Copyright 2006, 2007
Chapter 5—The Church Speaks
It was a heady feeling that consumed James as he marched up the stairs to his apartment upon his return from school that day. He had already decided to pour himself three fingers of Scotch before making some dinner. It wasn't to make him forget, or to help him think. It was just going to be his private celebration.
Yes, it was a real breakthrough; it was all so perfect. Raymond was a shy, but respectful young man who seemed grateful, eager to start his adventure in Math. James was the Tour Guide and was certain that all would go well. Nathan performed admirably in his director's chair, in James' estimation, making it all possible. Henry Thompson and Ed Cassidy played their supporting roles brilliantly, too. James was the star, the central figure in the real life play. It was Guatemala anew—a second chance. He never thought it would come to him again, especially after he left the Order. He could see now that it was truly his destiny. The occasion deserved a Scotch—or maybe two. It couldn't be more than that. He had papers to correct. He didn't feel like working that evening, but the formula had brought him this far; no reason to jinx it.
He changed his plan a little. He put water on the stove to boil some pasta and started heating some spaghetti sauce in a little pan. He would have his celebration while his dinner cooked. He performed his kitchen chores and then clinked three ice cubes into a glass. He covered them with the whiskey and sat down to enjoy it.
He decided to draw up a plan for Raymond's tutelage after he corrected the homework, which he would do after he ate. For now, he wanted to relax and he couldn't help thinking about how events in his life had led to this moment. If hadn't given up his Holy Orders it would have been impossible. It didn't usually work that way; it proved out that phrase: 'God works in mysterious ways'.
He had no hard feelings toward the Church or the Order. It was just that the priesthood had dried him out. He never really practiced his priestly profession to the fullest. He had always been a teacher with plenty of priests around to perform the rites; the Church had traded the bestowal of Holy Orders for his adherence to vows that bound him to his service. He had become a shepherd without a flock, a missionary to believers. His vows hung from like a coat of chain mail, a protection from without and within.
"No hard feelings—no regrets," he said out loud. Did he say it to himself, or to God? He was not sure. He thought about making contact with the local parish. He hadn't confessed or received communion since he left the Order. That would be complicated, since he had to fit his activities with Vicki into that scenario. If he confessed it, he knew that a condition of absolution would be to cease committing the sin. He would not promise to 'avoid the near occasions of that sin' if he did not mean it. He would not omit it either, throwing little sins to the confessor like bones to a dog. Better to bear this sin than blasphemy. One can lie to oneself, but not to God.
He thought more about his deeds with Vicki. Perhaps it was no sin—nothing to confess. It was like Nathan's admonition to keep his own business to himself. He would think about this and if he came to believe it he would confess and take communion.
The sound of his pasta water boiling over onto the burner pierced his introspection. He jumped out of the chair to turn down the flame. The water hitting it made the blue flame jump about with flares of yellow flicking out in many directions. It suggested to him that he was steps away from the gates of hell, daring them to open.
**************
Ireland is the Land of Saints and Scholars, it is often said. Like many clichés, it is not true. It is, rather, a place inhabited by tormenting, elfin, leprechaun philosophers. They disguise themselves as elder priests and migrate to America to torture their protégés, passing out lyrical dictums with Communion. The younger priests cannot understand, but know well that the cruel riddles are full of undeciphered wisdom. They tear open their souls and stuff the words inside. As they grow old, they pry out the meaning, in hopes that God will be revealed to them. One such Irish priest was Fr. Brendan McNulty, S.J. He was appointed rector at the school where Jamie taught. He had little to do with the operations of the school. Rather, he was in charge of the community of priests who resided there. He was a short, slightly built man with a square jaw and pug nose. His hair was silver; his age known only to him and God, and, of course, the Prefecture Office in New York City. He spoke with the brogue of the auld sod although he had been in America for several decades. James had heard him speak without it on a number of occasions, but the old priest always had the accent ready and used it whenever dispensing grace and truth.
There was intoxicating kindness in his voice. A listener willingly became immersed in it. Resistance to the Word would melt away. Too late, one would feel the hardness of the lesson underneath the velvet cloak until it descended upon the unwary soul. Yet, the disciples would be as grateful as though they had been present at the Sermon on the Mount. It was with the brogue that one warm day last summer he called James to him.
"Jamie, come here into m' office right away!"
"Yes Father," Jamie answered as he stepped inside. Father Brendan was seated at his desk. The aroma of freshly burned pipe tobacco hung in the air of the small office like incense at High Mass. Indeed, the always-present pipe with the curved stem and large bowl sat in a glass ash tray at the side of the desk. It was the man's lone self-indulgence. A simple crucifix was mounted on the wall behind and above him.
"Close the door and sit, boy," The older man bade, not looking up from the documents that he held. Finally, he peered at Jamie over the top of his glasses. "Are ye sure that ye want to be doin' this. Yer mind's made up, is it?
"Yes, Father. It hasn't changed since we discussed it the last time," Jamie answered.
"Dat bein' th' case, Jamie, yer release papers are here fer ye to sign. Dey're right here in m' hands. I'll just get Fadder Mark to witness. Stay where y'are ."
The old man slowly trod out of the room. He returned after a minute. "He'll be here presently." The two men looked at one another in silence while they waited.
A young priest walked into the office. Father Brendan signed in several places. He turned the papers around and handed them to Jamie. "Sign here...and here and here, right next to where I did." Jamie signed without hesitating. It was anticlimactic. He had waited over six months for the release. The signing was a formality, yet Jamie had kept every vow—he would never break them until released.
Father Mark signed as the witness after Jamie did. "Good luck to you, Jamie. I'll miss you." The two younger men embraced. Father Mark bowed his head and shuffled sadly out of the room.
Jamie started to rise. "Just stay seated where y'are. We're not done yet—not by far!" Father Brendan ordered. Although Jamie was no longer a priest, and no longer under the older man's command, he obeyed him. Father Brendan sat back down. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his middle.
"I suppose ye t'ought dat I would try to talk ye out of it one last time," he said. "Well, I decided not to. Yer not cut out for the life of a priest, not at all. At long last, it's not the life for ye."
"Father, I obeyed every vow. I always did my best," Jamie protested. "There was never a reason to doubt me, except when the secretary at Holy Sacrament Parish accused me..."
"Ah, dat! A very unfortunate thing, dat was. Very sad, indeed, but t'wasn't yer fault, was it now?" Father Brendan interrupted.
"Yes," Jamie agreed. "But as I was saying, I was obedient...."
"Yes, Jamie! I know. Ye never committed any sins," the older man, now agitated, interrupted. He leaned forward, tore his spectacles from the bridge of his nose and pointed his finger at Jamie "But dere's a sin ye haven't yet learned of—the Eighth Deadly Sin. Yer've been committin' it, boy, as long as I've known ye. And 'tis the reason why yer not cut out fer the priesthood."
"Eighth Deadly sin?" Jamie contorted his face in confusion.
"Aye, the Eighth Deadly Sin!" the old man shouted, pounding the tip of his still pointed finger down on the desk. "Yer been committin' it, boy, and not even knowin' it." He paused and calmed his voice. "Yer been committin' it all o' the time." He finished as he waved his hand in the air across his chest to emphasize the scope of Jamie's commission.
"Well, Father," asked a suspicious Jamie, "what then, is the Eighth Deadly sin? Tell me so that I can stop committing it."
The old man's ire started rising anew. He jumped from his chair, leaned forward on locked arms and clenched fists. "I'll tell ye what it is!" he growled. Then he sat back down leaned back in his chair and folded his frail hands over his stomach once again. He exhaled deeply. Jamie leaned forward, intent on hearing the answer.
