Man Who Loved God

“That’s it,” Anne Marie affirmed.

“Okay,” Zack said.

“I’ll get dessert. Everyone for ice cream on your apple pie?”

Two nods favored a la mode.

“Okay. I think I’ve got what you want to know.

“First off, I’m forty-five-which I used to think was old. But not anymore. Bob Koesler is sixty-nine. Which from where I’m sitting looks pretty old. But Koesler doesn’t strike me as being old. Everybody’s different, I guess.

“Vatican II ran from 1962 to ’65. I was about thirteen when it ended. So, among other things, I was used to segregated rest rooms and drinking fountains, the back of the bus, theater balconies, and lots of other things for ‘colored only.’

“Of course we didn’t have a parochial school. But I went to catechism regularly-Mama saw to that. And I went with her to Sunday Mass, which was in Latin. And we went to Forty Hours devotions. And benediction Sunday afternoons.

“I learned Latin responses so I could be an altar boy I learned the fundamentals of my religion out of a little book called The Baltimore Catechism. I thought that the only reason so many of my buddies were Baptist was because they weren’t smart enough to see that my Catholic Church was ‘The One, True Church.’

“And then, as I went through my teen years in the Josephite seminary, I saw all those Catholic things-those things that I was brought up to believe could never change-change.

“Mass and the other sacraments were in English. Soon enough the Baltimore Catechism became a collector’s item. My Baptist buddies were going to heaven just like that tiny elite minority of Catholics in our neighborhood.

“And eventually, as I grew to manhood, mostly in a seminary, I saw a Protestant minister-of all things-begin to free our people.

“So, Zoo: That’s where I am.

“And here’s where Father Koesler is: he was ordained in 1954, two years after I was born. He became a priest in a Church where nearly everybody believed-incorrectly-that nothing had ever changed and nothing would ever change. I was ordained in 1977, after everything changed. And everything would continue to change.”

Anne Marie brought dessert and coffee.

Zoo flattened the ice cream into a glob, covering the warm surface of his pie. “Then … you’re sort of a new breed of Catholic clergy?”

“Once upon a time I was.”

“Once upon a time! How could that be?” Anne Marie exclaimed.

“There’s a wave that came, after us,” the priest explained. “And, oddly enough, this latest wave pretty much resembles the earlier breed.”

“What?” Zoo and Anne Marie chimed.

Father Tully sipped his coffee. Since sampling Father Koesler’s brew, every other cup of coffee had been delicious by comparison. It couldn’t be the Detroit water. “I hope I can clear this up. Father Koesler is among the last of a long, long line of priests that goes back almost as far as the mind can imagine. He’s the kind of dedicated priest who attracted kids like me to follow him:

“I know you’ve heard about the council, Zoo, ’cause you just got done telling me that Father Koesler had told you about it. It really hit old-time priests hard. Koesler and guys like him landed on their feet. Some others didn’t. Some didn’t read the documents that came from the council. They didn’t understand the changes. They grew to hate and ignore everything conciliar. Most of all, they never grasped the special ‘spirit’ that came from the council.

“By and large, we, the new breed who matured in the wake of the council, were infected with the council and its spirit. Then a lot of the priests in Koesler’s age group and older got fed up. By their actions-and their attitude- they were saying, ‘Okay, it’s your Church now. It doesn’t resemble my Church. So, you can have it.’

“Some of these priests resigned their, positions as pastors and marked time until it was okay to retire. And that was another change that happened as a remote result of the council. Before this, priests didn’t retire; they died in harness.

“Some of the priests of my group got impatient with Church leaders who were scared by what was happening in all facets of theology, Church law, and, mostly, liturgy. Those leaders wanted to dig in and recapture whatever was salvageable from the past.

“That did two things: It discouraged my crowd; but they were too young to retire, so many of them left the priesthood outright. And it managed to turn seminarians around till they became more like the priests who are now retiring: they’re just marking time.

“So, Zoo, that’s the long way around answering your question of whether I represent the new wave or new breed. It’s a three-layer cake and my gang is the middle.

“Now you’ve learned something more about me: ask me the time and I’ll tell you how to make a clock.

“But it also should indicate that I’m not all that different from Bob Koesler. I wasn’t a priest before the council. But I was a Catholic who lived before, during, and after it.” He shook his head. “Just listen to me: I’m not asking for an extra job,” he explained. “I only thought I could put you at ease during what I’m sure will be a very brief vacation for one of your valued sources, Father Koesler. The way I’ve run on, anyone could swear that I was interviewing for the job.”

Now that dessert was finished they were on coffee refills.

Anne Marie smiled sweetly, leaned forward, and patted the priest’s arm. “Zachary, it helped. Believe me it did. I like to think I’m a pretty plugged-in Catholic. But some of what you said was new to me. Besides, it helped us understand what makes you you.”

“What about going into the living room? Let’s get comfy,” Zoo said.

Zachary felt reluctant to leave the intimacy of the kitchen. But, in the long run, it worked. The three newly introduced kinfolk talked far into the evening. They had so much to learn of each other. Anne Marie recounted her life before and since becoming a teacher. She spoke movingly of her first meeting with Zoo … how he had rescued her from a purse-snatcher. She counted the incident a product of Divine Providence. The priest found no reason to doubt that.

Zoo, ordinarily not garrulous, spoke sketchily of life in a large family-eight children. All the while his father was with them, they lived in modest lower-middle-class comfort. But after his unexpected departure, life hardened considerably. Now, five of the children had passed on. The remainder, aside from Zoo, lived in distant states. Anne Marie promised to give Father Tully addresses and phone numbers.

Zoo spoke of his life as a police officer and how he’d been “discovered” by Walt Koznicki and how close they’d grown. Koznicki had been Zoo’s sponsor in the Homicide Division-then the major league of the department.

Father Tully had already given a bit of a biographical sketch in trying to convince Zoo that there was life before and after Father Koesler. Now, he filled in the gaps.

So absorbed were they no one had thought to turn on any lights. They became aware of this only when it grew so dark they could scarcely see each other.

“Well,” Zoo slapped his knees as he stood, “it’s getting late. And I’ve got an early morning. What say I drive you home, Zack?”

“Good idea.” The priest felt stiff from sitting so long. “That way I’ll be up nice and early to take Father Koesler’s first call of the day.”

They laughed at the thought of Koesler’s lack of total confidence in his parish sitter. He was like a nervous parent phoning home repeatedly to make sure the children were still alive.

As Zachary prepared to leave, Anne Marie hugged him, then kissed his cheek affectionately. That one simple gesture more than anything else this evening made him feel as if he had found his family.

The two men entered Zoo’s car for the brief ride to St. Joseph’s rectory.

Zoo started the engine, but before he put the car in gear he turned and said, “This is good. I really didn’t know how it was going to go. But it was better than I hoped.” He extended his hand. “Welcome home.”

Zachary took his brother’s hand. “It feels almost as if we’ve grown up together, instead of just discovering each other. Tonight, I’m a happy camper.”

“Mind if I catch up on the news?” Zoo said, as he turned on the radio.