“It’s not the organ work,” Koesler said. “Or, well, actually, it’s the amount of organ work.”
“Huh?”
“This morning we had a Requiem Mass.”
“Yeah, I know. Are you upset ’cause I put half the Dies Irae in a monosyllabic monotone? If the whole thing is chanted the way it’s written, it takes all day.”
“No, it isn’t that. This is your first Requiem. You probably aren’t aware of the rubric for a Requiem High Mass. The organist is allowed to play only—only—to accompany the singing. You’re strictly limited to accompaniment alone. This is only a word for the future. I’m sure you didn’t know that rule; very few people do.”
“I knew it.”
“It’s probably one of the least known rubrics in—What?”
“I know you’re not supposed to play the organ except to accompany the singing. In a Requiem High Mass.”
For a few seconds, Koesler was speechless.
“You knew?” he asked finally.
“Yeah, I knew. I pay attention in Father Flynn’s chant class. I thought he knew what he was talking about from the first day. One of the first things he told us was that if we got ordained, and, inevitably, we were to sing a high Mass—starting with our first Solemn High Mass the day after we are ordained—the rubric in the missal is not going to read, ‘Can the priest sing?’ or, ‘Is it safe to let the priest sing?’; it just says, ‘The priest sings.’”
“But”—Koesler’s tone was one of disbelief—”you knew about playing the organ during a Requiem Mass …”
“Uh-huh. Just like I said. I knew.”
“Then why, if I may ask, were you playing it when there wasn’t any singing?”
Delvecchio shrugged. “But I only played it during Communion time.”
“The rubric doesn’t say, ‘The organ may be played for accompaniment only—with the exception of Communion time.’”
Delvecchio was beginning to be ambivalent. He did not appreciate being quizzed as if he were a child. On the other hand, he admired Bob Koesler in many ways.
“Look, Bob: For a lot of these kids the novelty of going to Mass every day wears off pretty quick. They pay better attention to what’s going on as long as there’s something going on. Even in a Requiem Mass there’s something to focus on most of the time. Except for Communion—it takes one priest a long time to give Communion to roughly two hundred people. And while that’s going on, the only sound is feet shuffling down the aisle. It’s tough for the counselors to keep the kids in line. I think it helps if the organ is going … don’t you? I mean, don’t you, really?”
Koesler exhaled in frustration. “The point is not that organ sounds can soothe the savage camper. I tend to agree with you that it does. But the point is, the rule directs that there’ should be no music played at a Requiem High Mass except to accompany singing. The rubric makes no exception. That’s the point.”
“‘The guys who made up that rule were never counselors at a boys’ camp!” Delvecchio was becoming heated.
Koesler reflected that heat. “I happen to be music director here. And I say we keep that and all other rubrics in our liturgies.”
“Well, for Pete’s sake, Bob, I didn’t know we were dealing with the greatest evil, the unforgivable sin.”
Koesler turned in disgust and walked away. After a few steps, he turned his head and, while continuing to walk, said, “On second thought, Vince, maybe you ought to get in the ring with one of the campers … one of the big campers.”
4
The Present
Father Koesler was blushing ever so slightly. At this stage in life, in retrospect, he considered the argument between Delvecchio and himself childish. Especially on his part. And it embarrassed him not only to recall the incident but especially to confess it to Tully.
But Father Tully was chuckling. “I’d have to agree with Delvecchio: Fooling with the organ during a Requiem Mass probably isn’t the ultimate sin of despair.”
“Especially,” Koesler agreed, “when you consider today’s liturgies: There’s virtually no distinction between ‘high’ or sung, and ‘low’ or spoken. But there still are rubrics.”
“Not many. And particularly guys my age and younger aren’t uptight about adapting the liturgy to the occasion.” Tully sat back in his chair, reflecting on the drastic changes in liturgy that followed Vatican Council II.
“I can remember quite vividly,” Tully said, “how tight everything was then: hands extended, facing each other at shoulder position and distance. The whispered words. The directed gestures. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was left to chance or choice.
“Oh, not that there weren’t priests who veered from the rubrics. But most of them were just playing out their own idiosyncrasies. Every single thing that went on in the Mass of yesterday was spelled out in precise detail.”
Koesler nodded. “I’m getting thirsty. What would you say to some iced tea?”
“Iced tea?” Tully thought for a moment. “Did you make it, Bob?” He remembered all too well a couple of cups of coffee brewed by Father Koesler. They had been indescribably unpotable.
Koesler smiled. He was aware that his guests hardly ever finished a cup of his coffee. His tea, however, did not live in like infamy. “Mary O’Connor made the tea, Zack. Want some?”
“Sure.” Tully had learned quickly that Mary O’Connor could be trusted to run the whole parish, not to mention make a beverage or snack. He found it unfortunate that Mary was going to follow Koesler into retirement.
Father Robert Koesler had met Mary when he was named pastor of St. Anselm’s in a Detroit suburb almost thirty years before. She had been parish secretary for his predecessor. Mary and Koesler were eminently compatible.
Mary would have long since retired, but she had determined to stay with it as long as her priest-friend did.
Father Tully well knew that finding anyone the equal of Mary would be to stumble across perfection. At least Mary had agreed to stay on until a successor could be found.
The two priests went to the large kitchen where their paragon was busily preparing for the arrival of the caterers. She poured the tea as they exchanged small talk. The priests, glasses in hand, then returned to the living room.
Tully rattled the ice cubes, coaxing them to melt.
Koesler stood at the window, his back to Tully, and contemplated the impressive buildings, many of which had been erected since his arrival at the old parish.
“By the way,” Koesler said, without turning, “I believe you said Bishop Delvecchio was giving you a difficult time?”
“I’ll say!”
“What’s the trouble?”
“He keeps bugging me about taking the Profession of Faith and the Oath of Fidelity.”
Koesler turned to face the other priest. “Profession of Faith and Oath of Fidelity? Oh, yeah; I think I remember now. When we became pastors, we were supposed to take the ancient Oath Against Modernism—which was a very poor relic of the nineteenth century. It was like promising to remember dinosaurs. Then this new thing came into effect. How long’s it been? Something like nineteen eighty-nine, wasn’t it? I didn’t pay much attention ’cause I was sure this would be my final pastorate and I never would be expected to deal with them. So, forgive me: Are they a real problem?”
Tully nodded. “They’re a real problem. I guess,” he added after a moment, “it depends on how seriously you take them. The good bishop was kind enough to send me copies. Want to hear some of the more ear-catching parts?” At Koesler’s nod, Tully rose and walked to the file cabinet in one corner of the living room.
Koesler felt a sudden twinge. It wasn’t Tully’s file cabinet; it was his, Koesler’s!
For an instant, he forgot that he had emptied the cabinet of his effects several days ago—part of his gradual leavetaking of Old St. Joseph’s. Little by little he was gathering his things.
He found the process more wrenching than he had anticipated. Fortunately, the rectory had lots of ro
om for storage, as boxes multiplied like coat hangers in a closet. All this because Koesler had not yet made a firm decision as to where he would live in retirement.
There was time.
Tully fingered through papers in the top drawer, found what he wanted, and returned to his chair. “I suppose we can start with the Profession of Faith. It’s by far the more familiar. That’s ’cause the main body of the Profession, as you probably know, is simply the Nicene Creed.
“Now I’ve got no problem believing in God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And no problem with the Resurrection, forgiveness of sin, and eternal life. As I said, that, pretty nearly, is the Creed. But somebody in Rome tacked on an addendum. Get this: ‘With firm faith, I believe as well everything contained in God’s word, written or handed down in tradition and proposed by the Church—whether in solemn judgment or in the ordinary and universal magisterium as divinely revealed and calling for faith.’
“That’s not all,” Tully continued.“‘I also firmly accept and hold each and every thing that is proposed by that same Church definitively with regard to teaching concerning faith or morals.
“‘What is more, I adhere with religious submission of will and intellect to the teachings which either the Roman Pontiff or the college of bishops enunciate when they exercise the authentic magisterium even if they proclaim those teachings in an act that is not definitive.’”
Tully lowered the paper and looked at Koesler. “How about that!”
Koesler shook his head. “Doesn’t leave much room, does it?”
Tully rose and began pacing slowly. “According to that statement, there isn’t any practical distinction between infallibility and the ordinary teaching office of the Church.
“‘… whether in solemn judgment or in the ordinary and universal magisterium …’” he repeated slowly.
“To be perfectly frank, Bob, I don’t think this document is being very fair toward the Church. What sort of institution will not leave a margin for error? And, since the framers of this Profession believe that this stuff is part of the deposit of faith—that it goes right back to the beginning of Christianity—it covers things like usury—condemning money lending—and Galileo—and earth being the center of the universe—and evolution—and on and on.
“And it also includes today’s concerns: like women priests, a married priesthood, birth control … etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.” He shook his head. “The Church has reconsidered … and it will have to reconsider again.
“But what are we supposed to do?” Tully raised his hands in a gesture of frustration. “Form our faith and morals along with the Church and then change our minds with the Church? And do we do all this whether the teaching is infallible or not? What’s the point of having infallibility”—he threw up his hands again—”what does infallibility stand for, if we’re not going to make a practical distinction between ordinary and infallible teaching? I suppose the antonym of ‘infallible’ is ‘fallible.’ But the way this document is written, the Church has two ways to be right! And no way to be wrong!”
A feeling of relief permeated Koesler’s mind. He understood and could sympathize with much of Tully’s argument. But, bottom line, it was not Father Koesler who would be asked to make this Profession of Faith. Regardless, he would not shy from helping Father Tully make up his mind what to do. The important thing was that Tully be the one to decide the response to this demand.
But, Koesler recalled, there were two documents that required a new pastor’s external assent. “What about the other statement … the Oath of Fidelity?”
Tully again picked up the paper from which he had read. “There’s more, all right. But to my mind the damage was done by the Profession of Faith.”
The rectory was now in shadow. Tully switched on the lamp next to his chair. “I’ll just read you the salient parts.
“‘In carrying out my charge, which is committed to me in the name of the Church, I shall preserve the deposit of faith in its entirety, hand it on faithfully and make it shine forth. As a result, whatsoever teachings are contrary I shall shun.
“‘I shall follow and foster the common discipline of the whole Church and shall look after the observance of all ecclesiastical laws, especially those which are contained in the Code of Canon Law.’
“And finally, ‘With Christian obedience I shall associate myself with what is expressed by the holy shepherds as authentic doctors and teachers of the faith or established by them as the Church’s rulers …’”
Tully let the document flutter to the floor as he looked up dejectedly at Koesler.
“That’s it?” Koesler asked.
Tully was surprised. “That’s not enough?”
“Oh, it’s enough, all right.” Koesler took a chair opposite Tully.
“To tell the truth, Bob, this bothers me more than I’ve let on. And we’re getting closer all the time to the point of no return.”
“How’s that?”
“I take it that when you accept that document making you a Senior Priest”—here, Tully did a better-than-passing imitation of Delvecchio’s voice. “‘We do not speak of retirement from the priesthood’”—now he returned to his own voice. “in effect you will be a Senior Priest. In effect, you will retire, too.”
Koesler laughed at the mimicry. “I don’t get the impression that it works all that automatically. I mean, it’s not like Australian tag team—where one wrestler tags his partner and then takes over the match. There’s probably a little room to breathe.
“But, yes, I don’t think they expect me to linger here for months—or even weeks.”
“Okay, so it’s not tonight. But sometime very soon, I’m going to be face to face with a Profession of Faith and an Oath of Fidelity. And, frankly, Bob, I don’t know what I’m going to do. But it sure looks as if the ball is in my court.”
There was silence as both priests considered the situation.
“This is awkward, isn’t it?” Koesler said finally.
“You betcha!” Tully confirmed.
“Your appointment should be published soon in the Detroit Catholic. And of course the parishioners here have been informed for at least several weeks. Most of them are familiar with you from your stay last year.” Koesler paused. “These papers—the Profession and Oath—they are the only problem facing us?”
“Absolutely. I mean, I prayed over this move for months before deciding to come here. I really loved the folks in Dallas. It was painful to leave them. And that option is closed since the Josephites have already named my successor. I can’t go back to Dallas.”
“I hesitate to ask,” Koesler said, “but do you have anyplace to go?”
“What?”
“This requirement isn’t just for Detroit. It’s Canon Law. Wouldn’t you run into the Profession and Oath no matter where you went?”
Tully smiled, but without warmth. “I’d bet my bottom dollar I’d have no problem finding a Josephite superior who would take a benevolent approach to this canonical demand.”
Koesler was silent briefly. He looked at Tully with genuine sympathy. “Have you given any thought to refusing this parish and returning to the Josephites?”
“Sure. But it’s a kind of Catch-22. I want to be a part of my brother’s life. He’s the only close family I have. This is a good parish with lots of exciting possibilities. The more I want it, the more ominous those oaths are.
“It comes down to this, Bob: Just what sort of person is Delvecchio? Is it possible to negotiate with him? Can he bend? What might make him sort of lenient? Is there a chance? Is there any hope?”
Koesler lowered his head, then turned to gaze out the window.
“I know, Bob, you can’t make my decision for me,” Tully said after a minute. “And I don’t expect you to. But to come to a fully informed conclusion, I need reliable backgrounding, dependable information. I’ve got to know if I have a chance with this guy.
“And I’ve got to say, Bob, that those stories you told me about Delvecchio
were more confusing than anything else. Based on them alone, Delvecchio comes across as a crashing liberal with a quick wit. As a matter of fact, the villain of those pieces is you: You not conscious of your duty as a lifeguard, you insisting on the letter of a ridiculous rule.
“While Delvecchio is inventive and imaginative. Somebody who recognizes a ridiculous law when he sees one.” Tully tried to smile, but couldn’t quite muster one. “What’s up?”
Until having this conversation, Koesler had been chiefly concerned with his own immediate future.
Of course he would have to find a place to live. Senior Priests were expected to move from the parish they were currently serving. An ultimate destiny was theirs to find and establish. The thinking was that if a retiring priest remained in his current parish, parishioners would still seek him out for advice, consultation, and/or support, rather than properly looking to his replacement.
Thus, moving away was intended as beneficial to the retiring priest as well as his successor.
In addition to arranging for a new home—no small consideration in any case—Koesler was becoming intrigued with the thought of a new lifestyle. What would it be? Certainly far different from anything he had experienced to date. There were so many avenues. Many Seniors helped out with weekend ministries at one or at several parishes. That way the priest could keep his hand in. It was also a source of supplementary income—for many, the sole such source.
And there were other avenues. By the age of retirement, priests had made so many acquaintances, formed so many friendships, established so many second families. There would be time now to enjoy these relationships. There would be time now to be of greater presence and service to them.
These and many similar speculations had occupied Koesler in recent weeks.
Now, leaning on the wealth of his experience, Koesler was able to detect the turmoil churning deep in Tully. The younger priest had kept his inner conflict hidden. But as the time for a decision loomed, Tully was near to panicking.
Koesler wanted to help. And it was clear what form that help would be. From his experience, he could provide almost exactly what Tully wanted and needed: accurate information on what made Bishop Delvecchio tick.
The Greatest Evil Page 3