FOR FIONA, who is Javan, my wife
“You don’t want to see your bishop go to jail, do you?”
“N—no, Eminence,” Father Maurice Ouellet, the master of ceremonies, stammered. As usual, he had no notion of what his Cardinal-Archibishop had in mind.
“Then, Maury, go find a dime and put it in the parking meter, or my car will be towed away and I’ll be hauled off to jail.”
Father Ouellet’s left hand found the pocket in his trousers through the slit in his cassock. He rummaged through a handful of coins in search of a dime. “Where is your car parked, Eminence?” Ouellet asked, stifling a smile. After all, this was Holy Thursday’s Chrism Mass. It would not do for the Archbishop’s secretary and master of ceremonies to break up in the sanctuary of crowded St. Michael’s Cathedral.
“It’s just out the door there on Church Street. Under the spreading chestnut tree, as luck would have it.”
Ouellet briefly pondered the immediate future. The Mass had just begun. The choir was singing a vernacular version of the Kyrie, which would be followed by a choral rendition of the Gloria. He had plenty of time to safeguard his Archbishop’s car. With that special grace shared by adroit emcees and maitre d’s, Ouellet made his departure from the sanctuary appear to be part of the ritual.
Adrian Cardinal Claret spoke softly out of the right corner of his mouth. It was a signal for Father Ed MacNeil, deacon of the Mass, seated to the right of the large upholstered red throne, to lean toward His Eminence.
“For some reason,” said Claret, “the choir puts me in mind of the classical definition of clerical tact.”
“What’s that, Eminence?” MacNeil asked out of the left corner of his mouth.
“It happens at an old solemn high Mass,” out of the right corner of his mouth. “The old pastor is the celebrant. The oldest assistant is the deacon, and a young priest, just ordained, is master of ceremonies.
“Well, they’re all seated during the Creed. The pastor’s arms are folded across his chest.
“The master of ceremonies leans over to the deacon and whispers, ‘Tell Monsignor to put his hands on his knees.’ After a moment, the deacon leans over to the pastor and says, ‘The choir sounds pretty good today, doesn’t it?’ The old pastor nods. Then the deacon leans back to the master of ceremonies and says, The Monsignor says, go to hell!’”
MacNeil chuckled quietly. “The choir does sound good today, doesn’t it?”
Claret smiled and nodded.
Holy Thursday is a special feast in the Catholic Church for many reasons. Catholics, in common with all other Christian denominations, commemorate the Last Supper that Jesus shared with His Apostles. But for priests, the feast holds a unique significance. It marks the event during which Jesus instituted the Eucharist and invited the Apostles to “do what I have done”—in effect, creating the cultic priesthood. Many priests considered Holy Thursday to be a sort of birthday of their priesthood. In recent years, a ceremony of “Renewal of Commitment to Priestly Service” had been added to the Holy Thursday liturgy.
In addition, during the Chrism Mass in Catholic dioceses throughout the world, bishops gathered with their priests and as many of the faithful as they could entice to the ceremony, to solemnly bless the oil that would be used to consecrate candidates for baptism and confirmation and to anoint the sick. Each year on Holy Thursday, the past year’s unused blessed oil was disposed of and each parish was offered a new supply of freshly blessed oil at the Cathedral. There was, then, a practical reason why each parish was represented by at least one of its priests: Someone had to go to the Cathedral to pick up the new oil.
The choir was midway through the Gloria when Father Ouellet returned to the sanctuary. He and the Cardinal exchanged a knowing glance. The deed had been done; His Eminence’s car was protected for another hour.
The Gloria concluded, the Archbishop rose to lead the congregation in prayer.
“Father, by the power of the Holy Spirit you anointed your only son Messiah and Lord of Creation; you have given us a share in His consecration to priestly service in your Church. Help us to be faithful witnesses in the world to the salvation Christ won for all mankind. We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, Who lives and reigns with you in the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever.”
“Amen,” the congregation affirmed loudly.
This was followed by two readings, one from the Old Testament, the other from one of Paul’s Epistles.
During the readings, Cardinal Claret absently toyed with his pectoral cross. Father Ouellet, aware that many in the congregation were watching the Cardinal rather than the lectors, noticed the Cardinal fingering the gold cross suspended on a cord around his neck.
Ouellet leaned near the ear of Father MacNeil and whispered, “The Cardinal’s hands should be resting on his knees.”
MacNeil looked surprised. He then smiled, leaned toward the Archbishop, and whispered, “The choir sounds good today, doesn’t it?”
Claret glanced at Ouellet, then, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, whispered to MacNeil, “Tell him to go to hell.”
An eager young priest proclaimed the Gospel reading rather forcefully. Then he began preaching a homily playing on the functions of oil in everyday life.
Claret had heard it all before; many, many times. It was not long before he tuned out the young priest and pursued his own stream of consciousness.
Holy Thursday held a special significance for Claret because his priesthood was so precious to him.
Last year he had celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination. Just as Saint John, writing his gospel memoirs from exile on the island of Patmos, could remember not only the day but the hour he first met Christ, Claret could clearly remember his ordination as well as all the related minor and major events of the past fifty years.
He had been born, raised, and ordained for service in the diocese of Saskatoon. During his postgraduate studies in Rome, he used to kid his classmates that he owed his rugged constitution to his Saskatchewan heritage. He especially enjoyed telling priest-students from tropical countries about the frigid winters in his hometown, where, he would boast, only the hearty survived.
It got to be a game. The other doctoral students would periodically ask him how cold it was in his hometown. Claret would invariably reply that it was so cold that the Saskatoon flasher walked the streets describing his anatomy to innocent passersby. At least the first time around, he had to explain the special North American connotation of the term “flasher” to the many non-North Americans in Rome.
If Adrian Cardinal Claret had a single regret in all his clerical years it was that so few of those years had been spent as a parish priest. After obtaining his doctoral degree in theology, he had been assigned as a seminary professor.
Then a few years in the chancery. After which, he was appointed auxiliary bishop of Edmonton, and finally, made Archbishop of Toronto. For the past twelve years, he had been a Cardinal, a hierarchical position second only to that of the Pope.
There had even been talk in recent years that Claret was in the running for the Papacy. At seventy-six, he was by no means too old for the office. Besides, he was in vigorous good health—undoubtedly, he assured others, the result of his rigorous years in rugged Saskatchewan. He had established an outstanding record in Toronto. He was a brilliant and gifted writer. And, perhaps paramountly, he was a proven conciliator. The world, in special ways the Catholic world, was in deep need of conciliation. The Papacy would be an extremely appropriate platform from
