Shadow of Death

which to exercise an effective conciliatory role.

The rumor amused him. He was not convinced he was cut of papal cloth. He imagined himself standing on a balcony above St. Peter’s Square, in white cassock and zucchetto, microphones bending toward him, the world eager to hear his first pontifical words, while he would be toying with the temptation to say something utterly ridiculous—just to get rid of the tension and to begin the demythologizing of the Papacy. No, it was not for him.

“The bishop rises.”

“What?”

“The bishop rises.” Father Ouellet seemed perturbed Claret had not heard the direction the first time.

The homily had concluded. It was time to proceed with the Chrism Mass. Claret had, indeed, been lost in thought.

Now for the Commitment Renewal. A small altar boy, bearing a large liturgical book opened to the appropriate page, approached the Cardinal. The boy seemed overwhelmed by the book. But, somehow, he managed.

The Cardinal adjusted his bifocals.

“My brothers, today we celebrate the memory of the first Eucharist, at which our Lord Jesus Christ shared with His Apostles and with us His call to the priestly service of His Church. Now, in the presence of your bishop and God’s holy people, are you ready to renew your own dedication to Christ as priests of His new covenant?”

“I am,” each responded simultaneously.

Claret led his priests through the ritual commitment. He then resumed the high-back throne, or cathedra, just as Father Ouellet was about to direct, “The bishop is seated.” Ouellet’s pursed lips betrayed frustration. Claret enjoyed these small games. Nothing hurtful. Merely playful.

Three deacons, each bearing a container of oil, approached the Cardinal. Each, respectively, loudly intoned his presentation.

“The oil for the holy chrism.”

“The oil of the sick.”

“The oil of the catechumens.”

The oils were then set aside for later attention. The Mass proceeded.

As one familiar ritual blended into another. Claret felt a rare sense of warmth for and unity with his priests—a good percentage of them gathered with him this day around the main altar of St. Michael’s Cathedral. It was their special day, the liturgical anniversary of their priesthood. They had assembled this morning to renew that unique supper first celebrated almost twenty centuries before. They might have their differences from time to time, he and his priests, but for this moment they were united spiritually and emotionally in their common priesthood.

A deacon brought a vessel of oil to the altar. Father Ouellet indicated the proper prayer in the Missal. Claret prayed.

“Lord God, loving Father, you bring healing to the sick through your son, Jesus Christ. Hear us as we pray to you in faith, and send the Holy Spirit, man’s Helper and Friend, upon this oil, which nature has provided to serve the needs of men. May your blessing come upon all who are anointed with this oil, that they may be freed from pain and illness and made well again in body, mind, and soul. Father, may this oil be blessed for our use in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

The Archdiocese of Toronto had just been provided with a year’s supply of oil for the sick.

The greeting of peace was given and received with more than ordinary enthusiasm, as priests and bishops milled about the sanctuary and nave of the cathedral shaking hands or embracing. The effusive spirit of camaraderie spread to the lay portion of the congregation; many left their places to mingle in the aisles, greeting and wishing each other “the peace of Christ.”

There would be no extraordinary ministers of the Eucharist to help distribute communion. The cathedral staff well knew the mind of Cardinal Claret on this point. Extraordinary ministers, a post-Vatican II creation, were lay people appointed to assist in the distribution of communion—when there was a shortage of priests. But they were just that: extraordinary. The priest was the ordinary minister of communion. And there certainly was no shortage of priests here.

Claret was appalled at the practice in so many churches of using extraordinary ministers while one or another of the parish priests lounged in the rectory. Some priests considered distribution of communion to be a proper function of the laity. But this clearly had not been the mind of the Church. Nor was it the thinking of Cardinal Claret.

Besides, Claret enjoyed distributing communion. He could not understand why some priests apparently did not enjoy it. Priests seldom got closer sacramentally to their flock than when presenting their people with spiritual food at communion. After all, hadn’t that been the enjoinder of Jesus to Peter—if you love me, feed my sheep. As often as he had the opportunity, Claret distributed holy communion and always with great reverence.

And so, Cardinal Claret, ciborium in hand, stood front and center in the sanctuary, presenting a consecrated wafer to each approaching communicant. Next to the Cardinal stood Father Ouellet, extending a gold-plated paten beneath the chin of each communicant who chose to receive the host in the mouth rather than the hand.

The other priests present processed to the altar to communicate themselves. Some few took ciboria filled with wafers or chalices of consecrated wine, and assisted in the distribution.

“The body of Christ,” Claret announced, proffering a wafer.

“Amen,” a well-dressed young woman affirmed.

Undoubtedly, she was not a parishoner of the cathedral—at least not one who resided within its technical boundaries. The cathedral was situated near the center city, an area populated mostly by transients, the elderly, and the poor. Claret thought it gracious of such outsiders, as this woman obviously was, to attend the Chrism Mass. Thursday morning was a difficult time to clear one’s calendar for a religious service.

“Body a’Christ.”

Claret heard the formula elided by the priest standing nearby. It was one of the cathedral’s assistants. The Cardinal glared at him. After Mass, Claret would lecture the elderly cleric on the reverence due this Sacrament as well as on the disedification of the laity.

“The body of Christ,” said Claret.

“Amen,” a youth responded, extending his cupped hands.

Claret smiled. A young lad, his life before him. A possible vocation to the priesthood. It was the Cardinal’s invariable presumption. Though it was unlikely. Not that many years before, almost every Catholic boy, especially those attending parochial schools, at least considered entering the priesthood. Now, there were so few seminarians. Where was it all to end? Who would follow the present clergy?

“The body of Christ,” said Claret.

“Amen.” The black man extended his tongue. Ouellet positioned the paten beneath the chin as Claret placed the wafer on the tongue.

Something was wrong. Claret knew something was wrong, but he was so startled by the sudden feeling, he did not know what it was. He looked down. A crimson stain was spreading at an alarming rate over his white cotton outer vestment.

“Oh . . . oh, I’ve been hurt,” a bewildered Claret stated loudly.

He staggered backward and collapsed.

“Call St. Michael’s Hospital!”

“Call the police!”

“My God, the Cardinal’s been assassinated!”

Pandemonium!

2.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! This is terrible!” Father Ouellet buried his head in his hands.

“Get hold of yourself. Father,” said Father MacNeil. “It’s just a lucky thing that St. Michael’s is only a few blocks from the cathedral. I do believe that was the shortest ambulance ride I’ve ever had.”

The two priests sat side by side in the waiting room of the hospital’s emergency department. It was not unlike corresponding rooms in almost all hospitals. An occasional statue or religious print established its Catholic