The Greatest Evil

At this juncture, in the twinkling of an eye that encompassed a pause for Tully’s reaction to the Sophia saga, time stood still for Koesler as he recalled McCarthy’s tale.

The narration had begun on the practice putting green and continued from green to tee for fully nine holes.

“It was about ten in the morning,” McCarthy began, ”and His Excellency, “ the title dripped sarcasm, “was in his upstairs office going over the books. I had just answered the door and let in an old friend, George Hackett-you guys remember Hackett …”

George Hackett had been ordained in McCarthy’s class. Fifteen years later he left the active priesthood and married.

“When George told me why he was here, I knew he’d have to see Vince. Ordinarily, a request such as George’s could be handled by any priest. I could have dealt with it easily. When I was a pastor, any priest working with me would have had a green light to take care of it.

“But Vince is almost the embodiment of a hands-on boss. And especially since George is an ex, I knew that one way or the other Vince would be taking care of it.

“I explained that to George. He wasn’t happy about asking Vince for anything, much less something Vince would consider to be a favor. But, in the end, George agreed that he would have to appeal to Caesar.

“So I went upstairs to get Vince. I figured George would stand a better chance if I ran interference …”

“George Hackett is downstairs. He wants to see you.”

Delvecchio didn’t look up from the books, although he did pause for a moment before speaking. “I don’t want to see George Hackett.”

McCarthy was startled; he knew that Delvecchio was aware that Hackett was an ex. But McCarthy had never encountered such clerical prejudice toward an ex-priest.

“Vince, George’s wife just died.”

“So?”

“So he wants us to take the funeral.”

“Why?”

“Because they’ve been coming to Mass here for several years. They live in the parish.”

Finally he looked up. “I’ve never seen the name on our books. Is he registered?”

“No. He anticipated trouble if he did. So they just attended here. George contributed without using a collection envelope.”

“I’ve never seen him here.”

“I have.” It was typical. Delvecchio knew few of the parishioners.

“I don’t want to see him,” the bishop said through tight lips. “I’ve already told you that.”

“Why not?”

Delvecchio sighed. “Jesus said it all in Luke’s Gospel: Whoever puts his hand to the plow but keeps looking back is unfit for the reign of God.”

McCarthy knew this was not the time for exegetical argument. “Vince, you’ve got to see him. I’m not leaving here till you do.”

McCarthy had nothing to lose in launching an ultimatum, and Delvecchio knew it. With another, deeper sigh, he pushed himself back from the desk and headed down the stairs, with McCarthy close behind.

Delvecchio entered his office, where George Hackett sat waiting. McCarthy stopped the door from closing as he followed the bishop into the office.

As Delvecchio lowered himself into his chair, he said to McCarthy-without looking at him-“I can handle this- alone!”

“Did I tell you George wanted to see you? Actually he wants to see both of us,” McCarthy said.

Hackett looked confused, smiled briefly, then resumed his grave demeanor.

“I understand,” Delvecchio said, “your wife died. Our sympathy.”

“Thank you.” Hackett had anticipated the lack of recognition on Delvecchio’s part. Still, it hurt.

“I am also given to understand that you want the Mass of Resurrection here.”

“It was her-”

Delvecchio pulled a notepad toward himself, and picked up a pen. “Have you been laicized?”

“Yes.”

“Were you married in the Church?”

“Finally, yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“When I left the priesthood, Rome wasn’t granting laicizations. We were married by a judge. Later, the request for laicization was granted. Then we were married by a priest. But what’s that got to do with-”

“Before we can consider your request for Christian burial from this parish, we’ve got to know what we’re dealing with. Now, Father McCarthy tells me you attended Mass here. But you never registered in the parish?”

“I can’t believe you never noticed me. We didn’t go out of our way to attend your Mass, but we did from time to time. You never recognized me? We were classmates for years. I remember praying for a miracle for your mother. We were priests together in this archdiocese for years. I just took it for granted that you knew me.”

“Whether or not I recognized you is not the question. Whether or not you are a registered parishioner is.”

“Vince,” McCarthy said, “people no longer have to be card-carrying parishioners to be buried-or married, for that matter.”

Delvecchio ignored McCarthy’s observation. “That you have not registered is not, of itself, a compelling reason to reject your request. But it is a consideration.” Delvecchio continued making notes. “Why did you leave the priesthood?” He did not look up as he asked the question.

“Vince,” McCarthy interjected, “what’s that got to do with Christian burial for his wife?”

Delvecchio’s expression was sardonic. “Mr. Hackett doesn’t have to answer any of my questions.”

It seemed evident that George Hackett could indeed refuse. But it would be at the peril of the desired Christian burial.

“It’s all right, Joe,” Hackett said by way of thanking McCarthy for playing defense attorney, if only briefly. He turned back to Delvecchio, fixing him with a penetrating gaze. “I left to marry Gwenn.”

“No trouble with Church doctrine?”

“Some, sure. I didn’t wake up one morning after fifteen years as a priest and say, ‘Hey, wait a minute: There’s girls!’ Before Gwenn ever came my way, I began having a lot of trouble-mostly with enforcing some of the Church’s pet peeves.”

“Such as?”

“Well, the obvious ones: Contraception. Remarriage. Exercising infallibility like a weapon. I don’t really have to catalog problem areas; even if you don’t agree, you very well know what the problems are.”

With lips stretched tightly, Delvecchio said, “I assume then, that you could be called an ‘eclectic Catholic.’”

“If I have to be categorized, yeah, I suppose so.”

“The present Pope has made it quite clear that Catholics cannot pick and choose among doctrine or moral teachings. The Catholic Church is not a spiritual supermarket.”

Hackett perceived that he was virtually playing Frisbee in a minefield. There was silence for a few moments. It was broken by Delvecchio. “Do you have any children?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

In his day as a priest, Hackett had handled many arrangements for funerals. At no time had he quizzed the bereaved like this. “Three.”

“Their ages?”

Hackett hesitated in recalling the exact ages. “Twenty-three … uh, twenty, and seventeen.”

“Odd ages,” Delvecchio observed. “Were you using contraception? Was that one of the moral precepts you rejected?”