“Maybe he just wanted to be a good priest one day and was being obedient to his bishop,” Nolan Connors, one of the seminarians, interrupted.
“Okay, sure,” Stark shot back. “I’m not trying to judge the guy’s motives. I’m just wondering if this is another incident of a patriarchy’s abuse of power.”
She paused and looked at Landers, then continued, “Is this kind of thing typical of the period? It seems like a carry-over of the greed and lust for power we saw in the ninth-and-tenth-century papacies.”
“You’re right,” Landers said. “It is. The corruption in the church during the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries has many similarities to the period you mentioned. In fact, Sforsa’s case is telling. I don’t think we need to feel too sorry for Ascanio. He eventually became a cardinal, a very wealthy cardinal, and was the only real rival to Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia of Valencia in the papal election in 1492. There’s evidence, by the way, that Borgia bought the votes of at least thirteen cardinals before or during the conclave. And I don’t have to tell graduate students that Alexander VI was not the first cardinal to buy the papacy.”
The seminarians looked uneasy.
“I think we’re missing something here,” Connors said. “Men like Bishop Barbiano may well be reprehensible, but I don’t think he and others like him were typical of the majority of bishops. They may not have been as outstanding as Saint Charles Borromeo, but shouldn’t we assume most bishops were good men?”
“That’s a fair point, Nolan, in fact, an important point,” Landers said, affirming him. “As we look at this period from the perspective of clerical ambition, the sources we have tell only a partial story. They miss a lot of greed and ruthlessness as well as a lot of virtue and holiness. And we shouldn’t be surprised that goodness and virtue are more difficult to recognize—and less interesting—than greed and ruthlessness. But let’s stay focused on the churchmen who wanted to rise in the ranks of the hierarchy. It’s time for our break, however. When we return, Mr. Pointer will give us a progress report on his research paper.”
The students pushed their swivel chairs back from the table and headed for the coffee machines or the rest rooms.
“If you are ready, John…?” Landers said politely.
“What’s fundamental to our understanding of clerical ambition, wealth, and power in the late Middle Ages,” Pointer began, “is something Professor Landers has emphasized from the first week of the seminar. The structure of the church mirrored the economic, social, and political structure of Western Europe at the time. And that structure, as you know, was monarchical and feudal. In my paper, I’m focusing primarily on the feudal nature of the church and only indirectly will I address the church as monarchy, or perhaps more precisely, the church as a spiritual empire.” Pointer paused, made eye contact with Ellen Stark with a look that asked, You’re impressed, aren’t you? Stark returned his glance with exquisite indifference. Pointer recovered quickly, “It might help to think of a country priest as a vassal to his bishop. And a bishop, say Bishop Barbiano, as a vassal to the pope, or in his case, as a vassal to the archbishop, Cardinal Colonna.”
“And what is the fundamental, operative virtue in feudal societies?” Landers asked.
“Loyalty,” Ellen Stark said confidently.
“Yes,” Pointer said, annoyed at Stark’s competitiveness. “And while loyalty was essential for holding feudal societies together and keeping them safe from invaders, there was a shadow side to it. Loyalty on the part of an inferior to a superior can repress honest communication. Vassals know it can be dangerous to speak too candidly to their lord. And it can further an unhealthy docility. If you’re a vassal, you don’t want to cross the lord of the manor or the duke or the king who has granted you your benefice or your little fiefdom. It’s obviously a hierarchical system.” Pointer looked at Stark and added, “And with few exceptions, patriarchal to its core.”
Landers noticed that Nolan Connors was listening carefully to Pointer’s presentation. Perhaps some lights were going on in the seminarian’s mind.
“So,” Pointer went on, “how does an ambitious priest or bishop get ahead in a clerical system that is essentially feudal? First of all he has to get noticed. Some of the methods I’ve discovered include flattery, especially the kind we saw in Barbiano’s letter, and, if he can afford it, discreet and tasteful gifts. It’s a system that operates indirectly—by currying favor, by gossip, by exaggerated deference. Of course, the clerical climber has to have a certain level of intelligence. After that, language skills and family connections help immensely.”
“Thank you, John,” Landers said with a nod. “That’s what I’m looking for in these reports. What John didn’t have time to discuss is the last section of his paper in which he examines the role sex played in climbing the hierarchical ladder. You noted, I’m sure, the sexual overtones in the letter to Cardinal Colonna.
“We have a few minutes left. Any questions?”
“Professor Landers,” one of the masters-level students asked, “What’s the meaning of the closing to Bishop Barbiano’s letter? What’s ‘kissing the sacred purple?’”
A few students smirked. If they didn’t know the answer, they had the imagination to come up with one.
“I thought you might be wondering about that,” Landers responded, without any acknowledgment of double entendre. “It’s an ecclesiastical expression that is common even today in some church circles. The cleric of a lower rank or a lay person is saying in effect, ‘I kneel and kiss the purple hem of your sacred robe.’ A little over the top to us moderns. But in Barbiano’s era, it was simply part of church etiquette.”
Landers paused. Some of the students looked as if they found the expression ludicrous.
“By the way,” Landers went on, “You should know the significance of the color purple.”
Nolan Connors shifted in his seat. I know where he’s going with this, the seminarian said to himself, as he thought of Jesus’ parable about poor Lazarus and the “rich man who dressed in purple garments and fine linen.” He almost interrupted with this bit of biblical corroboration but thought better of it and let Landers continue.
“Before the modern era, there was a substance that was as valuable as gold, a substance that provoked wars and toppled kingdoms, a substance that made fortunes and opened doors to the inner circles of power.” He paused for a few seconds. “I’m referring to murex purple, or Tyrian purple—made from the dye obtained from murex shellfish. Some of the best murex species were found on the coast of Tyre. When crushed alive, they produce a purple liquid that is the base substance of the dye. Thousands of snails had to be killed to make enough dye for a single purple robe or garment. It was, of course, extremely expensive. Purple, we shouldn’t be surprised, became the color of royalty and the very rich, and later the designated color of the church’s princes. It didn’t take long before the color purple, especially in higher ecclesiastical circles, became ‘sacred purple,’ sacra purpura.
“When we meet next Thursday, Ms. Stark will make a progress report on her paper. Her working title, you might be interested in knowing, is “Homosexual Courtly Love and Clerical Ambition in Sixteenth Century Europe.”
11
Wilfred Gunnison didn’t think of himself as vain—just appropriately concerned about his episcopal appearance. He wasn’t pleased with his weight, but the dinners that filled his calendar, especially since his retirement, had taken their toll. Still, at six-feet-one he was, he thought, only slightly heavy. His clear, Nordic blue eyes looked out through rimless glasses and were guarded by full, grey-white eyebrows. Wavy white hair, trimmed twice monthly by a stylist, provided a striking contrast to the fuchsia zucchetto he wore when vested. With a miter on his head and a crozier in hand, he knew he cut an especially handsome figure. In fact, not a few of Baltimore’s leading Catholic women had told him he epitomized the archetypal bishop—a dignified, even stately demeanor, a congenial yet reserved personality. He never took these re
marks to be flattery.
Gunnison pulled on a black cashmere overcoat and caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door just inside his small but elegant residence nestled next to the Basilica. Not bad, he thought, for a man in his late seventies. Tonight he was scheduled for the sacrament of confirmation at St. Bernardine’s Parish, a task he still enjoyed for the most part. The pattern seldom varied—a passable meal in the rectory with the pastor and his staff, the photo-op at the reception in the parish hall, the mostly pleased but out-of-their-element parents, and of course the nervous, somewhat dazed confirmandi—although one had to be on guard about any touching of children since the sexual abuse scandals. Strangely, Gunnison’s own “randy behavior,” as he chose to think of it in recent years, didn’t factor into his concern about interacting with parents. There would be just two more confirmations before his Jubilee Mass and dinner, now just three weeks away.
Mark Anderlee arrived at St. Bernardine’s forty minutes before the beginning of the Confirmation Mass and secured a place in the choir loft, directly in front of the loft rail and up against the right side wall of the church. His position gave him a clear line of fire to the altar and the center aisle of the church. The stairs to the loft—his planned escape route—were no more than fifteen feet away. Anderlee wore a knee-length, bulky parka and had a soft Irish cloth cap in his pocket that he would don right after the hit. The choir members who noticed him more than likely thought he was as a divorced parent who felt compelled to attend his son or daughter’s confirmation but didn’t want to intrude on the family celebration. Anderlee was certain this could work—that he could make his way down the choir loft stairs and out of the church without being noticed or at least described in any detail to the police.
Before the final blessing, Archbishop Gunnison congratulated the confirmandi and started the applause that was sustained by proud parents and relatives. He thanked the parents for their example of Christian living, which, he said, had undoubtedly influenced the young men and women in their decision to be confirmed. The litany of gratitude that followed was one Gunnison knew by heart. He directed thanks to the parish staff and the religious educators who had prepared the young adults for confirmation, their sponsors, the servers, the choir, and finally offered a warm affirmation of St. Bernardine’s pastor, Father John Krajik. Another round of applause. At this point, it was common for the pastor to move to the ambo and thank the confirming bishop.
Krajik gently nudged Gunnison aside with a smile.
“On behalf of the parish of St. Bernardine and our newly confirmed members, I want to thank Archbishop Gunnison for his presence this evening and for conferring this sacrament on our confirmandi.” Krajik paused but a few seconds. “As many of you know, in just a few weeks Archbishop Gunnison will celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood.” Turning to Gunnison, he said sincerely, “Congratulations, Archbishop. You have our prayers and best wishes.”
The applause that followed was genuine and sustained. Gunnison was moved.
After the final blessing and dismissal, Gunnison kissed the altar, genuflected to the tabernacle, and turned to take his place at the end of the recessional. As he left the sanctuary, he began turning alternatively from the right bank of pews to the left, imparting a silent episcopal blessing as he processed down the center aisle. His smile was kindly yet reserved.
Anderlee opened his parka and readied himself. The choir’s attention was focused on their director. He rested his elbows on the choir loft railing, steadying his aim. His target was dead center in the crosshairs of his Leupold scope.
As Gunnison passed the fifth row of pews, a laser beam suddenly appeared on his chest. Gunnison’s first awareness that something was amiss came from the startled expressions on the faces he was blessing. People turned but didn’t know where to look. Most in the church had missed it, but enough of the assembly had seen the red dot resting squarely over the heart of the archbishop to cause gasps of alarm and whispers of confusion and concern.
In self-conscious slow motion, Archbishop Gunnison unvested in the sacristy. What could the laser beam have meant? Was he a target of some deranged anti-cleric? What made him visibly shake was the rising fear that the beam that rested on his chest was a warning, or some kind of message of an impending act of revenge.
“You really don’t have to go to the reception, Archbishop,” John Krajik said to a preoccupied, flushed Gunnison.
“No, I think it best I make an appearance,” Gunnison responded bravely. “The laser dot was probably just a prank by some kid.”
A half hour later, Father John Krajik, respected by the priests of the archdiocese and loved by his parishioners, walked a still-shaken archbishop to his car in the church parking lot. Gunnison had insisted Krajik not call the police, but he welcomed the sight of a uniformed off-duty policeman hired for traffic control and security.
Without reason, Krajik felt responsible for the bizarre ending to the confirmation liturgy. “I really regret what happened, Archbishop. I don’t know what to think.”
“I don’t know what to make of this either, John. I still think it was just a prank. Let me know if you hear anything from your parishioners.” Before pulling out of the parish parking lot, Gunnison gave Krajik his cell phone number. The pastor stood watching until the archbishop’s car was out of sight.
Back in the rectory, Krajik went straight to his phone and punched in the number of Archbishop Charles Cullen. His next call was to Bishop Bryn Martin.
At eight thirty the next morning, Martin, Kempe, and Gunnison were all seated in Archbishop Cullen’s office.
“Any idea what this is about, Wilfred?” Cullen began.
“I don’t, Charles. It was probably a prank, or a crazy.”
Since the clergy abuse scandals in Boston made the national media in 2002, many bishops were wary of the public. Some were more than wary; they were outright paranoid.
Kempe avoided direct eye contact with Gunnison. Both men, in fact, had a very good idea what this was about. And they suspected the other two men in the room did too. Martin caught Cullen’s eye, but both churchmen knew how the meeting had to progress. The first concern Cullen raised was for Gunnison’s safety. “I’m not going to walk around with a bodyguard at my side,” Gunnison said testily. “Let’s not overreact here.” The second concern, which was really the more important but could not be acknowledged as such, focused on the possibility that the media might hear that the retired archbishop of Baltimore had been the target of a laser beam. As soon as Cullen had addressed Gunnison’s safety and well-being, the protocol card had been played. Now it was appropriate to turn the conversation to their real concern—the public relations crisis that the incident at St. Bernardine’s might trigger.
“Aidan,” Cullen said, “I’d like you to meet with our media director and draft a statement. You’d better get on this right away.” Kempe nodded and rose immediately from his chair.
Waiting for the elevator, Kempe felt the adrenaline rush such crises always elicited in him. He believed he knew more about public relations than the overpaid professionals. This was one of his God-given gifts, along with sniffing out bishops who weren’t unquestioningly loyal to Rome. Before the elevator door opened on the first floor of the Catholic Center, Kempe had mentally crafted a statement.
Mark Anderlee could be behind this. A bitter wash of phlegm coated his tongue and mouth as he thought of the hundred thousand he had pulled together in a matter of hours. If anything happened to Gunnison—it wasn’t the first time an archdiocesan priest had been stalked or threatened by a victim of abuse—or if this became a media circus, the Brotherhood would be put in serious jeopardy. This, Kempe told himself, he would not let happen.
Back in Cullen’s office, Gunnison reached for his calendar. He had two more confirmations, one at Immaculate Conception parish in Towson and another at St. Ignatius in Baltimore, before his Jubilee Mass and fundraising dinner.
“
The timing of this incident couldn’t be worse, with my Mass and dinner just around the corner,” he said wearily. “Let’s hope it was nothing more than a hoax of some sort.”
“Yes, we all hope that’s the case, Wilfred,” Martin said. “But let’s think through the worst possible scenario. What if someone is out to embarrass you and possibly hurt you? Whether or not there was a weapon attached to that laser…we have to consider the possibility.”
Cullen remained silent, studying Gunnison.
“We need to consider,” Martin went on, “calling in the police, and we need to consider protection for you until we get this cleared up.”
“That would only make matters worse,” Gunnison said softly. “Let’s consider this a prank, at least for now. And I don’t think I should ask either of you to take the two confirmations I have. I know we’re considering the worst case scenario here, but I’ve received no threatening calls or messages. I want this to be downplayed.”
“Bryn, do we have any retired policemen we could ask for some unofficial and private help?” Cullen asked. “Or retired FBI?”
“That might be the way to go,” Martin said, leaning forward in his chair. “I know two men who might help us. One is retired FBI and the other was with the Secret Service before the travel and time away from his family got to him. They’re Loyola College alums and probably in their late fifties now, but I think they can handle themselves just fine. This would save us, Wilfred, from requesting police protection for you.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“The best case scenario,” Cullen said, “is that some friend or acquaintance of one of the kids being confirmed got a laser for Christmas or a birthday and was showing off. But Bryn is right, we have to act on the worst case scenario. Wilfred, I’m sure you understand.”
Gunnison nodded and whispered a soft, “Yes, you’re no doubt right, Charles.”
Master of Ceremonies Page 6