Читать книгу Father Luke’s Journey into Darkness - Nancy Carol James - Страница 10

What happens when a priest falls? They have reached up, hoping to touch God and move into heaven, hoping against hope that they will find the gracious gift of endless ecstasy and join the family of saints—the Church Triumphant. Yet this long spiritual journey contains tests and trials. Some fall.

Priests had kept generations of the Roman Catholic faithful at St. Charles Parish in Washington, DC. Veering between issues of faith and politics, three priests from the Society of the Cross led this unusual flock. The Marines of the Catholic Church, their community offered both intellectual rigor and personal piety.

Their motto suited them: “All for the greater glory of God.”

Their boys’ Catholic school produced some scholars that later attended Georgetown University, located so close to the parish, prominently placed on a hill in this vibrant city.

Monsignor Peter Dawkins led this parish. On this spring day, Peter weeded the red tulip beds with a local man they called Oscar Hammerstein. Hats shading their eyes, they looked as if they were caring for the original Garden of Eden. Oscar sang as he gardened, “This little light of mine! I’m goin’ let it shine!”

This unusual homeless character could speak no words, probably due to a stroke. To communicate he sang lots of spirituals and folk songs. His charm opened many doors. He seemed to know every popular song ever written. Peter gave him a small room on the first floor of the parish rectory, announcing to Oscar, “Our bishop’s church needs your protection.”

Today Peter chatted with Oscar. “What a beautiful day in this early spring!” Hannah, the church administrator, walked by, dressed in a business suit and talking on her cell phone. Oscar sang to her, “All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, the Lord God made them all!”

Smiling, she waved.

Hearing these jovial sounds, another priest, Father Jerry, walked out, bearing from his kitchen small cups of espresso on a tray. He placed them on a bench next to the giant replica of the Roman sculpture of the Capitoline wolf, the giant mother wolf guarding her human twins, Romulus and Remus.

Trailing behind Jerry, Father Luke questioned him. “Now that we have a Jesuit pope, shouldn’t we do Saint Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises? We read Teresa of Avila last Lent.”

Jerry raised his hand, as if to exclaim in Italian, Splendido!

Seeing Oscar, Luke smiled and the homeless singer bowed in response, his face covered with instant rows of symmetrical wrinkles.

“Each little flower that opens?” he warbled, questioning, pointing to the aphids on the rose bushes.

Peter looked. “My mom taught me a way to stop those.” Using his elbow, he wiped the sweat off his face. “Hey, let’s go eat.”

In the rectory kitchen, Peter placed a huge bowl of tapioca pudding in front of Oscar who immediately sang, “Rejoice, rejoice, believers!”

Peter sat down to read the Washington Post while Oscar enjoyed his treat.

A headline read, “Night Vandalism in Stanton Park.” Peter casually scanned the page. The short article read, “An unusual circular symbol was carved in an old cherry blossom tree, and in the children’s area park, a puddle of blood was found near the playground equipment. Anyone with information about this is asked to contact the DC Metropolitan Police.” Luke walked in and instantly Oscar warbled back, “Let us break bread together!”

Three priests from different backgrounds shared quarters in this Victorian mansion. Monsignor Peter ruled the roost. In his mid-forties, his attractive dark-blonde hair and blue eyes helped his entertaining sermons. A similar age to Peter, the brown-haired, short Father Luke Murphy was the perpetual assistant. His mystical love of God brought him this luxurious position, though his lack of connections ended chances of promotion into the hierarchy.

The younger and darker Father Jerry Golino, descended from a long line of Italian priests, added a touch of the noble heritage of Rome.

This tribe of priests slept in their individual rooms located on different floors. The singing Oscar slept as a security guard with Luke next to him in a spacious room. The privileged Jerry resided in the front second-floor and Peter reigned from a master bedroom suite at the back.

Father Jerry, a chef trained in Italy, nurtured others with his culinary creations. “Come on over!” Jerry would say, and the parishioners happily responded. The parish enjoyed new tastes: ripe radichio and unusual pasta creations reveling alongside nut-encrusted fish. And soon he would walk in bearing some flaming dessert, fire dancing with excitement.

After pasta and expresso, Jerry would begin the conversation. “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.” He explained that the sacrifices of the faithful brought renewed life to the Body of Christ and at times, a remnant caused rebirth. “Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross helped save the church in the 1500s.” Hearing his words, the faithful gained rich passion in their late-night conversations.

And who would want to miss the spiritual feast Jerry made? He regaled them with rich tales of Rome, the city nurtured by Romulus and Remus, the children nurtured by the great she-wolf. Jerry had insisted on putting an imitation of the Capitoline wolf outside their home and everyone who walked by reacted with an instinctive respect to the great historical masterpiece. In the courtyard stood a giant she-wolf, forehead frowning, ears moving forward, standing head ready to swing any direction, with hanging breasts and nipples dripping sweet milk. Underneath played the baby sons, reaching, ready to nurse, smiling. They trusted in their caring world. The folklore of Rome said that these two twins, Remus and Romulus, founded Rome and the magnificent Roman Empire that later birthed the young Christian faith.

This February evening, St. Charles Parish celebrated Mardi Gras before the beginning of Lent. At the red doors, Peter stood welcoming them.

“More chocolate cake, Annette?” he said to the middle-aged woman, plate in hand. “You’ve outdone yourself—as always! I can’t hold myself back from this.”

Annette flushed. “I make it only for you, Father.” She placed it on the crowded table.

A teenaged boy walked by with two small boys following him. “You’re not a pied piper, are you?” Annette called out. “Hey—we need to get ready for when you play the Easter Bunny!”

The kids danced in a circle chanting, “More candy! More candy!”

The boy smiled and then quietly added. “Later. I promise.” Then, “Hey, Father Peter, the bishop’s here.”

And true to the boy’s word, processing through the gardens, came the purple-clad bishop surrounded by a group of handsome, laughing priests. The gregarious Bishop Daniel Cahill liked so many parts of God’s good creation: shrimp and lobster, Nationals baseball games, Redskins football, elaborate worship services, the political concerns of the Catholic Church, talking to those at the White House and Congress. Everybody loved this affable and fun bishop–such a charming face for the traditional Christian faith.

Today he chatted. “Good fathers, it is all about a healthy dependence on God, the Church as the body of Christ, with our beloved Pope Francis as its head. And you, my brother priests, are so important to Christ’s body.”

Walking in, Bishop Cahill threw his arm about Peter. “Great job here! This parish is popping with new life and fun in our special church. And our Lord will bless you for your work and so will I. In fact, I am placing my special envoy here, Father Leo, to connect your programs with our influential colleagues in Rome. You know I have great plans for you.” The bishop faced Peter directly with a small wink that only Peter could see. The bishop continued softly, “Recently Leo came from his home at the Vatican and he is here to pump up our programs some. Let’s talk later.”

Peter nodded affirmatively and then his voice floated over the crowd to greet an incoming parishioner. “General Knight, how good of you to come! Have you been to Afghanistan lately?”

With a curt yes, and a firm handshake, the military leader swept into the room with his wife following closely.

Then a DC official walked in and Peter was ready. “Mayor, what a great DC renaissance you are leading! What you are doing for our city is wonderful!” Then softly he added, “And how is the security for the International Monetary Fund meeting coming? I know this has to be a headache for you.”

The mayor nodded yes and added jovially, “All in good time!” Parishioners swarmed around him, asking questions about the growing prosperity of their city.

Playing a more moderate role than the affable Peter, Father Luke walked around greeting and talking. Some clergy called this working the crowds, yet Luke understood that his pastoral presence grounded this frivolous reception. He heard from concerned people about a bad medical test or a relationship problem or perhaps even about God.

Luke loved these momentary but spiritual conversations: is it possible to relate to the living Holiness we call God? But if truth were told, Luke enjoyed coming out of his introverted life to this active group of people. These parishioners achieved much in society but never ventured much into the spiritual realm. But in his studies in Rome, Luke had focused on the great mystic Saint Ignatius of Loyola, who founded the Jesuit order and influenced Luke’s Society of the Cross. Luke frequently quoted a line from Ignatius.

May Our Lady intercede between us poor sinners and her Son and Lord; may she obtain for us the grace that, with the cooperation of our own toil and effort, our weak and sorry spirits may be made strong and joyful in his praise.1

This church work is a good balance, he had said to himself on more than one occasion. Some of his professors, though, believed that Luke had put his light under a bushel because he should be teaching or living as a mystic monk in interior seclusion. But no, Father Luke supported the gregarious Peter in his work, while enjoying this front-line engagement with highly successful people.

Luke listened to a conversation about a local idiosyncrasy. The doctor regaled, “Why do they have police on bicycles in Washington? Reminds me of a different era when the main problems in DC were growling dogs and a boatman on the Potomac River who had had a few too many Guinness Stouts.” For indeed the Washington DC police sat squarely on their bicycles looking more like kids masquerading as the arm of the law than real authorities. The doctor continued, “What do you do when you arrest someone? Insist they balance on the seat with you while you struggle towards a car somewhere. “Hold on while we pump. Don’t squeeze me too tight or we will fall!””

An older woman laughed, “Sometimes you can see a whole crowd of policeman practicing on their bicycles in parking lots, teetering around orange cones as they train for quick turns on streets.” Everyone smiled in recognition of the ways of the DC police.

Now Peter walked up to the parish hall stage, climbed a few stairs, and over to the waiting microphone. “I am so glad that you have come to our Mardi Gras gala on this Shrove Tuesday! Look at all the wonderful treats we have here—so many thanks to our chefs! I am sure that we can indulge tonight and come to confession tomorrow. We will have extra time available to forgive you for whatever you do tonight, won’t we, Father Luke?” Flushing, Luke waved his hand in agreement.

Peter continued, “Lent is upon us starting tomorrow, folks, with its prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. This Christian practice began centuries ago to prepare to baptize or to renew their baptism at Easter. We are thankful for our Jesuit Pope Francis and pleased with our endeavors this Lent. We might not see many changes in ourselves, but God will be pleased. Yet we can’t leave here without talking about money, can we? We have to give Caesar his due and our building does need some work this year.” He ordered the waiting janitor, “Open the curtains to see our new capital campaign goals for St. Charles!”

As the curtains drew apart, the relaxed crowd saw the teenager preparing to unveil the drawn thermometer on a poster board. Peter raised his voice and called out, “Thanks for helping with our little kids!”

Then Peter continued. “The goal this year is one hundred thousand dollars for our new air conditioning system. That will be nothing from us, though, because God blesses our finances and gives us everything we need.” The attuned crowd shook their heads in agreement. “And this year, I want us to give a special gift to Bishop Cahill: such a great leader we are blessed with! Do you know what our good bishop said to me: “Peter, your parish is the best one in DC. Now that I am close to retiring from this divine burden of being a bishop, I might just give you a run for your money and take the parish for myself!”” Laughter interrupted Father Peter’s talk. He continued. “But enough said: eat, dance, enjoy! You have come to the best party in Washington, DC.”

Standing in the crowd, Luke heard the laughter as if from a distance with his head spinning. He reached for the wall to hold himself up: were his springtime allergies acting up already? An inner ominous thunder persisted. Instinctively he looked out the window, only to see the same cherry blossom trees with their delicate, unopened buds, yet the vast skies shone with not a dark cloud in sight. Luke put down his plate and shakily walked towards the door. Maybe he had better have a moment of quiet.

“Is something wrong, Father?”

Looking up, he saw the church administrator, Hannah. “Just a little dizzy.”

Putting down the microphone, Peter headed for the dinner buffet adorned with warm chafing dishes supporting alluring fish creations and warm cherry cobblers. Balancing her full wine glass, the red-haired Annette stopped him. “Monsignor, did you get to go on the bishop’s winter Caribbean cruise?”

“I would not have missed it.” Then smiling, “As a monsignor I was invited. For those priests who stayed behind to fill in, we prayed a blessing for them.”

“Oh, Father, you are too much!”

“Enjoy yourself, my dear. This is a night to remember.”

Intent now, she added, “My son, Father, he needs to be confirmed.” Looking down, she said, “Andrew is doing so well in school and now with confirmation, everything will be great for him. Father, he has scored tops on his SAT scores and is good in basketball also. Hard to believe he is my son!”

“And we must celebrate also! Bring him directly to my office and I’ll take care of this for you. Bishop Cahill leads a great confirmation service and has one coming up soon. His new assistant Father Leo will educate our children.”

She looked directly into his grey-blue eyes.

“My dear Annette, maybe you could come by tomorrow afternoon. We could have a little sherry and talk about all the good going on in your life.”

He clasped her hand closely and then moved closer to the table with the well-dressed people chatting everywhere.

That night, Luke had the same nightmare he had suffered for several months. They started in the same way. Howling sounds came from a mysterious mountain: the tall steep peaks covered with dense curly green vegetation with not a sign of life anywhere except beneath the bizarre plants. But from the underbrush emanated scratching and long painful howls: then an even more painful silence. Night after night of howls from an unseen source.

Howls reaching out, echoing in oddly blue skies, starting low and then reaching high to tense warbling, crying out what: the end of something? A warning?

Luke woke up again, desperately sitting up, wanting to charge away from here to be anywhere else. All he knew was danger. Opening his eyes he saw his clerical shirts hanging calmly in the closet and his Bible where he left it on his nightstand.

Luke knew the bizarre message. The human race had lost the will to survive. Luke understood the human race was in danger of annihilation. “So much suffering everywhere!” he murmured to himself. He remembered that Pope Francis had written that “We have come to see ourselves as lords and masters, entitled to plunder her at will.”2 And he knew the truth that plundering happened everywhere.

And Luke also knew that other howling forces felt this ultimate lack, mourning, moaning, and warning humanity.3

1. Ignatius of Loyola, Spiritual Exercises, 327.

2. Francis, “On Care for our Common Home.”

3. Central Italian fifteenth or sixteenth century (Possibly Roman fifteenth or sixteenth century), The Capitoline Wolf Suckling Romulus and Remus, National Gallery of Art, Samuel H. Kress Collection.