Chameleon

did say it was inevitable.”

“Inevitable, true. But … somehow … I regret the loss of what we had. It was, I think, nobly unique.”

They sat in silence for several minutes.

“Admirably unique,” Foley agreed at length.

“The seminary training,” he continued, “so strict and unyielding, yet the system formed men-good men, responsible, leaders. But,” he sighed, “that’s pretty much gone already.”

Boyle nodded agreement. But then he amended Foley’s statement. “The mere change to optional celibacy may or may not have its effect on the training for priesthood. But, in any case, it will no longer be necessary to produce that challenge to human nature, the asexual macho man.”

“Yes, yes, yes. No more Going My Way, or Bells of St Mary’s, or Keys of the Kingdom, or Father Flanagan of Boys’ Town. It’s probably just as well that Bing didn’t live to see this.”

Boyle smiled.

“But, more seriously,” Foley said, “and more positively: It will do away with our caste system. To be truthful, that has been a problem for me for longer than I like to think. It was that universal and mandatory celibacy that created a separate class in Christian society. Priests were not ‘ordinary people.’ They were ‘above’ the laity, not just because of their function in the Christian community but in the nature of their membership in the Church. Because of celibacy, the clergy were in a more spiritual, and ergo a superior, form of Christian life.”

“You’re right,” Boyle agreed. “It is more neoplatonic than Christian.”

“Strange,” Foley picked up the theme, “how much of our life is structured by celibacy. It’s not just a single life. My god, single people are looked upon more often than not as ‘odd,’ somehow failures at the sexual game. But with the distinction of celibacy-dedicated virginity, consecrated singleness-we are looked upon as different kinds of creatures. Mark, when you were a child, did you ever wonder whether priests and nuns went to the bathroom?”

Boyle chuckled, “I think when we were children that would have qualified as an impure thought.”

“You know,” Foley said, “I’ll bet most of our people think that an unmarried clergy goes back to the beginning of Christianity. Whereas, you know that, despite some early attempts at celibacy, we had a married clergy for about the first half of our history.”

“The Second Lateran Council, A.D. 1139,” responded Boyle, thus proving that the books in this study were used. “It was almost a textbook of simplicity in legislation. The First Lateran Council prohibited the marriage of clerics in major orders. And that did not do the job. So the Second Lateran simply pronounced such marriages invalid. And that is pretty much how things stand to this date.”

“That was a sad period for the Church, if memory serves.”

“Indeed it was,” Boyle agreed. “The tenth and eleventh centuries were shot through with weak Popes and clandestine clerical marriages or, more often, a very common concubinage. The time was ripe for an uncompromising move in one direction or another. Either the Church would have to abandon its effort to form a universally celibate clergy or come up with the sort of legislation that, as it happened, was promulgated.”

“Went for broke. Isn’t that the way of it?” Foley’s question was rhetorical. “In almost every crisis, historically, there was always a minority who could be depended upon to react and save celibacy. If they’d followed the will of the majority, more than once celibacy would have been discarded.” He paused. “Just as it was nearly discarded as a result of the Second Vatican Council. But,” he added wryly, “I surely don’t have to tell you. You were among the shakers and movers of that council.”

Boyle nodded as he recalled the seemingly endless meetings, the maneuvering, the lobbying. “There’s no doubt about that. Although few beyond the council participants were aware of what was going on, imposed celibacy was a burning’ behind-the-doors’ topic at the council. But pressure-pressure from that dependable entrenched minority-kept the topic off the formal agenda.”

“So now, here we are,” Foley summed up, “with the law of imposed celibacy, living right alongside a married clergy. Add to that priests becoming an endangered species, and it can’t be too far off before we will have optional celibacy.”

“Ah, yes,” Boyle said, “that is the question: when? It’s the question I doubt anyone has an answer to. When? Pope John, who began it all with his convocation of the council, with his call for a change in canon law, with his aggiornamento, with his openness to change … even he could not bring himself to make this reformation. On occasion, he even said as much: that with a stroke of his pen he could put an end to enforced celibacy. But he said he simply could not bring himself to do it.

“Then his successor, Paul VI, two years after the council’s conclusion, put another nail in the coffin with ‘Sacerdotalis coelibatus,’ which just repeated the standard explanations and dismissed all the arguments against obligatory celibacy.”

“So we are faced with a law that hangs by a single thread; tradition. A tradition that, as a law, is less than half as old as Christianity itself. But you know, Mark, you and I are not the only ones who are familiar with the background of this law. What of those who demand an immediate answer to ‘When?’ and those who insist ‘Never’?”

The Cardinal shook his head and stifled a yawn. It was getting late, especially for two elderly men who had had a busy day. “I don’t know. I simply do not know. But the situation puts me in mind of an earthquake waiting to happen.”

“Huh?”

“California, for example. The earth gradually, ineluctably, grinding in opposite directions, but the motion being encumbered by massive buildings. The stress keeps building as the earth continues to creep apart and the buildings sit there like Band-Aids-until, with unimaginable force and destruction, the quake occurs.

“That is what I am reminded of: We are moving toward great change in the Church, even greater than we’ve experienced as a result of the council. Celibacy is only one area where this is happening. The movement toward optional celibacy-a married clergy-is inevitable. And it’s being advanced by people who are tired of waiting, who know it will happen, and who demand that it happen now.

“But the opposition, that powerful minority of convinced conservatives, is digging in its heels.”

“There will be an explosion,” Foley concluded.

“It seems destined.”

“The law could be changed.”

“And,” Boyle added, “Californians could tear down their buildings and get out of the way of the earth’s movement. Of course, it would be far easier to change the law enforcing obligatory celibacy. But that’s no more likely than respecting the movement of land.”

“The Holy Father could do it all himself.”

“But he gives no indication that he will. And those who demand change recognize his intransigence.”

Foley was unable to repress his yawn. “Well, Mark, it seems we’ve settled most of the Church’s problems, if not the world’s. Time to retreat so we can fight another day.”

Boyle agreed. So, leaving some lights on for the return of Father Benz, they retired for the night.

Neither bishop thought to relate what they had discussed to a motive for murder.

19

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“They’re not worth that much.”

“They are to me.” Pam Stapleton was sitting on a sofa with her husband.

“Oh,” Fred said, “I guess I was thinking a dozen things at the same time.” Pause. “I was remembering parties like this when I was a priest. Usually everybody was married-and-there-with-spouse except me. And when it came to being seated for dinner, it was boy-girl-boy-girl until it came to me. Odd man out.”

“Did it make you feel like a fifth wheel?”

“No, oddly, it didn’t. It was like that was how it was supposed to be. Of course, nine-tenths of the time I was in uniform: the clerical black suit and roman collar. And everybody deferred to ‘Father.’ Actually”-he smiled at the