Till Death

by William X. Kienzle

  “I’m not sure I have this all straight,” Peggy Becker said, “but isn’t that something that’s going on now? I don’t mean getting the laity more involved. Personally, I have lost enough of my husband to the Church. I do not intend to lose him completely.”

  Unsure how irritated she was about her husband’s generous contribution in time and money, most of the guests chuckled politely.

  “What I’m getting at,” Peggy continued, “is supplying instant priests.”

  “Instant priests!” Tom exclaimed.

  “Those Anglican or Episcopalian priests who are entering the Catholic Church. Aren’t many of them becoming Catholic priests?” Peggy said.

  “The Anglican converts.” In Father Tully’s tone there was no question. “There aren’t that many of them. It’s sort of like applying a Band-Aid to a ruptured elephant.”

  That got a laugh.

  “Besides,” Tully said, “most of them feel more at home in the Catholic Church that doesn’t allow women priests.”

  Casserly, about to add a word, noticed that Harry Morgan was almost salivating in his eagerness to lead a charge. Rick was interested in the direction Morgan’s conservatism would take. He knew that, on the one hand, conservative if not traditional Catholics looked on the Protestant Churches in general and the Episcopalians in particular as heretical and separated from the Pope and thus from the “One, True, Catholic and Apostolic” Church. (He chuckled to himself, recalling that some wags always added to the four marks of the One True Church, another mark, making it “One, True, Catholic, Apostolic, and Bingo.”)

  On the other hand, Rick knew also that such Protestant crossovers have, by their lights, one of the best reasons for leaving their sect and becoming Catholic. Such action was ipso facto a strong protest against a female clergy of any sort, whether deaconesses, priests, or, saints preserve us, bishops. The Anglicans, the Presbyterians have all of these. Meanwhile the Pope stands firm: Only those who resemble Jesus Christ can be His priests. Besides, Jesus chose twelve men to be his Apostles.

  This could have posed a dilemma for Morgan.

  If Casserly had to bet on the outcome, Morgan would side with those who opposed women clergypersons. And he would, if he had to, tolerate the Episcopalian clergy’s bringing with them their families.

  Morgan wagged a finger at Father Tully. “That, young man, is perhaps the most forceful argument against a female clergy. Our sympathy with these men leads us to accept them and even their wives and children rather than see them forced to share their priesthood with a bunch of women. Imagine having to concelebrate the Eucharist with women priests!” Morgan fairly spat out the last two words.

  Anne Marie Tully caught her husband’s eye and lifted her empty wineglass. He nodded and went to the shelf where the booze still rested.

  Outside of a few initial pleasantries, Zoo and Anne Marie had not contributed to the principal conversation, even though most of the heated verbal exchange sprang from around their table. The couple’s dearth of contribution was due partly to the fact that neither could get a word in edgewise and partly because both were out of their league when it came to the inner workings of the Catholic faith.

  As if reminded that there was more liquor available, Rick Casserly followed Zoo to the wet bar. A journey noted by Father Koesler; he watched as Rick eschewed ice, let alone water, and poured himself a Scotch, neat.

  En route back to his seat, Casserly stumbled. No damage done; he didn’t even spill his drink. But Koesler resolved to get between Rick and the alcohol supply. If he drained his present glass he would likely be a candidate for a volunteer chauffeur.

  “It would be a sad, sad mistake,” Morgan persisted, “to think that the few Episcopal converts could possibly fill the ranks that have been left vacant by our turncoats who have abandoned their posts.” As he finished he was staring directly at Anderson. Who, in turn, gazed back unflinchingly.

  “Turncoats!” Peggy exclaimed. “Isn’t that a rather strong term for those who leave the active ministry?” Not to embarrass her husband, she determined to moderate her comments concerning Jerry Anderson.

  “Ask one!” Morgan’s glare had not swerved from Anderson.

  “What?”

  “He means me,” Anderson said.

  “I don’t understand,” Peggy looked around the room, seeking clarification from her fellow guests. “He can’t be referring to you, Father. Oh, excuse me, I guess I can’t stop using your title. But, still, it’s not you. We read about you in the Detroit Catholic. You asked for a leave of absence!”

  “It’s a euphemism, dear,” Tom Becker said. “Most of the time it means that the priest won’t return.” He felt like patting his wife’s hand, but he was one person—Father Koesler—removed from her at the table.

  “True,” Casserly said. “Nine times out of ten it’s the same as a resignation. But I’m with Peggy: There’s no call to use a pejorative term like ‘turncoat.’”

  “I agree,” Koesler said. “Jerry took one step beyond counseling a pastoral solution. He took a chance and got shot down. It was a bold possibility … but it hardly deserves such a harsh label.”

  “Did you apply for laicization, Jerry?” Casserly asked.

  “Did I apply for it?” Anderson’s tone was sardonic. “I got it!”

  “What!” Casserly exclaimed. “My information is that the Vatican is routinely denying all requests. And you’ve been gone—what?—something like five years!”

  “The die was cast the minute I refused to accept suspension. The bishop practically handed it to me over the table.” Anderson paused. “I’m exaggerating. But not much; it was a matter of weeks.”

  “That’s incredible!” Koesler said. “Even in the days—long ago—when Rome was of a mind to grant the request, I never heard of anyone cutting through the red tape as quickly as you did.”

  “I got a boost from the bishop,” Anderson said. “He said he had friends in high places—and he evidently does.”

  “The floodgates are open, do you think?” Father Tully asked.

  “I don’t know,” Anderson replied. “You mean the gateway to getting laicization?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Again, I don’t know. Mine may be a special case. But our Church is strong on the setting of precedent. I think somebody who wanted laicization—if he was in our diocese—might well cite, and argue from, what happened to me.”

  “How is anyone going to know what happened to you?” Father Tully said. “We wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t just told us.”

  “Good question,” Anderson said. “And I don’t know that answer either. It’s way too esoteric for the secular media to be interested in it. And the chancery would prefer that it be hush-hush. I guess the only way it’ll be spread is by word of mouth.”

  No one spoke for several moments. Father Morgan seemed to have curled up in a metaphorical corner to nurse his wounds. Since no one in the group agreed with or even took seriously his condemnation of Jerry Anderson, Harry Morgan beat a strategic retreat.

  “I hope this isn’t too personal,” Father Tully said finally, “but whatever made you go for laicization? Did the bishop bring it up? Did he force you into it?”

  Anderson smiled. “None of the above. It was my idea. He was willing to live with whatever I did, as long as I left the priesthood. He seemed to relish the fact that I was not going to accept a Church penalty. That meant that my ‘leave of absence’ would be permanent. Once that fact was established, it was I who requested the process. He merely expedited it.”

  “But,” Tully persisted, “why you? You couldn’t have had any love for the rules and regulations of Canon Law—not and witness that wedding. I mean, why would you bother with laicization? You felt you needed it? I just don’t understand.”

  Anderson stared at his fingers splayed on the tabletop before him. “Mother. She was so proud of her son the priest. Well, so was I—proud, I mean. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s just that she wasn’t g
oing to understand why I would leave what she sincerely believed was the greatest calling heaven had to offer.

  “I stood a better chance of calming her down if I was okay with the Church. I dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s in the petition. And I got the document which says that while I am ‘reduced to the lay state’ I am still in the good graces of Mother Church. With all that, I can tell Ma that I’m square with the Pope.” His lopsided smile was an ironic one. “Don’t get me wrong. Mother is pretty torn up by everything that’s happened: the Wedding, all the publicity, and all the trouble with the chancery and even Rome. But I gave her the document to read. It sort of mollified her. Fortunately it was in English so I didn’t have to translate from the Latin. I was talking to one of the brethren who left a long time ago. He said the document he got was in Latin.” This time his outright laugh was between a snort and a chuckle. “They stopped doing that ’cause some of the guys didn’t know Latin well enough to completely understand what they were signing.”

  “Getting laicized,” Casserly said, “may prove to be the smartest thing you could do. And not just for your mother’s sake.”

  “How’s that?” Anderson asked.

  “I think you’ll find, Jerry,” Casserly replied, “that, for one thing, you’ll be playing on a level field. People may applaud or deplore your leaving—but you will have kept the rules. They have to give you that. Whatever else you might be, you are a ‘Catholic in good standing.’ So no one has any right to call you a renegade or”—Casserly shifted his gaze to Morgan—“a turncoat. Harry!”

  Father Morgan growled softly. He never should have used that sobriquet. Not that he did not believe that Anderson deserved it and more. Going through the proper channels gave Anderson the appearance of having voluntarily done the proper thing. But inwardly he knew it was all a sham. Oh yes, Jerry Anderson richly deserved to be called turncoat, renegade, hypocrite, and more. But not in this largely sympathetic group. Not at this time.

  One thing about Harry Morgan: He knew on whose side God was, by damn!

  The caterers had long since cleared the last of the dishes, packed up the remnants of the dinner, and gone on their way. They had left bowls and plates of finger food. Koesler noted that Rick Casserly had been snacking on nuts and cheese and crackers. This would not help his weight but it might buffer the booze somewhat.

  “Maybe”—Peggy Becker seemed determined to put a happy face on this evening’s affair—“one day you’ll be able to come back. I know lots of people will miss you. You were—uh … are a good priest. You never know what the future might hold.”

  All of the priests present, except Harry Morgan, gave a collective sigh.

  “True,” Anderson said, “there’s no telling what may happen. But it is highly unlikely that I’ll be invited back.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Peggy pressed.

  “Because,” Anderson replied, “it’s part of the deal. See, a priest applies for laicization. If the Church grants it, then it’s their deal. And they name the game. There is a list of things you can’t do. You can’t teach religious subjects. You can’t do this and this and this. But most of all you can’t come back. Rome shuts the door. Outside of being able to give the sacrament of the sick ‘in case of emergency,’ you can never again function as an active priest.”

  Peg Becker, Zoo, and Anne Marie hadn’t known of this restriction; the others had.

  When no further clarification seemed forthcoming, Lieutenant Tully spoke for the first time in this latest interchange. “Excuse me. If you were talking police procedures, I would be in my element. Now, I’m willing to admit that I’m in strange waters with all the Church rules and regulations. But one thing I can dig: Jerry Anderson seems to say that he won’t or can’t enforce some of these rules. So he’s leaving his position in the Church. That makes sense. If you’re not going to be a cop, don’t wear the uniform. Lots of these things I’ve heard my brother comment on. But there is one thing that really has me puzzled.”

  “What’s that?” his brother asked.

  “You’ve got a priest … no … make that two priests. Both of them decide to quit. One of them goes through all the red tape that the Church seems to require. The Church is satisfied that priest A did it by the book and grants priest A his request.

  “Now you got priest B. He just packs up and leaves. He doesn’t touch the red tape. He’s not playing by the rules.

  “One difference between these two priests is that the one who went though every step the Church wanted can never come back and be a priest again. But the one who just walked away without paying any mind to the drill of leaving, he can somehow, someday, be a priest again.”

  “Maybe,” Father Tully said.

  “Maybe?” his brother repeated. “How would that ever work out in real life?”

  “Supposing,” Zack said, “your priest B who just walked away didn’t actually do anything that would alienate him from the Church. Like he didn’t join some other religion. Or commit some felonious crime. Or, mostly, he didn’t get married. Now, after whatever time … months, years … he wants to come back. He’s never been ‘reduced to the lay state.’ But mostly, he didn’t get married. That’s the biggie. The only thing he’s done wrong is walk away without the Church’s by your leave.

  “In this case, and since there is this God-awful priest shortage, he probably will find some bishop who’ll take him back.

  “Whereas, your priest A has gone through a special process. By solemn decree, he can no longer function as a priest. That’s something that didn’t happen to priest B.

  “So it doesn’t really matter whether the priest who’s been laicized gets married or not. The Church has decreed that, for all practical purposes, he is no longer a practicing priest no matter what happens.”

  Silence.

  The lieutenant began to regret having tried to clearly comprehend the practical consequences of an arcane discipline. “So,” he said, “the guy who does what the Church wants him to do ends up a nonperson. While the guy who thumbs his nose at the rules can be accepted back—full honors.”

  “Yep.”

  Zoo looked around the room. He was aware, as he had been many times during this evening, that he was the only non-Catholic in the bunch. “Don’t you people have a constitution? A bill of rights?”

  The Catholics looked at one another.

  “We have,” Casserly said finally, “laws. We have a body of principles, rules, standards, norms—canons—laws. The Code of Canon Law. At the beginning of the last century we had 2,414 laws. By the end of the last century those had been revised down to 1,752 laws. That’s all we have—laws.”

  “That’s all we need,” muttered Father Morgan.

  “If,” Father Tully said, “we were to have a constitution from which we drew our laws—like the United States has—the next question would be: Who would write the constitution? The way things are now, the same men who wrote the canons would end up writing the constitution. I doubt that the outcome would be very different.”

  The scraping sound came from Tom Becker’s chair as he pushed it from the table. “It’s been a long evening and a long day. We’ve got a long way to go home.”

  Tom proved himself a leader. Everyone began preparations for leaving. There was a lot of handshaking—even on Father Morgan’s part—and promises—mostly empty—to get together again soon.

  Fathers Tully and Koesler led the way up the stairs and to the kitchen door, which opened to the lighted parking lot. When the last of the departing guests had gotten into their cars, Koesler noted they were two shy. “Did you notice,” he said to Father Tully, “that only seven people have left?”

  “Who’s missing?”

  Koesler needed only a moment. “Rick Casserly and Dora Riccardo.”

  “I wonder what’s keeping them?”

  “Let’s see.”

  In no particular haste, the two priests ambled back to the basement. There they found Rick and Dora still seated where
they had been throughout the dinner. To Koesler’s shock, Casserly was sipping from a freshly filled glass. But it wasn’t Scotch, his booze du soir. Wrong color; this was darker. “Watcha got there, Rick?”

  Koesler affected joviality in order to disarm Casserly.

  “Johnnie Walker Black.” Casserly raised his glass aloft as if making a toast.

  “What happened to the Scotch?” Koesler moved in slowly. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and placed it far back on the shelf.

  “You ran out of Scotch,” Casserly explained. “Not exactly the wise thing to do—especially when you invite priests to a party. Fortunately, there was this full bottle of Walker. Fortunately, because if you had run out completely”—he wagged his finger at Koesler—“word would have gotten out!”

  “Well, we’ve learned one thing, anyway,” Tully said.

  “What’s that?” Koesler was moving cautiously toward Casserly’s glass.

  “When Rick gets loaded,” Tully said, “he is a happy drunk.”

  “Hey!” Casserly looked in astonishment at his empty hand.

  “You’ve had more than enough, my friend,” Koesler said.

  “I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with this.” Dora spoke for the first time.

  “Of course not.” Tully was reassuring. “Things just got out of control for Rick.”

  “If it just hadn’t been for that damn boat!” Rick said, slightly slurring the words. He shook his head and lost a few of the cobwebs.

  “Boat? What boat?”

  “Keep it going,” Koesler stage-whispered. “While you keep him occupied, I’ll get these bottles put away.”

  “The boat, the boat, the boat!” He had made an original ditty to go with his original lyric. Neither was very good.

  “Were you on a boat, Rick?” Dora prodded. “Is that where you got that sunburn?”