The Sacrifice

by William Kienzle

  They set up a series of appointments so that she could understand what the Episcopal Church was all about.

  He had no idea what brand of perfume she wore, but the delicate fragrance lingered after her departure. He sat there a long time, alone, enchanted by the scent.

  In subsequent visits, she gradually explained her upbringing, her very superficial religious upbringing. He learned that, while she was not E. Power Biggs, she did play the organ and the piano.

  He could see how useful that accomplishment might prove in his parish. And—need he confess it to himself—in his life.

  She overwhelmed him with her grasp and knowledge of Scripture.

  She was perfect. At least as perfect as he could imagine.

  In due time she was ready to become an Episcopalian. Actually, she was ready far in advance of her formal qualification. Ron prolonged the instruction period because he enjoyed her company so much. He needn’t have worried; she was in no hurry to leave his presence.

  So she was accepted into the Church, but kept seeing the pastor. In time they began a serious courtship. He was much more open in revealing himself to her than she was to him. He didn’t learn until much later in their marriage that she had layers which only time would reveal.

  The beginning, when they first met, was like a fairy tale. He knew nothing of those layers. He wanted to open himself to her, to let her see his ambition.

  He recalled particularly a conversation they’d had just before they announced their engagement.

  Almost as if confessing a sin, he told her of his goal: to become a bishop. For Gwen, that was the cake under the frosting.

  Because he had been so hesitant to speak of this seemingly secular goal of climbing the ladder of success, he now remembered that conversation almost verbatim.

  It had been a warm summer evening. They were sitting on a park bench.

  “There’s something you ought to know about me,” Ron began. “I mean, before we get so committed to each other that there is no turning back.”

  “We’re not there yet?” she asked coyly.

  “Not quite, I think. It’s about my calling.”

  “I’ve got no problem with your being a priest. You know that.”

  “It’s more than that. Let me give you a little background—”

  “If this is too difficult for you, you don’t have to go into it.” Actually, it was of supreme concern to her. The sine qua non.

  She could help him over any obstacles that might stand between him and the office of bishop. She was sure of that. But he had to have the drive and the desire to go the full way. She sensed that he was about to tell her how he aspired to be a bishop.

  She was certain his drive was genuine. That was why she had persevered with him this far. What he was about to say was of supreme consequence to her. No way would she countenance his postponing letting her in on his ambition. For it was hers as much as his.

  “Ever since I was a kid,” Ron said, “I’ve identified with my father. That’s why I followed in his footsteps. I wanted to go to seminary. He encouraged me. I was pretty successful. The grades were good. The personality development was good. I never had a doubt that I could make it into the priesthood. Everything was A-okay. I had the world on a string.” He paused. “Except for one thing: I could never measure up to Dad’s accomplishments.

  “Take that voice, for instance: It’s like an organ played by angels. Now my voice is not at all bad. But people don’t come from miles around just to listen to me—”

  “You are incredibly handsome,” Gwen interrupted. “He is not.”

  “He’s not a gargoyle by any means. As a matter of fact, he is the embodiment of what your country parson should look like. He is comfortable. Like an upholstered chair. His genuine concern for people is consistently evident.”

  “He’s not a saint.”

  “Close.”

  Gwen turned slightly toward Ron, relishing his impressive profile. “What does all this have to do with your priesthood?”

  “It came to me in my final year in seminary …” Ron paused again. “I was in competition with my father. Not that rare in a father-and-son relationship … but a bit uncommon when both become priests.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve seen a few fathers and sons who are Fathers with an uppercase ‘F.’ Usually they are clearly pleased that they are in the same religious profession. They help each other. Defer to each other. Are better friends than in the run-of-the-mill parent-child relationship.

  “But that is not the case with George and Ronald Wheatley. And I don’t know how the divergence came about. When I was a kid we were really close …” He fell silent, in recollection. “Alice did a piece on my father and me. It wasn’t her fault. She was the daughter that, it turned out, my father eagerly awaited.

  “But I must say, it didn’t much bother me. I didn’t mind it at bedtime when Dad told her stories and sang her songs. I think we avoided trouble on that level because ours was not a dysfunctional family. Dad, but especially Mother, loved us differently but equally.

  “This was also the case when Richard came along. Somehow, Alice and I knew Richard would be the last child in the family. But he didn’t get any special treatment because he was the baby. No more than did Alice turn out badly because she was the middle child.”

  Gwen shook her head slightly. “What a family! Especially compared with mine. From time to time I wonder at what my life would have been if I hadn’t been an only child. In the same school of thought that you’ve been using, I should have been pampered, spoiled.” She gave a ladylike snort. “The way things turned out, I was lucky to get out of there in one piece. “Do you know how lucky you are to have the family you have?”

  “Of course I do. But no family … no one but God … is perfect.”

  “Agreed. But I still don’t understand what this has to do with your priesthood?”

  “I was coming to that.” He picked up his retrospection. “All that time, when I was a kid, admiring my father, everything was fine. If anything, I was extremely proud of him, his natural attributes, his talent, his accomplishments. That attitude remained all through my years in seminary.

  “But after I was ordained, it was as if he threw down the gauntlet. ‘Outdistance me if you can,’ he seemed to be saying.

  “Well, I tried. I gave it my best shot. And I found some measure of success. In all fairness, I accomplished more than just about any other priest—excepting only George Wheatley.

  “He’s the one who had the column in a large metropolitan newspaper. He’s the one who had the radio program on a powerful station serving a good part of southwestern Ontario as well as a large section of southeastern Michigan.

  “My father had talent to burn. He had only one way to go: to become a bishop. He never mentioned the high office. But it was his for the asking. He didn’t even have to acknowledge it.

  “Now, you see, I’ve been flirting with the same goal. But I’ve known all along that my quest was futile.”

  “Futile? Why? You would’ve been the next best thing to your father. There is more than one diocese that needs a bishop.”

  “I know. But I—discreetly, of course—talked it over with some influential members of the Church. In effect, they told me to cool my engine … that I didn’t stand a chance.”

  “But why not?”

  “A dynasty. They were afraid of establishing a dynasty. Which could happen if my father were made bishop and then I were to become a bishop, too. And then what about little Alice? Suppose she were to become a priest—and a very competent one, too? There would always be the chance that the electors might eventually turn to her.

  “They referred to the Kennedy clan. Joe, the oldest son, was being groomed to be President. He died a war hero. But Jack stepped right in. When he was assassinated, Bob ran, and might well have made it.

  “Teddy got the message: It was open season on Kennedys.

  “Forget about the death, the assassination.
Our hierarchy simply doesn’t want a dynasty. When Dad was made a bishop, Alice and I could kiss any similar aspiration good-bye.”

  “But then,” Gwen said, “to everyone’s amazement, he turned it down.”

  “Yes. The time came. The offer was made. And to everyone’s surprise he turned it down.”

  “And you were back on track.”

  “Yes. The obstacle was rolled away. They wouldn’t have to worry about a dynasty. So, my campaign started fresh. My path was clear.

  “Now, I’m a shoo-in … as long as I continue to do all the right things that a bishop-in-waiting should do.”

  Ron looked at the kitchen clock. They had been seated in silence for almost three quarters of an hour. For each of them their respective recollections had been like viewing the rerun of a movie—a movie of their past.

  Gwen’s early life might have been unique in its peculiar circumstances. Her knowledge of a wide range of religious hymns contributed form to her extraordinary familiarity with Sacred Scripture. She saw herself as the wife of an important clergyman. She did not want the ordained life for herself. That would be too confining. She would function better as the power behind the throne. So she had to be most judicious in selecting her consort.

  He would have to be the type who could ascend the ecclesiastical ladder to a prestigious level. At the same time, he would have to be malleable to her guidance.

  It was not an easy challenge. But she found her prize candidate—and landed him.

  Her nominee’s father could have been an obstacle to her grand plan. But before Gwen even appeared on the scene, as if by a miracle, Ron’s father had taken himself out of the race, leaving the field clear for Ron. Enter Gwen, whose sails caught the wind, and it was full speed ahead for both of them.

  And now—! Now George comes up with this … this cockamamy notion to desert the Church in favor of the Romans.

  Once more Ron’s friends in power would tell him that his chances were buried … nil. ‘The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree’ argument. Ron would, after all, be the eldest son of a defector. How could the electors be confident that, having followed in his father’s footsteps before, he would not follow in them again?

  No argument would be sufficient to sway them. Ron was not the only possible candidate for the office. Yes, he would have made a good, perhaps even a superior bishop. But if not he, others could fill the bill most adequately.

  Who could have known that the old man would defect? And that his defection would create yet another impediment?

  This is where they were at the moment: Ron and Gwen, all dressed up and no episcopal vestments to wear.

  Gwen was unsinkable. She believed firmly that if a door was shut, one should look for an open window.

  But all this had sapped Ron’s strength. Thus their verbal battle this evening. She had to firm up his resolution.

  There must be a way.

  No doubt about it, Ron’s spirits were at rock bottom.

  He had wanted for so long to be a bishop.

  He had counted his lucky stars that he had found Gwen. Or vice versa. It didn’t matter; the point was that he had a life’s companion who was all but tailor-made for her role. And to top it off, she entered fully into his ambition to go places in the Church.

  They had shared this roller-coaster ride. Yet she seemed as resolute as ever. He marveled at her endurance. It was due mainly to her steely determination that they would continue to go forward.

  That didn’t matter to Ron.

  It was time for him to take the reins and do something on his own. Something effective for a change. Something that would prove to her that he was his own man. That he could play the role of the leader in this twosome.

  What did it say in Scripture about one who wanted to be a bishop? Something from Timothy … Ah, yes: “This is a true saying, if a man desire the office of a bishop, he desireth a good work. A bishop then must be blameless, the husband of one wife, vigilant, sober, of good behavior, given to hospitality, apt to teach; not given to wine, no striker, not greedy of filthy lucre; but patient, not a brawler, not covetous; one that ruleth well his own house, having his children in subjection with all gravity; for if a man know not how to rule his own house, how shall he take care of the Church of God?”

  There was more. But this was the pertinent excerpt: “If a man know not how to rule his own house …”

  How true.

  Am I going to be the leader of this house as the Bible describes what I want for myself and, now, for Gwen?

  There could be only one answer.

  Gwen sensed that the time for remonstrating was long past. Now was the time to shore up their resolve. “There are so many things that could happen,” she said. “Do you really think your father can bend himself to the rules and regulations that the Roman Church is going to throw at him?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Ron admitted. “It doesn’t seem likely. But I don’t really know. So much has happened that I can’t comprehend.”

  “Well,” Gwen offered, “think of the possibilities. Suppose he finds that in practice, the Romans are going to have a very low degree of tolerance for his opinions. Remember, a lot of things that he’s been able to do and support as an Anglican priest are opposed by the Romans. From the highest levels some of these things have been condemned so strongly as to irrevocably be out of the question.

  “Things like contraception, remarriage after divorce, and maybe biggest of all, women priests. Can you see him turning one hundred and eighty degrees on things like these?” She shook her head. “It’s not going to happen.”

  Ron thought about that. “As far as I can tell, he’s creating a dilemma for himself. You’re absolutely right: I can’t imagine him giving in on a single one of those issues.

  “But Dad’s no fool. In fact, he’s one of the brightest, most intelligent men I’ve ever known. I’d put him up there—especially in this kind of situation—with Thomas More.”

  “How is that possible?” Gwen tossed her head.

  “Oh, it’s possible. I’m quite sure of that. He is extremely good at sidestepping and splitting hairs.

  “I mean, everybody knew that Thomas More was ‘guilty’ of not recognizing the king as head of the Church in England. And that he opposed the king’s remarriage after the divorce. But as ‘certain’ as they were they still couldn’t pin More down. Only someone else’s perjury would defeat him.

  “I must confess,” Ron continued, “I don’t know how he’s going to somehow bridge the distinctions that separate our Churches. But he must at least have a plan.

  “Gwen, he’s going to have to take theological studies for the better part of a year. These things will have to come up. His professors must be aware of the beliefs of the Church he’s leaving. How will he get past their eagle eyes?”

  “I don’t know chapter and verse,” Gwen said. “But that’s all theory. There won’t be any—what would you call it?—a practicum, where he’ll have to tell a woman who genuinely and desperately wants to be ordained that there’s no hope of that ever happening. Nor is there any Roman bishop who would wink at such an ironclad Roman ruling … no such bishop exists to whom Dad could refer such a woman. No”—she shook her head definitively—“I’d be willing to bet he’ll never be able to get past the intense scrutiny he’ll get, especially from some of those fundamentalist conservative Catholics.

  “Besides,” she continued, “even if he were to somehow be able to get past the conservatives and the hierarchy, what would be the cost to him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In health. This campaign that seems inevitable would have to take a lot out of him. How long can he hold up under the gigantic pressure? He’s not young. He hasn’t got a lot of reserve. He could end up in a nursing home—or worse.”

  Ron rubbed the stubble on his chin. He was well past five o’clock shadow. “God, I hope that doesn’t happen. I don’t want my father to be humiliated—or to be ill, and maybe even conf
ined. I don’t hate him. But I hate what he’s doing to himself—to you, to me. If it came to that, I’d rather see him go quickly.”

  “You mean die?”

  “Well, yes. It sounds outrageous, I know. It’s just that sometimes a quick death solves some problems that can’t be solved in any other way.”

  A smile appeared at the corners of Gwen’s mouth. She looked pleased, as if she’d stumbled across a solution to the problem. She yawned. “Come on,” she said, almost inaudibly, “let’s go to bed.”

  The answer to everything: Let’s go to bed.

  At times Ron thought about Gwen and bed all day long. Well, perhaps not literally all day long. But, he had to admit, much of the day.

  If all else failed, bed was always where every game was played—except conception. For various and differing reasons, the two had agreed from the outset that they would have no children. Not unless both genuinely agreed to do so—either by adoption or having their own.

  Once that had been decided, neither had ever brought up the subject again.

  The conversation tonight actually was an articulation of Ron’s thoughts on the matter of his father. En route home, he had pondered the same ideas Gwen had expressed just now. The three possible conclusions to Dad’s conversion: disgrace, insanity, or death.

  Ron had reluctantly settled on death as the most reasonable conclusion: The kindest thing to do for his father would be to end this charade. That was pressure enough if this was to be solely his responsibility. But now, amazingly, Gwen seemed to have reached the same conclusion.

  Leaving Ron smack in the middle.

  Monkey in the middle.

  He wanted the office of bishop so much he could taste it.

  He’d had it once on a silver platter, made possible when his father had turned down the office.

  Odds were that his father’s intended defection had again stolen it from Ron.

  But what if Father Wheatley were dealt a mortal blow? Ron could then renew his quest. He would again be in the running. His actions and convictions would demonstrate that he himself was no traitor. Plus, as the principal bereaved—next to his mother—the offer of a bishopric would be an approved if not expected show of sympathy.