The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  To build community and encourage Christian debate, Father Jonathan had organized a meeting of local priests every Monday. Father Denis from Botz-En-Mauge, Father Cyrille from le Marillais, Father Méthode from Saint-Laurent-du-Mottay, and Father Aurélien from Chapelle-Saint-Florent would find their way to the abbey upon Mount Glonne. In the refectory, they would argue and talk about the state of Catholicism in their parishes, and in France as a whole. Sadly, Father Jonathan had to admit that the meetings blurred together in his memory because all of them nearly went the same way. Mostly Father Jonathan would become irritated and frustrated. “Faith encompasses every part of man. Not just his heart and soul, but his body and his mind. His intellect.”

  Father Aurélien would always shake his head, “You are young.” Aurélien would always say that, in exactly the same way. It simply did not need to be said after the first time, and it annoyed Jonathan to no end.

  Then Father Denis would chime in, “The people do not wish to know the theological apologetics behind the rejection of the concept of the Elect, Father Jonathan. Neither do they wish to debate the finer points of catechism or Aquinas. They love God. God loves them. Their faith is a beautiful and simple thing.”

  Yes, yes - but.

  Father Jonathan would also be thwarted in his criticism of the church, “It is ridiculous that the church tithes are obligatory for all Frenchmen - and these funds are paying the salaries of the sons of nobility, who do not perform the sacraments – or any other clerical function, for that matter.”

  There was never a quick reply after such outbursts. Usually either Father Cyrille or Father Méthode would speak first after a pregnant silence, “It is best to not speak of such things.”

  “Yes, but why?” Father Jonathan would say, nearly shouting, frustrated, aggravated, annoyed at the corruption and lack of desire for change.

  “Power and greed corrupt,” Father Aurélien had once said in reply, “France is a Catholic nation, by decree. Therefore, the church is powerful, and has access to mandatory tithes. These things are like the scent of blood to the unscrupulous. But this does not affect the congregation, for the lower ranks of the priesthood serve God, and not themselves.”

  “How can it not affect the congregation? How can the congregation perceive a corrupt institution, and find it in their hearts to believe in it – or us? How can the corruption of the church be the will of Christ?”

  Feet shuffled, throats were cleared. Father Cyrille spoke, “It is best to not speak of such things.”

  Father Denis, the smartest of the lot - but just as conservative – always spoke last, “Father Jonathan, we do not mean to insult Christ. It is simply this: the congregation gains too much, being the beneficiary of a moral Christian state. Attracting corruption is a small price to pay. If we were not a Christian state, imagine the disintegration of culture, the resulting social chaos, and the true suffering that would ensue. The nobles who take high titles in the church do not come anywhere near a congregation. They perform no work, affect nothing, and they are never seen. We are the church, not them.”

  “Do the ends then justify the means?” asked Jonathan, trying as best he could to keep his voice down. “Are we then Machiavellian, serving God in the devil’s way?” There was another silence, but Jonathan broke it himself, “I am always told that I read too much, that I am a good son of a horrible age, and rather should be one wholly of the church. But reform should be ever minded, as repairs on the foundations of buildings are never ignored, except by the most impoverished or lazy. Are we so penniless or lethargic that we ignore our own foundations? We must always weed out corruption. We must always be mindful of our spiritual foundations. To do otherwise would be to betray Christ. The moment we believe any kind of corruption should be tolerated, we completely undermine the reason for our existence. For if the congregation does not trust us, we can fulfill no function in their lives. The goodwill of the congregation must always be paramount, even if we are the ones sacrificed on the altar to achieve it.”

  Aurélien spoke again, “You are young.”

  Jonathan’s blood was pumping so hard he could barely see. He nearly whispered, to hide his rising emotion, “How so, Father?”

  “We are at war. The devil has only one goal - to destroy the church. There are certain accommodations to be made in the winning of it. We must be strong, and close ranks, for he will use any opening to destroy us, even an attempt at reform.”

  Jonathan rubbed his face, “Can he not use corruption and complacency to do the same?”

  Father Cyrille spoke, “We have other, more pressing problems. Some of the peasants, while attending Mass, are using the Orans Posture during the Our Father.”

  The Orans Posture was to stand, bend one’s elbows, and hold your palms facing skyward. It was utterly inoffensive - except in regard to the most esoteric, legalistic arguments of theological minutiae regarding the sacrament of the Eucharist.

  “It’s shocking, but it’s true,” admitted Father Méthode, “I have seen it with my own eyes. Not only that, when questioned, they do not know why it is wrong, and argue.”

  Father Cyrille’s eyes went wide, “It is the dreaded double ignorance of Socrates! It is not being aware of one’s ignorance while thinking that one knows!”

  Father Aurélien spoke quickly, “All of you are missing the point. The congregation should not be saying the Our Father during Mass at all - only the celebrant priest. Our Bishop should be ashamed. It is preposterous.”

  It was no use.

  But there was one person with whom Jonathan met where great things were discussed, and the process was neither irritating or frustrating. Estelle Guerrier’s mind was sharp, and she could disagree in a way that favored more discussion and argument. They would laugh frequently and learn from each other. She had begun their relationship hanging on his every word, and reading every book he mentioned. She had now practically surpassed him in knowledge and organization of thought. He was not threatened by her amazing ability - no one could ever feel threatened by Estelle Guerrier. He was rather proud of her, and honored to be her friend. He talked with her after his disastrous meeting.

  “Yes, you are right, Father. But things must move slowly,” she said with her beautiful smile, showing the gap in her teeth.

  “Must they?”

  “Slow is always better, even if it is frustrating. Important actions must be undertaken… like the building of a roof, with patient attention to detail. A roof needs to last a long time, and has an important purpose that is difficult to achieve. Or, better yet, think like a farmer.”

  “In what way?”

  “A farmer cannot simply say ‘water is good for crops.’ There are some plants that can take all the water you can give them, others will die quickly with the same treatment. There are a million types of flora. They are affected by soil, water, sunlight, temperature, altitude, and incline. It is always best to slowly test any change in those factors, or else the plants will die. Change must be slow to prevent hurt - with mankind, even more so than plants, for we are more precious. Yet we neglect ourselves sometimes, because we are so resilient, even whilst we take great care with our flowers,” she laughed, and everything was right in the world.

  “How does one slowly root out corruption?”

  “The problem is not the fact that France is a Christian nation. The problem, I believe, is the mandatory tithe. It is the power to gather money that corrupts the church.” She had a way of saying such things that did not offend. From her tone, she was not a teacher, not arrogant or condescending. Rather, she was a mischievous co-conspirator.

  He agreed. “Without the mandatory tithe, we can keep everything important, and weed out the salary seekers.”

  “Yes, but we ask a lot of the cloth. If nearly everyone of high rank in the church is a noble, collecting salary whilst they play cards in Versailles, why would those self-same people rule on the elimination of their own salary? It is their only reason for joining the clergy.”

&n
bsp; “So, what is the solution?”

  “People like you must attain position, and while you do, not be corrupted by the process.”

  “And which of those conditions is the most difficult?”

  “For someone like you, the first. Such a revolution would entail much luck and timing. There must be a legion of Father Jonathans across France, moving in the same direction. You must start a conspiracy for Christ to achieve your worthy goals.”

  Father Jonathan was stunned. A girl almost ten years his junior had just changed the entire focus of his life. He should not have been surprised - it was Estelle Guerrier, after all.

  Father Jonathan came up with a plan, and went to his immediate superior, Brother David. He told him everything. He was excited, and his enthusiasm must - must- have been contagious.

  Brother David finally spoke, “A generation goes, a generation comes, yet the earth stands firm forever.”

  He was quoting Ecclesiastes. This did not bode well. That particular part of scripture was a sword into the heart of man’s vanity. Was Father Jonathan engaging in vanity?

  Brother David continued, “What was, will be again, what has been done, will be done again, and there is nothing new under the sun. Take anything which people acclaim as being new: it existed in the centuries preceding us. No memory remains of the past, and so it will be for the centuries to come - they will not be remembered by their successors.”

  “Do you prevent me from doing this, Brother David?”

  “No. Do as you will.”

  And so he did. Father Jonathan wrote twenty letters a day - whether he was sick, tired or busy - from that day forward. He wrote to the priests he knew regarding his ideas, and asked them for more names - then he wrote the priests he did not know. He called out for warriors against corruption, men who knew the removal of the parasites would only make the church stronger. The elimination of the mandatory tithe would actually provide a better living for the average curé and abbé, for the funds would be spent where they should, and not be the ante for a Versailles gambler’s pot. Jonathan knew what he wanted would be difficult to achieve, but if anything in life changes, it is circumstance and opportunity. And Estelle was his knight’s lady - in his heart, he carried her colors, and could weather the long, hard fight with the inspiration of her favor.

  Father Jonathan was a man of ferric moral character. He not only strove to be appropriate in every circumstance, he would judge people and situations beforehand, and prepare himself morally and ethically for any challenge. His actions as a priest, if he were to be judged solely on his actions, had been wholly and completely honorable, if not commendable.

  But that would not be the entire story.

  He had come to realize that he was in love with Estelle, and had been for some time. Considering how he lived his life, this should not have come to pass - but Estelle was a poniard that had found the space between the plates of his armor. When they first met, she was little more than a child really, but on the verge of womanhood. He had no fear of her whatsoever, for all good men look upon children in an honorable manner without thought or effort. But when she was a young, he had deeply connected with her as a person. He liked and respected her. They developed an easy humor between them, laughed frequently, and experienced joy together. Then, unfortunately for Jonathan, Estelle suddenly blossomed into full womanhood. Her freckled face lost its childhood fat and now had lovely angles. Her breasts were large but well-shaped, and she had wide slim hips. There was no modest fashion, even the burka of the Bedouin, that could hide such a figure.

  Perhaps that would not have been a problem, except Estelle seemed to enjoy and appreciate any and all attention he gave her, and - at least in his heart - he crossed a line. He believed only social mores and personal ethics prevented utter chaos when men and women arrive at a certain age. But Jonathan had let her inside his heart, totally and unconditionally, because she was young - and then she became a woman: an object of love, lust, companionship and motherhood. It was only then, when it was too late, that he realized their ages were not so far apart as he had thought, and that he had greatly erred. Father Jonathan had not foreseen the implications of Estelle’s age. He found he had no defense, or rather, his defenses were formidable, but she was already past them. He wanted her, he was in love with her - utterly, completely, and totally. It was perhaps the worst thing a priest could realize, but for some reason the terrible reality did not vex him for a very simple reason.

  He silently thanked God that it was Estelle Guerrier who had captured his heart. She was a tower of spiritual strength. His vows were safe.

  Even fully aware of his feelings, and perhaps growing aware of their intensity, he knew he would not act upon them. But he also knew he was just a man. If Estelle did anything at all to indicate she felt the same way - and, to his mind, to think she did was absurd - he would fall. He would fall hopelessly and be a priest no more. It would be a tragedy, it would haunt him forever, but he knew his feelings. When he was around her, he could be set on fire with a torch - and feel nothing but the joy of being near her. But when she was gone, when the world turned dark once again, the betrayal of his oaths would crush him like a weight falling from the sky - until she appeared again.

  That would not be a good life. They both deserved better.

  But it was Estelle Guerrier, thank God. If he was not strong, she would be. And she was certainly not the type to have such improper feelings as he did.

  He smiled, glad to see her again amongst the congregation, and began the sermon.

  Estelle tried to listen, but her whole being was elsewhere. Father Jonathan was her dearest friend. He had communicated with every school in France, and finally saw her brother shipped off to the university school at Grenoble. Guillaume had become a different person attending school. How could Estelle ever thank Jonathan for saving her twin? Father Jonathan was the greatest man she had ever met. He was kind, honorable, giving, gentle, intelligent, handsome and compassionate. He was her Johann. At first, it was perhaps her imagination - but she came to realize Father Jonathan was far more precious than she could have imagined Johann to ever be.

  After mass, Estelle was besieged by half the congregation, and her father rolled his eyes and walked off without her. The villagers had beaming smiles on their faces, overjoyed to see her again. She had no idea she had made such an impression. Father Jonathan stopped outside the ring of people, “Welcome back, Estelle. You have certainly been missed,” he said as he motioned toward the crowd.

  Estelle returned the smile, “It is good to be back, Father. I have truly missed all of you as well.”

  Father Jonathan smiled again, and walked on. To all eyes, everything was as it had always been.

  That night, Jonathan could not sleep. There was nothing he could do. He noticed the moon was full, and there were no clouds or wind. He went for a walk in the silvery darkness, bound and determined to exhaust himself so he could sleep.

  Two miles later, he passed Estelle, walking quickly with a determined grimace on her face. They greeted each other warmly but curtly, and kept walking in their separate directions. It was strange that two close friends would be so perfunctory with each other.

  The next day, Estelle went to Chapelle-Saint-Florent and visited Father Aurélien, whom she knew well. He was tending his garden, and she kneeled to help him. He was patient, and waited for her to speak.

  “Father, I am in need. I wish to secure a position. Perhaps as a governess. Something. It doesn’t matter.”

  “In Chapelle-Saint-Florent?”

  Estelle sighed, “Anywhere, really.”

  “Anywhere?”

  “Yes, Father. Anywhere but within a league of Saint-Florent-le-Vieil.”

  He stopped his ministration in the dirt, straightened, and looked at her. “Why? What has happened?”

  “Truthfully?”

  “As you will, Estelle.”

  “I am in love. I am in love with Father Jonathan Courgeon, and I think he with me. Ou
r actions have been nothing but honorable, and we have never spoken of this. I don’t know if he knows of my feelings, but I have no doubt of his, though he has tried to hide them, as any honorable man in his position would do. Despite his best intentions, they are as plain to me as a sunrise. Please help me in getting as far from his parish as humanly possible, and as quickly as possible, before our salvation is thrown into dire jeopardy by the folly of our sinful hearts.”

  He nodded, and spoke evenly, “You will be gone before high mass on Sunday. Make all arrangements.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Father Aurélien nodded, “He is young, Father Jonathan.”

  “Please understand, our actions and words have been nothing but honorable, as priest and parishioner should be. Father Jonathan is a gift from God to Saint-Florent-le-Vieil.”

  “I understand, Estelle.”

  “Please do not think ill of us, Father.”