The Sacrifice

by William Kienzle

  “But”—he smiled at Koesler—”don’t give it another thought, Bob. I want this. I’m willing to pay the price.”

  Koesler blew lightly across his coffee to cool it. “There isn’t that much separating us.”

  “And yet,” Wheatley countered, “there is so much.”

  “There’s Leo XIII’s letter …”

  “Apostolicae Curae,” Wheatley supplied.

  “The Pope insisted that Anglican orders were ‘absolutely null and utterly void.’ But most everybody who’s looked into the matter recently would deny, or at least question, his conclusion.”

  “And I,” Wheatley said, “am among those who have studied and reached the same viewpoint: a repudiation of his conclusion. Are you aware of George Tavard’s 1990 work: A Review of Anglican Orders: The Problem and the Solution?”

  Koesler thought for a moment. “I’m not sure I am.”

  “He concluded that Leo’s teaching was in error due to historical mistakes in research and, as Tavard expresses it, ‘by theological presuppositions that were inadequate yet hardly avoidable in the neoscholasticism of the late 19th century’”

  Koesler was impressed that Wheatley could quote this off the top of his head.

  Wheatley read his thoughts. “Impressed that I can quote verbatim? Just one indication of how serious I am about this step I’m taking.”

  “I know how serious you are about what you’re doing. But you shouldn’t have to swim upstream to get there. It just seems so obvious from where we are now that there is at least a justified doubt about Leo’s decision of over a century ago. Current theologians, using extremely diplomatic language, are claiming the Pope erred when he denied the validity of Anglican orders. And that this error was committed because he based his opinion on faulty research.”

  Wheatley nodded. “I know all that. But you and I both know that the wheels of the Roman Church grind slowly. I may well be dead and buried a very long time before that Church acknowledges the validity of my present orders. And”—he smiled—”I don’t think I can wait that long.”

  “Well …” Koesler shifted his chair so he could face George directly “… that brings up once more the fundamental question in this whole matter: Why should you feel you must wait for any decision?

  “I’ve heard you speak to this question before, George. To be frank, the reasons you give I’ve never found completely satisfying. You know beyond a doubt that you are a priest and that you don’t need a Roman dispensation and ordination to prove it.

  “Before you made this move toward Rome you had a very successful ministry as an Episcopal priest. Why muddy the water? Why go through this often demeaning procedure? Can you explain it all one more time for me?”

  Wheatley smiled and nodded. “My friend, I don’t know that I can make my decision crystal-clear to you … or to anyone. But it’s clear in my heart.

  “Maybe it’s best explained by something Jimmy Carter once said. I was impressed by it … so impressed that it’s become a sort of mantra for me. He said, ‘I have one life and one chance to make it count for something.’”

  He smiled quizzically. “It’s not much, is it?”

  For a few moments, Koesler was deep in thought. “It doesn’t have to be much … or lengthy. It says a lot.”

  “It did for me.”

  Koesler reflected briefly. “You don’t feel your life was counting for enough in the Episcopal Church?”

  Wheatley’s head tilted. “Almost. Not quite.

  “Try it this way: It wasn’t that my life as an Anglican priest was not counting for enough. Rather, I felt that my life—or what’s left of it—might count for more in the Roman Church.

  “You see, movement is a sign of life. And my dear Episcopal Church has plenty of momentum. If things look as if they’re slowing down toward a dead stop, there’s always Bishop Spong to stir things up. And once he inevitably leaves the scene, there’ll be someone else to take his place … challenging us to think, to pray more intensely, and act out our prayer.

  “The Roman Church, on the other hand, was crawling slower than a turtle until that charismatic character, John XXIII, happened along. In a few years, John’s aggiornamento blew in the fresh air for a century or more to come. The Roman Church was moving and living.”

  “And then”—Koesler took over the narrative that was so familiar to those who lived in that time—”John’s successor, Paul VI, took over and culminated the Council. But then he dug in his heels, and ever since, it’s been a pitched battle between those who hold that the Council went way too far and those who see the Council as a preliminary for continuing change.”

  “And,” Wheatley said, “I belong to that latter group. I believe in progress and in the Anglican Communion. I am used to it. In all due modesty, I have a popular column, as well as a thriving radio program. And I have been promised that I may continue with both of them.”

  “Do you have it in writing?” Koesler was only partially joking.

  “I know what you mean. I know that at least a couple of Detroit auxiliaries are not in the same ballpark as the Cardinal. But I know how to walk a tightrope. I can go forward.

  “If I can make a dent in the armor of the naysayers in this pivotal diocese, I think I will make my one-time-around life count for something.”

  “A bit of excitement at your parish yesterday.”

  It was the bank manager’s way of straddling a fence. As far as Mr. Warren was concerned, there was good news and bad news about the bombing at Old St. Joe’s.

  The death and injury numbers were blessedly low for such violence. On the other hand, a priest had been killed and considerable damage done to a portion of the church.

  Bradley had been expecting Father Tully and his maintenance man. Father Tully always showed up on Monday mornings to bank the church funds, and not infrequently Tony accompanied him on his own personal banking business.

  Of course, there was always the chance that yesterday’s tragedy might have derailed their routine. Nonetheless, Warren had his greeting ready. Better be prepared with some concerned opener, even if it turns out not to be needed.

  “Plenty of excitement.” Tully waited until a teller buzzed him into the inner sanctum beyond the counter. He hefted the bag containing checks, currency, and coin onto a shelf. The money would be checked against the deposit slip later when the heavy Monday morning bank traffic had thinned out.

  Warren regarded the bag with a practiced eye. “Not up to your usual deposit, is it, Father?”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Warren realized he had blundered. An ordination Mass would not include a collection. Many of the parishioners who would otherwise have attended the earlier Mass—to which they would have contributed—had instead attended the ordination Mass. In any case, St. Joseph’s collection was normally small by comparison with more affluent parishes. So, what with one thing and another, naturally, today’s deposit was a fraction of the normal deposit Father Tully—and before him Father Koesler—would regularly have made.

  Warren tried to cover his gaffe. “How are things going presently, Father?”

  “I’m tempted to say things are going as well as can be expected. The police are finally pulling out. Of course it is somewhat unnerving to be the target of an assassin.”

  “You were a target?” Warren was truly surprised. “The news account this morning was somewhat unclear. It was my impression that the Episcopal priest was the target.”

  “That’s what the police are checking into. Was it Father Wheatley? Was it me? Was it both of us? Was one of us the target and the other had to be taken out accordingly?

  “And then, of course, there’s the traditional question: Whodunit?”

  “My heavens!” Warren exclaimed. “I had no idea it was so complicated. Shouldn’t you be … someplace? Like in protective custody? Is that what it’s called? All I know is what I see on TV and read in the paper.”

  “I guess ‘protective custody’ would be the operativ
e term. But I’ve gone over this with my brother—”

  “Your brother the Homicide Detective?”

  “Yes.” Tully wondered what other brother it could be. As far as he knew, he had only one brother and that brother was a police officer. “John F. Kennedy—and probably others, too—said that if someone is determined to get you he probably will. That’s sort of how I feel. I guess the easiest way to kill somebody nowadays is with a gun. And God knows there are enough guns around.”

  Warren, a member in good standing of the National Rifle Association, made no comment. His hero was Charlton Heston. And it was knee-jerk, bleeding-heart liberals like Father Tully who were bent on disarming our great country.

  But it was easy for Warren to keep his personal convictions separate from his professional duties. He would overlook the implications of the priest’s remark. “Does this mean that you will be taking no precautions at all?”

  “Just enough to satisfy my brother, the lieutenant. I guess I’ve got a couple of officers following me around. That represents Alonzo’s minimum, and my maximum, negotiated commitment.”

  “You mean there’s someone tailing you now?” Warren’s interest rose several degrees. Outside of bank business, his contact with police procedure had been pretty much limited to radio, movies, TV, a few mystery novels, and the occasional nonfiction crime book. But this—this was real-life adventure. He peered from side to side. “Are they here? In my bank?” Warren was definitely engaged.

  Father Tully was amused. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Warren, I don’t really know. All I do know is that I agreed with Alonzo to put myself under some surveillance. I don’t know what they look like or where they are … only that they’re probably around someplace.” He looked around, then back to Warren. “I guess they could be in your bank.”

  The manager was agog. “Oh, dear. In my bank! Oh, my—there is somebody I haven’t seen before … over there … in that corner. Do you think he could be a policeman?” Secretly, Warren did not discard the possibility that the stranger just might possibly be the assassin.

  “Well,” Tully said, “I guess we’ll see you next week.”

  Warren said nothing. His gaze was riveted on the unidentified man who might bring excitement and intrigue into the banker’s otherwise dull life.

  Tully gathered Tony, who had finished his own transaction.

  Tully was pleased with himself for having brought some adventure into a banker’s experience.

  He was running a bit late. Nothing serious, but he would have to hurry along to catch up with his scheduled routine.

  It was eleven A.M.

  According to Leon Harkins’s research, the bogus priest Tully was just returning to the rectory, where he would let Tony out of the car. Then he would go into the rectory to check the morning mail. Unless something in the mail demanded immediate attention, he would leave it until the afternoon or evening.

  Most important, he had to get to the jail for his eleven-fifteen visit. The inmates, or nearly all of them, had been treated shabbily, usually by men, throughout their lives. The basic service he provided the women was a reliable masculine presence. He could counsel, he could absolve, he could just listen. But most of all he had to be on time. It was amazing how important punctuality was to the inmates.

  So at eleven-fifteen A.M., Leon Harkins could envision Tully arriving to talk to the incarcerated women.

  Harkins was off only by a minute. The women prisoners would forgive Father Tully. They had ways of learning what had gone down while they were off the streets. In the case of the St. Joe’s bombing, they might even have heard the muffled roar of the explosion—the church was that close to police headquarters.

  One minute usually doesn’t make much difference in the affairs of mankind. But considering the tight schedule Harkins was on, it could be crucial.

  Grace Harkins was concerned.

  Normally, by this hour, her husband would be up and around and underfoot. She’d talked to other wives whose husbands had retired; many of them had this same experience. The men, at least in the Harkins’s neighborhood, were at loose ends after retirement. They hadn’t planned anything that would occupy them. They missed their jobs, even if they claimed to be glad to get away from them.

  But this morning Leon had stayed in bed much later than usual.

  Grace had begun her day at the regular time, about six A.M. She said her Lenten prayers and began tidying up the house, dusting and straightening up as needed.

  Periodically she would call up to Leon. Each time, the only response was a barely audible grumble.

  This day would be climactic for him. He was through being pushed around. The worm had turned. Leon was about to take matters into his own hands. He was going to kill a priest.

  It sounded strange when he said that simple sentence to himself. I am going to kill a priest.

  Weird.

  Little Leon had been an altar boy. He remembered how painstakingly he had learned the Latin responses to the Mass. He never understood what he was saying. But he knew this: His Latin was as good or better than that of the priests who mumbled their way through the Liturgy.

  Some of the priests he’d known while he was growing up were hardly edifying. But whenever he expressed reservations, his parents had been quick to remind him of how difficult a life the priests—and nuns, for that matter—lived.

  He envisioned himself in his youth. His hands and face, neck and ears, scrubbed to pass inspection by his mother. Dressed now in a black cassock and a carefully laundered surplice. His hands pressed together in a prayerful manner. His Latin, quite precise and articulate. His mother kneeling out there in the congregation. Beyond his knowledge, his mother praying that her one and only son would become a priest.

  Actually, he himself hoped for this. But his teachers discouraged his trying for the seminary: His marks were not promising. He was not dumb. Just slow.

  But he loved the Church and admired its priests. That is, until that damnable Council and the new breed of renegade priests it spawned.

  Now he was about to do something about it. He was not offering himself as a sacrificial lamb. His plans called for him to escape capture. But he had to face the possibility of being arrested. Maybe even killed.

  Never mind. He was going to strike a blow for the betrayed Church … Christ’s Church.

  He practiced drawing his gun out of the holster some more. He was getting quite good at it.

  He studied the framed motto hanging on the bedroom wall. It was something President Carter had said that radically influenced Leon. So much so that he’d had his wife cross-stitch it. “I have one life and one chance to make it count for something.”

  Leon Harkins’s one chance was only about an hour away.

  TWENTY

  The coffee shop was beginning to fill up.

  Still, there were no other clerically attired customers. A few patrons, on entering, did a double take when they spotted not one but two clergymen. Those more familiar with downtown just assumed that the priests had business either in the Gabriel Richard Building or the chancery.

  In any event, the two priests were left to converse undisturbed. In days of yore they might have been interrupted with requests ranging from “Would you bless my rosary?” to “Would you pray for my uncle?”

  If either of the two was likely to be recognized it would be George Wheatley; his photo ran with his column in the paper.

  If any of the patrons did identify him, none approached. For which both priests were grateful.

  “You mentioned the opposition you expect from at least some of the clergy and laity of the Roman Church,” Father Koesler said. “And you mentioned that you were used to walking a tightrope. Is that the way you intend to handle the opposition—by walking that tightrope?”

  Wheatley nodded. “At least partly.”

  “Do you have a patent on that rope?” Koesler was smiling. “I can think of a lot of guys, including me, who’d love to get hold of it. You might make mi
llions.”

  Wheatley shook his head. “No patent. The formula is sitting out there waiting for anyone who wants it.”

  “I want it!” Koesler said, in a rare show of emotion.

  Wheatley chuckled. “Okay, okay. It’s kind of a triple formula. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were already familiar with it. I kind of stumbled into it and adopted it.”

  “So?”

  “So, it was attributed to Melanchthon by a gentleman named Bowles, who had the aphorism inscribed over the doorway of his house. And it reads …” Wheatley paused to refresh his memory. “‘In necessariis, unitas.’”

  “‘In necessary things, unity.’” Koesler translated the simple Latin.

  “‘In dubiis, libertas,’” Wheatley continued.

  “‘In doubtful things, liberty.’”

  “And,” Wheatley concluded, “‘In omnibus, caritas.’”

  “‘In all things, charity—or love.’ A simple formula, isn’t it? But open to a lot of interpretation,” Koesler added.

  “I agree it can be kicked around a lot. But among fair-minded people, it can be very helpful in situations when a strict consensus can’t be reached.”

  “And that happens a lot,” Koesler noted. “But how does this saying help a divided body like the Church?”

  “Well, here we get back to the things that divide us. As far as Anglicans are concerned, there aren’t that many things graven in stone. We might say, ‘Let’s try this for a century or so and see what happens.’”

  “I know where you’re going with this one. The Roman Church will hang on to a dogma or moral teaching for dear life. Then if there’s any change at all—which is rare—we introduce it with the catch-all, ‘As the Church has always taught …’”

  Wheatley nodded. “The point of all this, Bob, is that there are precious few things the Anglicans hold to be necessary. By ‘necessary’ I mean compulsory, or set in stone. The closest we come to that is our Catechism, in the Book of Common Prayer. And even those few ‘musts’ are diluted when you include all that Bishop Spong and others of like mind have got going …”