No Greater Love Page 21

  “Then Jesus becomes very calm. Maybe, aside of the terror he realistically felt in the Garden of Olives when he sees clearly the nightmare he will have to go through—aside of that, Jesus is about the only one who stays calm through the whole ordeal of His crucifixion and death.”

  Cody began to scribble notes on a legal pad he’d brought along.

  “Now,” Koesler said, “we have to figure where you’re going with this.”

  Cody looked up and thoughtfully tapped his lips with the pencil. “The value of friendship … The importance of friendship … The demands made of friendship …”

  Clearly, Cody was shopping for an idea, and stating whatever came to his mind. He paused, obviously searching for more ideas.

  “Let’s try it this way,” Koesler suggested. “Let’s concentrate on commitment. What we’ve got are two examples of what we might call the maximum commitment of friendship.

  “Jesus states something that could be taken as an axiom. He talks of the highest measure, testing, of friendship. There is no greater test of love than one’s willingness to die for his or her friend.

  “Dickens puts this into a concrete example. Not only is Sydney Carton willing to die in Darnay’s stead; he actually does so. Carton goes off to the guillotine and death.

  “You could talk about the similarities and differences in the deaths of Jesus and Carton. They both gave themselves up to a death they could have escaped. All Carton had to do was not take Darnay’s place. Jesus would have had to fudge His principles, recant some of His ‘Good News.’ Because of their commitments, they died prematurely. They were executed. Jesus proved His love for all who would be His friends. Carton died for the happiness of one man. Carton’s death was horrible but quick. Jesus’ death was torturous and lingering.

  “But, Al, after pointing all this out, you’ve got to draw a practical lesson for your listeners. How many of us will ever face a predicament like this? How many of us get a chance to prove our love by dying for a friend? The only modern example that comes to mind immediately is Maximilian Kolbe, the Franciscan priest in … Auschwitz, I think. Some inmates escaped from that concentration camp. Nazi policy, in reprisal, was to select some prisoners at random and starve them to death. Father Kolbe stepped forward to take the place of one of the condemned, and he died for the man.”

  “I remember reading about that.”

  “Well, okay then. It’s good to point out the selflessness of a sacrifice like that—the supreme sacrifice. But you’re going to have to bring it down to something practical. And the practical lesson is not that we should go around looking for someone unjustly condemned to death and then volunteer to die in his or her stead—“Koesler stopped himself. He wanted Cody to find the application on his own.

  Cody sensed that and searched his mind. “It’s commitment, isn’t it?” he said finally. “That’s the lesson … the point. And it applies to everyone in this school.”

  Koesler smiled and nodded.

  “Jesus was on a confrontation course with his country’s elders,” Cody said thoughtfully. “As soon as He began His public life, He made the choice to go forward. That was His commitment. His love for his friends—for all people—would carry Him on. This commitment would lead Him to the cross. And that would allow Him to say that no one could love more than someone who was willing to die for that love.

  “And in Dickens’s story, as soon as Carton decided to save Darnay, the commitment was made. And it gave him the strength to trade clothing with Darnay. And then his fate was sealed.

  “It’s all about commitment, isn’t it?”

  “I think so,” Koesler affirmed.

  “Everybody, every student in this seminary,” Cody said, “whether they’re preparing for priesthood or service to the Church, has to make a commitment to the Church. Every one of us, someplace along the line, has to say, ‘This is it.’”

  Koesler smiled. “I think you’ve got a really good homily in there.”

  Cody sat back in his chair, lost in thought.

  “What is it, Al?”

  “I think you’re right, Father. There is a good homily in what we’ve talked about. But I’ve got to preach it to me.”

  “Come again?”

  Cody hesitated. He was as embarrassed as anyone on the verge of admitting something he considers a shameful failing.

  “Father …” Cody took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “… in all the time I’ve considered becoming a priest—and that goes back to when I first crawled out of my crib—in all the time I’ve been in the seminary, I have never committed myself to the priesthood.”

  Koesler tried not to look shocked. He very definitely was not of the “You did what!?” school. But in his heart, he was astonished.

  Undoubtedly what Cody had just said was true. It also was strange—very strange.

  Koesler knew the Cody family pretty well. He knew Bill Cody was dedicated as no other parent Koesler had ever met to his son’s ordination. More than dedicated; he was near consumed by it. That may have been a highly motivating force—but could it possibly have been the sole motivating factor in this crucial step Al was slated to take?

  Hoping he had his emotions masked, Koesler said, “It seems silly to point out you’ve got only a few months before your ordination.”

  “I know.”

  “I know you know. You couldn’t have picked a better audience for your Sunday homily than yourself. It’s sort of like a woman marrying a man who has some serious flaws, confident that she can reform him. It hardly ever works.

  “Married people make a lifelong commitment too. We priests are not unique in this commitment business.”

  “Do you mind if I stand, Father? I’m getting too nervous to sit still.”

  “Of course. Stand. Pace.”

  Cody did both. He stood and began pacing.

  “I know married people make a commitment, Father. I also know that there are thousands of annulments every year. So much for commitment in marriage.

  “On the other hand, it’s next to impossible to get a laicization. A woman marries a man who has flaws. She has every intention to fix him up like new after the wedding. But the flaws ruin the marriage. They get a divorce. Then they get the marriage annulled.

  “But a seminarian who has doubts about the priesthood gets ordained. He figures he’ll work out his problems in his day-to-day life as a priest. But what if it doesn’t work out? What if the problems begin to take over? He can apply for laicization. He can petition to return to the lay state. But there’s not much chance that it’ll be granted.

  “And”—Cody stopped pacing, faced Koesler, and extended his arms in a gesture of helplessness—“even in the remote possibility that it’s granted, he’s a marked man. For Catholics particularly. It’s one thing to have been married and divorced and have the whole thing wiped out with a declaration of nullity. But an ex-priest, as far as Catholics are concerned, carries this invisible, indelible mark on his soul that will identify him as a priest into eternity.

  “With marriage, once there’s an annulment, everything is over. Once a marriage is annulled, if that couple were to have sexual intercourse with each other they would be committing fornication—adultery if either had married again.

  “However, if a priest has been laicized there are situations when he can or even must use his priesthood. If someone is in danger of death, the ex-priest can absolve. Even if an active priest is on the scene, if the dying person wants the ex-priest—the nonactive priest—he can function.” Cody began pacing again.

  Koesler felt frustrated. “Al, what do you want of me?”

  There was no reply.

  “Do you want me to tell you to quit?”

  “No!” Cody said decisively. “Just your saying that … that you would be willing to tell me to quit … it makes me almost sick.”

  A long pause followed, during which Cody stood stockstill.

  “Then what, Al? Did you come to see me to get help with your homily? Or did yo
u really come to settle your doubts about your priesthood?”

  Another long pause, during which Koesler was determined that he would not be the first to speak.

  Cody slumped into a chair. “I came here for help. Help with the homily, I think. It developed into something else. I don’t know exactly how we got into this. I do know one thing: I needed to talk. Would you believe it? This is the first time in my life I’ve had a serious venting of my doubts.

  “You know what: I feel better. I still have some doubts … but I feel better.”

  Cody looked intently into Koesler’s eyes. “Tell me this, Father, if you will. I am now the age you were when you were ordained. Was it at all like this? Did you have any doubts at all?”

  Koesler smiled. He always smiled when contemplating his ordination and the events that surrounded it.

  “Al, it was different back then. So very, very different. It was a different Church before the Council, of course. And the training was almost incomparable. I had twelve years of seminary life; you’ve had eight.

  “There were so many of us the place was bulging at the doors. The faculty had the luxury of being extremely selective in judging who among us could stay or had to leave. Not that there aren’t some high class candidates now. But the numbers are not in the same ball park … Hey, wait a minute! These are just the ramblings of an old man—”

  “You’re not an old man!” Cody protested.

  “Maybe you’re right. Outside of a few aches and some stiffness, I don’t feel so old. But I’m trying to get back to your question. About doubts: I must confess, I didn’t have any. Not a one.”

  “Not one?” Cody sounded discouraged. How, he wondered, do you deal with someone who had not a single doubt—especially when so many were pounding in your own brain?

  “Oh, I guess I shouldn’t put it that way. Doubts came eventually.”

  “Can you remember any? Any one?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I can remember the first one. Clearly.”

  “When did it happen? When did you doubt?” Cody was eager.

  “During my first assignment. Oh, maybe three or four months into my priesthood. It was a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon. I had the baptisms that day. There were lots of babies, with twice as many godparents and close to twice as many parents—some of the wives stayed home to cook the meal.

  “The babies were crying so loudly I had to almost shout to be heard. Now that I look back on it, my yelling probably made them cry with more vigor.

  “Finally it was all done. And all the people and the babies went to their homes for the baptism parties.

  “And I was alone.

  “Here I was, young, your age. And I was all dressed up with no place to go.

  “I was just … alone.

  “My future played out in my mind. I would be alone for the rest of my life. I can tell you, Al, just between the two of us, I had doubts. What had I gotten myself into?

  “What I didn’t realize was that being alone didn’t necessarily mean I had to be lonely.”

  “That’s one of mine! That’s one of mine!” Cody almost sprang from his chair in excitement. “That’s one of my doubts! How did you handle it?”

  “You pray and you wait. My closest friends were my classmates in the seminary. One of the reasons I didn’t feel lonely in school was because I was surrounded by all these friends. Now that I was ordained, these friends were gone. Well, not up in smoke … but they were never again going to be as accessible as they once were.

  “So you pray. And you wait.

  “The prayer has to be there in the lives we lead. Of course everyone needs to pray. But a priest without wife and family needs prayer even more. You’d be surprised: Prayer can fill in the gaps.

  “And you wait for new friends from among the wonderful people you meet over the years. New and different kinds of friends are waiting just around the corner—if you can hang in there.

  “Now, in the relatively brief time you’ve got before being ordained, you haven’t a lot of time to wait, but there’s plenty of time to pray. And I’ll join you in prayer. If it’s any help, I think you would make a fine priest. But it’s a commitment that only you can make.”

  “Thanks, Father. One more thing …”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve been over this so many times, back and forth, how will I know? I mean, how will I know I’ve made the right choice?”

  Koesler stood and extended his hand. “I’m not certain, but I think I can give you a clue. You should know the same way Sydney Carton and Jesus Himself knew. You should experience a deep and abiding peace. So,” he said, as they shook hands, “peace I wish you.”

  “Thanks. Thanks very much.” Cody’s eyes were brimming. He turned and left the room before any tear could escape his eyes.

  Father Koesler sank back into his chair. He was tired to the point of exhaustion. It had been a long day, capped by the drain of this evening’s unexpected visit. An intensive counseling session always depleted his physical and emotional energy.

  He didn’t envy young Al Cody’s upcoming bout with himself. In this corner was Al the seminarian. His goal, the priesthood. At this point the goal was eminently attainable. But was that his real calling?

  In that corner was Al the bright young man whose father had so pressured his son toward the priesthood that no one, least of all Al, could tell where one’s aspiration began and the other’s ended.

  Yet, let events take their course and Al would be a priest. A casual observer would find it incredible that the young man could at this stage harbor any doubt whatsoever about his future.

  From his own experience, Koesler knew that life as a priest was unpredictable. To a greater or lesser degree the same could be said of any of life’s vehicles.

  But at this stage there should be no doubts.

  If, in a few months he were going to be married, he might well be tortured by doubt. There is no specific training for the role of husband or wife, father or mother. One marries, then wings it; there is ample room for serious doubt about one’s qualifications.

  However, Al had been contemplating the priesthood all his life. And for the past eight years he had been trained for that role almost exclusively.

  That he could still wonder about his future was thanks to his father’s overwhelmingly pervasive influence.

  At least Al was on the right track now, Koesler felt. The lad must put his future to the test of intense prayer.

  In prayer he would not be alone. Father Koesler would join him.

  Al Cody slowly made his way to the chapel. He had a lot to ponder.

  Earlier this evening he’d gone to visit Father Koesler in order to get help on his homily There had been no ulterior motive—at least none that came to his conscious mind.

  It was in the development of the sermon topic that the emphasis on commitment came. And then the thought turned in on him.

  Doubt! It had become a way of life for him.

  He entered the chapel. It was so dark and so peaceful, at least at first. He knelt and waited. Sure enough, once you were quiet you became aware of the sounds. Creaking, grating, squeaking—the sounds belonged to the chapel. You heard them only if you were alone and still.

  There was no doubt about it, he felt better. And he had not even been aware that he was as deeply troubled as his conversation with Koesler had revealed. It had all come out in a stream of consciousness.

  Psychology suggested the talking cure. To suppress threatening thoughts and feelings one had to exert pressure. And that pressure took its toll of psychic energy.

  But if you could bring it out, the stress tended to release, and you felt better. It was thought by many that that was the miracle of confession—the sacrament of penance.

  Most of the time, among Catholics, confession became a routine exercise, a pointless recitation of peccadilloes offered for the confessor’s consideration.

  But once in a while a conscience held the secret of something terribly embarr
assing or, for one reason or another, troubling. Speaking of this matter, expressing it verbally, would reduce the painful secret’s threat. It didn’t hurt that the Catholic understanding of confession not only involved the talking cure but also the belief that the sin was forgiven.

  Something like that had happened in Father Koesler’s room just a few minutes ago. And even though Al understood that he still had a lot of thinking and praying to do, he felt better.

  It was a gift to have someone like Father Koesler around. Undoubtedly there were other priests as approachable, experienced, charitable, and caring as he, but Al knew he personally would never experience another priest quite like Robert Koesler.

  And what did that portend?

  Father Koesler was seventy years old. Cody was twenty-five. A forty-five-year gap. It certainly seemed safe to predict that Al Cody would be alive a lot longer than this aging priest.

  In other words, Cody could not count on Koesler’s presence and help for as long as the young man might need it. Whatever resolution his prayer would reach, Cody realistically would have to learn to handle doubts on his own.

  He was so confused that he had no idea how to pray, or for what to pray. He tried to compose an outline. An outline for God? Well, he had to start somewhere.

  God … Jesus, I want to be a priest. I think. My father wants me to be a priest. Does he want this more than I? Does he want it so much that he has absorbed my willpower into his?

  Maybe it would be better if I didn’t consider my father at all. Just the two of us, Jesus. You know the good I could accomplish as a priest. You also know the harm I could do if I were not a good priest.

  All right. I am on a different level. I’ve taken a major step. Canceling my fathers influence over my decision helps. It helps a lot. I can see a little bit of light at the end of this road.

  This, plus what Father Koesler told me, gives me maybe my first decent chance at making a decision. Making a decision on my own.

  Jesus, you knew you had made the right decision when you were at peace within yourself. Just as the fictional Carton knew he was doing the right thing when he was at peace with himself.