by Steve Earle
“No!” Father Killen shook his head emphatically. “Graciela isn’t from the neighborhood. She comes from Mexico. Someplace deep in the interior, I should think. She barely even speaks English!” Father Monaghan nodded knowingly but before he could utter any affirmation Killen stopped him. “I know what you’re thinking, Father, but with all due respect to yourself and His Excellency”—he indicated his own correspondence on the desk with a wag of a forefinger—“this is no secondhand fairy story that I’m passing along for your entertainment or my own, and this is no ordinary Mexican girl! I have witnessed one miracle after another, Father … No, I’m not talking about parlor tricks! I’m talking about lives, Father, real people’s lives, not to mention their souls! I have baptized no fewer than four adults in the past six weeks. That’s four new Christians, Father. I’ve confirmed a dozen more who were lost to the streets in their teens, and my catechism classes are bursting at the seams, not to mention the dozens of non-Catholics who turn up at all hours of the day and night. Yes, they’re prostitutes and pimps and heroin addicts. Do you have any idea of the scourge of heroin in my parish, Father? There are those who swear that any woman or man who picks up that poison is doomed, and I believed that too, but that was before I watched in awe as one lost soul after another cast off those chains forever. They come to my church and they ask to light candles and they all say the same thing, that they came because Graciela asked them to. And then they’re gone.”
“Gone?” Father Monaghan asked in a tone somewhere between honest query and exasperation.
“Away! Home! Someplace where they can begin again. Oh, I realize that I can never prove that, Father, but I know in my heart that it’s true. As of yet, not one has returned to the streets, I can assure you. As you say, I’m out there every day—”
“Which brings us to another matter, Father Killen. There have been, of late, several … complaints from your parishioners …”
Father Killen checked the awakening beast within him. In through your nose, out through your mouth.
“What parishioners?”
Father Monaghan took notice of his darkening countenance and proceeded cautiously. “I have no knowledge of any name or names, and even if I had—”
“Then you wouldn’t be disposed to divulge them. How convenient.”
Father Monaghan stiffened. “Father, you forget yourself. I am, after all, His Excellency’s representative in this matter. And His Excellency speaks for the Church and the Holy See, and His Excellency is concerned that you may be neglecting your until recently exemplary ministry to the faithful of your parish and have instead immersed yourself in a self-appointed mission to the miscreants of the adjacent red-light district.”
“South Presa Street is well within the borders of my parish—”
“Your parish, Father, is your parishioners.”
“And Graciela is one of those parishioners, as are all of the fallen who find their way back to the fold! What’s more, I have neglected no duty that I’m aware of unless the diocese deems it my responsibility to assimilate every petty prejudice of my constituency. It would seem to me that my vocation would be better served by an example of Christian tolerance and forgiveness. It’s not as if I woke up one day and rushed out onto the streets in search of a miracle, Father, and even if I had, South Presa Street would have been the last place on earth I would have looked. These souls, these poor lost souls, by the grace of God found their way into my church. And it was they who led me to Graciela! And not a moment too soon, I might add. Why, it is a miracle in and of itself that the child has survived. Abandoned in a strange country; no family, no friends. Forced to seek shelter in the worst kind of den of iniquity imaginable—”
“A brothel! Then she is a prostitute?”
“No! I have it on the best … uh, authority that she is nothing of the kind. And it’s a boarding house, Father! A seedy boarding house in a seedy part of town, that’s all.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Yes! Well, not inside. Only as far as the front porch. She wouldn’t allow me—”
“Then how do you know what does or does not go on inside?”
“There are stories.”
“Stories?”
“I meant, accounts …”
“Stories, accounts—Father! Do you really expect His Excellency to respond seriously to the frivolous suggestion of the beatification of a—”
“Not beatification, Father. Sainthood.”
“All the more outrageous! A cause of canonization brought by a newly minted parish priest and based solely on the idle gossip of harlots and pimps?”
“Not gossip, Father. Granted, without violating the sanctity of the confessional I can only—”
Father Monaghan audibly gasped and crossed himself.
“I can only ask for your indulgence and beg your pardon if I am unable to divulge the identities of my sources, but make no mistake, Father, there are worse than prostitutes residing in the Yellow Rose.”
“Father Killen!”
“There are thieves!”
“Father Killen, I must—”
“Lesbians!”
“Father Killen!”
“Even an abortionist! An abortionist, Father! A murderer of the innocent operating under the same roof that shelters the blessed girl … yes, Father, blessed, at the very least. And I know whereof I speak, for I have witnessed the difference she makes in the lives of everyone she touches!” Father Monaghan flinched as Killen held out his right hand as proof and then withdrew it when he realized that there was nothing there to show. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Father. But you must believe me: every word of that letter that you hold in your hand is true, and, as God is my witness, the girl Graciela bears the Mark of our Lord!”
Father Monaghan was out of his seat, around the desk, and to the door in less than an instant. Father Killen’s ears popped as the heavy door thudded shut.
“Stigmata,” he hissed, “is yet another word that’s not to be bandied about!”
“I have seen it!”
The older priest was behind him now, grilling him like a teacher who had caught a student not paying attention in class.
“Where? On what part of her body?”
“Her wrist.”
“Aha! Well, as far as I know, every stigmatic recognized by the Church to date has received the Marks in the palms of the hands and the tops of the feet. Some even show the wounds of the spear in their sides and the Crown of Thorns on their heads, but unless I misheard you, this girl has only one?”
“I saw no other, Father. I’ve only met her the one time—”
The older priest leaned over his shoulder like a disapproving teacher. “One time?”
“Yes. But … it was weeks before I could even find the girl.” He considered recounting his confusion when he left Graciela that day but thought better of it. It was a temptation by the devil, he had decided. His final test. “She wouldn’t ask me in, Father, but she came out on the porch and I saw the wound clearly and—”
“And it was on her wrist?”
“It is a fact, Father,” Killen recited, “that by all historical accounts, Roman crucifixions were accomplished by driving the nails through the subjects’ wrists, the tissue and bones in the palms being far too weak to support—”
“By all historical accounts!” mimicked Father Monaghan. “And this being a matter of theology rather than history or science, historical accounts, no matter how credible in the academic world, are irrelevant. In fact, for the purposes of this discussion, the only versions of events surrounding the Passion of our Lord that matter are the Gospels, Father, which, when they mention any wounds at all, clearly state that they were located on the palms of our Savior’s hands. That is hands, Father. Plural. And His feet. Did you see her feet?”
“Feet? I don’t remember,” Killen lied. Graciela had been barefoot. “But I saw the wrist clearly enough and it was just like they all said. On her right wrist, and the blood on the bandage was a vivid s
hade of red and still flowed freely only last week! Graciela received her wound last fall, Father!”
Father Monaghan returned to his side of the desk but remained standing, leaning forward to reengage Killen. “According to whom?”
“My parishioners! Good people. The salt of the earth,” Killen replied.
“That’s right. Simple people, Father. Mostly Mexican people. People who speak English as a second language, if at all.”
Killen shifted in his chair. “I come from the west country, Father. In my corner of Ireland we still speak Irish every day of our lives.”
“And I envy you that, Father. It is indeed a shame that the old tongue was all but dead by the time we drove the English out. But this is America, Father, and the language that’s spoken here is English. There are many among your parishioners who have only recently arrived in this country. They are descended, after all, from primitive people. Savages who only a few generations ago ran naked in the jungle and offered up human sacrifices to pagan gods. They bring along with them not only their language but many customs and superstitions that they insist on clinging to even though they can only encumber their transition into their new lives. Imagine, Father, a New York City or a Boston where the Irish kept to themselves in insular communities. Oh, other immigrants have chosen that path. The Italians. The Jews. But the Irish, Father, have always assimilated even when and where we weren’t initially welcomed. We worked our way up by doing the jobs that no one else wanted. In the mines. In the streets. As policemen and firemen. Even the priesthood, Father. We’ve done our bit as well. It took time but we’ve earned the respect of those that set themselves up as our betters until, well—America may have been discovered by an Italian sailing under a Spanish flag, but the first Catholic president of the United States was an Irishman … God rest his soul.”
Father Killen blinked as if momentarily dazed before allowing that he had admired the president very much. “I’m just not sure,” he ventured, “what all this has to do with my letter.”
“Everything, Father. Everything to do with your letter, your parish, and your parishioners. Your real parishioners. Not to mention your future. Your calling. Your career.”
Killen opened his mouth to react to this latest implication but managed only a pitiful, dry clucking sound as his tongue separated from the roof of his mouth, as impotent as a revolver’s hammer falling on an empty chamber. He slid down in his chair.
Father Monaghan stood over him for a meaningful moment before settling into his own seat. He pushed Killen’s glass back across the desk and refilled his own. “Have you never wondered why an inexperienced parochial vicar not yet out of his thirties would be handed a parish of his own?”
“I … I g-guess,” Killen stammered, “I reckoned that there was no one else to fill the post.”
“On the contrary, there were any number of more experienced priests around the diocese who qualified. And any of them would have been thrilled to have your post. Such a beautiful little church. One of the original San Antonio missions. Father Alvarez, for instance, wanted the position. From Incarnate Word College. He was born here in San Antonio. Grew up in the neighborhood. He told me that he had always dreamed that one day he would be pastor there. There are others. Father Echeverria, the associate pastor at Our Lady of Sorrows. Father Franco. All scholars. All good priests.” He leaned forward and gestured for Killen to do the same, then whispered, “All Mexican.”
“I’m not sure I understand …”
“Take your predecessor.”
“Father Cantu.”
“Yes, darlin’ Father Cantu. A good priest. A good man. A leader in his community. But there’s the rub. His community. His people, Father. Tell me, have you had the opportunity to become acquainted with many of your peers? The other pastors of the diocese, I mean?”
“A few. Father Murray from St. Ann. And I see Monsignor White out at the San Jose mission from time to time …”
“And of the parish priests you’ve met, any Spanish surnames among them?”
“Well, I never gave it much thought.”
“Nor should you. Yours is a higher calling, Father. Unfortunately, for we lowly bureaucrats, it is our lot to delve into the worldly, if not the downright unseemly, from time to time in the course of our duty to God and Church. Our function is often more political, for lack of a more savory term, than spiritual. We leave it to our betters to answer the larger questions of doctrine and theology while we dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Even wash the dishes and take out the trash from time to time … figuratively speaking, that is. What’s important for the purposes of our discussion here today is that Father Cantu’s tenure as pastor of the mission church was an experiment. He was the first Mexican to be elevated to a parish of any size in the modern history of the diocese. Certainly there are a handful of exceptions in small churches along the border. Spanish-speaking congregations, don’t you know. But even they are mostly curates rather than full pastors.”
The word experiment had caught Killen’s attention. His mind was beginning to wander, his awareness divided into two platoons: the first was half listening to Father Monaghan; the second, sensing an imminent setback, was formulating an alternative course of action. “Experiment?” he queried.
“Yes,” allowed Monaghan and then he paused before elaborating. “A failed experiment.” Killen looked no less confused. “Perhaps a more detailed explanation of the political ramifications of the situation is in order.”
“Perhaps,” Killen agreed, wondering if his response sounded sarcastic. What was this popinjay, this functionary on about? Responding to news of a blessed event, a miracle, with politics and protocol!
“Are you aware, Father Killen, of the great events transpiring in Rome?”
“The Second Ecumenical Council.”
“Yes. Vatican Two, they’re calling it. Sounds very modern when they say it like that. And perhaps that’s appropriate when one considers the intended purpose of the council.”
“Well!” Father Killen snorted. “Forgive me, Father, but I’m less than certain that I fully understand its purpose myself.”
“Oh, I see. A traditionalist. Well, fair play to you. I don’t entirely disagree. Tradition is part and parcel of faith. Though I suspect that were we to debate the case in depth, you and I, we would encounter certain … differences. Then again, we are fortunate, still in the prime and vigor of our lives and therefore given to flights of fancy and passion; it is the dominion of older and wiser priests to deliberate such weighty matters. But we have our part to play as well, and make no mistake, modernity is precisely what the council is all about. The modernization, where necessary and theologically feasible, of the Holy Roman Church in order to insure its survival in the modern age. The Church is under attack on all fronts, Father! All over the world congregations are shrinking.”
“On the contrary, I’m seeing new faces every day.”
“An anomaly, Father. You said yourself that most of these new converts disappear after attending Mass a few times. They’re only responding to all these stories that they hear—”
“They are not stories …” Killen was increasingly preoccupied and had begun to half mumble, staring sullenly at the floor.
“Yes, Father, stories! Rumors. Gossip. These are poor people. Uneducated. Their days are difficult and long. It is only natural that they should welcome any distraction from the tedium of their everyday lives. The world is changing so rapidly that they simply haven’t the knowledge or the subtlety to make sense of it all. That is precisely why it is the duty of the Church, of the clergy, our duty, Father, to offer them a semblance of stability in the midst of chaos. Some shelter from the storm. What will happen if we, their spiritual leaders, indulge them in every parochial cult and superstition that catches their fancy in an era when the Church is struggling—yes, struggling, Father—to maintain its relevance? When satellites, miniature moons, Father, made by the hands of men, not God, are circling the globe as we speak? If when a
ll is said and done we are not prepared to guide our flock into the modern world, then what kind of shepherds are we?” Father Monaghan opened a drawer and produced a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and then, strictly as an afterthought, offered one to Father Killen. The younger priest never looked up.
Monaghan shrugged and continued. “Father Cantu was a good priest. He served his congregation well for a generation, but during his tenure the world changed profoundly. The diocese would never have considered replacing him, but when he went on to his reward, much care was taken in choosing his successor. You were his assistant, so you knew the parish. You were energetic and intelligent. And, not to put too fine a point on it, Father Killen, your name didn’t end in a vowel.”
Killen was certain that he must have missed something. “So I got the parish because … I’m Irish?”
Monaghan laughed. “You grossly overestimate my influence, Father. But suffice it to say, you weren’t Mexican and therefore not culturally predisposed to a soft spot for any of the local folklore. The Church in Latin America has, from time to time, found it necessary to draw rather liberal parallels between Catholic tradition and certain indigenous rites, but this is the United States, Father, not Mexico. It is in the interest of the American Church that at least a veneer of modernity be maintained. Imagine, then, our disappointment when we received your letter, fraught with tales of miraculous transformations and healings by the laying on of hands, not to mention the suggestion of a cause for the sainthood, no less, of a young girl from central Mexico. And to think that dear old Father Cantu drew the attention of the diocese for nothing more than devoting himself to the cult of Our Lady of Guadalupe a little too zealously!”
Father Monaghan rattled on but Killen wasn’t listening anymore. He was certain now that no help was forthcoming from the Church; not from this diocese, in any case. It would be up to him and him alone to rescue Graciela from the agents of Satan who held her hostage. He nodded and half smiled and congratulated himself on his mastery of his violent temper. He no longer found it necessary to employ Father Walsh’s breathing technique, even though he could clearly visualize his fist crashing down and stanching the incessant verbiage hemorrhaging from the cleric’s mouth. Once he had successfully affected defeat, he had to withstand the balance of the lecture while maintaining the appearance of acquiescence for only another quarter of an hour before he found himself shaking hands with Father Monaghan at the front door.