The Sacrifice Page 24

  “Whereas there is a large-sized catechism for Catholics—full of ‘necessary’ things that are a sine qua non for unity,” Koesler interjected.

  “Indeed,” Wheatley agreed. “So that leads us into the doubtful area where, according to our motto, there must be liberty—freedom. Freedom to inquire. Freedom to test. And freedom to change.”

  “And this is what you hope to introduce into the Roman Church?”

  “Part of what I intend to try to do, yes. The main difficulty, of course, will be in limiting as far as possible the ‘necessary’ things. That can happen only gradually at best. Step by step, dogma by dogma, law by law.”

  “I think I understand,” Koesler said. “The object is to move as much as possible from the ‘necessary’ column to the ‘doubtful.’ ’Cause then there’ll be an increase in the freedom to explore.”

  “Exactly! Some doubtful items will rise once again to necessary things, to which we owe unity. A lot of doubtful things will remain and be added to. These things we’ll be free to explore. The job of exploring them will return to Roman theologians, who have been stifled by a hierarchy who simply will not let go of the reins.”

  Neither Koesler nor Wheatley could drink another drop of coffee. But neither wanted this conversation to end.

  Only two of the few tables in the shop were occupied. The priests sat at one. A well-dressed young man studying notes on a legal pad sat at another. The rest of the customers were carry-out trade.

  Convinced that they were not inconveniencing any patrons who would prefer to occupy a table, the two priests continued their ecumenical discussion.

  “I think I understand better now, George. But as your mission grows clearer, it begins to sound as if you’re about to begin an episode of Mission Impossible.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Okay. The one that comes to mind is the Pope.”

  “I’m not surprised. We want the Pope.”

  Koesler’s eyebrows raised. “You do?”

  “Yes. As the first among equals.”

  “The other equals are the bishops—Episcopal, Roman, Lutheran, and so forth?”

  “That’s it. The way it was in the ‘good old days.’ When, right off the ground, in Antioch, Paul accused Peter of waffling in his approach to the Gentiles. Paul wasn’t excommunicated, or suspended, or forbidden to teach. On the contrary, it was Peter who changed his methods.

  “The Apostles and the early disciples recognized Peter as the chief of the Christian community. He was the leader. And, as Jesus carefully taught, to be the chief, the leader was to be the servant—”

  “I know, I know,” Koesler cut in. “You’re referring to the Last Supper.”

  “Of course. Jesus set about washing the Apostles’ feet. Peter objected, and Jesus said that if He did not wash Peter’s feet, he, Peter, would have ‘no part’ with the Lord. So Peter asked, in effect, to be washed completely—’also my hands and my head.’ Then Jesus told the Apostles that they did well in calling Him ‘Master.’ But if He, Master, acted the part of a servant, He was giving them an example. The Apostles were appointed to serve the new community. Peter was the first servant. Not much like the current successor to the throne of Peter.”

  Koesler smiled. “That’s just the point, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Over the years—over the centuries—the Papacy has grown away from what it was in the beginning.”

  “So how are you going to change it?”

  “I don’t know,” Wheatley confessed. “Maybe it won’t happen in our lifetime.”

  “Maybe it won’t happen ever.”

  “Maybe it won’t. But if it doesn’t, the fact that the Papacy will be the same when I leave the world as it was when I entered it does not alter my purpose.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “I know I am called,” Wheatley said. “That is the clear message that came through to me in prayer. I don’t know what exact goals I will have until the Lord makes His calling clear. I doubt that my target will be the Papacy. This I do know: If the Papacy is the field the Lord wishes me to work in, my goal certainly will not be to destroy the office—if ever I even could. No, my mission will be to do what I can to bring it back to its roots.”

  “Well, God bless you, George. If you do accomplish that, we may, indeed, see a Pope who is first among equals. I wish you success.”

  “Thanks for your good wishes, Robert. But I can’t see the Lord steering me in that direction. More likely I will be laboring in a smaller ministry.”

  “Like women?”

  “Women?”

  “Women priests.”

  “I’ll raise the ante, Bob: women bishops.”

  “Women bishops! Even some Anglican dioceses won’t accept women priests, let alone bishops.”

  “I know. But it could happen. Some twenty-five years ago the ordination of women was an impossible concept for Anglicans. That same degree of impossibility continues to exist today in the Roman Church.”

  “That’s so, isn’t it?” Koesler recalled. “Some fearless women—and a couple of retired Episcopal bishops—changed that. They got together, couldn’t find anything against it any way you look at it—so they just up and did it.”

  “Can you imagine how the Roman Church would react to an event like that?” Wheatley quietly savored the idea.

  “Yeah, I can, actually. The Vatican would find some reason—any reason—to declare such a ceremony null and void—not to mention illicit and illegal.”

  “Now, probably …” Wheatley nodded. “But in time …” He didn’t complete the thought, yet his expression registered hopefulness. “The point I’d like to make, Bob, is simply this: The women and the bishops who participated in that ordination took a big chance, and definitely made their lives count for something.

  “And that’s precisely what I want for my own life. Not necessarily to be instrumental in opening the Roman priesthood to women. But something. Does it mean much at all if the Romans will not accept another word, transubstantiation, for the essence of Eucharist? Anglicans are not very technical on this point. We do what Christ did. We believe what He believed. Christ is present in the manner He intends. Anglican theology of Eucharist today is about the same as that of your beleaguered theologian, Father Schillebeeckx. Anglicans do have tabernacles just as Romans do. So, what’s in a name?”

  “I think I see what you’re driving at. That type of argument does seem petty and pointless. But it goes on and on, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. And it keeps us from addressing substantial differences that really do divide us.” He paused to reflect. “Maybe this defines the importance of the third passage of that precept: ‘In all things, love.’ The love of people who are already joined in the love for Christ should make it possible to brush aside all our differences, whether petty or substantial.

  “Maybe that’s my calling: To help in shifting some things presently perceived as ‘necessary’ into the ‘doubtful’ category, where they can be freely discussed without insisting that change is impossible. And to help make sure that everything—quite literally everything—can be discussed in an environment of love.”

  “Sounds good to me, George. More than good: inspiring.”

  “It’s what I perceive will be my calling. After we clean up this mess, of course …”

  “Mess?” Koesler, wrapped up in Wheatley’s dream, had forgotten what was on just about everyone’s mind. “Yes, of course, the mess: Who is responsible for the bombing in St. Joe’s?”

  The ambience was all wrong. It was just a room with a couple of chairs. No other furnishing. That it was a room in Detroit Police Headquarters explained the spare decor.

  This was Act Two of the routine worked out by jail guards, inmates, and Father Zachary Tully.

  In Act One, the priest preached a fervorino to a congregation of women, many of whom attended the chapel service only as a welcome alternative to sitting in their cells. The group included, among others, Catholics, Baptists, members of The Ch
urch of Where It’s at Now.

  Act Two was an invitation to any of the group who wanted to consult with the priest for a more or less traditional Sacrament of Penance or just to talk to someone from the outside.

  One of the latter members was presently informing Tully what was new in her life. When not in the slammer, she was a lady of the evening who was picked up periodically by the police and sent through the system. She consulted regularly with Tully. But only when she was locked up, as she now was.

  “It seemed like a good idea, Father. I mean, I wasn’t goin’ anywhere for a few months. So I took the course,” she explained.

  “The course in cosmetology?” Tully had to make sure they were talking about the same thing. She had a tendency to wonder off the subject.

  “Yeah, Father, that’s it.”

  “Did you complete it?”

  “Yup. Went right through. From beginning to end.”

  “You mean you got your diploma?”

  “Yup.”

  ‘So now you’re a licensed cosmetologist.”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, congratulations.” Tully was genuinely pleased. He firmly believed that almost everyone who was repeatedly arrested for transgressions such as prostitution could do well in the legit world.

  “But,” Tully said, “you must have gotten your diploma during your previous stay in jail … when was that now?” Tully searched his memory for the date of her most recent previous incarceration.

  “Three months ago,” she supplied.

  “That figures,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in about half a year. So you must’ve spent pretty much all your time on that course. And that’s why you weren’t visiting me here.”

  “That’s right, Father. My prison counselor thought the course was a good idea. So I took it. It seemed to make her feel good.”

  Tully’s pleasure mounted. It didn’t matter whether he or a counselor had worked the miracle of rehabilitation. This young woman had been set on the straight and narrow road.

  Then, a conclusive thought struck Tully. “Wait a minute: If you got your cosmetology license three months ago and got your freedom at the same time, how come you’re back in here? The last time I looked, practicing cosmetology is not a crime. You did get a job in a beauty shop or the like … didn’t you?”

  “Me fix other broads’ hair?”

  “That’s the idea. What happened?”

  “Land a glory, Father, I can make more money flat on my back in one night that I can make at a beauty shop in a whole week.”

  Not much surprised Father Tully anymore. But this story held a surprise for him.

  She had not come to him for absolution. Long ago the two of them had determined that she was not a Catholic, nor was she particularly interested in any of the organized religions. No, as long as she was in jail and constrained from being otherwise occupied, she just enjoyed talking with him.

  The priest and the unrepentant sinner exchanged words of farewell, after which she left the room.

  No one else entered in her wake. Tully was about to get up and leave when another woman appeared in the doorway, looking sheepish.

  “Did you want to see me?” He motioned her forward. “Come on in.”

  As she entered the room, he looked at her more closely. She looked familiar. But as far as he could recall, he had never seen her here—

  Then he remembered. She had been in the news the past few days. She had shot her husband. In itself, such an act was not unheard of in Detroit and environs. Father Tully would have paid no particular attention to the event except that her husband had been a deacon. The permanent kind who opts to stay in that position—unlike the transitional deacon, who remains at that level for a year or so and then advances to the priesthood. Even with that Catholic connection, Father Tully had merely skimmed the newspaper account and gone on to the sports pages.

  She sat down and demurely crossed her legs at the ankle. “I’m Clare Watson.”

  “I know. I saw your picture in the paper.”

  “Did you read the article that went with the picture?”

  “Not carefully.” He found himself somewhat embarrassed at having preferred the sports section to the news pages.

  “That’s okay. They didn’t report the story very well. If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you what happened—as objectively as possible.”

  Tully checked his watch. It was eleven forty-five. Plenty of time to hear her story and get back to the rectory for lunch at twelve-thirty. “Sure. But before you begin, did you want to make this part of a confession? If you do, nothing you tell me would I tell anyone else. The seal of confession, you know—”

  “I know, Father. I’ve been teaching in a parochial school. I’m not so sure I’ll be doing that anymore … what with shooting the bastard and all.”

  He thought her termination at the parochial school was a safe bet.

  “Well, Father, sometime back—maybe a year or so ago—I was pretty sure my husband had somebody on the side. I wasn’t absolutely certain, but there were lots of unexplained absences. He would stay late at the office and that would happen more and more often—oh, and Father: Let’s make this a sacramental confession. One can’t be too safe.”

  “That’s true. Go on.”

  “The thing sort of escalated. It went from staying late at the office to taking trips out of town—”

  “There’s no possibility these things could have been on the up and up?”

  “Of course that was possible. I don’t want to give you the impression that I didn’t go along with his absences. Our sex life was fine, so it never entered my head there could be somebody else. The only reason he might have a gripe in that department was that he wasn’t home often or long enough to have sex regularly.

  “That,” she continued, “plus the fact that he’s a salesman for a local radio station. His draw isn’t very high. A guy in his position makes most of his money on commissions.

  “Up until this started to happen—his being away so much—the income was good. But once he was allegedly ‘working late’ and going on ‘business trips,’ his paycheck started going downhill.

  “Now how would you figure that, Father? If he’s putting in all that extra worktime, you’d think he’d be pulling down a fatter check … no? But it was going the other way.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I want to tell you, Father, that I was getting sick and tired of eating alone, spending my evenings alone, taking care of my little girl alone. Oh, did I mention we have a child?”

  “No. How old?”

  “She just turned six. She’s in first grade.” She made a face. “I don’t think he even knows how old she is.

  “The whole thing began to run me down something fierce. And all the time, Father, our sex was incredible. That’s what threw me. How could it be another woman? But what could the reason be? Why was our income suffering while he was putting in hours—days!—of extra worktime?”

  “‘Beats me,” Tully said. “Sounds like you needed a marriage counselor.”

  “Exactly! But do you think he would go? I could have gotten him into the Twelve-Step program of Alcoholics Anonymous faster than to a marriage counselor. And Greg doesn’t even drink.”

  Tully stifled a laugh.

  “But I finally got him to go with me. I laid an ultimatum on him. And-would-you-believe it: He came on to her … the counselor! Second session.

  “She was used to the maneuver. Called it ‘transference.’ What surprised her was that he was a deacon. I guess she expected a religious person to be holy.”

  “No guarantee there,” Tully said.

  “Anyway, it did come out … the bimbo he was seeing.”

  “Then he was seeing somebody.”

  “Yeah. And the one he’s seeing is married—well, she’s not completely married.”

  “Not completely?”

  “She’s getting a divorce so she can marry Greg, my husband.”

  �
�Isn’t there something wrong here? You’re still married to him.”

  “I know. He told her he’d get a divorce … that the time was not just right. Actually, the sex between us was so great he couldn’t bring himself to break it off. So I helped him to make the thing work by filing for divorce.”

  “Just out of curiosity, is he still a practicing deacon?”

  “He was until I shot him. Then he was fired. Defrocked, I guess they called it. And that’s not all.”

  “There’s more?”

  “The woman he’s been running with—the woman he’s going to marry—she used to be a nun. She was a nun for fourteen years. She even taught in a parochial school, like me.”

  “But not in your present school?”

  “No. Another one. But that’s not all.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Her husband, he used to be a priest.”

  “A Roman Catholic priest!”

  “Yeah. He left the priesthood to marry her.

  “He left the priesthood to marry her,” she repeated, “and now my husband is leaving me to marry her!”

  “Incredible. Let me just run through this thing once more to see if I’ve got it straight: You are divorcing your husband, the deacon, because he wants to get married to an ex-nun who was married to a former priest.”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “And”—Tully was having a difficult time holding everything together and not collapsing in laughter—”you want to confess that you shot your husband?”

  “No. The bastard deserved far worse than that. He came over to tell me he was going to fight for custody of our little girl.”

  “No kidding!”

  “Yeah. So I got the family gun. I was going to shoot him in the gonads. I thought that was a particularly appropriate spot to hit him. But then I just couldn’t do it. So I shot him in the foot. I figured that it might keep him from putting it in his mouth so often.”