The Greatest Evil

Delvecchio shrugged. “But I only played it during Communion time.”

“The rubric doesn’t say, ‘The organ may be played for accompaniment only-with the exception of Communion time.’”

Delvecchio was beginning to be ambivalent. He did not appreciate being quizzed as if he were a child. On the other hand, he admired Bob Koesler in many ways.

“Look, Bob: For a lot of these kids the novelty of going to Mass every day wears off pretty quick. They pay better attention to what’s going on as long as there’s something going on. Even in a Requiem Mass there’s something to focus on most of the time. Except for Communion-it takes one priest a long time to give Communion to roughly two hundred people. And while that’s going on, the only sound is feet shuffling down the aisle. It’s tough for the counselors to keep the kids in line. I think it helps if the organ is going … don’t you? I mean, don’t you, really?”

Koesler exhaled in frustration. “The point is not that organ sounds can soothe the savage camper. I tend to agree with you that it does. But the point is, the rule directs that there’ should be no music played at a Requiem High Mass except to accompany singing. The rubric makes no exception. That’s the point.”

“‘The guys who made up that rule were never counselors at a boys’ camp!” Delvecchio was becoming heated.

Koesler reflected that heat. “I happen to be music director here. And I say we keep that and all other rubrics in our liturgies.”

“Well, for Pete’s sake, Bob, I didn’t know we were dealing with the greatest evil, the unforgivable sin.”

Koesler turned in disgust and walked away. After a few steps, he turned his head and, while continuing to walk, said, “On second thought, Vince, maybe you ought to get in the ring with one of the campers … one of the big campers.”

4

The Present

Father Koesler was blushing ever so slightly. At this stage in life, in retrospect, he considered the argument between Delvecchio and himself childish. Especially on his part. And it embarrassed him not only to recall the incident but especially to confess it to Tully.

But Father Tully was chuckling. “I’d have to agree with Delvecchio: Fooling with the organ during a Requiem Mass probably isn’t the ultimate sin of despair.”

“Especially,” Koesler agreed, “when you consider today’s liturgies: There’s virtually no distinction between ‘high’ or sung, and ‘low’ or spoken. But there still are rubrics.”

“Not many. And particularly guys my age and younger aren’t uptight about adapting the liturgy to the occasion.” Tully sat back in his chair, reflecting on the drastic changes in liturgy that followed Vatican Council II.

“I can remember quite vividly,” Tully said, “how tight everything was then: hands extended, facing each other at shoulder position and distance. The whispered words. The directed gestures. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was left to chance or choice.

“Oh, not that there weren’t priests who veered from the rubrics. But most of them were just playing out their own idiosyncrasies. Every single thing that went on in the Mass of yesterday was spelled out in precise detail.”

Koesler nodded. “I’m getting thirsty. What would you say to some iced tea?”

“Iced tea?” Tully thought for a moment. “Did you make it, Bob?” He remembered all too well a couple of cups of coffee brewed by Father Koesler. They had been indescribably unpotable.

Koesler smiled. He was aware that his guests hardly ever finished a cup of his coffee. His tea, however, did not live in like infamy. “Mary O’Connor made the tea, Zack. Want some?”

“Sure.” Tully had learned quickly that Mary O’Connor could be trusted to run the whole parish, not to mention make a beverage or snack. He found it unfortunate that Mary was going to follow Koesler into retirement.

Father Robert Koesler had met Mary when he was named pastor of St. Anselm’s in a Detroit suburb almost thirty years before. She had been parish secretary for his predecessor. Mary and Koesler were eminently compatible.

Mary would have long since retired, but she had determined to stay with it as long as her priest-friend did.

Father Tully well knew that finding anyone the equal of Mary would be to stumble across perfection. At least Mary had agreed to stay on until a successor could be found.

The two priests went to the large kitchen where their paragon was busily preparing for the arrival of the caterers. She poured the tea as they exchanged small talk. The priests, glasses in hand, then returned to the living room.

Tully rattled the ice cubes, coaxing them to melt.

Koesler stood at the window, his back to Tully, and contemplated the impressive buildings, many of which had been erected since his arrival at the old parish.

“By the way,” Koesler said, without turning, “I believe you said Bishop Delvecchio was giving you a difficult time?”

“I’ll say!”

“What’s the trouble?”

“He keeps bugging me about taking the Profession of Faith and the Oath of Fidelity.”

Koesler turned to face the other priest. “Profession of Faith and Oath of Fidelity? Oh, yeah; I think I remember now. When we became pastors, we were supposed to take the ancient Oath Against Modernism-which was a very poor relic of the nineteenth century. It was like promising to remember dinosaurs. Then this new thing came into effect. How long’s it been? Something like nineteen eighty-nine, wasn’t it? I didn’t pay much attention ’cause I was sure this would be my final pastorate and I never would be expected to deal with them. So, forgive me: Are they a real problem?”

Tully nodded. “They’re a real problem. I guess,” he added after a moment, “it depends on how seriously you take them. The good bishop was kind enough to send me copies. Want to hear some of the more ear-catching parts?” At Koesler’s nod, Tully rose and walked to the file cabinet in one corner of the living room.

Koesler felt a sudden twinge. It wasn’t Tully’s file cabinet; it was his, Koesler’s!

For an instant, he forgot that he had emptied the cabinet of his effects several days ago-part of his gradual leavetaking of Old St. Joseph’s. Little by little he was gathering his things.

He found the process more wrenching than he had anticipated. Fortunately, the rectory had lots of room for storage, as boxes multiplied like coat hangers in a closet. All this because Koesler had not yet made a firm decision as to where he would live in retirement.

There was time.

Tully fingered through papers in the top drawer, found what he wanted, and returned to his chair. “I suppose we can start with the Profession of Faith. It’s by far the more familiar. That’s ’cause the main body of the Profession, as you probably know, is simply the Nicene Creed.

“Now I’ve got no problem believing in God-Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And no problem with the Resurrection, forgiveness of sin, and eternal life. As I said, that, pretty nearly, is the Creed. But somebody in Rome tacked on an addendum. Get this: ‘With firm faith, I believe as well everything contained in God’s word, written or handed down in tradition and proposed by the Church-whether in solemn judgment or in the ordinary and universal magisterium as divinely revealed and calling for faith.’

“That’s not all,” Tully continued.“‘I also firmly accept and hold each and every thing that is proposed by that same Church definitively with regard to teaching concerning faith or morals.

“‘What is more, I adhere with religious submission of will and intellect to the teachings which either the Roman Pontiff or the college of bishops enunciate when they exercise the authentic magisterium even if they proclaim those teachings in an act that is not definitive.’”

Tully lowered the paper and looked at Koesler. “How about that!”