William Kienzle - The Greatest Evil

“What was I to think …?”

“And it’s all your fault!” With that shouted crusher he slammed the door behind him.

She stood sobbing and trembling, then, with a howl, she threw herself on the couch. Tears flowed hot and copious. She couldn’t come close to calm consideration.

How could I have been so wrong? I tried to let things happen naturally. I didn’t try, to force anything.

We’ve known each other just two days. And it’s over now?

The archbishop told me to help him. He asked for my help. I gave it to him. No strings attached. I really did help him. He learned quickly. The way he reacted when I was near him. I thought he was hungry for a woman. Did I think that because I was hungry for a man?

That dress, that robe … I bought them today. Was I trying to force things? Subconsciously?

That kiss! I was the one who started that. I was the one who started the French kiss. I don’t think he even knew what it was.

No! Dammit! It wasn’t the kiss. We could have kept control if it had just been the kiss.

But not when he put his hand on my thigh and started to caress it. That was the message. It was unmistakable. We had to get out of our clothes then. It was our only direction then.

My fault! That’s a laugh.

This was an angry thought that turned almost immediately defensive.

What am I going to do now?

Can I go back to work at the chancery? Just like nothing happened?

He’ll be there! Only one wall between us. One constructed wall. The emotional wall will be much more powerful than one of plaster.

What if he tells the others? Men do that. I’ll be laughed out of the building.

I can’t go back. I simply can’t.

I’ll call in sick tomorrow. Later I’ll send them a noncommittal letter of resignation.

Where will I go?

To another city. Smaller.

I can get a letter of recommendation from Archbishop Boyle.

This part of my life is over. If I’m not careful, I may just wrap my car around a tree. Then all of my life will be over.

He thought:

Damn! I’ve got to get control of myself. I just ran a red light.

What an evening!

Now I know. Now I know why seminarians and priests must separate themselves from females-girls, women.

Suddenly it’s clear that only marriage can contain the lust between men and women. Women are the great temptation.

Admit it! Face it! I came this close to making love to her. Going to bed with her. Sleeping with her. And any other euphemisms they use for sex.

Tonight I came this close to throwing away my entire career. And for what? A moment of pleasure. Intense pleasure-I admit it. But momentary.

That kiss! I was flooded with desire.

Maybe there’s some good in this. I’ve got a much better appreciation of St. Paul. He wished everyone could live in the celibate state like him. But he realized not everyone could resist the seductive wiles of women. He hit it on the head when he wrote that it was better to marry than to burn in hell.

Such was the power of women. Without half trying, they could and did pull men into hell.

Even now, as I drive away from that woman, I can still feel the urge to throw good sense away and plunge into her.

Again, like St. Paul, I can almost hear Jesus tell me that His grace was sufficient for me.

Thank God!

But there’s still something that has to be made right. I’m in mortal sin and I’ve got to say Mass tomorrow morning. I’ve got to get to confession.

What time is it?

Almost ten-thirty.

Who can I go to at this hour? Who would understand?

“That’s it?”

“Why, yes, that’s it.”

The philosophical if not theological approach to confession was tricky, Father Koesler had long thought.

The rule of thumb was clear enough: The confessor-the priest who hears the confession-is instructed to believe the penitent whether he or she speaks for or against him or herself. That’s simple enough:

But the confessor is not supposed to dispense absolution like an automaton. He is expected to help the penitent, be understanding, clarify things for the penitent if such is necessary, and, finally, make a judgment as to whether or not the penitent is truly sorry for sins committed.

It had been almost 11 P.M. when the doorbell rang. That definitely was not a run-of-the-mill time to be calling at a rectory. Which someone had once defined as a home for unmarried Fathers.

It was with some apprehension that Koesler went to the door. Who knew what dire emergency needed a priest?

Koesler was surprised the caller was another priest-Vince Delvecchio, of all people.

When Vince announced that he wanted to go to confession, Koesler drew the natural conclusion that there was some sort of mortal sin that stood between Delvecchio and the celebration of Mass tomorrow morning.

In any case, Koesler was willing to do whatever he could to help his longtime friend.

As they climbed the stairs to Koesler’s room, he recalled the classic story-probably apocryphal-of priests on vacation together. One asks the other to hear his confession. He kneels at the chair of his friend and, before beginning his confession, admonishes the other to “just give me absolution, Fred; no pia stercora.” Which can be translated, “No pious shit.” Just absolution, no spiritual pep talk.

In similar situations, confession among priests, Koesler was amenable, to skipping the nosegays.

But Delvecchio’s was an odd confession. For one, he had gone into far greater detail than necessary: Koesler did not need to know the woman’s name. He was only barely acquainted with Jan. He’d had some chancery dealings with her, getting information and the like. But her identity was extraneous to the confession.

Secondly, Koesler had difficulty finding the mortal sin. “Excuse me, Vince, but I figure you’re here because you think you’re guilty of serious sin.”

“Yes, of course.”

“What?”

“Well, all that French kissing. And then my touching her leg.”

“The last time I read up on the theology of serious sin, there had to be some considerable deliberation there. Not anything done on the spur of the moment. As far as I can see, the two of you entered into this innocently and got carried away.”

“She didn’t! She seduced me!”

“I don’t think so. But, of course, that doesn’t matter. We’re talking about your confession exclusively. And, besides, my reading indicates that a woman’s thigh is not any part of her genitalia. Not even an erogenous zone.

“Much more serious, I think, is the way you treated her before you stormed out. But, then, again, you were swept away by spontaneous emotion.

“I think it would be good for everyone if you would help her feel better-or at least less bad-about what happened. It being nobody’s fault. Of course it would be wise for the two of you not to be together like you were this evening.”

“That part about helping her feel better-you’re not making that a condition for granting me absolution! Are you?”

“Of course not. For one, I don’t think you’ve got a mortal sin here in the first place. You don’t have to do this. But I think it would be good of you. She probably feels terrible.”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

As little thought as possible, Koesler suspected. There were loads of questions rattling around in his mind-the product of idle curiosity having nothing to do with the sacrament.

So he gave Delvecchio a small penance of prayer. Then Koesler absolved him. No pia stercora.

As he showed Delvecchio to the door, Koesler thought he detected a sense of arrogance in the younger priest. If he had to guess, Koesler would bet that Delvecchio was guilty of the sin of pride.