here would be well aware that ignorance of the law does not excuse—”

  “This is ridiculous!” Cody was almost shouting. “There is no point to this council. It’s toothless. We’ve been led down another blind alley.”

  “It’s not that bad.” Tully tried to be conciliatory. “You have given your advice, and I would be foolish not to consider it carefully. I also noted that the vote was not a landslide.

  “But Mary O’Connor will type up the notes of this meeting and they will be published in the parish bulletin this weekend.

  “For now, the Folk Mass will continue. However, I will consider your concern, after which a definite decision will be reached whether to retain it or lay it to rest. I can’t tell you now just when that decision will be made, but certainly it will be within the next couple of months.

  “Meanwhile, you are cordially invited to attend if you wish. Just remember, it will be a bit different than the liturgy you’re used to. But then, that’s one of the purposes of a Folk Mass.”

  “I don’t understand this at all, Father,” Molly said. “If the council can’t make policy in the parish, why weren’t we told about that?”

  Tully shrugged. “I have no idea. I assumed you knew. All I can think of is that there was a lack of communication here. Let’s see … this decision, this clarification, was handed down when Father Koesler’s predecessor, whoever that was, was pastor. He undoubtedly decided, for whatever reason, not to advise the parishioners. Or if he did, that council is long since gone, and perhaps none of you were involved at the time.

  “When Father Koesler became pastor, he probably assumed our people knew. And, as I explained before, the problem didn’t come up at any time during his pastorate.

  “On the one hand,” he concluded, “I’m happy that we—pastor and council—have not had a serious disagreement until now. On the other hand, I’m sorry this ever happened.”

  A quiet that was more bemused than acquiescent.

  Mary O’Connor, the silent guest, tapped her pen against the pad. A nonverbal question as to further business.

  Was there any other business, Cody asked somewhat distractedly.

  There was none. But, before closing the meeting, Cody shot his final arrow. “One more point. Supposing we get the head of the Litur
gy in the archdiocese, and what if he finds the Folk Mass inappropriate and orders it abolished. What then?”

  Tully smiled. “That would be a whole new ball game.”

  Sixteen

  The council members had left the rectory, presumably headed home. Mary O’Connor remained long enough to check with Tully on the format for publishing the notes of the meeting in the parish bulletin.

  Now the rectory was otherwise vacant. Tully took a beer from the fridge. He thought he deserved a reward for his stand in this evening’s miniwar.

  After he got comfortable, he phoned Father Koesler at the seminary.

  “How’d it go?” Koesler asked without preamble.

  “I don’t really know. Maybe it’s too soon to tell.”

  “Did Bill Cody challenge you?”

  “Oh yes. Yes, indeed.”

  “I can’t quite figure out why. The decision is yours, not his.”

  “The trouble is …” Tully noted there were a lot of words on a Budweiser label. “… Cody—in fact everyone who showed up tonight—wasn’t aware of the limited role of the council. They didn’t know its restrictions.”

  Koesler was silent for a few moments. “Now that’s strange. Of course the clarification came long before your present council was elected … even before I came to St. Joe’s. I guess we just never went toe to toe on any issue. Short of having any radical difference on parish policy—and I can’t recall any—we never needed that definition of roles.

  “Holy crow!” Koesler reflected. “When I offered to come to this meeting, I didn’t realize how much flak you were going to take. If I had anticipated this, I would have made my offer much more insistent.”

  “Well, as it turned out, they voted the Folk Mass out three to two. Then it became clear that they thought they had ended this experiment. When I told them their job was to advise me, not set policy, the wind sort of went out of their sails. Then I told them the Mass would go on for the foreseeable future on an experimental basis.”

  “And that’s where you left it?”

  “Pretty much. Cody wants to play one more card. He vows to bring the archdiocese’s head honcho of Liturgy to the next Folk Mass. Apparently, he doesn’t know that’s Monsignor Rooney. But he’ll find out; obviously he’s ready to go to the mat on this.”

  “I think you handled this about as well as anyone could,” Koesler commented.

  “Thanks. Coming from you that means something.”

  “I can recall—very clearly—a council I had at another parish. Before they got straightened out, it was a knockdown battle to see who was going to run things. On the one hand, I had the pulpit—and a bully pulpit it was. On the other hand, frequently it was twelve to one.

  “So I was happy to discover that St. Joe’s bylaws set the council membership at only six. For that and a few other reasons I was grateful to my predecessor, God rest him. But I wish he hadn’t kept that clarification of roles confidential.”

  “Maybe,” Tully said, “if they’d known their limitations, they wouldn’t even have run for council.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Other councils have functioned very well with that knowledge. “By the way, is Mary going to publish the minutes of tonight’s meeting in the bulletin? Maybe you could send me a copy.”

  “Better than that, Bob: Why not pick up a copy when you attend next Sunday’s Folk Mass?”

  “Did I miss something? Am I expected to attend? Are you inviting me?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you can come anytime you want. But I’m not the one extending the invitation. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Bill Cody’s been dialing your number all the while we’ve been talking.”

  “Bill wants me to come?”

  “You and Monsignor Rooney.”

  Koesler chuckled. “That’s what’s important about having a program. You can’t tell which team the players are playing for without a program.”

  “Then we can expect you Sunday?”

  “Only if Bill Cody issues a command performance invitation.”

  “See you Sunday.”

  It was only 9:30 P.M.

  Father Tully’s adrenaline was still high after his conversation with Father Koesler. Back in his Texas parish in a situation like this, he would ordinarily watch TV until its mindlessness lulled him to sleep.

  Now he had his recently discovered family to turn to. Alonzo Tully, a half-brother, and his wife, Anne Marie, lived only minutes away in a Lafayette Park town house. They usually didn’t retire until at least after the eleven o’clock news.

  Father Tully phoned. Lieutenant Tully answered. Of course they would be happy to have a visitor.

  After hugs and handshakes, the three settled around the kitchen table. Anne Marie put on the coffee. It was late in the evening, but it was decaffeinated.

  Zachary, still pumped, began rattling off the day’s events, culminating in the acrimonious council meeting.

  “This Cody fellow,” Zoo said, “he a rabble-rouser type?”

  “Not in real life,” Zachary said. “From what I read about him in the papers, he is a calm, self-possessed, efficient, and very well-paid lawyer.”

  “Lawyer!” Zoo exclaimed. “That’s where I’ve heard of him. Interesting. He could live just about anywhere and practice law. But he must live around here if he belongs to this parish.”

  “In a downtown high-rise.”

  “And he got all worked up about a … what?”

  “A Folk Mass.” Zachary had to keep in mind that Zoo belonged to no church and that, basically, he had little or no interest in religion. What involvement he had in things religious was the result of having a priest brother.

  “A Folk Mass …” Zoo mused. “That the new service you started a while back?”

  Zachary nodded.

  “You’ve been goin’ to that, haven’t you, honey?”

  “From the beginning,” Anne Marie said. “It’s by far not the first one I’ve ever attended. But it’s good.” Her enthusiasm, she knew, was at least partly the result of this being the handiwork of her brother-in-law.

  Anne Marie was Catholic, born and raised. She, like Zoo, had been dumbfounded to learn of Zachary’s existence, and was perhaps even more astonished to learn of his vocation.

  But in the couple of years since their first meeting, they had completely bonded, and now were as tight-knit as any interdependent extended family.

  “I don’t see the problem,” Anne Marie said. “It’s a very meaningful ceremony. Everyone is reverent in a relaxed sort of way. The hymns are great, and just about everyone participates. On top of all that, we aren’t doing anything that would disturb the other ceremonies. We aren’t even close to them in the schedule. So why is the parish council so uptight?”

  “Well …” Zack sipped his coffee. “… most of the members see the changes in the Church since the Vatican Council as one gigantic mistake. They’d like to go back to the fifties or better yet a hundred or so years before that. But no matter how hard they try, it just won’t work.

  “As for our council, they tried to draw a line just this side of the Folk Mass. That’s what all the ruckus was about tonight. Add to that, tonight they discovered how limited their power really is.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Zoo said. “From Annie’s description, it doesn’t sound as if this new group is standing on anybody’s toes. Whatever happened to peaceful coexistence?”

  Zachary searched for a way to explain this situation. “Let’s put this in the perspective of your job,” he said to his brother. “You are really, totally absorbed in your work … right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Zachary realized he was treading on dangerous ground here. He knew that Zoo’s dedication to his work had, thus far, cost him a wife and family as well as a lover. So far, his present marriage was surviving quite well, due almost entirely to Anne Marie’s ability to more than compromise.

  In comparing St. Joe’s parish to Zoo’s work, Zachary wanted to be careful not to und
ermine a loving relationship by holding it up to unwelcome scrutiny. “Okay,” Zachary said, “just supposing that Walt Koznicki, your friend and head of Homicide, were to retire. And suppose you considered his replacement inadequate for the job.

  “And suppose this new inspector started changing everything; all your tried-and-true processes went by the board. Every new procedure this guy came up with was poorly conceived. It was getting laughable. Pretty soon the elite Homicide Division got to be a joke among the other departments in the Force.

  “Supposing your back is about ready for the last straw. And then the inspector installs one more stupid requirement. But this time, you figure you can finally block him. You’re sure you’ve got the right to check him. You’re anticipating and savoring your victory that is all but sealed and delivered.

  “Except at the last minute, you find you’ve lost again.

  “What really hurts is the disintegrating image of the Homicide squads. The work you’re so proud of. The work you do so well. The work you love.”

  “What really hurts,” Zoo said thoughtfully, “is that your scenario could take place.”

  “My point,” Zachary said, “is that this is about the way a lot of Catholic conservatives see their Church now. Everything seemed to be running so smoothly. Then the leadership changed. The new Pope set the mechanism of change in operation.

  “People who were very satisfied with the, status quo were bombarded with one change after another. These people were reeling. And, in the case of my parish council, led by Mr. William Cody, they saw a chance to for once turn things around. It was only a small step—the outlawing of a Folk Mass—but as far as they were concerned, it was a step in the right direction. It would be a victory after so many consecutive defeats.

  “And it all fell down around their ears tonight. From anybody’s standpoint—even mine—it was kind of sad.”

  They were silent for a brief time during which Anne Marie refilled the coffee cups.

  “I didn’t know,” Zoo said. “I had no idea they felt that strong about it. It’s just how and where you go to church.”