William X. Kienzle
Requiem for Moses
Chapter One
THE PRESENT
“I’m not asking you to bury him,” she said. “Just wake him.”
The woman and the priest were seated in his office in the rectory. The parish was St. Joseph’s, or “Old St. Joe’s” or “St. Joe’s Downtown.” Easily it was chronologically the first of many in the archdiocese of Detroit to be named after Mary’s spouse.
“To be perfectly frank, Mrs. Green,” Father Robert Koesler said, “I’m not at all sure just what it is you want me to do. May we back this conversation up and start from the beginning?
“Now, I understand your husband died this afternoon. And I’m sorry about that. You have my condolences. We’ll include him in our prayers in the Masses this weekend.
“But … why did you come here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. I don’t recognize your name as a registered parishioner.”
“We’d better get this out right at the beginning: The name is shortened.” Her tone was snappish. “It used to be Greenberg.”
“Then …?” Koesler spread his hands, palms upward.
“We live in your parish!”
“But you’re Jewish.”
“Moe is …. was … but I’m Catholic.”
Koesler, for no apparent reason, moved a pen from one spot on his desk to another. “I see.” He didn’t really. “So, your husband was Jewish. Then, why not …?”
“Look, Father, we got married twenty-one years ago. I was twenty; Moe was thirty-seven.”
By Koesler’s mental arithmetic that would be about 1975.
“Neither family was crazy about the idea. I was young. But we knew we could make it. And, by God, we did. It helped, I think, that Moe was Jewish in name only. Ethnically, but not religiously,” she explained. “We were married at St. Norbert’s in Inkster-and I’ve got the papers to prove it.” She reached for her purse.
Koesler waved a hand. “That won’t be necessary.”
As she put the purse down, she seemed to relax somewhat. “Moe made all those promises … you know; like he wouldn’t interfere with me being a Catholic-he couldn’t have cared less. And I promised I’d try to convert him-fat chance. And we both promised we’d raise our kids Catholic. Anything was all right with Moe … as long as the kids didn’t become something like Islamic.”
Koesler almost smiled.
“And we did. I mean, we raised our two kids-David and Judith-as Catholics. Sent them to parochial schools. Judith even went to a Catholic college.
“Look, Father,” she said earnestly, “Moe and I talked this all out. He’s been in such pain for so long. He really didn’t want to live. So we talked about his death. It was more of a comfort to him than talking about life the way it was treating him. We agreed there was no reason he should be treated as a religious Jew. The kids are Catholic. Lots of our friends are. My side of the family, by and large, finally accepted us. On his side, only his sister-we always call her Aunt Sophie-went along. This is exactly what he wanted: a Catholic wake and to be buried Jewish. He just made me promise to wait for Sophie to show up before burial. She lives in Florida and she’s on her way.
“That’s what he wanted. Don’t you understand?”
Her tone was that of one addressing a slow-witted child.
“Let’s see ….” Koesler leaned back in his chair, his fingers forming a miniature steeple. “You want your husband to lie in state in this church. You’re not asking for a Mass or any other kind of service. And you want this because you and your children are Catholic and the immediate family, whom you expect to attend, would be Catholic also.”
“That’s what I want. That’s what Moe wanted.” She looked at him with composure. “There’s no problem with that, is there?”
Koesler pondered. “I’ve never heard of anything like this.” He shook his head slowly. “In over forty years as a priest I’ve never come across an arrangement like this.”
Even as he spoke, he was reminded of a phrase he had come up with years before: The seven last words of any institution-including the Church-are, We Never Did It This Way Before.
Still, this was an unprecedented request, and Koesler did not react readily to new ideas or situations.
“There some law against it?” Her lips pursed.
“Well, that’s an interesting question. Let’s see.…”
Koesler stood and surveyed the glass-fronted bookcases along the wall. He located a coffee-table size book and a small, red volume that seemed both ancient and in desperate need of repair. He placed both books on the desk.
Reading the letters upside down and backward, she was able to make out the title of the larger book:
“That’s the current book of Catholic Church laws, 1983 version.”
“And the other one?”
“This?” He held up the smaller book. “Its predecessor. This one was compiled in 1917.”
“Holy crow!” she exclaimed, “Catholics got that many more laws in ’83?”
Koesler smiled and turned the book’s cover toward her. She read the subtitle:
“The commentary is what takes up all that space,” he explained. “Actually, there are fewer laws in the ’83 version.”
After checking the index he turned to the laws relevant to what the Church termed “Ecclesiastical Funeral Rites.” The canons, 1183 and 1184, pertained to those persons granted and those denied ecclesiastical funeral rites, sometimes called Christian burial, but always referring to the Catholic interpretation of Christianity.
Silently, he read over the canons. No possible way could Moses Green be granted a Catholic funeral. The closest his case came was, “In the prudent judgment of the local ordinary, ecclesiastical funeral rites can be granted to baptized members of some non-Catholic church or ecclesial community unless it is evidently contrary to their will and provided their own minister is unavailable.”
Moe Green, of course, was religiously neutral, let alone not baptized.
Koesler shook his head. “Well, you seem to be correct; I can’t find any law against it.”
She smiled. It was a very attractive smile.
“Let’s see what the 1917 version has to say about it,” he said.
She stiffened. “Excuse me, Father, but you just read the current law. What’s the point of going back to something that’s outdated? Are you just trying to get rid of me and my family and our friends? We may not have registered in this parish, but I’ve been here for Mass on Sundays once in a while.” She dabbed at emerging tears with a lacy handkerchief.
There was no way Koesler could testify for or against her claim. She could have easily become lost to him in a fairly crowded Sunday Mass. And as long as she used the traditional side of the confessional that protected anonymity, he would have no way of knowing whether she had ever been his penitent.
But she was absolutely mistaken in thinking he was trying to find a reason to refuse her request.
“I assure you, Mrs. Green, if anything, I’d like to welcome you to this parish-registered or not. You see, when the 1983 text was issued, the former code was not completely replaced. Some of the laws in both texts are exactly the same or very similar. And some of the older law can clarify some of the new law.”
She seemed unconvinced.
