The Mirror Apocalypse

by John Ayang

  It was both fun and unnervingly embarrassing to be an object of curiosity in that sense, and Fr. McCarthy could not decide if he liked the experience or hated it. But the most worrisome thing for him was that his peculiar situation had confused most parishioners and warped their image of him as a channel of God’s grace for them, despite their bravado at political correctness whenever they ran into him or talked about him with others. He thought this was going to greatly affect his ministry on a deeper level. His sacramental theology professor at the seminary used to painstakingly explain how the person of the priest was impacted by his ministry and vice versa. And if, in the minds of the people, there was a disconnection between the message and the messenger, there was no ministry. Fr. McCarthy thought his current situation vividly illustrated the scenario and, for the few days he was in the parish at Our Lady Queen of Peace after his vacation, he experienced increased inner turmoil. He knew that unless he took care of his inner turmoil, he would gradually become ineffectual in his ministry. But was he really interested any more in ministry as a priest? That was the primary question he needed to answer and he thought he would do that best if he went on retreat in solitude. This would afford him the time and space to sort things out in his mind.

  “May I have everyone’s attention, please,” he called, rapping his wine glass several times with his fork and raising his voice to supersede the din. “Attention, please.”

  “Fr. Cletus is calling our attention,” Hannah McCarthy announced, fervidly. “Listen, he wants to address us.”

  Everyone stopped talking and all eyes were trained in Fr. McCarthy’s direction. He stood up and cleared his throat and began to speak in measured tones.

  “First, I want to thank God for making this gathering possible, especially for the two sides of my family—my adopted parents and my biological parents—to meet in celebration of a common linkage: me, their son. As I reflect on what has happened in the past few weeks and what is happening now, I cannot help but think about the wonderful way that God is always uniting seemingly impossible factors and situations, all for His good purpose. He did it at the incarnation. Whoever would believe that the divinely spiritual could be married to sinful flesh? But there He was, the Son of Man, walking the Earth in human form and yet bearing in Himself the fullness of God’s glory. The more I think about my situation, the more I am inclined to think that God’s hand is still controlling what is happening to me. Catholic moral teaching totally condemns using in vitro fertilization to conceive a child, and for good reason. But here I am, a man who was conceived via in vitro fertilization, yet ordained a priest in the Roman Catholic Church, to propagate that same teaching, unknowingly judging and condemning the very method by which I was conceived. My priesthood is as if the test tube met and married the altar, the altar having stolen the test tube’s heart, because as I am standing here. I love being priest, in spite of everything.”

  He drew a brief, rousing applause for his analogy.

  “But the function of the test tube and the function of the altar are seemingly incompatible as far as human reproduction is concerned. At least, so the Catholic Church, of which I am a servant and a teacher, teaches. And since I find myself in this unique, unenviable position of being simultaneously the law-giver and the law-breaker, albeit indirectly so, I have been plagued by more questions than I have answers for. But I am going to do one thing. I am not going to dwell on the past, trying to agonize over the reason why what happened did happen. I am going to try and figure out what it is God is trying to tell me here, and how best to sort out my unique case. While on vacation in Venice, something odd, but interesting, happened to me, on which I still need time to reflect and determine what it really meant.”

  Jennifer started slightly but unnoticed, at the mention of the incident in Venice. She was thankful that Fr. McCarthy didn’t go into details. Not that it mattered, but it would have been a very inauspicious time to bring up such a topic. She too had been pondering about the incident since ever they came back, though, like Fr. McCarthy, not yet able to make sense of it.

  “So, for that reason,” Fr. McCarthy continued. “I am taking another one week off from pastoral duties, to reflect on my situation and to plot my next move forward. All things being equal, which is a rare occurrence….”

  “I will pray for all things to be equal in your case,” Hannah McCarthy interjected, looking warily at her son, as though he was about to pronounce an unfavorable omen. Barbara drew her closer with a sideways hug and rocked her very gently from side to side as if comforting a frightened child. Fr. McCarthy was pleased to see how fast the two women – his two mothers – bonded. He decided to put Hannah at ease with a little humor.

  “Well, Mom, you should have let me finish the sentence so you don’t pray for the wrong equation,” he carped, humorously, to another brief bout of uneasy laughter. “As they say: be careful what you pray for, so that you don’t get it.”

  “Because you might get it,” Jennifer interjected, correcting Fr. McCarthy.

  “I mangled that on purpose because I knew you would jump in; can’t stand to be quiet for too long, can ye?” Fr. McCarthy replied, to the merry laughter of everyone who knew them. Jennifer rolled her eyes at him and looked away, pouting beautifully. “As I said,” he continued, “all things being equal, I will probably get reassigned in a new direction. I do not know which, but I have a feeling that it will be good for me. Once again, thank you all for coming. Thank you, Dr. and Mrs. Horacek, my parents in the natural order of things, and my beautiful sister, Crystal. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy, my parents in the legal order of things, for hosting everyone. Thank you, my extended family—Uncle John, Josh, Jennifer, Mr. and Mrs. Henson. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan, and Mr. Wong. You guys are wonderful neighbors. Thanks so much for your support and good will. God bless you all.”

  A resounding applause followed his speech as he sat down and took a sip from his almost empty glass.

  “Where will you be going this time, Father?” Crystal asked with bland curiosity.

  “Oh, not too far this time,” Fr. McCarthy replied. “I’ll take a week at the Passionists’ Retreat Center. It is a nice and quiet place for individual retreat and meditation.”

  “Reverend, do you have any idea what your next assignment will be when you come back,” Dr. Horacek inquired, just for the interest of it. “Or, do you think you will continue as pastor of Our Lady Queen of Peace?”

  “I would advise a change of parish,” Stephen McCarthy interjected before Fr. McCarthy responded. “Nothing like a fresh start in a fresh environment.”

  “Actually, I did apply to be transferred once I get back,” Fr. McCarthy replied. “But a whole lot depends on my state of mind after my one week retreat.”

  He fielded a couple more questions before he was left to enjoy the rest of the afternoon’s party with no mention of his situation. Though they didn’t sit down to plot it out, the Horaceks and the McCarthys, by tacit agreement, decided to just focus on bonding and providing each other the friendship and support they needed. Brief speeches and expressions were made, each side assuring the other of unflinching support for the sake of their mutual link in the person of Fr. McCarthy. The Horaceks assured the McCarthys that they would totally eschew meddling in the McCarthys’ parenting rights and privileges, and would leave it to Fr. McCarthy, himself, to feel free to either relate with them or not. Fr. McCarthy dismissed that as ‘nonsense’ and reiterated that as far as he was concerned, all four of them were his parents; he would love them equally…and be a nuisance to them equally. His remark drew brief laughter and Hannah and Barbara assured him that he would be a very welcome nuisance to both of them. Perhaps the most touching statement of all was a question from Crystal.

  “When you come back, will I be permitted to visit and hang out with you as my brother, as often as I want to?” she asked with a whining lilt in her voice, like a kid who makes a difficult request,
but, nonetheless, wants to pressure the parent to not refuse it. Fr. McCarthy quickly got up and went over and gathered Crystal into a tight bear hug, to the applause of everybody.

  “Yes, my dear little sister,” Fr. McCarthy replied. “You will have unlimited visitation rights, 24/7, to hang out with me. Only one thing: I will not permit you to say Mass. So, don’t even dream of asking.”

  Everyone laughed again. His remark and the vehemence of his tone tickled Crystal so much that she giggled with abandon, looking simultaneously radiant and silly. She was so beside herself with joy that throughout the gathering, she looked longingly at Fr. McCarthy. She had confided in Edo-Mma earlier that it gave her a higher self-esteem and sense of fulfillment that she had a brother who was a priest. Jennifer wasted no time bonding with Crystal that afternoon. They became great friends and promised to chat, call, or email each other as often as possible. Altogether, Fr. McCarthy was happy that he organized the gathering that afternoon. The solidarity and healing that took place was tremendous. When the time came to disperse, tears of joy flowed freely down every cheek, good-bye hugs were extra generous, and Barbara and Dr. Horacek had to exert extra effort to tear Crystal away from her newfound brother. She cried all the way to their vehicle and promised to be the first person to visit him when he would come back from his retreat. Fr. McCarthy assured her that that would be most welcome, though he knew who would be the first to welcome him back. As the taillights of the last guest’s vehicle disappeared from view, he smiled contentedly and turned to go inside and stay with his adopted parents for a couple more hours before heading back. He thought life wasn’t totally bad for him, despite everything.

  PART V

  When the self is just a shell,

  and the business of living so untrue

  Strain and reach beyond the spell,

  to reinvent yourself anew.

  - Anon

  Houston, Texas

  January 21, 2013

  FR. MCCARTHY’S THREE-DAY intensive retreat or ‘time away’, as he loosely called it, was, by all accounts, a very important hiatus in his work life and, you could add, his litigation life. It not only afforded him the solitude he needed to reflect on and be at peace with his newfound identity as an IVF-conceived Roman Catholic priest, but, also, the much-needed personal space to do so while restructuring and projecting a vision of himself in the future and what role he would comfortably assume in the scheme of things. The two-week vacation in Rome and Venice was just that: a vacation. Throughout that period, his mind was virtually vacuous. He focused on no thought-engaging issues, but just on the things that would help to unwind him, relax his nerves, and bring him to a state of calmness of spirit and mind. This time around, without Jennifer at his side, he could meditate for long periods without the luxury of her distracting interruptions. Not that he resented those mood-puncturing moments; they had their usefulness. Only that, as some smart aleck sang, With a beautiful lady in your arms, it’s kind of hard to think straight.

  Fr. McCarthy came away from his partly self-imposed retreat very much at peace with himself. The Retreat Father who helped direct the process was very friendly and quite resourceful. He took him on a soul-searching journey that was a novelty to Fr. McCarthy, and he came away satisfied that he had achieved more interior healing and reconciliation than at any other time in his life. Yet, one thing that he was still unable to come to terms with was how his new identity would fit into his pastoral ministry, and what image of him his congregation would carry. Would that enhance his ministerial effectiveness or detract from it? Would they “click” with the image of him as a priest conceived by the same process which the Catholic Church condemns as ‘intrinsically evil’, or would they find that to be a stumbling block? Nothing scared him more than finding himself to be a spiritually ineffectual priest. He would be no more than a social functionary going through the mechanics of the trade with no inward commitment. And that was not Fr. McCarthy’s understanding of who a priest should be.

  Upon speaking with the Cardinal two days after he returned from his retreat, Fr. McCarthy asked for and was transferred from Our Lady Queen of Peace to St. Monica Catholic Church, northwest of the city. This was a multi-cultural church, with the majority of congregants being African American. The next most-dominant population was Hispanic. There were a few Caucasian families, but they could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Fr. McCarthy wondered whether that was a good choice for him. St. Monica was a church mainly populated by converts from non-Catholic denominations who knew or made little about Catholic hardline doctrines on reproductive technology. For them, Fr. McCarthy’s birth origin was not a big deal. Even the Hispanic community did not raise any outcry. For them, as long as a priest was validly ordained and touching lives in his ministerial duties, it didn’t matter how he was conceived. What was not taken into consideration, or, perhaps, even imagined, was the reaction that would come from the few white parishioners, and the damaging effect it would have on Fr. McCarthy’s spirit. As soon as he arrived in the parish, four of the six white families left the parish, citing the fact that they could not belong to a parish under a priest who had been conceived via IVF. When Fr. McCarthy learned of their intention to leave, he was despondent.

  “What is more painful, Charlie, is that these are people of my own race and color,” he had riled to his friend, Fr. Polanski. “They practically disowned me. And do you know who have been my comforters so far?”

  “I could guess,” Fr. Polanski said. “But I will let you tell me.”

  “My Black parishioners, Charlie,” Fr. McCarthy said, vehemently. “They visited me on two occasions and virtually forced me to let them pray for me and with me. After each prayer session, they stayed to offer words of solidarity and comfort.”

  “They forced you?” Fr. Polanski asked, dubiously.

  “Well, bad choice of word,” Fr. McCarthy recanted. “They prevailed over me to let them pray for me…. Well, Charlie, you know what I mean… the ‘white pride’ thing: I mean I should be the one to pray over them and comfort them, not they over me. That’s why I was reluctant to accept their sodality ministrations.”

  Fr. Polanski looked at his young friend curiously for a fraction of a second longer than normal, then he broke out in a merry guffaw, causing Fr. McCarthy to also look at him, confused.

  “What…what is tickling you?”

  “You, Nick,” Fr. Polanski replied, in between heaves of laughter.

  “What did I say funny?”

  “Not what you said,” Fr. Polanski replied, reigning himself in. “It’s the whole situation. Remember, two months and few weeks back, you could have given anything not to have any Black person involved in your case because, generally speaking, you didn’t believe a Black person could wish you well?”

  “I was sued by a Black man, for crying out loud,” Fr. McCarthy said, plaintively.

  “And you had a fair hearing by a Black lady, for crying out loud,” Fr. Polanski countered. “Don’t get me wrong, Nick. I am probably more into the ‘white pride, white privilege’ thing than you are. And, candidly speaking, if I found myself in your situation I would be more chagrinned than you are now, except that I have learned a lot over the years and I am beginning to accept the hard, albeit, uncomfortable truth.”

  “Which is?” Fr. McCarthy interjected, anticipating one of his friend’s hackneyed theories.

  “Read through the Bible, Nick. The Black man has this peculiar thing going for him; call it the spirituality of the helper. A few instances: remember when Jeremiah was thrown into a well to die? Who interceded and had him pulled out?”

  “Ebedmelek, the Cushite?”

  “Yeah, the land of Cush is modern day Ethiopia in East Africa,” Fr. Polanski expounded, gleefully. “When Herod sought the life of the infant Jesus, didn’t his parents run with him to the land of Egypt in Africa? And who helped Jesus carry his cross, but Simon of Cyrene, a North African?
So, as an alter Christus, if a Black sodality offers you comfort at this time in your life, take it. Our Lord took it when he needed it.”

  “Well, I always considered those instances you mentioned as coincidences,” Fr. McCarthy said, dismissively. “And not really gave a thought it could be interpreted that way.”

  “It’s my own interpretation, Nick,” Fr. Polanski replied. “You are not bound to agree with me. There are a few more instances than I have mentioned, and they are simply too many to be coincidences, all. I seem to see some kind of design.”

  “You going to publish a book on it?” Fr. McCarthy asked, half serious and half facetious.

  “I might,” Fr. Polanski replied, curtly. “My point, though, is that you shouldn’t be so chagrinned at being ministered to by your lay Black congregation. As things stand, the future might see a Church of reciprocal ministrations between the clergy and the laity, and I think that would be very healing.”

  Fr. McCarthy sat pensively for a few seconds, mulling over his friend’s unpopular theology. He was always impressed by the way Fr. Polanski seemed to read meaning out of, and sometimes into, seemingly innocuous events to create a new way of looking at the same issue. He grudgingly thought he might be right again about the spirituality of the Black man, but he was not going to openly admit or begin a ministry on that.

  “Remember that time I had a brief missionary stint in the Sudan, three years ago?” Fr. Polanski‘s voice jolted him slightly. “I always enjoyed the company of the young people there, especially the teenagers. They always had anecdotes and tales about the animal kingdom. On one such occasion, one of them asked, as the usual openers go, ‘Do you know what the coyote said to the fox’? I said, ‘no’. Of course, that’s what you are supposed to say to get the story teller going. He said, ‘the coyote said to the fox: If I fall down for you and you fall down for me, I will know we are playing. But if I fall down for you and you stay standing over me, then you are spoiling for a fight. When I get up, we’ll duel.’”