No Greater Love (13 page)

“And if he doesn't go through this process, or if it's too late, or if it's turned down …” Burke asked, “what then?”

Rogers shrugged. “I suppose they'd deny him Christian burial. What more could they do to him at that point?”

“I remember hearing about that set of circumstances,” Koesler said. “It didn't seem fair.”

“What's fair and what's foul,” said Rogers, “depends on the umpire's call.”

“In baseball as in theology, it seems,” commented Burke.

“Besides,” Rogers said, “the ultimate explanation, if we care for the solution given by the recently departed deacon, is that we knew what we were getting into before we got ordained.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Koesler. “Those of us who were ordained before the Council had no way of knowing what was coming … how much things would change.”

Burke nodded. “That's true.”

“Virtually no one was retiring,” Koesler said. “I've just recently retired—something I thought I'd never do. Another big change was priests resigning. I'll bet they never thought it would be so tough to get released from the obligations of the priesthood.”

“So,” Burke said, “unlike the permanent deacons who had everything spelled out clearly for them before they were ordained, the priests who've left maybe didn't know what they were getting into.”

Burke shook his head slowly “Silly rules!” he said, barely audibly.

Twelve

Hitherto, Father Koesler had kept a comparatively low profile.

Coming fresh from retirement and being a classmate and friend of the rector, he did not want to give the impression that he was at the seminary as some sinister force. For, indeed, such was not the case.

So, other than periodic chats with McNiff, an occasional student consultation, and helping out in Homiletics, when Koesler wasn't catching up on visitations or taking in a few movies and plays, he pretty much stayed in his room, answering correspondence and indulging in the luxury of reading.

But now he was in the water.

As for the seminary faculty, most of the members were too young for him to know. Priests, especially, knew their older confrères at least by name. Younger priests were a vast unknown. Those priests on the faculty who were Koesler's age or older, such as Father Burke, had been immersed in this subculture so long they scarcely remembered priests in the outside world. And vice versa. As for the deacons and lay faculty, men and women, Koesler had never had occasion to know or even meet them.

All that would change now. He would mingle. He would try to inject a measure of tolerance and moderation into these rock-ribbed people.

Koesler had just gotten a taste of the two camps. It was not encouraging.

After a postprandial cordial, Koesler meandered back to his room. He thought over the conversations he had heard and the ones in which he had, at least partially, participated.

If one could trust this evening's samplings to reflect the conservative majority's opinion, there was a long way to go before everyone could be open-minded, let alone indulgent and merciful.

If a priest was in trouble and that trouble was likely to cost the diocese large sums of money, dump the man! Thus not only washing one's hands of him but denying that he was ever a validly ordained priest.

In the case of deacons who lost their wives—surely a crushing blow—those who wished to remarry had to fit into at least one foreordained condition before they could even petition for permission. And there was no guarantee that permission would be granted. This seemingly arbitrary rule was justified by the cold explanation: He knew what he was getting into.

Finally, the case of an excommunicated priest in a canonically invalid marriage. If he is in danger of death he can apply for a laicization decree and a convalidation of his marriage. All of that to qualify for Christian burial, with no guarantee that permission will be granted or that he will live long enough for the procedure to be completed.

So much for the conservative majority.

As for the liberal minority: Once they got the head deacon on the defensive, they pursued the matter unrelentingly.

Not a lot of tolerance. And certainly not any mercy.

Koesler wondered where this might end.

He was about to pass the rector's office when he hesitated, then decided to knock.

“Come in.” Loud voice, bored tone.

Koesler entered. “I was concerned about you. You weren't at dinner.”

“But
you
were.” McNiff smiled mischievously. “I have my spies.”

Koesler shook his head in mock despair. “Okay, so you knew I wasn't going to join you, as is our occasional custom. How come you played hermit?”

McNiff, his desk covered with books and papers, sat back in his chair. “Two things. I had some work to do. Plus I wanted you to mingle with the faculty without my being around.”

Koesler nodded.

“How'd it go?”

“Pretty well, I guess. But it's going to be hard to stay neutral.”

“Sit down, why don't you?” McNiff indicated a chair near the desk.

“Can't. There's a guy coming to see me … from the old parish—St. Joe's.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Koesler shook his head. “I don't think so. Actually, I don't know yet what he wants. But I'll keep in mind that you offered … just in case.

“And you … you're feeling okay?”

“Yeah. Like I said, paperwork, and leaving you to get acquainted. I've got a microwave; I'll heat something up in a little while. If you get done, come on down later on. We can chat, and split a cool one.”

Koesler inclined his head to one side. “I thought you were off the sauce.”

“I am. But I've got some pop in the fridge. And the makings for just about anything you want.”

“Okay … if it's not too late.” Koesler turned to leave.

“By the way,” McNiff said, “did you notice my door?”

Koesler studied the door, then turned the knob, opened it, and stepped out in the hall, where he stood examining the outside of the bishop's door as if he'd never seen it before. “Okay. So?”

“It's clean.”

Koesler looked at McNiff quizzically.

“It's been clean ever since it was scrubbed after Donnelly dumped supper all over it,” McNiff clarified.

“What did you expect?” Koesler said. “Somebody had to clean it.”

“Not so. It was just as likely to remain in status quo until the whole mess became part of the wood.”

“Well, in that case”—Koesler bowed his head in acknowledgment—“congratulations.”

“I know Donnelly didn't clean it up … though she should've. Somebody from the kitchen told me she dumped the empty dishes off and ate her own supper. Somebody else cleaned it up before it congealed. I haven't been able to find Donnelly to ask her. If you come across her, find out, will you? Such attention to a job that needs doing should not go unrewarded.”

“Okay. I'll find out for you.”

Why hadn't McNiff found out for himself? It couldn't be that difficult.

But it was a minor request, and Koesler would look into it.

He continued down the hall to his own room and let himself in.

Technically it was a suite. But to his mind that term connoted something a whit more elegant than this hodgepodge. His quarters consisted of a bedroom, something that might be called a den or a sitting room, and a bathroom with shower, toilet, and sink.

It seemed comfier than it actually was because most of the furniture was his own.

No sooner had he settled in than the security guard rang to announce the arrival of his guest. Having ascertained that Cody knew the way the guard sent him on up to Koesler's room.

Koesler was experiencing bad vibes over this appointment. No specific reason, just a hunch.

From the first parish council meeting after Bill Cody's election as president, he had given notice that his would be a hands-on presidency. And so it had been.

As far as Koesler's pastoral role went, there was little if any friction between pastor and president. Indeed, Cody had been extremely helpful in offering advice and guidance in several legal matters.

This suited Koesler perfectly. He had no legal skills and he appreciated Cody's help and guidance.

The parish liturgies were well planned and effectively presented. They were about as traditional as they could be, given the prevalence of the vernacular and the increased participation of the congregation.

There were no Folk Masses to speak of. So few children or young people attended Mass that there was no groundswell of support and thus no call for them.

Koesler had the feeling that anything even faintly resembling a Pentecostal Folk Mass would have ignited a strong, relentless, hostile reaction from Bill Cody, and—under his leadership—from several other council members as well.

Koesler considered himself fortunate that Cody's interest in St. Joseph's parish was limited to the liturgies and to any financial or legal questions that affected the parish.

Conceivably, it was Cody's legal training that kept him at a good arm's length as far as the counseling and sacramental services Koesler offered. These, Cody believed, constituted information even more privileged than lawyer-client confidentiality.

In the end, what with the satisfactory liturgies and respect for inviolability, the relationship between Koesler and Cody was practically trouble-free.

Then why these vibes?

This was not going to be a cordial meeting between old friends. Something was amiss.

There was a knock at the door. Koelser invited Cody into his parlor.

They settled in, facing each other across Koesler's desk, and exchanged pleasantries after Cody had declined a drink. “Have you seen Al yet?” Cody asked.

Koesler hesitated for a fraction of a second. In his preoccupation with trying to figure out the purpose of Cody's visit, it had slipped his mind that Cody's son, Al, was a student in this seminary.

“No, I haven't. I meant to, but I'm still getting settled here. Of course Al is tops on my agenda, but also, I have to make it clear to the students generally that I'm here for them. They can come to talk or whatever. It'll just take a little time.”

Cody pursed his lips. “Why did you do it, Father?” Cody would never call him Bob; he too respected the office. “I mean, why did you accept this assignment? You're retired. And you worked hard … I can testify to that.”

“‘Why?'” Koesler searched for a way to explain. “I did it for a friend.”

Cody looked wonderingly at the priest. “You gave up retirement for a friend? That's hard for me to understand.”

Koesler smiled broadly. “Don't get the wrong impression, Bill. I don't know how much more time God will give me. I hope it'll be a lot. But I don't really expect to do this until I drop. The help I may be able to contribute here will either take effect or not within the next several months.”

Cody stared at the floor briefly, then looked up. “Well, let me ask you this. You've been a priest for …”

“Almost forty-five years.”

“A long time. You can look back now on a lot of service. Was it happy? Were you happy?”

Koesler paused to reflect on the question. It had been thoughtfully proposed; it deserved a thoughtful response. “Everybody's life is a mixed bag, I think,” he said finally. “There've been times when I've been extremely discouraged. Times of loneliness. But I guess the conclusion is: If I had to do it over again, I'd do it just the way I have done it. So, in a nutshell, I think I can say yes. It's been a happy life.”

Cody silently considered the statement.

Koesler wondered at the question—a question a lot more personal than any that Bill Cody had ever asked him. Was this the urgency, Koesler wondered, that Cody had advanced when he proposed this meeting?

Koesler thought he knew the answer. “Is your concern about Al?”