17
The box containing the mortal remains of Monsignor Clement Kern had been unearthed. Evidently that was enough for that day. The grand opening of the casket had been postponed.
Meanwhile, the unopened casket rested on a bier in the nave of the church just outside the sanctuary. And the church, quite naturally, was that of The Most Holy Trinity in old Corktown where Clem Kern had been assigned for thirty-four years.
Tradition has it that when the Lodge Freeway was constructed, linking Detroit’s northern extremities to downtown, the highway was supposed to go right through the site of Trinity Church. This prospect made Cardinal Edward Mooney, then archbishop of Detroit, a happy man. Trinity long had been a financial loser and a drain on archdiocesan funds. Mooney was said to have been ecstatic over the proposed demolition of the building. Some thought the Cardinal himself would come and bless the bulldozer that would do the deed.
Then, according to the story, a city councilperson, who would live in infamy in Mooney’s heart, spoke up to save the little parish that had been there when the Irish immigrants circled their wagons around it and later when the poorest of the poor had huddled within it for warmth, shelter, and sustenance. The courageous councilperson won out. And now, when motorists tool down the Lodge, they relive that administrative fiat as they head directly toward the little old church, only to veer off eastward at the very last moment. Trinity survived, to be transformed by the selfless ministry of Clem Kern into a monument for the ages.
It was now the third day since the casket had been removed from the earth of Holy Sepulcher Cemetery. It was the day as well as the hour when the casket would be opened.
The prime purpose for this otherwise ghoulish enterprise was to establish, insofar as it was possible, that the body of the man who might one day be venerated as a true saint actually was the body of the Servant of God in question.
There was another reason. There was always the possibility that in the process, the exhumers just might stumble upon another miracle. In the past, there had been some marvelous discoveries at this stage in the process of canonization. Sometimes the body was found in a remarkable-miraculous? — state of preservation.
St. Catherine of Siena as well as St. Clare of Assisi were cases in point. Enshrined within altars in their respective hometowns, they looked as good as new after centuries of inanimation-or so it is said.
Then there’s the blood of St. Januarius, which liquifies each year on the anniversary of his death, until last year. Still, not a bad track record.
And, among many surprisingly preserved saints, there’s the case of St. Francis Xavier. He died on a small island off the coast of China. His associate buried him on the spot, taking the trouble to throw quicklime over the body. Later, after scraping away the soil and lime, Francis’s body was discovered to be remarkably lifelike, even supple. He was to be entombed in the wall of the cathedral in Goa. Workers found the hole in the wall not quite deep enough. So they simply forced the body into the space, breaking the neck in the process. Francis Xavier’s body is still on display. It is, by now, quite mummified. But, considering all that was inflicted upon the poor remains, he’s holding his own.
Such incidents provide the special excitement and promise inherent in a canonical exhumation. One never knows in what condition one is going to find the Servant of God.
Of course, modern methods of embalming, the better-made caskets and vaults can muddy the matter. In today’s world, is a well-preserved body a sign of God’s favor to the deceased? Could it be a miracle, or could it be the miracle of modern technology?
Whatever.
Still there was the undeniable thrill of anticipation. What would Clem Kern look like these many years since his death and burial? Those strong of stomach, at least, wanted to know. It didn’t much matter in the final analysis whether he had been preserved or not. If he were well preserved, in all probability it would not be accepted as miraculous. Clem would have to come up with something clearly spectacular on his own. However, in the eyes of many of his old buddies, it would be good to see him again.
However, not all of his buddies could be present for the viewing, not by any means. The viewers were there by invitation only. And there weren’t many of them. There were, of course, representatives of the mortuary industry. There were heads of archdiocesan commissions and committees. There were a few who were invited but for squeamish reasons had declined. There was Cardinal Mark Boyle, who, as the local bishop, had authored the original petition to Rome to start this case. Finally, there was Father Mulroney, and his three friends, Fathers Marvin, McNiff, and Koesler.
As the “relator’s collaborator,” Mulroney was pretty much running this paraliturgical event. He had led an appropriate hymn and offered some appropriate prayers. He had held a copy of some of these specially prepared prayers for Cardinal Boyle to read aloud. The Cardinal had spread some sweet-smelling incense over the burning coals in the thurible. He had walked around the casket, sprinkling it with holy water. He had retraced his steps around the casket, swinging the thurible back and forth, filling the small church with the aroma of incense. Some of those present, Koesler included, rather hoped that the aroma might modify whatever smell there might come from the casket once it was opened after years in the ground.
In fact, the process of raising the lid was going on right now. Inspired by the preceding elaborate ceremony, the morticians were taking their sweet time in getting the lid off. They were sort of winging their own paraliturgy in an area wherein none had been composed by anyone.
An unmistakable air of expectancy permeated the small group.
Wayne County’s medical examiner had not been invited. He might have been the only one to whom this was old hat. The morticians present had some slight experience with exhumations, though never in the case of one who might be named a saint. As to the rest, emotions ranged from dread to morbid interest.
The only one who felt completely ambivalent was Father Koesler. He was pleased that Clem Kern was finally being given the sort of respect and attention that rightfully should be his. On the other hand, he was apprehensive about what he knew would be found in that casket.
Meanwhile, the morticians continued to fiddle with the fasteners that needed to be loosened before the entire lid could be removed.
“If they ever get that damn thing off, I don’t think we’ll be able to see what’s left of Clem for all this smoke,” Father Marvin said in a stage whisper.
“Don’t get me wrong,” McNiff stage-whispered in return, “but I don’t see what’s taking them so long.” He turned to Father Mulroney, and, still whispering, said, “I really am glad you invited us for this ceremony, although we won’t be able to tell our grandchildren about it. But how long is this supposed to go on?”
Mulroney smiled. “It shouldn’t be much longer,” he whispered. The four priest friends were standing close enough together to communicate through whispering without unduly disturbing the others. “I wonder what everybody will think when they find that Clem is not alone in there?”
Koesler’s eyes popped. He could not believe his ears. “What did you say?” He forgot to whisper, momentarily drawing the attention of the others. Koesler made an apologetic gesture, then repeated the question, this time in the approved stage whisper. “What did you say?”
“I said,” Mulroney whispered, “I wonder how many here know that Clem is not alone in there?”
His wondering was brought to a sharp conclusion by a flurry at the casket. Evidently, the morticians had finally undone all the fasteners. But now, they found the casket lid either too cumbersome or too unwieldy for two men to lift. As Father Mulroney stepped forward to help out, he asked his friends to lend a hand.
Marvin and McNiff joined Mulroney immediately. Under ordinary circumstances, Koesler would have helped too. But by now he was not only frozen in place, he had squeezed his eyes shut. Why had he come?! Yet how could he have stayed away?
