by John Ayang
Here he was, Cletus Nicholas McCarthy, a vibrant and brilliant young man, a fine young priest, well-read with a Master of Divinity degree, well beloved by his parishioners, in his priesthood, pastorally effective as that goes—touching and spiritually healing more lives as any other priest and, perhaps, more than most priests who were conceived normally—and, yet, facing a crisis of that magnitude because of the manner of his conception. Did the separation of the unitive and procreative purposes of the sexual act in the process of his conception and the fact that he was conceived in a petri dish and not in his mother’s uterus invalidate his normalcy as a person and the evident effectiveness of his pastoral work as a priest? Was a criminal—say a serial killer—who was conceived through a normal sexual act and in a woman’s uterus a much better child of God than he, Cletus Nicholas McCarthy? If not, then who was the better bang for society’s buck: a serial killer who was begotten through normal sexual intercourse, or a spirit-filled priest who has touched and healed many lives, though produced in the petri dish?
As a Catholic priest, he was expected to uphold and defend Church teaching on the issue. He did just that, and did so loyally until it backfired, as it just did. Suddenly finding himself on the receiving end made all the difference in the way he now perceived the issue. And just as suddenly, he also felt drained of any anger he had previously nursed against the Eshiets for dragging him into court. He thought he would have probably done the same if he were in their situation. He remembered the humorous anecdote of the philosophers of Plato’s academy who were so sure their definition of the human person as a featherless biped was the final say on the matter, until Diogenes, the cynic, threw a plucked chicken over the wall of the academy. Well! There it was before them: a featherless biped that certainly wasn’t human.
Fr. McCarthy felt like Diogenes’s plucked chicken. There he was before Church authorities, a healthy human being and a validly ordained priest who was not begotten, but, rather, produced in a petri dish. Plato’s scholars promptly modified their definition of the human person to escape Diogenes’s mockery. Would the Church modify her view about the technology of IVF? How would the Church hope to convince the world of the immorality of IVF when the only basis of argument is that it separates the unitive and procreative purposes of sex and makes the child a product? What does it mean, for that matter, to say that one person is a product and the other isn’t, when it can equally be said that the child conceived in vitro and the one conceived in utero are both produced by their parents, without infringing on any grammatical rule or the logic of thought? What discernible moral advantage would the regular conception of, say, a serial killer, have over his IVF conception? The barrage of hypothetical questions was making Fr. McCarthy’s head swirl. He caught himself getting angry at the Church for fiendishly and nostalgically clutching impractical doctrines and symbols instead of honestly opening her mind to new realities through research and deep thought. He was even angrier at himself, feeling betrayed that he was made to zealously preach against the very process by which he came into being. He recalled his father’s remark at the Thanksgiving dinner table about the Church one day finding herself trapped in her own ethical maze of dos and don’ts. The very thought that all along, he was defending what was eventually going to crumble under powerful logical scrutiny and overwhelming evidence to the contrary smarted relentlessly. Worst of all, knowing that he was going to be the accidental catalyst of that dissembling was most unnerving. He kicked off his shoes furiously and pulled himself into bed and was beginning to tuck himself in for a forced siesta when he suddenly thought it would be very cruel not to call his parents to see how they were doing.
He pulled out his phone to call his parents, only to discover that they had called several times. Jennifer called about five times and even Uncle John called twice. He had switched off his phone while in the courthouse and in the aftermath of the confusion and commotion, he’d forgotten to switch it on again. He touched one of the missed calls from his parents and touched the one-dial button. The phone rang once and was picked up in the middle of the second ring.
“Fr. Cletus!” His adopted father’s voice came through, strong, confident, and warm. “Are you alright? Are you safe? Please, tell me you are….”
“I’m okay, Dad,” Fr. McCarthy responded, effortful in checking himself not to come across as alarmed. He surmised that his parents may have panicked, worrying about him. That explained the frantic calls. “I’m just resting somewhere and trying to make sense out of what has just happened. Other than that, everything is okay. Don’t worry about me. How’s Mom?”
“Thank God, you’re okay,” his father replied with such relief that he could feel it himself from his end of the phone line. “Your mother was trying very hard to reach you. I know you want to talk to her. Please hold while I give her the phone.” Then he called aloud, “Hannah! It’s Fr. Cletus.”
Fr. McCarthy knew his mother would be upstairs in such circumstances and would take his call there. So, he braced himself for the phone encounter with her.
“Hey, Cousin, are you okay?” It was Jennifer. It didn’t surprise him. She would grab the nearest receiver on hearing he was on the line, beating his mother to it.
“I’m okay, Jennifer,” He replied with a longsuffering sigh.
“Good! Stay where you are. I’m coming to you,” she replied, like the team captain of a rescue mission. “I’ll bring some food. I know you haven’t eaten and it’s past lunch time.”
Trust Jennifer! Fr. McCarthy thought. Though they were (or were supposed to be) cousins, he wondered where their intense love for each other would have landed them, had it not been that he was a priest. He knew that their mutual sparring whenever they met was simultaneously cathartic in diffusing that intensity, as well as a defense mechanism that prevented them from crossing the line. He often mused that they were like two naughty adolescents madly in love with each other while also chaperoning each other. He could have welcomed no other comforting presence with him at that moment than Jennifer’s, except for one thing.
“Jennifer, I’m not in the rectory just now,” he said, apologetically.
“You’re not?” Jennifer asked, disappointed. “Well then, where are you?
“I’m sorry, Jennifer. I can’t tell you. Please, just let me talk to Mom.”
“Okay, here she is,” Jennifer said, still with a note of disappointment. “I’ll talk to you after she’s done.”
If Fr. McCarthy, in self-righteous anger, was going to have a confrontational phone conversation with his mother, and if he was going to press her for answers to questions he thought he had the right to ask, all that fizzled like a raging flame under the powerful hose of a fire hydrant, within ten seconds of hearing his mother’s voice.
“Fr. Cletus!” his mother’s high-pitch voice came through. “Fr. Cletus, my son, are you alright?”
“I’m okay, Mom,” Fr. McCarthy spelled out his condition. “I need to talk to you.”
“I know, my son,” his mother interjected. “I know, I have a lot to explain to you, even if it doesn’t make sense. And I don’t expect you to forgive me because I do not deserve it. I have wronged you terribly in my selfishness, my son.”
“Mom, hold on,” Fr. McCarthy tried to cut in. “I need to know the truth…”
“The truth is what you heard,” Hannah McCarthy sobbed, brokenly. “I had you through a surrogate and you were conceived in a test tube. When you grew up and started to develop interest in seminary education, I didn’t think it was necessary to bring up the details of your conception. More so, when you transitioned to the major seminary and was well on your way to becoming a priest, I didn’t want to hurt your chances at realizing the calling of your life by bringing up such a trivial issue as the manner of your conception. At least, it seemed trivial then, but I see now that I was wrong. Maybe it was more my selfish ambition to see my son become a priest…”
“Mom
, I know you wanted to shield me,” Fr. McCarthy interjected. “I don’t fault you over that, but you could have told me after I’d become a priest.”
“That’s why I blame myself, Fr. Cletus,” his mother replied, sobbing even louder. “That is why I think I’ve hurt you so badly, my son. I thought, foolishly, that what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you. Oh, how can I ever make it right? What I’ve done to you, I am so sorry, my son. I didn’t intend to hurt you that way. And now, I’ve unintentionally sold you to the public, to become fodder for the media and the ridicule of society. How can I ever be forgiven for what I’ve done…”
Hannah McCarthy wept so bitterly and so loudly on the phone that Fr. Cletus was forced to stop listening. He dropped the receiver on the bed beside him and sat still in a moment of stupor. Though he could still hear the muffled sound of her weeping coming through, he had lost the drive to continue talking to her. For one thing, the tone of her self-excoriating wailing was a wrenching cry that he could swear came from deep down in her soul. For another, he had never heard her weep so bitterly and inconsolably. He rapidly ran down memory lane, over the years when he was in the seminary. He recalled how proud and happy his mother was that he was studying to become a priest, and how she celebrated with unfettered joy on his ordination day. He couldn’t forget the love that his mom had always lavished on him. Even when Josh came into the family, he was always given preferential treatment in everything, as though he was the only child. Was it right to forget all that because he was upset that he was made to believe that he was adopted, instead of being informed he was conceived through IVF and birthed by a surrogate mother?
Fr. McCarthy went into his utilitarian calculus mode of thinking. Were his parents right in deciding to shield him from the knowledge of the manner of his conception, and the decision turned out to be an unfortunate idea only because he was outed by his angry parishioners? What would have been the benefit of knowing about it anyway? Or would it have been a disadvantage to know about it? Would that knowledge have influenced his self-perception positively or negatively? Depending on the age at which he was given such information, he was, somehow, certain that he would probably have spent a good chunk of his life worrying whether he was typical or different than the other children conceived in the supposedly ‘normal’ way. And so, what was happening to him was whose fault? Certainly not his, since he only grew up to find himself in that situation. Was it his parents’ fault? From what he was told, it took them seven years to make the decision to “adopt” him, meaning they had struggled for seven years as a childless couple. What was the pain and anxiety of those seven years like? The Eshiets had struggled longer, for twelve years! He could not believe that for all the time he was counselling and dissuading them from choosing that option, it had never occurred to him to think deeply about their twelve years of pain and anxiety. He was always so focused on maintaining purity of doctrine and making sure that defaulters were duly punished. He felt ashamed, in hindsight, that he could have been that callous. It crushed him to think that instead of being a compassionate alter Christus, he had all along been a heartless juridical alter Christus who was more concerned with the administration of justice. The last words he had heard his mother utter before he put the phone down was a prayer asking God to heal him. “Dear Lord, please, heal my son, Fr. Cletus, from the hurt and anger of this cruel revelation,” she had petitioned. And he thought it was the prayer of a true penitent. If so, what would Jesus do? The story of the prodigal son and the merciful father flashed through his mind.
“That’s it!” Fr. McCarthy shouted suddenly and bolted to his feet. “That’s what I should do. I should run toward my mom.” He slipped into his shoes with fury and nearly sprained his fingers trying to stretch the back of the shoes to accommodate his heels. He picked up the phone and was glad to find that his mother had stopped weeping and was only breathing heavily. “Mom,” he called, curtly.
“Yes, Father,” Hannah answered with a voice so meek and respectful. Fr. McCarthy’s heart broke. Tears welled up in his eyes and ran down his cheek. “Father, were you going to say something?” she inquired, somewhat shakily.
“Mom, I am coming to you,” Fr. McCarthy replied, realizing that her trembling voice was that of a truly sorry woman desperately nursing the last thread of hope for forgiveness. If ever he was going to redeem himself and become a more compassionate person, his parents were his last hope and the best opportunity to launch that new side of him. He thought it was uncanny how the forgiven and the forgiver both needed each other. “Mom, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“No, Fr. Cletus,” his mother called in a slightly panicky voice. “Don’t come. They’re still here. The media is…”
“I don’t care who’s there, Mom,” he replied, resolutely. “I am coming to be with you.” With that, he dropped the receiver into its cradle, swung open the door, and marched out, nearly bumping into Fr. Polansky, who had inched his way to the door when he heard the first shout.
“Are you okay, Nick?”
“I’m a coward.” Fr. McCarthy accused himself so abruptly and vehemently that it left his friend almost speechless.
“Well, of that, I’m not sure,” Fr. Polanski replied, haltingly.
“I should be with my parents right now. I suddenly realized that this isn’t all about me,” Fr. McCarthy continued, suddenly possessed of good spirits. “I mean, this whole thing must be equally as painful for them as it is for me. And they’ve been under siege since morning, while I ran here to hide like a coward. I’m going down to Hollow Wood Circuit to be with my parents.”
“That’s a good idea…and I’m coming with you,” Fr. Polanski said, also beginning to catch the high spirits.
“No, you’re not coming,” Fr. McCarthy replied with bravado. “This is my fight. I’m going to walk straight through that zoo in front of my parents’ house and if anyone blocks my way with stupid questions, I’ll punch him right in the face.”
“Now, that is NOT a good idea,” Fr. Polanski said. “You can ill afford a second suit. If you’re so in need of a face to punch, I’ll tell you whose face to punch.”
“Whose?”
“Mine,” Fr. Polanski replied without humor. “If you keep insisting that I cannot come with you, you’ll have to punch me in the face, and punch hard enough to knock me out and prevent me from tagging along.”
“You know I wouldn’t do that to you, Charlie,” Fr. McCarthy responded, somewhat mellowed. “Here’s the key to my car, since you so desperately need something to do,” Fr. Cletus said, as he tossed the key in the air to Fr. Polanski.
Fr. Polanski caught the key in midair as it flew toward him, threw on his tank top and tennis cap, and was hot on Fr. McCarthy’s heels. The two marched stoutly around to the back of the house to get into Fr. McCarthy’s car and drive to his parents’ place, media or no media.
When Frs. McCarthy and Polanski left the Chancery, the Cardinal had convened another meeting in which duties were assigned. Fr. Brady was to call a press conference for the Cardinal to address the city and the Archdiocese on the new development before it got wildly out of hand. It was important to control the Church’s end of the information from the Chancery. Sr. Ellis was to quickly send out an email letter to all pastors of parishes, instructing them to never field any questions from any media agent, but to refer all such questions to the Chancery spokesperson, Fr. Brady Callahan. She was to call the airlines and book the Cardinal on an early flight to Rome. Stacy volunteered to visit with the McCarthys and get their own side of the story ready for the next court date. Though not at the meeting, Dr. Regis Murphy of the University of Houston’s Faculty of Law, a legal consultant at large to the Archdiocese, was saddled with the unenviable duty of calling to see the possibility of negotiating with Turner and Stendhal for a settlement with their client, if worse came to worst. He promised to do his best, but gave no guarantees, having been an old foe of Turner and Stendhal
on a previous tort litigation during which he vanquished the firm. The firm directors did not smile at him then and, probably, would not do so now. The Chancellor, Bishop Mario Montano—Marmon, he humorously nick-named himself, playing on the sound of the word, mammon—walked in just before the meeting ended.
“There you are, Marmon,” the Cardinal said, as Bishop Montano walked in. “I hope your flight back wasn’t as tumultuous as our workday has been here at the Chancery today?” He added rhetorically.
“No, Your Eminence. On the contrary, I had an odd day: A peaceful flight with a tumultuous mind,” Bishop Montano quipped, then became serious. “I received news of the new development just as I was about to board the flight back. So, what is the next line of action?”
“Not certain yet,” Cardinal Felice responded. “We are just playing fire brigade right now with the aim of getting the situation under control. And, if it is not placing too much on you, you’re hitting the ground running. You and Fr. Brady will field all calls from the media. Assure them that they will get answers to their questions at the press conference I intend to give in about two hours.” With that, Cardinal Felice dismissed the meeting. “Everyone to your oars,” he called out in mixed humor and seriousness. “The bark of Peter must scale over the waves and get into peaceful waters.”
Everyone dispersed to go about their assigned duties. The Vice Chancellor, Sister Ellis, followed Bishop Montano into his office to fill him in on the details of the day. Stacy gave instructions to her secretary, packed her briefcase, and headed out for Hollow Wood Circuit. She ran into Fr. Polanski in the foyer and they walked out to the Chancery parking lot. She answered a couple of questions from Fr. Polanski, freely sharing what transpired at the meeting, bearing the fact that, as Fr. McCarthy’s buddy, he wasn’t really breaching any confidential barrier.