by Tom Clancy
“Welcome, Father. I assume you are Father Murphy. Has someone died? I thought I heard you say something about the dead.”
“No, I was just thinking out loud.”
“I am Friar Joseph, prior of the Dominican House.” The speaker, in a light cream-colored habit, elderly, thinning gray hair, had come out of a side office. “I’ll show you to your room. You have a cheerful room overlooking the campus. Nothing fancy, however. Sorry, no elevator, you’ll have to walk up three flights.” Every step creaked as the old friar, breathing heavily, reached the third floor, followed by the priest. Bending over to peer out of the window of the small, sparsely furnished room, the friar said, ”You can just barely see the bell tower of the Shrine from here. You’ll be able to hear the bells from the Shrine. They ring every fifteen minutes. Around here, you don’t need a watch which is helpful because we have a vow of poverty. We have no adornments.”
“You mean you don’t even wear wristwatches?”
“No.”
“And of course, no cell phones.”
“No.”
“Tell me,” Murphy asked, “where can I park my car? I brought my car. I want to keep it somewhere around here. I didn’t take any vows involving watches, cell phones or automobiles,” he added with a smirk.
Friar Joseph gave him a quick uncertain glance. “I believe that as a member of the university teaching staff, you’ll be able to park in the faculty lot on the campus. Of course, you’ll have to pay for it, and I understand it’s quite expensive.”
The comment by Friar Joseph about being a member of the teaching staff was the first real indication Father Murphy received of any plans his superiors had for his future.
“We have laundry tubs in the basement. We each do our own. Our off-white habits are difficult to keep clean but are washable. We do it all by hand. We offer up the chore as a furtherance of an eternal reward.”
“Very commendable,” Father Murphy said, all the while thinking there were better ways priests could help mankind and please God than by doing laundry.
“Your starched Roman collar and your other raiment will need professional cleaning from time to time. It’s just a short walk up to Brookland where I am sure you can find a cleaning establishment. We take meals at 7 A.M., Noon and 6 P.M. In order to be served, you must arrive promptly. Of course, since you receive a monthly stipend, you’ll be able to take some or all of your meals elsewhere if you like. The Shrine has a good cafeteria, so I have heard. And a well-stocked religious articles store.”
“That’s something I never quite understood,” Father Murphy said, seemingly itching for an argument—suspicious that this friar was either trying too hard to please Bishop Rhinehart, or perhaps intimidated by the bishop. “Maybe you can explain it. The National Shrine has a gift shop and cafeteria. I thought Christ chased the money changers from the temple.” A slight forced smile crossed his face.
“I’m surprised you do not know the situation,” the friar said, parrying the priest’s thrust. “There’s something you obviously are not aware of, Father. The Shrine church itself begins at the front door. The gift shop and cafeteria are under the long flight of stone steps in front—thus not part of the church.”
*****
Later that day, Father Murphy sat in the prior’s office. Friar Joseph leaned back in his chair trying to get the measure of the priest. “No, I do not know why you were sent here. All I know is that I received a call from Bishop Rhinehart. He asked if you could be housed here temporarily. Since you are a diocesan priest and not a member of the Order of St. Dominic, you understand I am doing this solely as a favor to the bishop.”
“I noted the mention of temporary in his letter to me. What do you think it means?”
“I really don’t know and when I put the same question to the bishop, he did not give me an answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know himself. The only clue I have came when I told him the university has a few positions of Lecturer open.”
“You said that gave you a clue. I don’t understand. What conclusion can you draw from that?”
“Since Lecturer appointments are made by semester, if appointed, I conclude you would be here for at least four to five months. After that, you might even be reappointed.”
Father Murphy’s expression began to soften. It wasn’t much to go on but at least he would be able to see some months down the road. “Am I to have a faculty position?” he asked.
“Not as a Lecturer. It’s tantamount to a part-time teaching position. Without a PhD it’s difficult to attain official faculty status. My understanding is the Language Department needs someone to teach a course in Latin and there is a course opening in the Department of Religious Studies. The latter has to do with world religions with some emphasis on the Ecumenical Movement. These are on a fill-in basis. You appear to be well qualified, so I would think you would be offered an appointment, especially since you come on Bishop Rhinehart’s recommendation.”
“Forgive me,” Father Murphy said, straightening up in his chair, a grimace on his face. “I would have thought that with my pastoral background I would be teaching something like Catholic marriage, or the church’s guidance for raising a Catholic family. Something along those lines. The courses you mention have no pastoral content. They’re secular courses.”
“Kindly remember that I am only providing housing for you. Your appointment will be made by the university departments involved. But I do understand that Bishop Rhinehart informed the university he wanted you to be assigned to teach only secular courses.”
“Did the bishop tell anyone that I spent four years studying at the Gregorian University in Rome?”
“I suppose he did. And that’s why you will probably wind up teaching Latin. Since I understand that many of the programs you had were conducted in Latin, you are obviously proficient in the language.”
“True, but from a practical standpoint it is a dead language. The principal reason for teaching in Latin in some Roman universities attached to the Vatican is that it provides a common language for the clerics who come from all over the world. It’s obvious that the Vatican colleges can’t be expected to teach courses in every language from Dutch to Swahili.” Father Murphy shifted uneasily in his chair. “I wonder if there are really any students interested in learning Latin these days? Even from a religious standpoint, the worldwide church liturgy has almost completely changed to local languages. Since Vatican II, the Latin Mass has become as extinct as the dinosaurs.”
“What you say is not completely true. I’m sure you are aware that a few parishes right here in Washington still offer the Latin Mass because some people want it. The Latin Mass has not been completely discontinued by the Vatican. And you are probably aware that with the Vatican’s approval, Bishop Rhinehart has recently encouraged pastors to return to the traditional Tridentine—Latin Mass.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that. And along with his other objections to any attempts to modernize the church, he appears to be trying to turn the clock back a thousand years.”
With growing restlessness, the priest felt in his pocket for a cigarette then changed his mind.
The friar narrowed his eyes as he leaned forward in his chair, elbows propped on the desk, hands clasped under his chin. “Father Murphy, I can tell you’re upset. Let me give you a word of advice. Two meetings have been set up for you at the university. The first is with Sister Francine, Chair of Foreign Languages; the second is with Doctor Stanton, Chair of the Department of Religious Studies. Things will go much better for you here in the Dominican House and at the university if you will take the chip off your shoulder and do the best you can to follow Bishop Rhinehart’s plan for you. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.”
As Father Murphy rose to leave, he began to regret getting off to a bad start with the prior—someone who might not be in collusion with Bishop Rhinehart—perhaps just an innocent party. “I’m sorry I’ve been disagreeable,” he said apologetically, “but this whole business, m
y parish taken away and the sudden transfer here is difficult to accept. I haven’t done anything that would warrant this kind of treatment. And I’ll tell you honestly, I object to being sent here as a fill-in teacher. I’m just obeying the bishop’s orders. Anyway, for what it’s worth, thanks for letting me stay here.”
*****
Father Murphy felt himself wobbling slightly as he walked behind the altar boy from the sacristy to the altar. He was also disturbed because this was not one of his regular altar boys. He had never seen this altar boy before and he prided himself on knowing the boys and something about their families. Was this boy new in the parish? Did he know the Latin responses? But now it was too late to question him.
The huge altar that loomed above the priest seemed unreal. Sanctuaries typically have one or a few steps leading up to the main altar. This one had eight steep steps. But covered as it was with garlands of flowers set between six tall golden candlesticks, together with the brilliant white tabernacle in the center, the altar struck him as a beautiful sight, one that glorified God.
His slight unsteadiness was a problem, but hadn’t he been able to say Mass many times before when he felt this way? He genuflected to begin the prayers at the foot of the altar, and made the Sign of the Cross as he said aloud, “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” Then he began the opening prayers. “Introibo ad altare Dei.” I will go in unto the Altar of God. The new altar boy stood mute. He looked down at the boy at his side. No response. He found he had to prompt the boy with every Latin response. Surprised and somewhat irritated, the priest then climbed the steps, genuflected and bent over to kiss the altar as he began the Mass. He was saying a Latin Mass the way Mass was said before the Second Vatican Council and the way it had been said for centuries. The priest faced the tabernacle and God, his back to the congregation, placing himself between God and the people, as intercessor for them. This day was the feast of the Assumption of Mary into Heaven and the church was full.
Father Murphy was dismayed as the Mass proceeded because he felt increasingly weak and unsteady. He slurred some Latin words as he struggled through the reading of the gospel. His brother Jonathon came to mind. Was this the onset of the family’s genetic inheritance—Lou Gehrig’s disease?
He was standing in the pulpit. Suddenly his mind was blank. He could not remember the sermon he had prepared. As he began speaking, his sermon was a blur, a simplistic exhortation on the subject of moderation in all things— somehow twisting itself into a discordant plea for moderation in the use of alcohol. He banged his clenched fist repeatedly on the rim of the pulpit surrounding him, making a hammering noise that reverberated through the church. Some of the congregation put their hands to their ears to block the noise. Shocked and disgusted faces stared up at him. He could see heads turned whispering into neighbors’ ears. He knew what they were saying—a priest who most certainly was drunk swayed in the pulpit speaking incoherently about moderation, moderation, moderation, as he looked down through a mental fog at the congregation.
During the consecration of the Mass, he raised the host: “Hoc est enim corpus meum.” This is my body. Repeating Christ’s words at the Last Supper. Next, the chalice containing the wine, arms raised high overhead, head thrown back, eyes staring up through the glass roof of the sanctuary, up through the clouds, up to where God lived. “Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei.” This is the chalice of my blood. While speaking the words of the miracle when the wine is transformed into the blood of Christ, he fell dizzily backwards, tumbling down the altar steps, his vestments twisted around him, pinning him like a straitjacket as he fell heavily onto the cold, grooved ceramic tile floor at the foot of the altar.
The congregation rose as one in horror. The priest’s left temple struck the tiles as the chalice flew out of his hands spewing the newly transformed wine-red blood of Christ across the blue tiles, spilling over the edges of the tiles in miniature waterfalls, and running in thin streamlets along the beads between. Then the blood from the side of his head spurted across the tiles as if to mix his blood with that of Christ. Lying on his side, his head pressed against the floor, nearby tiles grotesquely enlarged, he noted curiously that Christ’s blood flowed away from his blood, rushing to separate like waves retreating from a shoreline in the strong undertow of an outgoing tide. As he lay on the sanctuary floor, he suddenly knew why he had been transferred so abruptly. He was an alcoholic. The Church wanted to be rid of him. Even Christ abandoned him. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
He sat upright on the floor next to his bed. His chest heaved as he broke down sobbing. Sweat covered his face and trickled down his neck into his pajama tops. He must have twisted violently and fallen out of bed. He felt the side of his head for a sign of blood. He looked at his hand. There was no blood. The same dream—over and over, night after night, growing ever more vivid.
*****
“Friar Joseph, how can I help you?” The speaker was Bishop Rhinehart in his office at the chancery, answering the call from the Dominican.
“It concerns Reverend Murphy,” the friar said. “He has us worried. He seems terribly sick.”
“What makes you think he’s sick?”
“In the very short time he has been with us, late at night he thrashes around in bed like a person in the grip of a demon; then, he wakes up shouting and sobbing. His behavior is as one possessed. Further, in our discussions, he comes across as terribly angry.”
“Come now, Friar Joseph. He isn’t possessed. And I would take his anger in stride. I hope you didn’t call seeking permission for exorcism,” the bishop said, trying to pass the whole thing off with a chuckle.
“But, Your Grace, I must tell you, through the night, apparently while he is dreaming, he sobs Jesus’ words on the Cross: ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ He thinks God has abandoned him and Satan has him in his grip.”
“Tell me this, Friar, have you seen his head twist around in full circles?” the bishop asked sarcastically. “Does he spew green vomit or speak in strange tongues?”
“No.”
“Well, until you see such phenomena, let’s stop talking about ‘possession’. This is not the church of the Middle Ages. There may be a few exceptions, but I believe in general that cases of possession can be handled by good psychologists. However, if Father Murphy continues to be a problem, I’ll talk to the cardinal and see if we can have him moved somewhere else. Goodbye, Friar Joseph.”
*****
Sister Francine was genuinely happy to meet Father Murphy. Gray haired, a matronly figure partly hidden behind a desk piled high with paper, she had the look of a person who might have been someone’s sweet grandmother. She wore no habit and, appearances to the contrary, she had a reputation as a tough administrator. Sitting in her cluttered office that resembled a town after a tornado, she smiled broadly at the tall handsome priest and motioned him to a chair. Father Murphy found he couldn’t sit down until he moved the half-dozen books on the chair. “Just toss them on the floor,” she said lightheartedly, laughing.
Do I address her as Sister or Doctor? he wondered, noticing the Ph.D. next to her name on the desk nameplate.
“I’m so happy you’re here. You can help me out of an awful jam. I have no one to teach Latin and I understand you are fluent. The good Lord has delivered.”
“I believe you mean that Bishop Rhinehart has delivered. Can you tell me if there are any students for the first course in Latin?”
“Yes, a goodly number—ten so far.”
“Why so many students interested in a dead language? Only the church has kept it from oblivion. What possible use could it be to the laity?”
Sister Francine did not miss the negative tone in the priest’s questions. “They’re not interested in Latin, per se; they want the language because it is the foundation for the romance languages—French, Spanish and Italian. Their interest is in tracing the roots of the romance languages.”
“I know Latin; that is, Chur
ch Latin and I speak Italian fairly well, but I know nothing about the process that one goes through when tracing roots.”
“The students are expected to trace roots on their own,” Sister Francine explained, her smile disappearing. It was obvious that the priest sitting in front of her wasn’t enthusiastic about the job. “Father,” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall, her pleasant demeanor disappearing, “I don’t have all day. Let’s settle this here and now. It’s take it or leave it time. Which will it be?”
He bristled at being spoken to in that tone by a nun, but he recognized that he was boxed in. The vow of obedience to the bishop came to mind. “I’ll take it,” he said grudgingly as he got up, and giving the nun a forced smile, turned and left the office.
*****
Father Murphy walked across the campus in the direction of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. On earlier visits, he had gawked like the tourists and prayed in the huge basilica. He stopped in front of the wide stone steps leading up to the entrance and gazed up at the eighth largest church in the world. Byzantine architecture. Brilliant blue and gold dome squatting beside the tall bell tower topped with a slender blue pyramid and golden cap. Structure of solid granite. He had learned there was no steel supporting structure to rust over time. Just granite blocks keyed snugly on top of other blocks. Like the pyramids, it was built to last. The architect had talked in terms of thousands of years.
Once inside, he was overawed as always by the vast interior of the nave of the church and the sparkling brilliant colors of the mosaics in the side chapels. He saw no paintings or frescoes. Mosaics, he knew, like the granite structure, could last through millennia. Overhead, high up behind the main altar in the apse a huge round concave mosaic of an angry Christ poised hovering over the world as if He were about to rain fire and pestilence down on the earth. It clearly was anger in the expression. He wondered why Christ was depicted as angry. From the Christian point of view, Christ was seen in a supernatural role voluntarily submitting to punishment and death to atone for mankind’s sins. But none of this divine altruism was evident in the mosaic. Then it occurred to him... why not? From another standpoint, if someone had been betrayed, vilified, scourged and put to death without committing any crime and came awake in an afterlife, anger would be an appropriate reaction, especially so if most of the world just went on sinning.