The Sacrifice (15 page)

“I know you want me. And I know you want to be a priest. And I assume there isn't that much difference between the degree of desire. What I'm suggesting is a delicate balance … for everyone's sake.”

“There's something more, Sue.” Alice spoke deliberately.

“What?”

“My father.”

Sue realized her mouth was hanging open. “Your father?”

Alice's face was squinched as if she was searching for words. “It started very slowly and very long ago. I didn't say anything to you about it. I thought it would blow over.

“Daddy began his inner journey to Rome sometime before I was accepted into seminary. He kept his plans very quiet. At first, and for a long while, Mother was the only one who knew. Then, as it came close to the time when he would leave the Episcopal Church to join the Romans, he told me and my two brothers.

“Naturally, we were shocked. Richard took the news better than Ron and I did. Of course, Richard wasn't as intimately affected. But then that was to be expected; Richard was never really involved in any organized religion.

“Ron was knocked for a loop. Mostly, I suppose, because he's been running for bishop for a long while. But that's another story.

“I must confess, I was livid when Dad told us. My reactions were totally negative. I regarded him as a heretic, a traitor! I hated him. I hated him because he had been the model for my vocation. I wanted to grow up to be like him. We even resemble each other.” She shrugged. “So, okay, we're not that great-looking—”

“You are as far as I'm concerned.”

Alice's lips turned in a downward smile. “That's what love will do for you.

“I wanted to have a radio show,” she went on after a moment. “I wanted people to come to church to hear me. Everything Dad did so well, I wanted to do, too. Here I was, entering seminary, and he dropped this bomb.

“Eventually, at seminary, word got around. I don't think it was deliberately cruel, but they really started to hit on me.”

“Who?” Sue was surprised that people who were studying for the priesthood could be so mean-spirited, so … so
unchristian!

“Just about everybody. A teacher would say something like, ‘The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.' Or classmates would ask me when I was going to nail my theses to the church door—

“Oh, not all of them; many were quite decent; others seemed unaffected.

“Why would they do such a thing? Your dad doesn't threaten them. It's
his
life to lead.” Sue stood facing Alice, legs apart, hands on hips, in a combative stance.

“He
does
threaten them,” Alice insisted. “First, his departure is a gigantic loss. Dad is famous—at least on the local scene.

“I suppose, with one thing and another, he is well known and recognized through the radio show, the newspaper column, his reputation as a top-notch speaker. At least much of the state of Michigan knows of him. He's known far more widely in the whole country as far as the Episcopal Church is concerned. There was a time when he was being seriously considered for a bishopric.”

“He was? But he didn't get it, obviously. What happened? Did whoever runs that process guess right, that he was going to defect? That's a remarkable feat of foreknowledge … or did your dad tip his hand early on?”

“No.” Alice shook her head and stared steadfastly at the carpet. “He could have had the position if he had wanted it. But he didn't. It was clear to us, his family, that he wanted to remain a simple priest.

“My point is that the Church considers him an exemplary churchman. They—clergy and laity—feel a great loss at his leaving. You know,” she said after a moment's thought, “I doubt they'd hurt so badly if they could just understand the impetus behind his move.”

“You mean, if he were leaving like most of the others—as a protest against the ordination of women.”

“Yes, I think so. It's just … not being able to understand his reason. You see, he has no problem with women priests. He was the first to encourage
me.
There's no scandal either. He hasn't taken advantage of women or children. He has no evident problem with any of the theology of the Episcopal Church. And, so far, I don't think he has explained his position in any clear way.

“Even those who want to understand him can't seem to. So a goodly number of Episcopalians deeply resent what he's doing.”

“Even so,” Sue said, “that's between them and him. It doesn't have anything to do with you.”

“His opponents—clerical and lay—have made it my business. I was as surprised to be treated the way I have been as you are to hear about it.

“This is the bottom line. The effect of my father's journey to Rome is spilling over on me. So, all the hesitation I've felt about us—you and me—particularly our potential coming out—is intensified immeasurably.

“Not only would we face the risk of alienating future parishioners—if I were called to a parish by an understanding bishop—but I'm afraid there would be a lot of mistrust. People would tar me with the same brush they'll use against my father …” Her words dwindled off into an uneasy silence.

“It doesn't matter,” Sue stated finally. “Even if you said you never wanted to see me again—”

“I couldn't do that. I know that's the direction I was going in … but I couldn't do that. What I felt had to happen—that we had to go our separate ways—I hoped would come from you. I hoped that after I painted as black a picture as possible, you would take the initiative and call it quits. I couldn't do it myself.”

“What I was about to say …” Sue moved to Alice's chair, bent over, and embraced Alice protectively. “What I was about to say,” she repeated, “was that if you told me to get out of your life, I would respect your wish. But I would never really leave you. We would always be together. In some way.”

Tears trickled down the cheeks of both women.

Sue stood, and brushed her tears aside. “Isn't there anything we can do about your father? I mean, there really isn't anything we can do about us. Except, maybe, try to stay out of the spotlight, as it were, and in the closet.

“But your father … you know him much better than I. Is there anything possible that might change his mind … change his situation?”

Alice bit her lip. “I thought something was going to happen … but it didn't. On top of that, I'm quite sure that he doesn't know about us. Oh, he knows that we're close friends. But if he knows we're lovers, he certainly is keeping it to himself.”

“Maybe he's keeping quiet on purpose,” Sue argued. “Maybe he's waiting for you to say it's time. He might even bless our union, even though that would be pressing things, especially in the Roman Church.”

“Nothing so convenient,” Alice responded. “As a matter of fact, I'm quite certain that he disapproves of a gay relationship. I never asked him. I was afraid if I showed any obvious interest in this lifestyle, he might guess that I'm gay. I've heard him argue the question. His stand is: If someday scientists can say without hesitation or question that some people are genetically programmed toward gay relationship and sex, he might … in fact
would
reconsider. But, until then …”

Sue shook her head. “He's the only movable piece in this chess game. We've got to find some way of handling him.”

“Let's forget about Daddy,” Alice said, as she took Sue by the hand. “We've got tonight. Let's not waste it.”

N
INE

Walking hand in hand with Sue toward the bed brought back a long-forgotten memory.

One of her earliest recollections was being put to bed by her father. She needed nothing more to bond with him. Of course there were many other occasions when the two grew close.

The Wheatleys were a family that visited during meals. George encouraged his children to talk about what was going on in their world, to discuss events with their parents and with each other. Nan listened, corrected, and loved.

All three children wanted—even vied for—their parents' attention. But Alice, particularly, felt that she was her father's special favorite. That feeling was reinforced at bedtime. Nan was always there to tuck them in. George made it a point to do likewise as often as possible—when there were no parochial meetings or banquets to address.

But he always made special time for Alice. And somehow he managed to do this without making the boys envious.

It became routine. When she no longer needed to be carried, he would take her hand and accompany her up to bed. He would tuck her in and then tell her stories. Stories often from books she would later read when she grew older. They meant so much to her when she read them because from babyhood they had been served up to her with love and in the most beautiful voice imaginable—her father's voice.

Sometimes he would sing to her. He sang all sorts of melodies. The pop songs with which he'd grown up. Snatches of operatic arias. Everything but the music of her age. He told her—and she never forgot—what Jimmy Durante once said to Frank Sinatra: that rock and roll consisted of three chords, and two of them were bad.

Those memories were evoked now as she held Sue's hand. But not just those memories; a flood of images washed over her—images of her parents, especially of her dad.

As a child, only gradually had she begun to understand what her father was doing in church. At first she was dumbfounded and mystified to hear the churchgoers calling him “Father.” She was afraid to voice this puzzlement. Her big brother was not hesitant to poke fun at her. She waited, and listened for someone, anyone, to ask the question, and satisfy her curiosity.

Eventually, she came to perceive that he was Father to his congregation, leading them in prayer, in eucharist, and through life's trials and crises.

But she would always be his special girl.

She was endearing in so many ways. But she was not a beautiful child in the accepted sense. Her peers, with characteristic thoughtless cruelty, sometimes picked on her. She always found refuge and support in her father's lap.

If she had been born just a few years earlier, she would have bumped up against the iron curtain that blocked women from the Episcopal priesthood. But, as it happened, she was born in the late nineteen-seventies; the barrier had been breached in the mid-seventies.

The walls came a-tumblin' down when eleven courageous women were ordained without official approval by a retired bishop or two, who at that stage of the game had little if anything to fear. Up till that time in the Anglican Episcopal Church, girls could yearn all they wished to follow in their priest father's footsteps, but their wishes were for naught. As for the Roman Catholic Church, a girl's chances were definitely less than nil.

Once ordained, the original eleven posed a problem that nagged for a solution. After some little thought and a lot of prayer, the House of Bishops acknowledged the validity of the women's orders and they became the charter members of a growing society of female priests. This solution also was ratified by the Anglican mother Church.

The Roman Catholic Church stands fast in its prohibition of women as priests for the specious reason that Jesus did not ordain any women, and that women do not resemble men.

Alice Wheatley was spared all this folderol by the accident of her birth date.

She never knew the initial frustration of being unequivocally barred from the priesthood. Like many of her generation, she was oblivious of the bravery and determination of the women and the bishops who had brought all this about simply by not asking permission. They just went ahead and did it. And changed history.

Thus, in practical terms, Alice was free to select the priesthood as her vehicle for life. And, following the example of her dad, she did. She graduated from Western Michigan University cum laude and went about the business of selecting a seminary for the three-year training that would lead to ordination.

First, she discussed the selection with her father. She explained that she wanted to attend a seminary far from home. He was so popular and so successful that she feared she would always be compared with him to her detriment. There was enough pressure being a woman seminarian without the added association with her father.

He tried to talk her out of this. He did not share her concern over comparisons. On the contrary, he felt he could help her in many ways. But in the end she had her way.

She was accepted by the Dallas seminary. She was happy. Her life was on track, proceeding nicely, as planned.

And then her father dropped the bomb.