No Greater Love Read online

  “Coordinators?” He was swept up in the flow of her suggestions.

  “Yes. A coordinator for liturgy. Not just ensuring the weekend help you need, but planning—from week to week, season to season—themes that will involve the congregation.

  “Then there’s a Christian Service.”

  “We’ve got an active St. Vincent de Paul—”

  “Marvelous! But the Vincentians should be a dynamic part of a larger vision that doesn’t just react to problems, but is aggressive in shaping programs like visiting the sick, the jails, and so on.

  “And there is so much more. Coordinators for the youth of the parish. There are wonderful programs for family life and adult education and religious education for the children.

  “And to do all that we’d have to form and train catechists.

  “And let’s not forget music ministers. It’s not enough anymore to just have somebody playing the organ without encouraging full participation—”

  “Wait! Wait a minute!” She was bombarding him. He was aware of almost every program she was suggesting. But he’d never seriously thought of implementing any of them.

  For the simple reason that, at best, it needed somebody young—young and energetic—to take on the challenge of these programs. Someone as young as … this young woman who had painted a picture so bright with promise that he almost considered passing up retirement and getting involved in a parish once again.

  Almost. “Let me see those documents you put on my desk.”

  Smiling, she retrieved the documentation from her attaché case and passed the papers to him.

  He riffled through them. She wished he wouldn’t do that. They deserved to be kept and studied. They contained not only her résumé and transcription of grades, but also a blueprint of just about everything she had just presented.

  He paused at one document. “Your graduation is in June of next year?”

  “But I can begin building everything we’ve talked about right away. It’s just a matter of interviewing and selecting the right people. And as far as the next scholastic year is concerned, I can pretty much come and go as I please.”

  Manor smiled. “You strike me as someone who knows what you’re doing.”

  “I think so.” She returned the smile.

  “So what do you need with another year in the seminary?”

  It was a good, thus difficult, question to answer in twenty-five words or less. “There are a few courses I want to take to upgrade my knowledge and experience. Plus there’s the diploma that states I am a pastoral minister. That will satisfy the bureaucrats downtown, and it will make it lots easier to deal with our parishioners.”

  He seemed to still have some doubts.

  “Look,” she explained, “after Vatican II nearly everybody in the pews was overwhelmed with changes. It seemed as if anybody who wanted to could get up and initiate some program or other. And in a lot of instances that was true … sadly.

  “It is extremely important that the person who heads a program as vast as the one we’re talking about be well qualified. I dare say that without the diploma, this program would die aborning.

  “The authorization that my graduation provides is crucial. So what I’m proposing is that you let me start now, before school begins in another month. I can meet the parishioners who really want to get involved and get them reading and studying. Then, as the school year progresses we can lay all the groundwork.

  “And when I graduate, we can hit the ground running.” She folded her hands on the desk. Her proposal was finished.

  He swiveled his chair so that he was looking out a side window. “You present quite a package,” he said, without turning back to her.

  “I know that. But it will work. I know that too. By the time you’re eligible to retire, you can hand the diocese a parish that is a smoothly running machine. Not that the machine is the end product we’re working for. Our program has to be, at all times, Christocentric. It’s just that everything in the parish will lead smoothly to that end.”

  He rocked back and forth for a few moments. “And what will all this cost?” As he asked the question, it occurred to him that as often as he had dealt with priests or religious, the subject of money, reimbursement, salary, seldom was raised.

  But this was the age of the laity. Theirs was a far greater need for a decent wage than priests or religious whose maintenance and even a modicum of comfort were all but guaranteed.

  She nodded. It was a decent question, one that needed to be explored. “Bennie, I am not going to be living the high life on any wage the diocese or parish pays me. I know that. There are guidelines sent out by the diocese suggesting a certain salary for employees. It will cost the parish something for me and for many of those coordinators. I will economize as much as possible. But the conclusion you must reach is that it will be money well spent.

  “I know your present budget doesn’t provide for these outlays. Your next budget will have to reflect these expenditures. But I can assure you, once your parishioners experience what we can provide, you won’t get many complaints.”

  He deliberated. Slowly he swiveled back to face her. “if we do this, what assurance do we have that you will follow through? I mean, I don’t have anything but your word and an attractive plan. Do you have any … what? Collateral?”

  “Sure. How about this: In this beginning phase, as I get things ready to go, until June of next year when I graduate, you put my salary in escrow. We’ll put it in the contract that I won’t collect the salary unless and until everything is ready to go and I have my diploma.”

  “Sounds like something I could sell to the council and the parishioners. Are you sure you want to put that thing in about the diploma? That seems a bit chancy. I’m just thinking about you now.”

  “I know you are. And thanks. But it’s not that chancy. It’s the next best thing to a lead pipe cinch. Besides, as I said before, I’m nothing without that diploma. It’s my badge. It’s my license to practice. I want it in the contract. If not for you, for the parishioners.”

  “Andrea”—he rubbed his hands together—“I think we can do business.”

  “Bennie, I was counting on that.”

  “Call me in a couple of days—make it the first of next week. I’ll do a little checking and we can haggle about some money.”

  That was last August. And since then both sides had honored the bargain.

  Father Manor had sold it to both his parish council and the parishioners. The atmosphere was not unlike that of Vatican II. In a way, that might have been expected, since that Council had passed over St. George’s parish without stirring up much enthusiasm. So there was plenty of bottled-up sentiment to spare.

  Andrea quietly organized the various coordinators, some from St. George’s, some from among her friends outside the parish.

  All the while, Andrea kept a low profile. She would not actively begin the program until after her graduation from the seminary. That diploma would be her ticket to implement the programs without valid opposition.

  She envisioned how her work would develop.

  Only a small percentage of the parishioners would respond to her call and become active. The majority of the rest of them would be pleased that all these things were happening. Given good direction, they would participate more actively than they had—especially in the weekend liturgies.

  And then there would be a vocal few whom the changes would hit hard. They would object that Andrea and her precious programs were going too far.

  Andrea would treat them gently. But her trump card was the certificate naming her a pastoral minister. And if they didn’t know what that was, Andrea would be happy to explain. Or, if push came to shove, they could look it up.

  Now she was only a few months from her dream assignment.

  Things were on course and on time.

  Her future was pretty much assured.

  She would, in effect, be the pastor of St. George’s.

  Father Manor would be
pastor by the book. He would offer Mass. No one could take that from him. He would deliver the homilies, something he did quite well. But, through weekly conferences with him, she would have considerable influence on both topics and development.

  The rest of the parish would be hers. She could never have hoped to do this so well had not Manor, in effect, already abdicated and become absorbed with his coming retirement.

  Of course she had no idea who would follow Bennie as pastor. But it didn’t seem to matter. Either she could continue as she was, controlling virtually everything, or she could carry her by-now impressive credentials to another parish of her choice.

  She was about to arrive at her life’s goal.

  Some priest might have thought her “unworthy” to be ordained. But she clearly was not “unworthy” to be the pastoral minister, who was, not counting the deacon, the next best thing to a priest.

  Now that her full potential was about to be realized, thoughts of her friend Patty flooded her mind more and more often.

  Patty banging her head against an unyielding brick wall. Patty, ever the optimist, hoping against all odds to be ordained.

  Patty doomed somehow equaled Andrea guilty.

  There was no way Andrea could save Patty from herself. Earlier on, Andrea had tried to get Patty into the pastoral ministry program. But Patty’s invariable response was to try to coax Andrea into participating in the protest against women being banned from the Master of Divinity courses.

  Now that her own future was assured, Andrea focused on Patty. What could Andrea do for Pat?

  She asked herself the question so often that it almost became a mantra.

  Then something occurred to Andrea. A scheme that might accomplish much in the area of evening scores. It was a tricky, even dangerous plan. And it was just those adjectives—tricky and dangerous—that endeared themselves to the heart of this confident young woman.

  She would need help carrying out this scheme, but with a little bit of luck, Patty Donnelly would end up a very satisfied camper.

  Twenty

  In the seminary’s basement was a small room lined with snack dispensing machines. A few small tables and chairs filled the remaining space.

  It was midnight. A lone figure sat very still. On the table before him was a pack of cheese crackers and a small carton of milk. The young man had sampled neither. He was lost in thought. So much so that he jumped, startled, when another man entered the room.

  The newcomer was also startled. He had not expected anyone else to be here at this time of night.

  The only light in the room came from the vending machines. So it took a few moments for them to recognize each other.

  “Al! Whatinhell are you doing here?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” the man at the table replied. “It was here or chapel to be alone and think. Chapel’s so creepy at night. But come on in, Bill. On second thought, I could use some company.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Page produced from beneath his bathrobe a pint bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He placed the bottle on the table. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll stay with milk.” Cody opened the carton and took a sip. He marveled at Page’s daredevil approach to seminary rules and regulations. For Page, rules were little more than a challenge, hardly anything to be observed as part of character formation.

  Page fetched a bottle of Vernor’s ginger ale. He took one of the Styrofoam cups and mixed the Vernor’s with a heavy dose of whiskey, then tasted it. “Could use ice. But”—he smacked his lips—“it’ll do for now.”

  Cody smiled. “Bill, don’t you take anything seriously?”

  “Sure.” Page thought for a minute. “Let’s see …” He smiled. “Good alcohol, good food, and good sex. None of which do we get in here.”

  Cody hardly ever could tell the difference between Page the epicure and Page the kidder. “Come on, Bill: All you have to do is stick to business, and in a few months you’ll be able to have at least two of your requisites.”

  “Why settle for two when you can have all three?”

  “Quit kidding.”

  “Who’s kidding?”

  Cody shook his head. “Do you realize the chance you’re taking right now with that booze?”

  “Chance! Al, do you think for a moment they’re going to boot a deacon out over a little moonshine? Kid, I’m everything they want. The ‘mature vocation’ they’re trying to sell. A nice, conservative theologian. And an all-but-up-there-on-the-altar ordinand.” He snorted. “At this point in time, they need me more than I need them.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Okay, okay; so maybe I’m exaggerating a little. I’m not about to bring some booze into the refectory at mealtime. I’m not going to beg them to fire me. That would be idiotic—and I’m no idiot.

  “But, Al! Baby! The snack room? At midnight? C’mon …” It was a combination of a grin and a sneer. “I can bluff any security guard who chances in here. And if it’s a faculty member, he or she has got more explaining to do than we have. After all, they’ve got a suite of rooms. They’ve got a fridge in their rooms. They’ve got all the snacks, drinks, or whatever right there in the comfort and convenience of their own rooms. So whatinhell are they doing down here? At midnight.

  “Meanwhile, I slip the bottle back under me robe as I ask, ‘Excuse me, Father, is there anything I can get you that you don’t already have in your room?”

  “I still think it’s chancy.”

  “Lighten up, Al. Most rules can be bent a little, at least. The talent lies in knowing just how much you can get away with—how far you can go before the rule is fractured. And, if you’re smart, you stop just in time.”

  Cody recalled something the rector, Bishop McNiff, had mentioned in one of his spiritual conferences. It fitted Page to a T.

  McNiff was talking about the rule of life laid down for seminarians. He compared it to a fence around a yard. There’d always be at least one seminarian who kept kicking against the fence.

  As the years progressed, and ordination drew closer, the fences expanded, allowing room for development and maturation. But the lad kept kicking against the ever-retreating fence.

  At ordination, the rules that had guided the seminarian disappeared. Not that there were no more rules. But there was no reinforcement as there had been. The fences stood for reinforcement. The man who was kicking against them now had no more fences holding him back. Where he went from there was anyone’s guess. To the moment of ordination he had exhibited little or no self-control. Now, it was possible the man’s priesthood might self-destruct.

  Could that apply to Bill Page? It certainly seemed so.

  Page poured more whiskey in the cup. He neglected to add anything else. “Hey, Al, you sure you don’t want some of this? There’s plenty more where this came from.”

  Cody hesitated. Finally, he stood, emptied his milk into the sink, got a Styrofoam cup, and extended it to Page, who splashed some of the whiskey in. “Want some ginger ale?”

  “No. This will help me forget things. Which is why I came down here in the first place. Maybe a drink or two will let me get some sleep.”

  Page extended the bottle and Cody let him fill the cup to half full.

  “You wanna forget,” Page said, “enough of this should do the trick. And don’t worry, I’ll be the designated walker. I’ll see you to your room. I wasn’t planning on getting blotto anyway.

  “But, Al—forgive me, but this isn’t like you. What’s the matter?”

  Cody sipped from the cup and let the warming liquor linger in his mouth before swallowing. He shuddered. This was powerful stuff. “You weren’t at spiritual conference last night,” he said.

  “What else is new?” Attendance at these conferences was not a command performance, Page had learned. So he rarely attended.

  “McNiff told this story about a Trappist abbey back in the days when the monks never talked.” Cody tasted the whiskey again.

  “Seems,” he went on, �
�that a bishop was visiting the abbey. He was walking around the garden when he spotted this Brother working in the garden. The guy seemed very depressed.

  “The bishop prided himself as a great if amateur psychologist. So he called the Brother over to him. Here you gotta remember,” Cody explained, “that even in those days of perpetual grand silence, the monks were allowed to respond to a bishop.

  “So the bishop says, ‘Brother, you look ill at ease—downright depressed. I think I know what’s troubling you: It’s that perpetual silence. You really want to talk again—freely—if only for a short while … that it?’

  “The Brother thinks about this and after a moment says, ‘I don’t think so, Bishop.’

  “So the bishop ponders a bit. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he says. ‘It’s the food. Never any meat, small portions, no snacks allowed—and all of this in silence, so you can’t even complain … that it?’

  “The Brother considers this, then says, ‘It seems like you’re coming close, Bishop. But no, it’s not that.’

  “Now the bishop is really puzzled. After some thought, he says, ‘Probably it’s your sleeping arrangements. I mean, trying to get a good night’s rest while you’re lying on a lumpy straw mattress while all around you in their own cubicles the other monks are snoring and making noises as they also toss and turn on these uncomfortable mattresses … that must be it!’

  “The Brother mulls this over. ‘Nope,’ he says, finally, ‘I don’t think that’s it.’

  “The bishop throws up his arms in defeat. ‘All right, Brother, I give up. What do you think your problem is?’

  “And the Brother drops his hoe and says, ‘Bishop, I think it’s the whole damn thing.’”

  Page chuckled and poured a little more whiskey in his cup, adding a bare dash of Vernor’s—probably to keep his promise of being the designated walker. “And that’s it with you, eh? It’s the whole damn thing?”

  Cody nodded and swallowed a generous mouthful.

  “Well, take it apart a little, Al: What’s one part of the whole damn thing?”