Bishop as Pawn

coffee.

“Let me try to clarify my point.” Carleson blew across the surface of his cup. “Since bishops are treated like royalty, I suppose it’s only natural that most of them seem to identify with the movers and shakers of society, with the Establishment, with those in power.

“But, see, in the Third World there are only two classes: those who have everything and those who have nothing. Nothing connects the classes. Nothing exists between them. You must be for one side or the other. No matter with which side the local bishop relates, his priests have to choose. If the bishop joins the aristocracy, the priest does also. Or else the priest finds himself in opposition not only to the rich but also to his bishop.”

Carleson smiled grimly. “The priests get together periodically, much like the meeting we attended this evening. And down there we divided ourselves about the way you do.

“This evening, I paid very close attention to what was being said by whom. Everybody kept the conversation confined to noncontroversial subjects like the services the city doesn’t provide or the mayor or the council. I watched the departure of the guys who pretty much sided with the Church bureaucracies. I could tell because as they left, the conversation drifted to subjects not so safe.

“And then they wanted to find out which side I was on. But their investigation was short-circuited by-who was it … Ernie Bell? — and his problems with Bishop Diego.

“The priests’ meetings in Honduras-and the other countries where I’ve served-are about the same. Except that the stakes are higher. Probably because there are no neutral areas. It’s either poor or rich … the haves or the have-nots.

“Do you get the picture, Bob? Who the bishop happens to be and what his social ethic is are of tremendous importance. And, in the final analysis, the diocesan priests down there have a bit more mobility than the priests who come in as missionaries. They can move to a different jurisdiction, especially before they’re ordained. And while that’s not an awful lot of consolation, it’s better than the missionary who’s sent to a particular locale by his superior. There isn’t much of anything he can do about it.”

Koesler had been concentrating so much on what was being explained that his coffee had gotten cold. He pushed the cup aside. “You make it sound so … so dismal. As if the bishops in mission territories have abandoned the poor to mingle with the rich. It can’t be that bleak.”

“It isn’t. But it comes close. Sure, you’ve got your Helder Camara in Brazil or Romero in El Salvador. But you’ve also had the all-but-complete opposition to Aristide by the bishops of Haiti.

“If I’m painting with too broad a brush, I’m sorry. There’s no doubt it’s tough to be a bishop in the Third World and champion the poor. That choice would put you in opposition to not only the wealthy but the rulers as well as the military. Is it any wonder that a significant percentage of those bishops have sided with the wealthy class?”

“I guess it makes sense,” Koesler said after some hesitation. “But if that’s the case with the bishops, what about the priests? I mean the ones like yourself who choose to work with the poor? See, here in Detroit once you get an assignment to the inner city, bureaucracy pretty much forgets about you. Now that means different things to different people. But the interpretation of Church law for the inner-city priests is, to put it mildly, neither rigid nor strict. Didn’t you find it like that in the barrios? I don’t think the Vatican’s Church would make much sense in the barrio.”

Carleson laughed. “Hardly. We undoubtedly went a lot further than you do up here. If a couple showed up and wanted to be married in the Church, I was so surprised and happy I never thought of asking questions like had either of them been married before. It was no place for the nonactivist. The ethical judgments we had to make were not found in any approved theology textbook.”

Koesler appeared skeptical. “I don’t know that we play it that loose up here.”

“I’m counting on it,” Carleson said firmly.

Koesler paused thoughtfully, then looked up brightly. “Would you like more coffee? I could make some fresh in a minute.”

“Thanks, no. But it was very good.”

Koesler could make coffee for this gentleman forever.

Carleson glanced at his watch. “Hey, I’d better get going. It’s almost midnight.”

“I’ll drive you home. But … one more thing: If you made your choice and decided to work among the poor and you could feel free to provide them with what they needed-freer, I assure you, than you will be here-why leave?”

Carleson shook his head. “I didn’t leave of my own accord.”

“You didn’t-”

“In effect, the bishop threw me out. More politely, he requested my superiors to change my assignment and get me the hell out of Honduras.”

“But why?”

“Because I committed the unforgiveable sin. I began talking about how unfair it was. Jesus did not keep still when he encountered a priestly caste that imposed gratuitous burdens on people. I thought He would not be silent when a few kept everything to themselves while leaving the majority with nothing.”

Koesler nodded. “Liberation theology?”

“If you will. It seemed the essence of the Christian message. It seemed inescapable if you read the Gospels. I didn’t even say it loudly I just said it. And some of the bishop’s men heard about it. They told him. And he told me. It wasn’t a long interview. He asked me if I had ‘got the people all disturbed.’ A few words later I was packing my duffel bag.

“That’s when I decided to start choosing my bishops. Mark Boyle and Detroit seemed about the best choice in the States. I knew he must be surrounded by a self-fulfilling bureaucracy. It seemed inevitable. But one could be relatively free here.”

“And if Cardinal Boyle were to pass on?”

“I would take a careful look at his successor. I might apply for another excardination. I might get a somewhat unsteady reputation. On the other hand, the bishop I’d select to work for might feel that I’d given him an unsolicited testimonial.”

“And Bishop Ramon Diego?”

Carleson froze.

Koesler was startled. But he had encountered similar reactions. People under great emotional stress-illness, family tragedy, or the like-enjoy some time of relief, a happy distraction. Sometimes they forget their troubles. They lose themselves in the joy of the moment. Then, inevitably, they are forced to return to reality. The change in their emotions, in their very appearance, can be profound.

So it was with Don Carleson. It had been a pleasant evening, with an entertaining chat between two like- minded priests. But now it was time to return to the real world. From his expression, it was clear that Carleson dreaded what must be. It was inescapable.

“It’s after midnight,” Carleson said softly. “I guess we’d better go.”

During the brief drive to Ste. Anne’s, nothing more was said. Koesler let Carleson out at the front door to the rectory. Koesler glanced at the showy string of lights that garlanded the Ambassador Bridge. Then he started his return drive.

Cinderella did not want to go home from the dance. Carleson didn’t want to go home from his evening out. And he didn’t have a fairy godmother.

CHAPTER THREE

Father Koesler shuffled into the kitchen of St. Joseph’s rectory. He wore his pajamas, a robe, slippers, his glasses, and his ever-present watch.

He was grateful St. Joe’s scheduled no early-morning Mass. Much of his priesthood had been marked by parish Masses programmed for 5:30 or 6:00 in the morning. A 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. Mass was an invitation to sleep in.

Now, with the daily Mass offered at noon he had the leisure to wake up gradually and prepare a more