“Make what?”
“Ordinary—have their very own diocese to run. No, there are just so many of the poor men who will end up spending their whole episcopal lives being just mere auxiliary bishops. It’s sad.” They both knew he was being sardonic.
“Sad, I suppose . . . but still a measure of satisfaction ending up so close to the top”
“Bobby, do you remember when John Donovan and Henry Donnelly were made auxiliary bishops at the same time, here in Detroit?”
Koesler nodded. He remembered it well. The two were consecrated bishops only a few months after he had been ordained a priest in June of 1954.
Monsignor John Donovan had been Cardinal Mooney’s secretary and, as such, was a logical choice for bishop. But while recognizing his devoutness, clerical wags had been at a loss to explain the selection of Henry Donnelly.
“Remember the story that was going ’round then? About their coats of arms?”
Koesler’s expression betrayed his uncertainty. It was one of the more difficult tales to recount with accuracy. He’d have to listen carefully and hope that Meehan would recall the details correctly.
Encouraged by Koesler’s apparent puzzlement, Meehan proceeded. As long as Koesler could not remember the story clearly, it was as much fun as finding a new audience for a tried and true tale.
“You must remember that John Donovan was a shoo-in for bishop—because of his relationship with Ed Mooney . . . being his secretary and all. But nobody could quite figure out how Henry got in there.
“Well, as the account goes, the gentlemen picked out their episcopal rings and had only to okay their coats of arms and pick out mottoes and they’d be all set. So, according to the story . . .”
A good part of this tale, Koesler knew, had to be apocryphal.
“. . . the two bishops-to-be tried to outwait each other, each hoping to come up with the better motto.” Meehan gave a Barry Fitzgerald-like chuckle. “See the competition starts even before the consecration. Anyway, finally Henry Donnelly made the first move and selected the motto, Per Mariam—‘Through Mary.’“
That much was true, Koesler knew—and immediately wondered why Meehan had thought it necessary to translate.
“Then,” Meehan continued, “when Donovan learned what Donnelly had chosen, Donovan settled on Per Eduardum—‘Through Edward.’” If Donnelly had gotten to be bishop through the intercession of the Blessed Mother of God, then Donovan was supposed to have concluded that he’d made it through the intercession of Ed Mooney—the Cardinal.
“So, when Donnelly heard about Donovan’s motto, Henry changed his to Per Accidens—‘By Accident.’” Meehan chuckled so helplessly he began to choke.
Koesler patted him on the back—gingerly. He did not want to break the old gentleman.
Now that the story had been recounted, Koesler remembered it well. Of course, the only truth to it was Henry Donnelly’s selection of Per Mariam as his motto. The rest was an object lesson on the infighting that goes on in the competitive world. Even inside the Church.
When Meehan had sufficiently recovered from his coughing bout, Koesler said, “Here’s a brand new one for you. It just happened a short time ago.”
Meehan rubbed his hands and leaned forward. It was not every day that a new and possibly memorable story came along . . . especially when one was confined in a nursing home.
“Do you know Carl Kaminski?”
Meehan shook his head. He knew very few priests under sixty. It didn’t matter.
“Well,” Koesler said, “this happened, as I said, just a little while ago. It seems that Carl was invited to the confirmation services at St. Hugo of the Hills—”
“Better known as St. Hugo of the Wheels,” Meehan interjected, alluding to the wealth of its parishioners.
“Right,” Koesler affirmed. “Anyway, as Carl told me, he went to the confirmation at the invitation of a classmate. He intended to just relax and have a good time. To ensure that, he downed two or three martinis before dinner. The fact that he couldn’t remember how many he’d had was testimony that he’d had more than enough.
“Then, the fathers sat down to dinner. At which time the pastor informed Carl that he was to be chaplain to the confirming prelate.”
“Don’t tell me: The confirming prelate was Cardinal Boyle!”
“How did you know?”
“It had to be. It couldn’t have been a mere auxiliary and still be a first-rate story. And then . . .?”
“Then Carl knew this was not destined to be an enjoyable, relaxing evening . . . not with too many martinis and the job of accompanying the Cardinal in and out of the church. So Carl tried to eat as many potatoes and as much bread as he could get down to neutralize the gin.
“Which he did to some extent. By the time they all got to the sacristy to vest for the ceremony, Carl was feeling pretty much in control. Then he found it was his job to put the crosier together.”
“The one,” Meehan interrupted, “that the bishop carries with him in the case? The one in three parts that have to be screwed together?” He was beginning to anticipate.
“Exactly! Well, Carl got the bottom third and the middle third screwed together all right. But when it came to the middle and the top third, he just couldn’t manage it. Actually, it turned out it wasn’t his fault: The thing had just been used so frequently that the threads were stripped. No one could have gotten the crosier together. But Carl didn’t know that. He wasn’t sure whether it was the martinis or the instrument. So he just kept on trying.
“Meanwhile, all the kids had processed into the church, the organ was playing, and the Cardinal was vested—ready to go—and drumming his fingers on the vestment case.
“Finally, Carl gave up. He turned to the Cardinal, handed him the top third of the crosier, and said, ‘Why don’t you go in on your knees and pretend you’re Toulouse-Lautrec?’”
Meehan began laughing at the point Kaminski told the Cardinal to process into the church on his knees, so he choked out, “on his knees and what? And what?”
“And pretend you’re Toulouse-Lautrec.’”
“Oh, oh, very good, Bob. Very good.” He shook his head as he wiped his eyes. “And is this true on top of everything else? Is this really true?”
“According to Kaminski, yes. And I don’t think anyone could make up a story like that, do you?”
“No, not really.”
“But you see, Monsignor, that while bishops—even auxiliary bishops—are upwardly mobile, I fear Carl Kaminski’s ecclesiastical career has come to a screeching halt.”
“Well”—Meehan was regaining self-control—“I guess that’s not totally bad. After all, we got into this vocation to be parish priests. And, while God or the Pope or somebody picks some of us to go higher, it’s best down here with the people as a simple parish priest.”
Koesler could not have agreed more. “Yes, working in the trenches, as it were.”
Meehan was silent for a few moments. Then, “Speaking of work, I’ve been wondering more and more frequently about Dick Kramer. For some reason, he’s been on my mind a lot lately. I don’t know why. It’s not that he visits me—oh, maybe once or twice a year. But somehow . . . I don’t know . . . have you seen Dick recently?”
“No. Just no reason to, I guess.” Koesler found it strange that Meehan would bring Father Kramer up in conversation two consecutive weeks. Maybe there was some sort of ESP going on. “Are you worried about him for some reason?”
“No . . . I couldn’t say worried. Concerned, perhaps. In the time we were together at St. Norbert’s he was so intense. We didn’t have a parochial school when he got to the parish, though we had plans for one and the archdiocese was willing to loan us the money for construction. The big thing was, we didn’t have the teaching nuns.
“But once I got a commitment from the Dominicans, there was just no stopping Dick. He did all the landscaping . . . with the generous help of some of the parishioners, of course. But no one worked nearly as ha
rd as Dick Kramer to get that school built.
“The sad thing is, Bob, he was—is—a driven man. And I worry about him at that parish of his. There comes a time when you must let something die. And that’s about the state of Mother of Sorrows parish. It’s dying. But Father Kramer will work it even as it sinks into the grave. The frustration of it all can take a lot out of a man . . . especially a man like Dick Kramer.” Meehan looked expectantly at Koesler.
“So, Monsignor, is there something you’d like me to do about this?”
“Look in on him, if you would. I feel he needs some support. The support only another priest can give. Unless he’s changed a great deal—and I don’t believe he has—then he doesn’t have more than a few close friends. And he would never ask for help. It’s just not in him to do that.”
“Monsignor,” Koesler protested, “I really don’t have all that much time to—”
“Oh, now, Bobby, I’m not askin’ you to spend a lot of time. Just look in on him once in a while. Let him know someone cares. Another priest. It’ll do a lot of good. I know it will.”
“Okay, Monsignor. I’ll do it . . . first chance I get.”
Koesler made his goodbyes. It was just 11:30 A.M. Time for Monsignor Meehan to lead the rosary in the chapel of the Little Sisters of the Poor. As usual, six or seven little old ladies and one or two little old men would join him for this daily prayer before lunch.
Before leaving, Koesler watched the pious group gather. One day, he thought, if you live long enough, this will be it: The high point of your day will be leading the rosary for a group of your peers—all of you on the shelf.
Oh well; it could be worse. Needed, for one reason or another, right to the end. There was a lot to be said for the quiet life of a simple parish priest.
In a little while he would value that quiet, simple life even more because he was about to temporarily lose it.
16
It was just a few minutes till noon. Whenever she had the opportunity—and this was one of those times—Sister Mary Therese Hercher liked to spend a few quiet moments in prayer before the noon Mass.
She genuflected and entered one of the pews near the sanctuary. It was cold; she shivered as her knees touched the padded kneeler. Mother of Sorrows was a venerable parish and this edifice was a tribute to the parish’s more lush days. Plenty of marble and brick, with lots of stained glass. And a huge “rose window” in the front wall above the choir loft—which these days was almost never used.
This huge structure was heated only for Sunday Masses. Through the week, particularly during January and February, it required more than ordinary dedication to visit the church for Mass or private prayer.
It would have made a lot of sense to Therese to just lock the church except for Sundays and special events. Daily Mass easily could be held in the church hall or even, comfortably, in the rectory. Only a very few people attended daily Mass. With no trouble, the small group could have assembled in the basement of the rectory and been warm and comfy. But Father Dick Kramer seemed to feel that if they were to lock the church Monday through Saturday, in no time the chancery would hear of it and they would lock it up for good and all.
That man!
Sister Mary Therese began to pray for the pastor. Stubborn, bull-headed, singleminded, dedicated, generous, caring, hard-working. She was filled with negative and positive feelings.
In the final analysis, Father Kramer had her respect and her continued commitment. If this parish was sinking slowly in the west—and she believed it was—and if the pastor was going to stay with his parish to the bitter end, then she too would stay aboard.
It was not Sister Therese’s style to pray that any course of events should go on according to her lights. Rather, over the long years of a developing prayer life; through the postulancy, the novitiate, first profession, and final vows, she had fairly successfully adopted Christ’s prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane—not as I will, but Thy will be done. In most instances, she had found this the most comforting and comfortable approach to God.
But not now. She was certain it was God’s will that Mother of Sorrows parish should close. Well, perhaps not quite that baldly. But she was certain that for his emotional well-being, Father Kramer must get out of the parish and escape the impossible demands he felt the parish was making of him.
No possible way could he keep this school open. Yet he would continue to struggle until the inevitable failure occurred. And once the school, as well as several other parish services, ground to a halt, Father Kramer would be forced to leave and establish a new headquarters in a parish that more called for and could better profit from his many talents.
Then Mother of Sorrows would cease to exist as a parish. For no other priest in the archdiocese would apply for it. This had happened in quite a few city parishes. And it surely would happen here, also. So she prayed for her friend, Father Dick Kramer, that he would have the sense to admit this was a dying elephant. And that God would continue His presence among these good people even after the demise of Mother of Sorrows parish.
As she prayed, a lonely figure entered the church and walked quietly down the middle aisle. Therese recognized Sarah Taylor, the woman who just last week had lost her son in that tragic incident. The classic example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Little Rudy Taylor! Therese could hardly imagine how the gang who murdered him could have mistaken this young boy for a competing drug dealer.
It had taken the police only a few days to catch Rudy’s killers. The gang—boys themselves chronologically—were to be tried as adults.
What a shame! What a waste!
Either Sarah Taylor had found or was still searching for her consolation in the church. While the Taylors had been regular attendants at Sunday Mass, and while Rudy had occasionally been a Mass server during the week, Sarah had never attended daily Mass until Rudy was killed.
What could one say to someone who had suffered a loss comparable to that of Sarah Taylor’s? Sister Therese had long since found mere words insufficient. But each day, during Mass, at the greeting of peace, Sister Therese had led the others in giving Sarah a little hug and a few of those inadequate words. Something seemed to be helping—probably that little hug.
Therese slid back in the pew. There was something about the hardness of the wood and the no-nonsense ninety-degree angle of the seat and backrest that argued against falling asleep in church. If that weren’t enough, there was the pervading chill. All in all, at least on weekdays during the winter months, one was almost guaranteed an alert congregation.
Her gaze kept returning to Sarah Taylor. Therese remembered her early days in this parish. It was a confusing time during which she’d tried to work out existentially what the office of pastoral associate entailed, especially when occupied by a nun—technically a layperson. At the same time, she’d had to acclimatize herself to the black experience.
One of her first introductions to the differences between the black and the white culture had taken place only days after she arrived at Mother of Sorrows.
It happened when Rose Bevilaqua died. Rose, very white and very Italian, had been a Mother of Sorrows parishioner before a single black family had ever moved into the parish. The Bevilaqua family was one of the few white families that did not participate in the exodus from that changing neighborhood. Not only did they stay put; they remained very active in the parish.
Eventually, the last of their children married and, quite naturally, moved away. Then Rose became a widow. Still she would not move. If anything, she became more involved in the parish and very popular with the children.
Then, shortly after Therese came to the parish, Rose died. Because the children loved her so much, Therese decided to take a group of them to the funeral home to pay their respects. She loaded the parish station wagon with young black girls and boys, all dressed in their very best for the solemn occasion.
It was only after they entered the funeral home that Therese learned that
the kids had no idea either of what they were doing or what was expected of them.
As soon as her group entered the foyer, the children spread out in every direction. Chased as closely as possible by Therese, the kids bolted from room to room, looking for their friend. Obviously, they did not know what it meant that she had died. Nor had they any notion of the decorum expected in a funeral home, particularly one whose clientele was nearly exclusively white.
One by one, Therese had collared and collected the children from the far reaches of the funeral home and shepherded them toward the parlor that held the mortal remains of Rose Bevilaqua.
When they reached the proper parlor, there was Rudy Taylor perched atop the casket, peering down into its open hatch. As the ragtag group entered the room, a triumphant Rudy pointed down into the casket and proudly announced, “There go Rose!”
And yet, that had by no means been Rudy’s most memorable performance.
Therese recalled a confirmation ceremony only a year or so previous when Rudy unintentionally became the star of the show. The confirming bishop had been Edwin Baldwin. That was important to the memory of the event due to the fact that Bishop Baldwin, one of Detroit’s auxiliaries, retained the custom of interrogating the children who were about to be confirmed. The other bishops had pretty well abandoned that practice in favor of a simple, routine, and thus usually boring, homily. However, asking leading questions of youngsters could prove hazardous, and had—many, many times.
It was Bishop Baldwin’s fey habit to start almost anywhere, then allow the children’s freewheeling stream of consciousness to go wherever it would.
On this evening, the bishop began at the beginning, Genesis, the Bible’s first book. Various youngsters gave a quite vivid, if fanciful, description of the Garden of Paradise and that frolicsome couple, Adam and Eve. From there, they leaped over the millennia to Noah and the Flood and, eventually, to Abraham. At that point, the bishop threw the conversational ball up for a center jump, as he asked, “And who was Abraham?” Rudy Taylor waved his arm wildly, was called on, and volunteered, “Abraham Lincoln was our first president!”
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