“We’re fortunate to have an archbishop like Cullen. He knows who he is, he’s open-minded, and he’s pastoral. I’m not sure I could manage being an auxiliary bishop to Gunnison.”
“An honest answer, Bryn. I appreciate your trust,” Krajik said softly.
They were back at the monastery now but neither man wanted to end their conversation—rare among Catholic clergy for its frankness. So they walked slowly around the oval drive in front of the main entrance. Neither priest took much note of the life-sized stone statue of the Sacred Heart meant to catch the eye of visitors to the monastery. It represented another time, another church in fact. Martin then added, “I don’t feel as close to the people in the pews now. I miss that. And my work now isn’t too different from my time in the chancellor’s office—except for the confirmations and parish anniversaries that call for the presence of a bishop.” Martin went silent for a bit. “I’m still adjusting.”
They began their second slow turn around the oval.
“Bryn, I hope you know how happy most of the priests were when you were named auxiliary. We were afraid the appointment would go in another direction.” Krajik swallowed. He didn’t have to mention that he was referring to Aidan Kempe.
“Thanks, John,” was all that Martin could say. But what Krajik said touched him.
“How are things at St. Bernardine’s?” Bryn asked, afraid that the emotion rising in his chest might show. “And how are you doing?” Martin felt stupid. His second question sounded lame, like How’s the family?
“Things are more or less okay at the parish. Really good people, and I’m working with a good staff.” But Krajik picked up on Bryn’s awkward personal question. “These are not the best of times for me.”
Martin said nothing but his silence said, Go on. I’m listening.
“I think I’m just tired, Bryn. And a little lonely.” His voice halted—and then John Krajik found the courage to say, “Celibacy’s never been easy for me. I’m not sleeping around or anything; it’s just the loneliness of it. I thought it would get easier as I got older. So far, it hasn’t.”
Martin nodded a silent I understand. He understood very well, for Bishop Bryn Martin was drinking from the same well of discouragement. “Years ago, when I was chancellor, I asked one of our oldest priests, he was in his nineties, what he thought of celibacy. The old man was quiet for a moment, then he said with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘Bryn, it’s okay…during the day.’”
Both men smiled at the half truth. Martin continued, “We both love the priesthood, John. It’s the Vatican’s drive to control that makes me crazy. And celibacy, among other things, is a means of control.”
“Yes,” Krajik said simply, “and if you control a man’s sexuality, you really control him.”
“There is pressure on us bishops to pretend everything is more or less okay, more or less under control. There are huge problems, of course, like the abuse scandals, the drop in Mass attendance, empty seminaries, and now the financial scandals. But we bishops simply deny these realities. We can’t let ourselves look at these problems too closely. They might point to flaws in the institution. We just won’t let ourselves do that, so we write it off to human nature, like people cheating on their income tax returns or not going to Mass on Sunday.”
“God, Bryn,” Krajik said, “how do you cope with all the crap, all the institutional politics?”
“A couple of ways. I try to remember the history of the church. These are not the worst of times. And it’s not just the Catholic Church that’s in trouble. All of the mainline churches are in trouble, serious trouble.”
“I know,” John agreed.
“One of my favorite theologians is a married Orthodox priest. Reflecting on the state of Christianity, he said something like ‘all of us have to cope with corners of weakness and corruption, of self-satisfaction and triumphalism that bring us close to despair.’ I copied that into my journal. Maybe misery loves company, but I took some comfort from that.”
They had been outside for more than half an hour now and the cold was getting to them.
“Do you know what I find myself doing, Bryn? Counting the years until I can retire. That’s not good. It’s one of the reasons I’m here on retreat.”
They stood for a moment at the door of the monastery.
“Once we get through Gunnison’s jubilee event, I’m going to call you for dinner, John. I want to continue this conversation.”
They entered the monastery chapel and sat in the back as the nuns chanted vespers. It was already dark and the light was subtle and calming. The thin but prayerful chant somehow lifted the priests above the hard realities they had confronted only minutes before.
At the end of the liturgy, the priests turned with the sisters to face the icon of the Virgin as the nuns intoned the Salve Regina.
This, Martin said to himself, is real. He remembered reading somewhere that a mystic’s name for God is…reality.
25
Margaret Comiskey stood at her front-room window and watched as Ella Landers got out of her car and headed for her front porch.
“Ella,” Comiskey said opening the door, “I got it. I got into Kempe’s PC!” Margaret took Ella’s coat and almost ran into her bedroom where she dropped it onto her bed. Then taking Ella by the arm, she led her to the dining room table.
“Too bad you’re not thirty years younger. The NSA might have a place for you.” But Landers’ feelings didn’t really match her light tone. She immediately regretted her remark.
“The foreign words for purple didn’t work,” Margaret said, “But ‘Daniel 5:7’ did. ‘You shall be clothed in purple.’”
“Very nice work. And…?”
“Concerning Gunnison and Mark and the other abuse cover-ups, nothing came close to what you found in his private drawer. What I did find was a list of priests who have been vetted for appointment as bishops. Kempe also has a list of U.S. bishops being considered for promotions to a bigger diocese and a list of auxiliary bishops who are likely to be named to head their own diocese.”
Landers didn’t see the significance of the lists and her expression showed it.
“Ella, nobody’s supposed to know that. Only the papal nuncio and the two American cardinals on the Congregation for Bishops and maybe a handful or so of U.S. archbishops. Those lists are like top-secret—what the chancery suits call a ‘papal secret.’ Break a papal secret, the priests say, and you’re in big spiritual trouble. So, how did Kempe get this information? I don’t even think Archbishop Cullen has those names.”
“It appears,” Landers said evenly, “that Monsignor Kempe hasn’t been wasting his time on his trips to the Vatican. The corridors of church power aren’t that different from most governments—or the Foreign Service.”
“God, Ella,” Margaret closed her eyes, “I’ve been so naïve.”
“If you have the right sources,” Ella went on, “and the money and the know-how to work the system, that kind of information is not impossible to come by.”
“Kempe has all that,” Comiskey said. “He has all kinds of connections with Vatican officials and with dozens of American bishops. Almost half his day is spent on the phone with church higher-ups, both here and in Rome. And he has control of his purple purse. And, believe me—I’ve seen him in operation—he knows how to work the system.”
“He’s a careerist, Margaret, a climber. But he appears to be more crass than most and more dishonest.” Ella hesitated. “And more ruthless.”
Comiskey shook her head. “I am so damn naïve, Ella, I could scream. I’ve sensed for some time now that something didn’t smell right in the chancellor’s office. But I never suspected Kempe was outright corrupt.”
Ella looked at her, sad at her friend’s self-tormenting rant.
Margaret took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. “What I found on Kempe’s computer is interesting, but none of it is what I was looking for. There’s nothing more about Mark or any of the other victims than we already
have. Or about Gunnison. Unless, of course, he’s hidden it under a file name no one would suspect. I even looked at the ‘sent’ folder in his email. Looked like ordinary chancery business.”
“I need to say something, Margaret. I’m actually glad you didn’t find anything relating to Mark and Gunnison.” Landers placed her hand on Comiskey’s forearm and said gently but firmly, “I don’t think you should dig anymore. Aidan Kempe is a powerful man. Be careful. He’s covered up for Gunnison and other priests and that’s wrong. But if you try to expose Gunnison, Kempe could hurt you. The system could hurt you. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Comiskey turned to face Ella and nodded a silent yes. But the resolve in her eyes was unchanged.
They took their tea into the dining room. Margaret pointed to the sideboard where three pocket-style manila folders were placed side by side. “I made two more duplicates of the documents from Kempe’s drawer. I’m going to give a set to Bryn Martin. I’m sure he will take it to Archbishop Cullen. I’m going to keep a set. Maybe I’ll turn it over to the media, but I’ll have to talk to Mark about that first.”
“Oh Margaret,” Ella said, a concerned look on her face, “be careful.”
“Would you hold on to the third set for me?” Margaret asked. “Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
“Just in case,” Margaret said looking away.
“Do you have a minute?”
Bryn Martin turned from his computer screen to see Archbishop Charles Cullen standing at his open door. Unlike many bishops, Cullen didn’t hesitate going to the offices of his staff if he had something on his mind. Still, Martin was surprised.
“Sure. Come in.” Martin got up from his desk and moved to the corner of his office where two leather club chairs were angled for easy conversation. Between the chairs, a silver-framed picture of Bryn’s parents and a black-shaded table lamp rested on an oval end table.
“I’ve just had a call from the nuncio. Tardisconi is driving up from D.C. for Wilfred’s Mass and dinner. I thought he might come, but since this isn’t the official archdiocesan celebration of his jubilee, the nuncio is doing Wilfred a favor.”
Martin wondered where Cullen was going.
“This is an opportunity for the nuncio to get to know you, Bryn. I think you should seize it.”
Now Martin knew—and he was uncomfortable.
“You’ve been a bishop almost three years. Not that long, but long enough for me to see that you’re too talented to remain an auxiliary. The church would benefit if you had a diocese of your own. And, I think, the sooner the better. I’m going to arrange to have you seated next to Tardisconi at the dinner.”
“Charles…” is all Martin could manage to utter, his discomfort at Cullen’s suggestion unmistakable.
“Bryn,” Cullen said looking straight into Martin’s eyes, “this isn’t about you. It’s about the church. What’s good for the church.” The archbishop lowered his eyes and sat without speaking for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and sad, “We’re a rather sorry lot these days. Our botched handling of the abuse scandals seemed to shatter our credibility. I can’t blame them, but I think a lot of Catholics think all we bishops care about is protecting the institution and covering our episcopal behinds. Some want us skinned alive for moving abuser priests around without calling the cops. I understand all that.”
It was almost four in the afternoon and Cullen looked tired and drawn. He closed his eyes, giving Martin a moment to study his features. His smile was his best feature, really, but today he didn’t wear even the hint of a smile—and his color was bad. The faded pink flesh of his throat and jowls rolled over the top of his Roman collar, hiding completely its white plastic band. He opened his eyes and looked at Martin.
“I’m not flattering you, Bryn. You know that.”
“Charles, I know you mean well and I’m grateful for your confidence. And for your friendship. But I’m happy to be your auxiliary and I’d prefer to just let things take their natural course.” Martin thought of Ken Untener, the late bishop of Saginaw, Michigan. When a reporter asked him why he’d become a priest, Untener said, “It wasn’t my idea.” Bryn liked to think of his vocation that way. It wasn’t my idea. Nor was it his idea to become a bishop. And he didn’t think he was kidding himself.
“I’ll sit wherever you think I should sit at the dinner, Charles. But I would just like to let things unfold as they are meant to.”
Then, as if Cullen hadn’t heard a word Martin had said, the archbishop perked up and said, “Here’s what you need to consider saying to Tardisconi. He’ll probably ask you as a relatively new bishop about what committees you’re interested in being appointed to at the Bishops’ Conference. The preferred responses, Bryn, are the Bishop’s Committee on Pro-Life and the Committee on Clergy, Consecrated Life, and Vocations.”
Martin remained silent. He felt a wave of alarm, a slap in the face alerting him to moral danger. He wanted to move, he wanted to stand and walk out of the room; he wanted to suck fresh air into his lungs. The silence was uncomfortable for both men, but Martin didn’t know what to say. What he did know, from the heaviness in his stomach and the confusion in his chest, was that he didn’t want to play this game. But Bryn Martin didn’t stand up. He didn’t walk out of the room.
Cullen took Martin’s silence as a rebuke.
“Bryn, please listen to me. Don’t say anything about the role of women in the church, about celibacy or the shortage of priests, or the role of the laity. And of course you can’t say anything about the abuse scandals. Until you get your own diocese you need to—pardon my directness—keep your mouth shut.”
Martin knew he should say something like “thanks for the savvy advice” or “I’ll think about this.” Instead he remained silent.
“This is the way things get done in the church. You know that. We’re a human institution, guaranteed the guidance of the Holy Spirit to be sure, but we are a human institution. The ‘positioning’ I’m proposing to you is going on all the time. It’s just the way things are. It’s the way most appointments are made.”
Martin’s mood darkened as he realized his own complicity in the system. Hadn’t Gunnison engineered his appointment as an auxiliary bishop?
Cullen continued, “If Kempe and his friends are actually part of some ancient brotherhood, you can be damn sure they are ‘positioning’ as we speak. Brotherhood or no brotherhood, they’ve made an art out of ‘positioning.’ And they’re masters of that art.”
“Isn’t this ‘positioning’ you’re referring to just another name for church politics?” Bryn asked.
“Of course it is,” Cullen responded with a hint of impatience. “But there’s politics and then there’s politics. There’s human politics and there’s demonic, crass politics, no-holds-barred politics. What we’ve been talking about here is the human kind. At least I hope it is.”
With that, Cullen rose from his chair a bit unsteadily. Martin accompanied him to the door of his office.
“You’ll have some time with Archbishop Tardisconi, Bryn. All I’m suggesting is that you carpe diem.”
Bryn Martin went back to his desk and mindlessly started to shut down his computer, too upset to get any work done. Cullen was a good man. But Martin didn’t much relish the game he had proposed. Like it or not, Cullen had reminded him that he was in the game. If he was, Martin wanted to play by his rules, not the ingratiating, please-notice-me rules of the clerical boys’ club. Archbishop Jean Jadot, who served for several years as the papal nuncio to the U.S., was once asked how he liked living in Rome after his U.S. diplomatic appointment was over. Without missing a beat, Jadot quoted the nineteenth century theologian, John Henry Newman, who had been asked the same question after being named a cardinal and called to Rome: “Nowhere have I found more courtesy and less friendship.”
That pretty much summed up Bryn Martin’s first few years as a bishop—an abundance of courtesy and a dearth of friendship. No, he t
hought, that’s not quite true. He knew he had real friends—and a family—that kept him grounded. But the clerical circles he moved in fit Newman’s somber insight.
For some of the bishops and priests, he knew, that was precisely how they wanted it. Courtesy and deference, yes, but friendship, at least authentic friendship, required at least some self-disclosure and a certain vulnerability. These traits were alien to clerical culture, especially to episcopal clerical culture. Martin’s mind drifted back to his recent conversation with John Krajik at the monastery. John would have smiled at Newman’s honest answer.
In her third floor Catholic Center office, Margaret Comiskey sat nervously checking the RSVP’s to Archbishop Gunnison’s dinner. Her boss, hiding any signs of jet-lag from his short trip to Rome, gave no indication he suspected his private files had been compromised. Comiskey exhaled, thinking, So far so good. She told herself to focus, and just before five o’clock she completed the tally of the dinner responses—there were fewer than a dozen regrets. Before leaving for the day, she would inform the other members of the dinner committee to plan for two hundred and eighty guests for the banquet scheduled for the last Saturday before Lent.
Comiskey decided to ignore standing instructions about the checks tucked neatly into the response envelopes; she sent them immediately and without tallying to the Catholic Charities offices. She was painfully aware of the irony that on her last days at the Catholic Center she was spending most of her time on her godson’s abuser’s jubilee—arranging for the printing of programs for the Mass and dinner, processing the guest responses, confirming hotel arrangements for the visiting bishops.
Until Mark told her of Gunnison’s abuse, she had been proud to work for the archdiocese and had considered it an honor to be in the daily presence of archbishops, bishops, and some fine chancery priests—especially Bishop Bryn Martin. Not anymore. Now, in spite of the many good people she knew and cared about, in spite of all the good work done by the church—the schools, financial support for the poor, shelters for the homeless and for battered women, and all the rest—now she was aware of a corruption that spoiled it all. And she didn’t give a damn about the consequences her plan would certainly bring raining down on her. Margaret Comiskey, with care and new-found cunning, formulated some plans for next Saturday night that were all her own.
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