THREE
Father Tully chuckled. “I saw you checking your watch. There’s plenty of time. They wouldn’t dare begin without the former and present pastors.”
Koesler winced. “Was I doing that? Sorry. Just a long-standing habit. But we’d better get in there pretty soon.”
“Trust me,” Zachary said. “I’ll get you in procession on time. At least we won’t have to get you to the church on time. You’re already here.”
Lieutenant Alonzo—almost everyone knew him as “Zoo”—Tully headed one of the Detroit Police Department’s seven Homicide Squads. He was becoming legendary for his speedy arrests leading to a high percentage of solid convictions. Part of the secret of his success was his development of snitches and sources. The other not-so-secret formula was total dedication to his work.
Coincidentally, Father Koesler had become Tully’s most reliable expert source when a Catholic aspect arose in any of the lieutenant’s murder investigations.
It had not always been so. Koesler’s involvement in some of the early investigations had been more or less accidental. Perhaps even providential—although that was up for debate.
In any case, by now Koesler was securely in the saddle as a prime resource.
Only a few years before, Lieutenant Tully had discovered he had a half-brother who was, incredibly, a Catholic priest. Incredibly in that the police officer had no connection whatever to organized religion. Zachary and Zoo shared a common father, but had different mothers.
Zoo’s African-American parents had been Baptist. Both Zoo and his father had backslid from that affiliation early on.
Then, one day, without warning, Mr. Tully moved on.
In New Orleans he met and fell in love with a woman who happened to be white—and a fervent Catholic. They had one son. They named him Zachary.
Shortly thereafter, Mr. Tully died. His son, a mulatto, could easily pass for white.
Not knowing he had family in Detroit, Zachary thought he was an only child. He went through the stages common to boys growing up in committed Catholic families of that era. He learned by rote the Latin needed to be an altar boy. Encouraged by his mother and her relatives, he attended a seminary and was ordained a priest.
Some years later his order sent him to Detroit to acknowledge the generosity of a wealthy layman. Before he left on the trip, his aunt—sister to his late mother—told him for the first time about the family he had not known.
In Detroit he met his half-brother, Alonzo, and his wife. The three quickly became so close they might have grown up together.
Zachary knew little about police work, but he was fascinated by the murky world of homicide. Alonzo knew even less about Catholicism—even though his wife was a faithful Catholic.
Zoo’s first wife had left, years before, taking their children with her. Later, Zoo’s significant other had also walked out. In both cases the breakup occurred because neither of the women could compete with Zoo’s first love—his work.
His present wife understood his priorities; she was content to play second fiddle to killers who needed to be tracked down.
Anne Marie taught primary grades in the Detroit school system. She had been married before. That marriage was a disaster. A sympathetic priest overlooked the disaster and witnessed the canonically awkward marriage of Anne Marie and Alonzo. The couple had no children. They lived for each other. They opened their symbiotic union just wide enough to include Zachary, their brother the priest.
Zoo was in attendance at St. Joe’s today for two reasons: At the moment, no homicide case demanded his immediate involvement. And, free of such demand, he wanted to be with Anne Marie and Zack.
There was no other reason for him to attend this ceremony. What was so big a deal about switching Churches? George Wheatley had been a priest in one Church and now he was going to be a priest in another Church. Zoo couldn’t understand the fuss. But, as usual, he was willing to learn whatever he could.
Koesler noted that Nan Wheatley was twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. “Are you nervous?” he asked.
Her eyes darted toward him. “A little,” she admitted.
“It’s probably normal,” Koesler said. “This is a very important day for George, and for you and the kids … for the Catholic Church in Detroit, for that matter.”
“Without becoming a nuisance,” Anne Marie said, “I told Nan I’d be happy to help her get settled in any way I can.”
Nan smiled at Anne Marie. Koesler noted the smile was sincere.
“Just knowing she’s going to be there has been a comfort,” Nan said. “I’ve gone through something like this before … I mean, we’ve been in a number of parishes … there’s always something new; new people to meet, new Church officials, a new place to live … things like that.
“But”—her tone was almost mournful—“this will be vastly different.”
Koesler felt a pang of sympathy for the Wheatleys—particularly for Nan. So much to get used to. So foreign an experience that could overwhelm one. George at least would be occupied with his new position—whereas Nan was, as it were, merely along for the ride.
Occasionally, Koesler felt a similar sympathy when meeting or saying good-bye to a traveler in an air terminal. He himself was going nowhere. He was home. His charge was going or coming. The trip probably had been or would be miserable, commercial air travel today being what it was.
“Oh,” Anne Marie exclaimed, “I hope your coming here to live and minister here won’t be that bad!”
“It won’t be that bad,” Father Tully assured. “We won’t bite.”
Nan returned to her handkerchief twisting. “You don’t understand. I’m afraid you just don’t understand. Before when we were called to new positions, it was always an Episcopal congregation. There would be differences, of course, but usually only small variations.
“Settled parishes often reflect their pastors. Or rather, they reflect the relationship of pastor and parishioners. The relationship might have been nurturing and tender. Or it might have been adversarial and unpleasant. One accepts such a call mindful of the circumstances.
“But,” she emphasized, “we all were Anglican Episcopalians! By that very fact, we were bonded together.
“Now …” She hesitated. “There are so many differences …” Her voice trailed off.
“There’s one thing that unites us,” Anne Marie said. “We are Christians—at least we’re trying to be Christians.”
“That’s right,” Father Tully said. “And we’ll need that common bond. It just may help that you’ll be taking over the rectory. Rectory living won’t be a novel experience. You’ve done enough of that.”
Nan’s expression grew troubled. “Yes. After looking over this rectory, I thought yes, indeed: We’ve had enough of rectory life.”
“Not to worry,” Anne Marie said. “Before you even move in, we’ve enlisted the help of lots of volunteers who are going to clean, paint, and repair the old place.”
“It’s so … enormous,” Nan said wistfully.
“We thought both you and George would appreciate the space,” Father Tully said. “Unlike any of the previous occupants, you have a family.”
“Three children,” Koesler said. “Two of them are away at the moment. As Nan says, that’s a lot of space. Once upon a time there were almost that many priests living here. And they had lots of room to rattle around.” Father Koesler had not been comfortable at the thought of his former rectory housing a family. But since Mrs. Wheatley had not previously indicated any opposition to the plan, Koesler’s had been the only nay in the voting.
“We hope,” Anne Marie said, “that the Wheatleys will be with us a long, long time. A few more years and the three children will increase and multiply. What a grand place this will be for family get-togethers.”
“By the way,” Zachary said, “where are the kids?”
“Richard is here … somewhere …” Nan’s tone was almost distracted. “The other two couldn’t ma
ke it.”
“Couldn’t make it!” Zachary intended to discover what could be so important that the two older children wouldn’t break a previous commitment to be with their parents for such a momentous occasion. He was about to press the question when he caught a high sign from Koesler to drop the subject.
Anne Marie didn’t catch Koesler’s sign. “I suppose this is a particularly awkward time for the older children … one an Episcopal priest and the other in seminary.”
Nan’s reaction left no doubt that she found this topic uncomfortable. Anne Marie, seemingly unaware,’ continued. “Are many of Father Wheatley’s former Anglican priests here today?”
“Not many, I’m sorry to say.” Zachary, since his sister-in-law was pursuing the topic of mixed religion, felt free to join in, Father Koesler to the contrary notwithstanding. “We made it abundantly clear that this was intended to be an ecumenical affair. Clergy of all denominations were welcome. Of course we were particularly eager for a goodly turnout of Anglicans. But unless things in the rectory have changed a great deal in the last half hour, there’s just a sprinkle of Anglicans. Probably the biggest group of non-Catholic clergy are some neighboring Baptists.”
“Why is that?” Anne Marie wondered.
The identical question was on her husband’s mind. So much of what was going on in this building and in this conversation was utterly foreign to him. He did not even know what questions to ask. So far, listening to the questions and answers, he was picking up interesting information.
“Why so many Baptists? Or why so few Episcopalians? Or both?” asked Zachary.
“So few of his own former colleagues?” Anne Marie clarified.
“That’s understandable,” Nan said. “If George were taking a stand against females as priests—a practice we … I mean they … favor, then a good number of that persuasion would be here today. And, I’m sure, a goodly number—if not a clear majority—oppose women priests. We have them, of course—oh, I’m sorry: Identifying with the Episcopal Church is a habit I haven’t yet got under control. What I meant to say was that the Anglican Communion ordains women to the priesthood—even to the office of bishop.
“I think the vast majority of Episcopal priests who cross over to the Roman priesthood are taking a stand. They are protesting—they are Protestants, after all—the ordination of women.
“That is not George’s purpose. He is making this move as, in his words, a sort of coming home. I think his reasons for changing will become more clear, more evident, as time goes on.
“The point is, among Anglican priests who come over, very few would share George’s motive. If, on the other hand, he were protesting a female clergy, we could expect the presence of at least some of his colleagues who share that view.”
“That clears things up for me.” Anne Marie seemed satisfied.
Koesler once again consulted his watch. It was perilously close to starting time. He would stay only a few moments more. Nervously, he looked around the church.
In the choir loft, the singers and musicians were leaning over the railing, trying to see if the procession was about to start. Indeed, the altar ministers, holding the crucifix and a candle per server, were awaiting a signal to begin.
Two of the servers were girls. The boy carried the crucifix.
At least, thought Koesler, we’ve come that far. Now it was perfectly permissible for females to serve at the altar. But even that small concession had been hard-won and was by no means universally embraced. And—who was that?!
In the sanctuary, near the altar, a black-clad figure was bent over examining something … something to do with the altar.
The figure was no less than Father Joe Farmer.
Now—Koesler borrowed from Gilbert and Sullivan—here’s a howdy-do! Just a few minutes ago, he and Farmer had been deep in conversation. Farmer had concluded by announcing that he would not join in the procession. He was just going up front to get a ringside seat, he’d said. He would eschew a position in the sanctuary, a position he had every right to occupy, in favor of a place of less distinction.
All well and good. But what in tarnation was he doing poking around the sanctuary? He might have been investigating anything from a mouse—a church mouse, of course—to an altar stone. Joe’s mind worked in strange ways.
Koesler’s stream of consciousness led him toward his appreciation of Farmer’s essence. When Koesler thought of Joe, the first word that came to mind was not “priest.” Nor was it “religious,” nor “missionary.” No, at first blush, Koesler thought of a salesman. The title character of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. Yes, a traveling salesman.
Thirty or forty years ago Joe Farmer had been relevant. He came to town to deliver a message. And then he would move on to another territory. At every stop, he would conduct a mission. In the early days, the mission would last two weeks. The first week was for the parish women. For the second week Joe depended on the grace-filled wives to hound their husbands to go to church five or six consecutive evenings after putting in the usual workdays. If there was a parochial school, the pupils would be subjected to a mini-mission. They were excused from class to attend.
After the week or two everyone seemed satisfied that the spiritual life of the parish as a whole had been ratcheted up several notches. All felt better for the experience. Except, of course, those who did not attend. They might feel a pang or two of guilt for favoring television with feet up on the ottoman instead of Joe’s scary exhortations and an unforgiving kneeler.
But those parishioners who faithfully attended felt they had sacrificed and profited spiritually.
The only one who did not attend, yet felt great, was the pastor, who, with an additional missionary priest present, took the opportunity for a well-deserved vacation.
Joe Farmer had begun his specialized vocation many years ago by laboring very hard to work up about a dozen spiritual talks designed first to frighten, then to offer hope, and finally, to conclude with the promise of salvation.
The story was told of one parishioner who, in the best missionary spirit, talked his non-Catholic neighbor into attending the parish mission with him. True to form, the five sermons delivered Monday through Friday concerned death, judgment, hell, purgatory, and, finally, heaven.
After the first few talks, the Protestant gentleman confided in his thoughtful neighbor, “I have never felt so depressed in all my life!”
To which the neighbor replied, “Not to worry. It’s all downhill from here on.”
Koesler smiled as he recalled Father Farmer and his missions. The point of it all was confession. That’s what all the scary stuff was about.
In the early days of Koesler’s and Farmer’s ministry, confession—or the Sacrament of Penance—for most Catholics became routine. Frequency was routine. Catholics confessed twice a year: Christmas and Easter. Or once a year: Christmas or Easter. Or once a month. Or once a week. Or for the dyed-in-the-wool scrupulous, as often as possible.
In any case—with exceptions—there was little insight into the state of the penitent’s soul. Anger at home with the spouse but particularly with the children. Gossip. Petty theft. Bad language. The standby for children: disobedience. The standby for nuns: failure in promptitude.
Things have changed, thought Koesler. The name now: Sacrament of Reconciliation. The format: no kneeling on a board and no anonymity-providing door and curtain. Those who had once used the sacrament frequently now used it rarely.
There was some movement toward linking confession to a drastic change in life and/or lifestyle. And yet there still existed a push toward confessing at Christmas and Easter; the vast majority of penitents confessed because it was the appropriate time, not for good reason.
Koesler was so lost in thought that he was startled when someone touched his arm. “I hate to disturb you,” said a smiling Father Tully, “but even by my watch, it’s pretty late.”
Koesler glanced at his watch. It was as if he had overslept and was late in starting M
ass. Embarrassed, he blushed. Onlookers were amazed.
“Oh, I am so sorry. I don’t know what I could have been thinking of.” He looked toward the church entrance. There were the altar ministers, patiently standing as stiff and attentive as little soldiers.
For once he was grateful that something was starting late. This delay might enable him and Zachary to vest and get in line for the procession. At least they stood a good chance of not having to hurry to catch up.
Fathers Koesler and Tully turned to go. They had taken only a few steps when it happened.
Later, when he had time and leisure to piece it all together, the sequence of events became clear. At the time, everyone was so confused that no one knew what had taken place.
First there was a powerful whoosh. That was followed by a sharp, explosive crash. For an instant Koesler thought—hoped—that these sounds had come from the musicians in the choir loft … possibly turning on the old pipe organ and then giving out a crescendo of the timpani.
But even as he tried to find an innocuous explanation for this untoward thunder, he knew something far more serious had to be the cause.
For one thing, the orchestra did not continue what it had not begun.
For another, the interior of the Gothic church was clogged with dust. Dust that hitherto coated remote places had been dislodged, lifted, and wafted about. Koesler and many others covered their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs.
Screams and shouts rose from throughout the congregation. Something terrible had happened; as yet no one knew what.
Koesler was tall enough—and he was standing on a raised platform—to see over the heads of the crowd. People were running from the sanctuary. It all fell into an inescapable conclusion: A bomb had gone off. It had exploded somewhere in the front of the church.
Everyone, bent on escaping, was fleeing from the site of the blast. No one seemed to be assisting anyone else. Koesler could not imagine everyone escaping without trying to help others in need. Surely, if anyone was seriously injured, someone—or some few—would risk his or her own safety to rescue someone in need.
The Sacrifice Page 4