Render Unto Rome

by Jason Berry

  Peter Borré, who had seen his share of layoffs in the corporate world, was struck by the icy logic of Reconfiguration. The order bore the archbishop’s signature, but everyone knew it was Lennon telling parish groups to vote on whose church took the bullet. In corporate downsizing, you never asked people to vote on who kept their job. “Suppression”—a canon law term evocative of the Inquisition—meant you were evicted from your spiritual home, and all the money you and your people had put into that sacred space back through time went down to prop up a debt-ridden chancery. This is going to blow up on them, Borré told himself.

  Bowers secured an appointment with Archbishop O’Malley.

  The new prelate in his friar’s robe sat at the end of a long table. Seán O’Malley was visibly subdued. He spoke slowly, in a voice so low Bowers sat forward to hear, explaining that the church faced hard decisions about consolidating parishes. Bowers delivered an upbeat account of his parish, the diversity of people, rich allied with poor, a financial curve bending their way. O’Malley as a young deacon had done missionary work with Indians on Easter Island, far off the coast of Chile. The prelate who had read Spanish literature in graduate school would surely warm to the picture of brown folk from Puerto Rico making a spiritual home at St. Catherine of Siena. Or so thought Father Bowers. But as he spoke of his parish’s resilience, O’Malley seemed drained. “We are facing tough decisions,” he reiterated. Bowers wanted O’Malley to see the parish. Would he come to St. Catherine of Siena and say Mass? Yes, replied O’Malley stiffly.

  O’Malley seemed sad and listless as Bowers left.

  As Peter Borré suspected, the cluster meetings threw many people into bitter standoffs with neighboring parishes over whose should close. On March 12, 2004, the study group Bowers had worked with sent a “Minority Report” by lead author Val Mulcahy to Bishop Lennon. In a dispassionate economic analysis, the document provided Lennon the blueprint to reverse the financial decay and revitalize the area. Politically speaking, it gave Lennon cover.

  Where Mass attendance in generations past had been 45,000 a week, Charlestown had only 1,500 people per Sunday at the three churches. Charlestown could do with one church. Two parishes would cost $250,000 yearly in extra debt-servicing costs. “The luxury of retaining two parishes means that the community forgoes an annual surplus of $155,000,” the report stated.

  The three struggling parishes could not maintain a school that gave parents confidence, because it was poorly funded. The cycle fed upon itself, poor funding begot low enrollment, which drained the funding, worsening the facilities even more. A prosperous parish might possibly reprime that pump and support a successful school. There is the demand for a good school but not a hand-to-mouth school.36

  As parishioners from rooted families died or moved away, the demographics posed tough choices. “Newcomers see more value in a financially secure and culturally vibrant parish rather than in the preservation of historic buildings,” the document stated. And then, the report hit dead-on what the Boston archdiocese—and the American church writ large—now faced:

  The trend is away from large households of Catholic families and is towards a lower density, diverse population. There will be an accelerating trend towards both poorer families in the projects and a transitory population of single and young married folks passing through [Charlestown] on their way to middle-aged suburban homes and families. If there is an upsurge in Catholic participation it will be at this new end of the spectrum. That end of the spectrum is not traditionally the source of generous offertory giving. They cannot be because they do not have as much to give. There will be no future wave of financial bounty that will buoy up two struggling parishes.

  We don’t need to get sad about this. These groups are full of new energy, the young will get older (for sure), the poor will get richer (God willing) and contribute elsewhere. While in Charlestown they will keep the faith alive and creative.

  Closing one parish in Charlestown does not achieve guaranteed financial security. Closing two parishes would almost certainly provide that security. One Catholic community would be a stronger pastoral presence in the town.37

  The report left open just how the phaseout would be handled, though a transition via facilitators was written between the lines.

  Lennon never replied to the plan.

  Two months later, on May 25, the chancery sent letters to eighty-three pastors by Federal Express, a rather lavish expenditure in light of the financial crisis and availability of e-mail. But with reporters and TV cameras huddled in the rectory, waiting to gauge how Bowers and his small staff and volunteers, mostly women, would react to the news, the coming of the FedEx trucks was a moment of high drama. Bowers’s voice choked as he read the letter from O’Malley—the parish must close. Each parish had the option of appealing the decision to Archbishop O’Malley, and if he said no, to the Vatican. But the chances of the Congregation for the Clergy reversing an archbishop were remote, as Bowers knew. The priest was crying on TV news. The next morning’s Globe carried parallel photographs on page one: O’Malley reading a statement, Bowers in anguish.

  The archdiocese had spared the other two parishes in Charlestown. Lennon and O’Malley had ignored the research by the study group that had pinpointed $1.73 million in deferred maintenance. Closing one parish would not reduce the debt building at the other two. The smartest remedy was a single consolidated parish. In selecting two parishes at the expense of one, reconfiguration had flouted the hard research of the Charlestown group’s report.

  “Numerous parishes targeted for closing held prayer vigils last night,” reported Michael Paulson, the Globe’s astute religion correspondent. Paulson sized up the territory:

  O’Malley said the closings are necessary because the Catholic population has been moving to the suburbs and because attendance at Mass is declining. Other reasons, he said, include financial problems, the poor state of repair of many parish buildings, and a dwindling number of priests. He said that more than one-third of all parishes are operating at a deficit and that 130 of the archdiocese’s pastors are over 70.

  The archdiocese has hired a real estate specialist to help sell off the property associated with the closing parishes, many of which own churches, rectories, convents, schools, other buildings, and, in some cases, open space. The archdiocese has not said how many properties it plans to sell, but it is sure to be significant.38

  The next day, May 27, came the news that Pope John Paul II had appointed Cardinal Law pastor—or “archpriest,” in Vatican parlance—of Santa Maria Maggiore, one of the great basilicas in Rome. Peter Borré understood gilded parachutes as a reality of corporate life; but redeeming Law, with an elevation from the convent in Maryland to a perch in Rome, showed a huge disregard for the suffering he had caused. Abuse survivors and Voice of the Faithful activists raised an outcry. John L. Allen Jr., Vatican correspondent for National Catholic Reporter, explained the Curia’s view to the Globe: “The idea was to find a position in which his baggage would not bog things down, but give him a job which allows him to set up shop here, where he’s still treated with deference and respect, in part because he’s a cardinal and in part because some people think he got a raw deal.”39

  For Lennon—but more so for O’Malley—the timing was awful.

  Angry parishioners saw their churches on a chopping block while Law, who had betrayed them, found redemption with a cushy job in Rome. Archbishop O’Malley had a meeting the following day with pastors from across the archdiocese. Media trucks waited outside the church in Weston. Law’s new job “is adding fuel to fire that is already burning in people,” Bowers told a reporter. “It’s an utter disgrace.”40 His words were sure to incense the archbishop, a Franciscan who believed in vows of obedience; nor was the language a tool for negotiating. But hostility was rumbling among certain priests toward Lennon, as Law’s handpicked successor, and whether he knew how Law had managed the money.

  Father Stephen Josoma had come to the meeting with his own misgivi
ngs. Josoma’s St. Susanna parish was in Dedham, an island of the Charles, and it had made the suppression list for no reason he could see other than its eight prime acres with plenty of shade. The letter ordering the suppression gave no adequate reason. Josoma wanted answers for his people. O’Malley’s responses at the closed meeting stressed that Bishop Lennon’s clustering was carefully planned; Reconfiguration would be painful, parishes could file a request for a review, but the priests must support the plan.

  In the five-hour meeting, Archbishop O’Malley quieted some fears by assuring the priests that none of the fifty-eight who signed the letter asking Law to resign would be punished. The closures were not about reprisals, he insisted.

  Church officials disseminated a 168-page manual on how to terminate employees, remove sacred objects, and deal with journalists. Sacred items must be removed to a specified place. “Shortly after the doors are closed, Archbishop Séan will deconsecrate the Church so that we can sell it,” the manual continued. “Sacred items will be removed … After this is done, the Church may be sold for any use except one that would be deemed sordid.”41

  During a break, Josoma introduced himself to the archbishop as one of the fifty-eight priests who had demanded that Law resign. “You’re asking me to do something I cannot in conscience do,” he said. “Is this because of me or our real estate?” “Neither,” insisted O’Malley. The Globe had published a list of the parishes and their assessed values, with a fair market value in the $100 million range. “We’d be lucky if we got even the assessed value,” O’Malley added. “Well, let’s make a deal,” said Father Josoma. “We’re assessed at $320,000. What if I give you a check for $600,000? You’ll get double your amount.” The priest extended his hand to shake on it. O’Malley laughed, but would not shake hands. Josoma replied, “You know and I know that the parish is worth a lot more.” O’Malley’s lips parted in an enigmatic smile.

  On the last Sunday in May, Peter Borré and his mother-in-law went to St. Catherine of Siena for a Mass that was packed with people wanting to know what Father Bowers would say. Reporters were following the story of a parish struggling to stay alive. Bowers was so upset he barely got through the liturgy. He was also afraid. Pitting himself against the archbishop would do his career no good. After the service, he opened the floor for discussion. “Let’s pray the rosary,” a woman offered. But people were crying and angry; they needed to talk.

  Rose Mary Piper gave her son-in-law a prod of the elbow: “You shoot off your mouth about everything under the sun. So say something about this.” Peter Borré rose and suggested they send a petition to the archbishop, asking him to meet with them. People applauded. A haggard Father Bowers said, “You’re volunteering to help?”

  “I just did,” said Borré, a little unsure just why.

  With help from Mary Beth Borré, the lapsed Catholic, Peter and several members of the parish gathered 3,500 signatures. On a warm June day, Peter and two ladies from the parish entered the chancery in Brighton, opposite Boston College. A receptionist sat behind Plexiglas. The tension in the place was palpable. Borré imagined the stress on people here, coming to work over the grueling eighteen months to date. He told the lady they had a petition for the archbishop. She eyed him nervously. Just then a priest entered the foyer. In his mannered way Borré explained the purpose of their visit. “We’re not interested in petitions,” the priest uttered.

  Borré asked what they should do with the petitions. The cleric, whom he recognized as a chancery official, retorted, “You should go fuck yourself.”

  As the priest withdrew, leaving two startled ladies and Borré to swallow his anger, they went out into the summer day. He got behind the wheel of the car, his rage rising like a volcano. He considered Romans the most anticlerical people on earth, a facet of long memory from Pio Nono and the Vatican’s history as an overlord. Borré’s trust in a modern hierarchy buckled. Mary Beth heard the fury in his voice when he called from the car, saying he’d just been f-bombed by a jerk in a Roman collar. In the days that followed he distilled his anger into a plan of attack that would send him back to Rome to confront a power structure he had once held in awe.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE VATICAN, THE VIGILS,

  AND THE REAL ESTATE

  When Seán O’Malley reached Boston he was an emergency politician for the church, a specialist in damaged dioceses. As a young priest he had never envisioned such a role for himself: the clerical culture was intact. Born in 1944 in Lakewood, Ohio, and raised in western Pennsylvania, O’Malley entered the Order of Friars Minor Capuchin, a branch of the Franciscans who work with the poor. He earned a Ph.D. in Spanish and Portuguese literature at Catholic University of America, and stayed on in Washington, D.C., as founder of Centro Católico Hispano to give immigrants educational and legal help. In 1984 John Paul II made him a bishop and appointed him to the diocese of St. Thomas, Virgin Islands.

  In 1993 the Vatican sent O’Malley to the diocese of Fall River, Massachusetts, which had a large Portuguese community and was reeling from the aftershocks of the notorious James Porter. Legal settlements for 131 survivors of the imprisoned ex-priest cost $13.2 million, about half of it paid by insurance policies. O’Malley ordered a sale of nonparish properties;1 but to secure the necessary funds, he turned to Knights of Malta, an elite fraternal society which contributed several million dollars to the settlement, according to Tom Doyle, a former priest who served as a Vatican embassy canon lawyer in the 1980s and warned the bishops of the forthcoming crisis.2 The Sovereign Military Order of Malta began in the Crusades and evolved into a lay society with the trappings of chivalry. The Knights of Malta had a history of Fascist sympathies before World War II and fervent anti-Communism thereafter. Three CIA directors—John McCone, William Colby, and William J. Casey—and former secretary of state Al Haig were Knights of Malta.3 “Wealth is a de facto prerequisite for a knightly candidate, and each must pass through a rigorous screening,” wrote journalist Martin Lee in 1983. The group issued its own passports and was known for international relief efforts.4 Peter Borré’s father was inducted at St. Peter’s Basilica in a ceremony officiated by Pope John XXIII.

  As the Boston scandal sent out shock waves in 2002, the Vatican dispatched Seán O’Malley to the diocese of Palm Beach, Florida, after Bishop Anthony O’Connell calmly admitted at a news conference that, yes, he did have inappropriate contact, years ago, with a seminarian who had just publicly accused him, and by the way a second accuser might be in the offing. Three men ended up suing O’Connell.5 In Palm Beach, one of the wealthiest dioceses, O’Malley had the unenviable task of replacing a corrupt bishop who had replaced a corrupt bishop. Before the Irish-born O’Connell, Bishop J. Keith Symons resigned in 1998 upon disclosure that he had molested altar boys years before.6 Symons moved to a Michigan retreat house, O’Connell to a South Carolina monastery. But in the Vatican idea of apostolic succession, both men remained titular bishops. Cardinal Ratzinger’s tribunal at the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith laicized priests, not hierarchs.

  In Palm Beach, O’Malley formed a lay panel to monitor accusations against clergy. He told victims, “I want to do what I can to promote healing for you and for all those affected by this abuse.”7 Before the year was out, the Vatican sent him to his third scandal-battered post. Boston’s historic status also put O’Malley in line to become a cardinal. His modesty was refreshing. Unlike the imperial Law, he encouraged people to call him “Archbishop Seán.”

  In the summer of 2003, the newly appointed Archbishop O’Malley went to Rome. He had issues to review with men in high places. O’Malley’s meeting at the Vatican is key to our grasp of the larger financial issues in the American church that would engulf him and other bishops who slogged through property disputes that pitted people in the pews against the Vatican.

  Cardinal Darío Castrillón Hoyos at the Congregation for the Clergy was a pivotal figure for O’Malley’s presentation on the impact of the proposed settlement for the 552 victims. D
iscussions of a possible bankruptcy pleading had leaked to the press.8 A Chapter 11 filing, if the court approved it, would freeze debts as the church reorganized its finances and its lawyers tried to bargain down the survivors’ attorneys. The gamble was the backfire potential. The law required disclosure of all assets, swatches of which the media were already scrutinizing: spreading everything on the table could make the cash-strapped archdiocese seem rich. It also meant that O’Malley would begin his most important job having to explain to the many victims expecting compensation that his predecessor had, in effect, broken the bank. For as Peter Borré would learn, months later, on ferreting out copies of the archdiocese’s past financial statements from a privileged source, the archdiocese had lost $10 million in fiscal year 2000, $8.3 million in FY 2001 (before the Globe series on the abuse scandal), and $12 million in FY 2002 that forced a sale of assets from its investment portfolio. When O’Malley reached Rome that day in 2003, the archdiocese he had come to govern had lost $30.3 million in the preceding three years. Besides a horrific sexual scandal, Bernie Law had bequeathed a financial sinkhole to Seán O’Malley. Where had all the money gone?9