“Well, I can assure you, Lawrence, that I am not going to volunteer my services, such as they are, to the Detroit Police Department.” A smile threatened to break through, but Boyle held it well in check. “Of course, if you …”
“Come, come, Mark,” Foley interrupted, “you know I wasn’t referring to a couple of old fogies like us! I meant one of your priests. You must have someone who could guide the police through the morass of Church bureaucracy.”
Boyle’s smile did break through. “There is someone. I don’t think you’ve met him yet. Father Robert Koesler.”
“He has some special training?” Foley was surprised that any priest would spring immediately to mind as a liaison with a homicide department of a major city such as Detroit. If anyone had challenged him to come up with such a priest in Cincinnati, he would have been hard-pressed to do so.
“Not training, Larry; experience.”
“This … this Koesler: He’s done this sort of thing before?”
Boyle nodded. “It’s uncanny, but it certainly has happened before. I’ve had occasion to speak with him about it, of course. I’m convinced a good deal of his involvement is not by design. He certainly is not in any way trained in criminology. But he has been called upon by the police to do just what you suggested: help them find their way through Church avenues and paths that seem to be an added mystery to the police.”
“Do you … assign him to this duty?” Foley found this difficult to comprehend.
“He seems to gravitate to this role quite independently of anyone’s commissioning him.”
“Well,” Foley said, “he certainly seems made to order for what I had in mind.”
“Shall we repair to the study?” With the meal ended Boyle thought Foley would be more comfortable in the well-upholstered study
Boyle rose from his straight-backed chair fairly spryly. Foley had a considerably more challenging time of it. But he managed. Boyle did not offer assistance. He knew Foley would prefer to be independent.
The study was exactly that. Just about every inch of wall space was lined with books that were read, consulted, treasured. Cardinal Boyle spent many a contented evening alone with his books, studying.
The two settled into comfortable chairs. Boyle offered a selection of liqueurs. Foley, claiming an advanced stage of fatigue, declined. They sat in silence for several minutes.
Foley was first to speak. “Have you given much thought to the future … to the future of our Church?”
“Certainly. It won’t be long.”
“No, it won’t. Pretty soon all the priests-even the Pope, in nomine Domini- will be too young to remember what the Church was before Vatican II.” Foley shook his head. “That is if there are still any more priests.”
“I’m not inclined to be that pessimistic, Larry.”
“God will provide?” Mockingly.
“Yes …” Boyle drew out the word, “but not magically.”
“A married clergy?”
“I think it inevitable. We already have the beginnings of it with the sizable number of married Protestant clergy that have converted and are now functioning.”
“The transition is going to be difficult.”
“No doubt. But it has to happen.”
“There are going to be some angry Catholics. Some very angry Catholics.
“There are already some very angry Catholics.” Cardinal Boyle had had firsthand experience.
“But it works.” Foley resettled himself in the chair as if fighting off tiredness. “We’ve known it all along. Martin Luther, among others, was right. It is not only possible but beneficial to have a married clergy. The Protestant clergy-just about every sort of clergy but Latin Rite Catholics-have proven the naturalness of a married clergy. And now the converts among ministers and Protestant priests, they’re doing all right. And I almost forgot that other phenomenon, our brother priests who marry and then become Protestant-even Orthodox-priests. Quite a display of proof there. It is as you yourself just said: inevitable. Yes, yes, yes: We are going to have optional celibacy-the day after I die.”
Boyle chuckled. “Thus saving some poor woman from becoming Mrs. Lawrence Foley.”
“‘Mrs. Foley ” Even the name sounds peculiar. In that context,” he clarified. “The first and almost the only Mrs. Foley that comes to mind is my mother.”
“Besides, Larry, it is not as smooth a picture as you paint.”
“Oh, I don’t know”
“There’s the problem of divorce among the clergy:”
“I suppose,” Foley admitted, “You don’t have divorce when you have an unmarried clergy. But then, divorce seems to be part of life-a tragic part of life. Something we would better understand if some of us had to go through it.”
“You’re mellowing, Larry.”
“I’ve mellowed, Mark.”
“Another problem you’ve skipped over: the convert clergy with their wives and families, many of them, are not being accepted by all parishioners, even though the parishes they are assigned to are carefully selected.”
“Transitional, Mark, transitional. Our people are so used to the unencumbered priest that it’s going to take a while for them to adjust.” Foley cocked his head toward the Cardinal. “What is it with you, Mark? Are you merely playing advocatus diaboli or do you have serious reservations about a married clergy? You did say it was inevitable.”
“Inevitable, true. But … somehow … I regret the loss of what we had. It was, I think, nobly unique.”
They sat in silence for several minutes.
“Admirably unique,” Foley agreed at length.
“The seminary training,” he continued, “so strict and unyielding, yet the system formed men-good men, responsible, leaders. But,” he sighed, “that’s pretty much gone already.”
Boyle nodded agreement. But then he amended Foley’s statement. “The mere change to optional celibacy may or may not have its effect on the training for priesthood. But, in any case, it will no longer be necessary to produce that challenge to human nature, the asexual macho man.”
“Yes, yes, yes. No more Going My Way, or Bells of St Mary’s, or Keys of the Kingdom, or Father Flanagan of Boys’ Town. It’s probably just as well that Bing didn’t live to see this.”
Boyle smiled.
“But, more seriously,” Foley said, “and more positively: It will do away with our caste system. To be truthful, that has been a problem for me for longer than I like to think. It was that universal and mandatory celibacy that created a separate class in Christian society. Priests were not ‘ordinary people.’ They were ‘above’ the laity, not just because of their function in the Christian community but in the nature of their membership in the Church. Because of celibacy, the clergy were in a more spiritual, and ergo a superior, form of Christian life.”
“You’re right,” Boyle agreed. “It is more neoplatonic than Christian.”
“Strange,” Foley picked up the theme, “how much of our life is structured by celibacy. It’s not just a single life. My god, single people are looked upon more often than not as ‘odd,’ somehow failures at the sexual game. But with the distinction of celibacy-dedicated virginity, consecrated singleness-we are looked upon as different kinds of creatures. Mark, when you were a child, did you ever wonder whether priests and nuns went to the bathroom?”
Boyle chuckled, “I think when we were children that would have qualified as an impure thought.”
“You know,” Foley said, “I’ll bet most of our people think that an unmarried clergy goes back to the beginning of Christianity. Whereas, you know that, despite some early attempts at celibacy, we had a married clergy for about the first half of our history.”
“The Second Lateran Council, A.D. 1139,” responded Boyle, thus proving that the books in this study were used. “It was almost a textbook of simplicity in legislation. The First Lateran Council prohibited the marriage of clerics in major orders. And that did not do the job. So the Second Lateran simply pronounce
d such marriages invalid. And that is pretty much how things stand to this date.”
“That was a sad period for the Church, if memory serves.”
“Indeed it was,” Boyle agreed. “The tenth and eleventh centuries were shot through with weak Popes and clandestine clerical marriages or, more often, a very common concubinage. The time was ripe for an uncompromising move in one direction or another. Either the Church would have to abandon its effort to form a universally celibate clergy or come up with the sort of legislation that, as it happened, was promulgated.”
“Went for broke. Isn’t that the way of it?” Foley’s question was rhetorical. “In almost every crisis, historically, there was always a minority who could be depended upon to react and save celibacy. If they’d followed the will of the majority, more than once celibacy would have been discarded.” He paused. “Just as it was nearly discarded as a result of the Second Vatican Council. But,” he added wryly, “I surely don’t have to tell you. You were among the shakers and movers of that council.”
Boyle nodded as he recalled the seemingly endless meetings, the maneuvering, the lobbying. “There’s no doubt about that. Although few beyond the council participants were aware of what was going on, imposed celibacy was a burning’ behind-the-doors’ topic at the council. But pressure-pressure from that dependable entrenched minority-kept the topic off the formal agenda.”
“So now, here we are,” Foley summed up, “with the law of imposed celibacy, living right alongside a married clergy. Add to that priests becoming an endangered species, and it can’t be too far off before we will have optional celibacy.”
“Ah, yes,” Boyle said, “that is the question: when? It’s the question I doubt anyone has an answer to. When? Pope John, who began it all with his convocation of the council, with his call for a change in canon law, with his aggiornamento, with his openness to change … even he could not bring himself to make this reformation. On occasion, he even said as much: that with a stroke of his pen he could put an end to enforced celibacy. But he said he simply could not bring himself to do it.
“Then his successor, Paul VI, two years after the council’s conclusion, put another nail in the coffin with ‘Sacerdotalis coelibatus,’ which just repeated the standard explanations and dismissed all the arguments against obligatory celibacy.”
“So we are faced with a law that hangs by a single thread; tradition. A tradition that, as a law, is less than half as old as Christianity itself. But you know, Mark, you and I are not the only ones who are familiar with the background of this law. What of those who demand an immediate answer to ‘When?’ and those who insist ‘Never’?”
The Cardinal shook his head and stifled a yawn. It was getting late, especially for two elderly men who had had a busy day. “I don’t know. I simply do not know. But the situation puts me in mind of an earthquake waiting to happen.”
“Huh?”
“California, for example. The earth gradually, ineluctably, grinding in opposite directions, but the motion being encumbered by massive buildings. The stress keeps building as the earth continues to creep apart and the buildings sit there like Band-Aids-until, with unimaginable force and destruction, the quake occurs.
“That is what I am reminded of: We are moving toward great change in the Church, even greater than we’ve experienced as a result of the council. Celibacy is only one area where this is happening. The movement toward optional celibacy-a married clergy-is inevitable. And it’s being advanced by people who are tired of waiting, who know it will happen, and who demand that it happen now.
“But the opposition, that powerful minority of convinced conservatives, is digging in its heels.”
“There will be an explosion,” Foley concluded.
“It seems destined.”
“The law could be changed.”
“And,” Boyle added, “Californians could tear down their buildings and get out of the way of the earth’s movement. Of course, it would be far easier to change the law enforcing obligatory celibacy. But that’s no more likely than respecting the movement of land.”
“The Holy Father could do it all himself.”
“But he gives no indication that he will. And those who demand change recognize his intransigence.”
Foley was unable to repress his yawn. “Well, Mark, it seems we’ve settled most of the Church’s problems, if not the world’s. Time to retreat so we can fight another day.”
Boyle agreed. So, leaving some lights on for the return of Father Benz, they retired for the night.
Neither bishop thought to relate what they had discussed to a motive for murder.
19
“A penny for your thoughts.”
“They’re not worth that much.”
“They are to me.” Pam Stapleton was sitting on a sofa with her husband.
“Oh,” Fred said, “I guess I was thinking a dozen things at the same time.” Pause. “I was remembering parties like this when I was a priest. Usually everybody was married-and-there-with-spouse except me. And when it came to being seated for dinner, it was boy-girl-boy-girl until it came to me. Odd man out.”
“Did it make you feel like a fifth wheel?”
“No, oddly, it didn’t. It was like that was how it was supposed to be. Of course, nine-tenths of the time I was in uniform: the clerical black suit and roman collar. And everybody deferred to ‘Father.’ Actually”-he smiled at the memory-”it was quite nice.”
“I never had that sort of experience.”
“You didn’t?”
“I was in the convent, remember? By the time ‘Father’ arrived at his parishioners’ party, ‘Sister’ was working over tomorrow’s lessons plans. And by the time ‘Father’ was enjoying his after-dinner drink, ‘Sister’ was fast asleep.”
They laughed quietly.
“And now, here we are at a party together,” Pam said. “Only now we aren’t with parishioners.”
“True. Every husband in this room is a former priest or seminarian. And a goodly number of the wives are former nuns.”
“A lot of good men and good women.”
“Yes. What a waste!”
Pam patted her husband’s knee affectionately. “Don’t think about it.” She knew this had all the ingredients for a difficult evening. Their daughter, Irma, had urged them to go to the party even though it would reduce by one the number of evenings they could spend together as a family before her return to school after the Christmas holidays. Irma was just grateful that it was a party they were going to and not a meeting of CORPUS.
But Pam knew better. She had not shared her reservations about this party with her daughter. No sense in spreading gloom. Besides, it was entirely possible nothing untoward would happen.
Nonetheless, she was hypersensitive to her husband’s potential reaction to what he inevitably would encounter this evening.
A return to the active ministry had grown to become an obsession. What had begun as a harmless enough second-guessing of his decision to leave the priesthood and seek laicization had evolved into a matter of mental self-flagellation.
Her fears seemed warranted when she took stock of those who had showed up tonight. While some-albeit a minority-of the women had never been in religious life, every man present had once been either a priest or a seminarian who had not reached ordination. The solid majority had been priests. Every one of these men, to Fred’s way of thinking, should be as concerned as he about the state of the Church and the injustice involved in their being forbidden to use their priestly powers. And of course few if any of them spent much time thinking about it. None of them cared as much as Fred. And therein lay the possibility of a problem.
“You know,” Fred said, “I may be wrong, but have you noticed that these get-togethers are different from the parties we go to where the guests are laypeople?”
“How’s that?”
“Think about it. Remember the Christmas party we attended a little more than a week ago? The one sponsored by the State Psycholog
y Society?”
“Yes.” Pam let her mind’s eye recreate the earlier party. The crowd at the psychology bash had been more stylishly dressed than the group here tonight. But the earlier party was formal. Outside of that and, of course, the fact that nearly everyone tonight had an explicit and strong religious background, while religion was not the long suit of the psychologists and their spouses, she couldn’t anticipate what Fred was suggesting.
“Well,” Fred continued, “we’ve been here almost an hour. About an hour after we arrived at the psychologists’ party, nearly all the men had gathered in the kitchen around the drinks. And nearly all the women were seated in the living room.”
“Okay,” she said, “I remember. So?”
“Well, just look at this group. No oil and water here. The couples are still together, talking to each other with no apparent need to separate the men from the women.”
With this perspective, Pam felt as if she were assessing the guests with new eyes. And as she recalled past gatherings, more than less they conformed to this general pattern. Secular-for want of a better term-assemblies did tend to split up according to sexes. It seemed that men wanted each others’ company, leaving women to themselves.
Or was it women’s topics of conversation? Did they talk about babies? House decoration? Clubs? Fashion? Was that why men isolated themselves in the kitchen? Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Did men make the first move to talk about work or sports or other sorts of “male” conversation, thus leaving the ladies to shift for themselves? Or were the men bored silly and ran away to preserve their sanity?
Whatever, it did not seem so with gatherings like the one tonight. She wondered why. This tended to be a singular mix of older people, most of whom had married comparatively late. Many were thus childless. As for those who were parents, most had only one child, and the ages of those children varied widely. Almost none had grandchildren, though most were easily old enough.
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